SIMPLE SOULS
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN HASTINGS TURNER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 1920
 
 Published October, 1918 
 
 Reprinted November, December, 1918; January, 1918 
 February. 1919, April, 19i9. December, 1919 
 March, 1920
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAFTKR PAGE 
 
 I. A DUKE 1 
 
 II. MR. AND MRS. SHINE . . .... 25 
 
 III. THE GOLDEN TOAD 39 
 
 IV. NON SEQUITUR 45 
 
 V. THE DUKE'S CREED 62 
 
 VI. MOLLY DISCOVERS HERSELF 71 
 
 VII. THE CHURCH MILITANT 82 
 
 VIII. SIMPLE SOULS 93 
 
 IX. WIGS ON THE GREEN 107 
 
 X. LADY BLAKE GOES TO TOWN . . . .118 
 
 XI. THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME . . . 127 
 
 XII. ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO .... 142 
 
 XIII. MOLLY'S DILEMMA 155 
 
 XIV. THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 162 
 
 XV. DRESSED FOR THE PART 170 
 
 XVI. CRUSADERS 180 
 
 XVII. LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 207 
 
 XVIII. CINDERELLA . . . 218 
 
 XIX. COLLISION . 227 
 
 2138489 '
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PACK 
 
 XX. "You LITTLE FOOL!" .246 
 
 XXI. THE MADNESS OF MARY 255 
 
 XXII. AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS .... 265 
 
 XXIII. HENRY ASHAMED OF HIMSELF .... 285 
 
 XXIV. TREASURE ISLAND 294 
 
 XXV. AN AMATEUR LOVER . . 309
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A DUKE 
 
 "PLEASE, sir, is this your hat?" 
 
 "My hat," said the man, instinctively raising his 
 hand, "is on my head. No, it isn't," he added, 
 withdrawing his hand. "Now, isn't that queer?" 
 
 He took the hat from the girl's hand, and, hold- 
 ing it rather vaguely at his side, regarded her stead- 
 ily. With an equally steady gaze she inspected 
 him. 
 
 What he saw was a girl in the early twenties, 
 dark and tall, and wearing too few clothes. This 
 was not due to fashion, but to poverty. Incident- 
 ally, she was beautiful, but he was the sort of man 
 who would not realize that until it was pointed out 
 to him. She would have been more beautiful still 
 after a good dinner. 
 
 What she saw was a man between thirty and 
 forty, who was not in the least handsome. On the 
 other hand, his eyes atoned for everything. They 
 were gray and a little vague, but kindness and 
 honesty looked out of them boldly and unashamed. 
 And this was odd, because he had had an expensive 
 education, and might have been expected to have 
 the usual finesse of the Society man. 
 
 I
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "It's very curious," he said, brushing slowly at 
 the nap of his hat; "but this is continually happen- 
 ing." He stopped. "Now, women have hatpins 
 that must make it much less difficult." 
 
 She said nothing. They were in the Snake House 
 at the Zoo, and they were its only occupants. Sud- 
 denly he waved his arm toward the cages. 
 
 "That," he said, "is the common python; its 
 habits are curious but very interesting. If you ob- 
 serve, you will see it is now asleep. Yet the least 
 
 alien sound, the smallest enemy scent " He 
 
 broke off. "Do you like snakes?" he asked. 
 
 "I hate 'em," answered the giul. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I don't know. They're slimy," she said, and 
 made a gesture of repulsion. 
 
 "That is true," he said gravely. "Let us go and 
 sit in the garden." 
 
 She followed him without a word. He was ob- 
 viously extraordinary, obviously safe, and obviously 
 a dear. That is how she reasoned, and to talk to 
 anyone was better than to sit on a seat and rebel in 
 silence against a world which took no notice of her 
 whatever. 
 
 "Aren't you going to put on your hat?" she said, 
 as they sat down. 
 
 He was still carrying it in his hand. 
 
 "Yes, of course," he said, and put it on. 
 
 "Look here," she said suddenly, "I suppose you 
 write or something?" 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 "Why do you think I write?" he asked. 
 
 2
 
 A DUKE 
 
 "Well, there's something wrong about you, isn't 
 there?" 
 
 "All my relations say so, but I don't write." 
 
 "What do you do?" 
 
 "I am a reptilian biologist. And you?" 
 
 "I am in a boot store. I'm not now, because 
 I've chucked it. What's your name?" 
 
 "Wynninghame." 
 
 "That's a nice name. Do you live in London?" 
 
 "Sometimes; sometimes in the country." 
 
 "Have you got two houses? Don't answer if 
 I'm impertinent." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "Oh, I have lots. My servant has a list of 
 them somewhere; or else it's my solicitor. I for- 
 get." 
 
 She looked at him for a moment ; then she kicked 
 a stone on the path. 
 
 "Isn't it awful jolly to have lots of homes?" 
 
 "I suppose it is; but I hardly ever go out of 
 town." 
 
 "And where is your house?" 
 
 "In Piccadilly Wynninghame House." 
 
 She stared at him. 
 
 "That big place with the lions outside?" she 
 said. "But that belongs to a Duke. A bobby told 
 
 me so." 
 
 "I am the Duke I" he said. 
 
 She gazed at him for quite a long time before 
 she spoke again. 
 
 "Well, I never!" she said at last. "Who'd have 
 thought it?" 
 
 3
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Nobody does, 7 ' he said; "it's so convenient. 
 Now tell me about yourself." 
 
 "There isn't anything to tell." 
 
 "Well," he asked, "why, for instance, have you 
 left the boot shop?" 
 
 "The man that ran it couldn't behave; he gave 
 me a hell of a time, one way and another so I 
 chucked it." 
 
 "Dear me how very wrong of him I" 
 
 "Oh, he wasn't out of the ordinary," she said, 
 "but it got too thick in the end. Then I went back 
 to father; that was worse almost. He kicks me 
 out every morning to look for a job. If I come 
 back before six I get kicked out again; rotten but 
 of course he's quite right. He can't keep us." 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 "Well, he drinks, you see; that's awful expen- 
 
 sive." 
 
 "But he oughtn't to drink." 
 
 "No. But it's his own money." 
 
 There was a long silence. Suddenly the Duke 
 spoke, almost viciously, to himself. 
 
 "Poor little devil!" he said; then he resumed his 
 silence. 
 
 "By the way," he began, a moment or two later, 
 "have you had tea yet?" 
 
 She eyed him sharply. 
 
 "No," she said. He wasn't the man to guess 
 that she had not had lunch either. 
 
 He rose. "Let us go and get some tea," he said. 
 "I believe there is a place in the Gardens." She 
 got up and a smile played round her lips. 
 
 4
 
 A DUKE 
 
 "You're leaving your hat again," she said. 
 
 He picked it up. 
 
 "You have not told me your name," he began 
 after a moment; "not that I have any right to 
 ask it, or that names are in the least important. 
 I once knew a man called William Sykes who was a 
 churchwarden, and very clever at his job, I believe. 
 Whereas my agent, who was called Pomeroy, turned 
 out to be married to practically every woman he 
 knew. He had to go. It was a pity, because he 
 was a good agent." 
 
 She laughed merrily, and he seemed surprised. 
 
 "He ought to have been a good husband," she 
 said, "with so much practice." 
 
 "Yes," answered the Duke, "but the more a 
 man knows about women the less is he considered 
 fit for married life. Personally, I know nothing 
 about women, but as a husband I should be posi- 
 tively comic." 
 
 They sat down at the usual inadequate table. 
 
 "My name," she said, "is Molly Shine; and I'm 
 going to eat a hell of a tea. May I ?" 
 
 "Of course," he answered, and signaled to a 
 passing waitress. 
 
 "You're a godsend," said Molly simply; "that's 
 what you are." 
 
 "Everybody in the world," he said, "is a god- 
 send; and ninety per cent, forget it at the age of 
 seven. Personally, I like the world. I don't see 
 why we are here if we don't." 
 
 "I hate it," she said. 
 
 "Why?"
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "I don't know. Perhaps " She looked into 
 
 his eyes. "Oh, well, perhaps I don't hate it as 
 much as I think. Go on talking. I want to eat, 
 and I like your talk." 
 
 "How charming of you!" he said. "My rela- 
 tions hate it. My sister says that so long as I hold 
 my tongue and obey my valet, I'm possible; other- 
 wise, -no. Thank God, I'm not called upon to say 
 what I think about her. Her poor husband died 
 from syncope. I always say he died from being 
 overwhelmed. However, she's an awfully nice 
 woman, I expect, if one knew her." 
 
 "But didn't you say she was your sister?" 
 
 He poured some tea into his saucer. 
 
 "Does one ever know one's relations really well? 
 You don't mind this, do you? It's so hot!" He 
 drank from the saucer like a large, good-natured 
 cat. She laughed. 
 
 "Do they do that in Piccadilly?" she asked. 
 
 "Probably not," he said. "I don't think Society 
 has the slightest conception of what comfort is." 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, a little wistfully. 
 
 "It consists largely in drinking one's tea from 
 the saucer when it is too hot, and keeping one's 
 ideas to oneself when they are too unusual. So- 
 ciety is afraid to do the one and unable to do the 
 other." 
 
 He broke off and suddenly stared at her. 
 
 "I say," he began, "will you think me very 
 rude if I ask you what time you had lunch?" 
 
 She laughed. "Yesterday," she said, and bit 
 deeply into a dreadful pastry. 
 
 6
 
 A DUKE 
 
 He seemed to reflect deeply for some moments. 
 "That," he said at last, "seems very wrong of 
 
 someone." 
 
 "Yes," she said; "but, crikes! there are lots worse 
 off than I am. We can't all have enough to do as 
 we like." 
 
 "And what would you like?" 
 
 "Two pounds a week." 
 
 "Then what would you do?" 
 
 "I'd read books. Not good books. Silly books : 
 like this." She showed a popular shilling novel 
 which she was carrying. 
 
 "Why not good books?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know good books don't seem 
 human. I like books where people love each other 
 ridiculously, and do foolish, romantic things they'd 
 get six months for; in the good books they do get 
 six months and I hate that." 
 
 "You don't like things to be realistic." 
 
 "I don't believe it is I can't pronounce that 
 word properly. It isn't real, not to be sentimental 
 is it?" 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "I don't know," he said, " a sentimental Duke 
 sounds ridiculous." 
 
 "Well," she said, "isn't a Duke ridiculous, any- 
 way?" 
 
 "I suppose so," he answered. "But then you 
 like the ridiculous?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "and I adore Dukes; all the 
 silliest books are crammed with Dukes." 
 
 "You're not a bit like the ordinary shop-girl," 
 
 7
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 he said slowly. It was part of his nature that this 
 should strike him for the first time, now. 
 
 "Well, you're not like an ordinary peer not that 
 I've ever met any but you aren't. There are 
 freaks in every job. There was a boy in the gro- 
 cer's near us who became a senior what is it? 
 sums and things." 
 
 "A senior wrangler?" 
 
 "Yes. In the end he chloroformed his landlady. 
 So you see you can't have it both ways. If he 
 hadn't been the sort of man to chloroform people 
 he wouldn't have been senior wrangler." 
 
 The Duke lit a cigarette and puffed thoughtfully. 
 She stretched out her legs and put her hands to the 
 back of her neck. A feeling of contentment was 
 stealing over her like a warm bath. This man was 
 so safe. She did not have to be continually fencing 
 with him, as was so often the case. It was almost 
 like talking to a nice old gentleman, though she 
 thought, as she stole a glance at him over the rim 
 of her teacup, he couldn't be more than, say, thirty- 
 eight. It was very wrong, of course, to return a 
 gentleman his hat and then make an enormous tea 
 at his expense. Her mother, who was one of those 
 women who has her cross to bear and advertises the 
 same in and out of season, would have wept tears 
 of real distress had she learned of her daughter's 
 behavior. Mrs. Shine believed in Hell and red 
 devils with as profound a conviction as she believed 
 in St. Paul's Cathedral. Mr. Shine, who became 
 more and more righteous with every glass of beer 
 he drank, would have thrashed Molly and apolo- 
 
 8
 
 A DUKE 
 
 gized to her in the morning. He was probably a 
 better specimen of human nature than his wife. 
 Anyway, Molly had a respect for her father not 
 entirely based upon the strength of his arm. She 
 herself had managed to grow out of that lazy habit 
 of dropping aitches which permeated her family. 
 For this alone she was suspected by her relations. 
 
 Molly was a clever girl, in the sense that she 
 viewed life from a more or less reasonable stand- 
 point without giving up her own secret and in- 
 curable passion Romance. The room she shared 
 with her sister, who was learning "shorthand" and 
 talked about "commerce," very often hid under the 
 pillow nearest the little window a torn volume of 
 Grimm's Fairy Tales. When this was discovered it 
 was thrown contemptuously out, and Molly was 
 told to "fit herself for life; not being one as could 
 afford dreamin'." But she used to retrieve the 
 book without losing her temper and hide it away 
 again till next time. She believed everybody could 
 afford to dream ; some less than others, that was all. 
 
 But things in the Shine household were getting 
 very bad. Mr. Shine was drinking more than usual 
 and consequently earning less. Gladys, the other 
 daughter, was not old enough to do anything else 
 than talk of the things she'd do later, and Molly 
 was looked upon as the staff which should support 
 her parents. This she was signally failing to do. 
 "She'll never be nothing but a waster" that was 
 the mother's final verdict, sandwiched in between 
 two readings from the Bible, which was seldom out 
 of her hands. She regarded it as a sort of pass- 
 
 9
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 port. But what really irritated the Shine family 
 was that, though they would never admit it even to 
 each other, they knew that Molly had more intel- 
 ligence than all the rest of them put together. 
 
 The Duke woke up from his reverie with a start. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said; "I am keeping 
 you." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Don't be silly!" she said. He paid the bill and 
 rose. She hesitated, hardly knowing what to do. 
 
 "What made you so dumb all at once?" she 
 said. 
 
 He turned. 
 
 "I was wondering,'* he said, "how it is possible 
 for people to exist who want to read books and 
 can't." He had become serious all at once. "It 
 is as if you stood outside the Golden Gate and 
 nobody handed you the key. Good God and 
 there is only one in a thousand that notices the 
 Golden Gate is there at all I" Suddenly he faced 
 round. "Books, ideas, dreams stick to them, 
 cling to them, my child, even if you lose everything 
 else. Dreams, good dreams, are all that are left 
 to us. Civilization has swept away the rest. But 
 the knight of to-day, though he wear a morning 
 coat, may still keep armor on his soul. I believe 
 that don't you?" 
 
 "I believe there are good men," she said simply. 
 
 "Try to believe that always, and you have made 
 a success of life. May I have your address?" 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 10
 
 A DUKE 
 
 "I should like to send you some books silly 
 books." 
 
 She smiled. 
 
 "You are very kind," she said. "It's No. 3 
 Ball Street, Bermondsey." 
 
 He wrote it down on a card. 
 
 She smiled again. 
 
 "Will they be really silly books?" she asked. 
 
 "The very silliest," he returned; "some of those 
 are the most sensible. I knew a dancer once 
 dressed in the most ridiculous tinsel and stuff. 
 There was a fire, and she gave her life to save her 
 partner. Some of the silly books are like that; 
 they may be ridiculous, but they are not anemic." 
 
 He held out his hand. 
 
 "I must go," he said. "I have some notes to 
 make among the smaller snakes. Good-by!" He 
 took off his hat. 
 
 "Good-by!" said Molly. 
 
 He turned his back and walked away down the 
 path. His hat was still in his hand, for he had 
 forgotten to replace it, and his rather thick brown 
 hair stirred a little in the wind. As he got farther 
 away she suddenly heard him burst out with the 
 snatch of a song. 
 
 It is given to some women to see visions. As 
 the Duke swung round a corner, out of sight, 
 Molly suddenly saw a vision of his soul. And be- 
 hold! it was the soul of a child. And suddenly, 
 with a wild little pang of regret, she realized that 
 he was* a Duke. A lump rose in her throat and 
 she brushed the tears angrily from her eyes. She 
 
 II
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 turned determinedly round, and then suddenly ad- 
 dressed a tree. 
 
 "I have seen him at last," she said; "but I shall 
 never see him again." 
 Then she laughed. 
 
 "You must fit yourself for life, Molly," she 
 said, "or you'll get a hell of a thin time." 
 
 She walked briskly to the gates and turned her 
 face toward Bermondsey. 
 
 "Lai la! la!" sang the Duke at the top of his 
 voice as he turned again into the Snake House. A 
 rude boy laughed and was hurried away by his 
 nurse, who looked over her shoulder apprehen- 
 sively. 
 
 "Henry!" The voice cut in upon the Duke 
 from nowhere. "Put on your hat and stop singing." 
 He looked round hastily, and saw a matronly 
 looking woman of forty, behind whom stood a 
 dozen very awed-looking little girls whose frocks 
 were clean enough to make it quite certain that they 
 were unhappy. 
 
 "My dear Octavia," said the Duke, "what are 
 you doing here ?" 
 
 Then he put on his hat. 
 
 Lady Octavia Blake was the Duke of Wynning- 
 hame's sister. She was what the Duke called an 
 "overwhelmer." Her method was a terrific ava- 
 lanche of words, a quick breath, and then another 
 larger avalanche. It was a method that was 
 generally completely successful. At any rate, it 
 went far toward killing her husband, who was, 
 without doubt, a bore. Lady Octavia was very 
 
 12
 
 A DUKE 
 
 worldly and very cynical. At the same time she 
 did a great deal of good, not by stealth, but mostly 
 on committees. One of her great passions was 
 organization. It was an ambition of hers to organ- 
 ize Henry into a real Duke. 
 
 "It happens," said Lady Octavia, in answer to 
 the Duke's question, "to be my turn for the Chil- 
 dren's Occasional Treat Society; that is why I am 
 here. It is lucky you have turned up, for now 
 instruction can be combined with amusement, and 
 you can tell these children everything about snakes." 
 
 The Duke looked at the small girls, who looked 
 more awed and more starched than ever. 
 
 "But are they happy?" he said slowly. 
 
 "Of course they are," replied Octavia. "They 
 are having a treat." 
 
 "That proves nothing," said the Duke. "I re- 
 member having a tremendous treat when I was a 
 boy and being taken to see 'Uncle Tom's Cabin.' 
 I was in tears almost the whole time." 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Henry! What do you think 
 the organization is for except to make them 
 happy?" Lady Octavia took a long breath. "You 
 are one of those men who like to turn everything 
 upside down. I've told you of it again and again. 
 You believe in indiscriminate charity. Don't deny 
 it, Henry you do! Very well, it's a vice. It's 
 just as much a vice as drinking too much. It's as 
 wrong to be extravagant in the East End as it is in 
 the West. Everything should be organized; you 
 should be organized. Somebody should come and 
 marry you, and see that you produce children and a 
 
 13
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 home and a fireside and all that. Then you'd mean 
 something. As it is, it takes you and a whole staff 
 of servants to live one life your life. That's all 
 wasted effort and why? Lack of organization I" 
 
 Here one of the smaller girls burst out crying. 
 
 "If you cry, Milly," said Octavia, "you won't go 
 for the next treat. You're not here to cry you're 
 here to enjoy yourself. Now," she said, address- 
 ing the small crowd in general, "this gentleman is 
 going to tell you all about snakes." 
 
 "No, I'm not, Octavia," said the Duke. "There 
 are heaps of things about snakes that it would not 
 be fit for them to hear." 
 
 "Well, then, you can tell them the rest." 
 
 "No, Octavia." 
 
 "Really, Henry, you are too obstinate ! Why 
 ever not?" 
 
 The Duke threw away his cigarette. 
 
 "Because it would bore them to distraction, 
 Octavia; and I know of no greater crime than to 
 bore a child." 
 
 Lady Octavia snorted. 
 
 "They've got to be bored," she declared, "if 
 they're ever to learn anything. Weren't you bored 
 the whole time you were at Eton, Henry?" 
 
 "Of course I wasn't," said the Duke. "On Sun- 
 day afternoons we were left entirely alone for two 
 hours." 
 
 She sighed. 
 
 "Oh, well," she said at last, "I suppose you are 
 incorrigible. Are you going to the Paris Biologists' 
 Conference ?" 
 
 14
 
 A DUKE 
 
 "I am on Friday week." 
 
 "You'll make a fool of yourself there, Henry." 
 
 "Very probably, Octavia," said the Duke dryly. 
 He turned to the children. "Try to be happy," he 
 said. "Look hard at the animals and forget every- 
 thing else. It's quite possible to enjoy oneself even 
 on a treat." He took off his hat to Octavia. "I 
 hope everybody is well at the Towers," he added. 
 
 "Oh, yes," returned Octavia. "But Gerald talks 
 less sense and stoops more every day." 
 
 "Ah!" murmured the Duke as he walked away. 
 "He ought to have been organized." 
 
 He made what notes he had to make and turned 
 toward home. He left his hat with the lizards 
 and his stick among the toads; but that was nothing 
 at all unusual, and, besides, he had a great many 
 hats. 
 
 As a taxi took him back to Piccadilly, he sat 
 for some time gazing at the imitation flowers in 
 front of him. His thoughts went back to Molly, 
 standing outside the Golden Gate. "Poor little 
 devil!" he said; then he saw again the rows of 
 awed and starched little girls with big foreheads 
 and exiguous plaits. He sighed. "Poor little 
 devils!" he said. In a sense they were both victims 
 of organization. Molly and the children. 
 
 When the taxi arrived at Wynninghame House, 
 he put his hand in his pocket and found that he had 
 no money. 
 
 A grave-faced valet in a navy blue suit came 
 down and paid the fare. 
 
 IS
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Duke looked at him and remembered that 
 he, too, was part of an organization. 
 
 "You know, Dunn," he said, "Lady Octavia is 
 
 not altogether wrong " He stopped, then strode 
 
 forward up the steps. "But she's wrong," he 
 shouted, "that I'll swear to." 
 
 Professor Peter Graine was standing in the study 
 at Wynninghame House. He was a close friend of 
 the family and especially of Henry, who was, except 
 for their mutual passion for reptiles, his exact op- 
 posite. Peter was a short, bald man of sixty, and 
 facts and figures were his gods. He was a Doctor 
 of Science and a great many other things. In fact, 
 he was positively loaded with recognitions, from all 
 over the world, of the fact that when two and two 
 were added together by him they invariably made 
 four. Henry, on the other hand, as often as not 
 would bring out the answer as five: result, no 
 recognitions. At the same time, with the Duke, 
 one could not help feeling that possibly one day 
 five would turn out to be the right answer all along. 
 He was always on the edge of a great discovery. 
 But Peter played the safer game of making cer- 
 tainties more certain. Wherefore he was a success, 
 whereas Henry, in so far as a Duke may be called 
 a failure, was not. 
 
 The Duke came in through a pair of enormous 
 double doors and threw his notebook on the table. 
 
 "Hullo, Peter!" he said. "I'm going to Paris 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow?" said the Professor. "But why 
 
 16
 
 A DUKE 
 
 on earth? The Conference does not sit till Friday 
 week." 
 
 The Duke flung himself into a chair. 
 
 "I met Octavia at the Zoo; whenever I meet 
 Octavia I have a tremendous desire to leave the 
 country at once." He waved an arm as if brushing 
 away something unpleasant. "Very wrong of me, 
 of course. But she creates an atmosphere of of 
 being buried alive." 
 
 "Octavia, Henry," said Graine slowly, "is an 
 eminently sensible woman. Personally, I have the 
 greatest respect for her judgment on any subject." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the Duke. "But I always look at 
 people from the point of view of what sort of figure 
 
 they would cut in Heaven. Now, Octavia " 
 
 He broke off. "Anyway," he said suddenly, "why 
 shouldn't I go to Paris?" 
 
 Peter Graine said nothing. 
 
 "The question is," the Duke went on, "will you 
 come, too?" 
 
 "You certainly can't go alone, Henry. If there 
 is one city in the world where they know how to 
 make hay while the sun shines, it is Paris. You 
 would give away all your money and probably 
 become involved in a scandal." 
 
 "In other words," said the Duke imperturbably, 
 "you wish to come." 
 
 Peter Graine moved across to the window and 
 sighed. 
 
 "Paris is a delightful city," he said. "I don't 
 see that a week's rest will do us any harm before 
 the Conference." 
 
 17
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Duke laughed. 
 
 "You are, I believe, sixty years old, Peter," he 
 said; "yet Paris means to you restaurants, farces, 
 and frocks, and your idea of a rest well, it always 
 leaves you only fit for a complete change." 
 
 "I admit it," said Graine. "I like color and 
 wine and women; and so long as they like me I 
 shall refuse to admit that I am an old man." 
 
 "Ah, well ! Everyone to his taste." 
 
 Graine swung round. 
 
 "You affect to despise all that, Henry, because 
 you are cold-blooded. Pah ! You don't know how 
 to live! You dream and dream, and what is left? 
 Nothing. A dream doesn't even leave a memory." 
 He banged his fist on the table. "And because 
 you have the emotions of a fish, you count it a 
 virtue. Pooh! Heaven save me from the man 
 who has never been drunk!" 
 
 "I do not in the least consider myself virtuous," 
 replied the Duke mildly, "even if I am a fish 
 which, by the way, I deny. But your commercial- 
 ized pleasures merely leave you a cynic. You know 
 the price of so many things that you imagine every- 
 thing has a price. As a matter of fact, there is an 
 enormous amount of amusement to be got out of 
 complete ignorance of the world. I feel positive 
 Hans Andersen knew that. I would rather have 
 written the tale about the 'Tin Soldier' than the 
 whole of Darwin's works." 
 
 "That is ridiculous." 
 
 "Of course it is. So am I. Why can't you 
 leave a man to his own particular brand of folly? 
 
 18
 
 A DUKE 
 
 We will go to Paris. You shall get drunk, and I 
 will remain in the hotel and be ridiculous." 
 
 "I don't get drunk." 
 
 "Exhilarated, then. I am sure you could tell 
 me the precise difference in price between exhilara- 
 tion and drunkenness." 
 
 "Henry, you annoy me." 
 
 "It is one of my ridiculous forms of amusement." 
 
 "I shall not pander to it. Anyone would think 
 you were a perfect fool. I shall go out to the pond 
 and look at the tadpoles; at any rate, they don't 
 make idiotic remarks." 
 
 "Neither do they get drunk yet I suppose tad- 
 poles have vices. I wonder what they are ?" 
 
 Peter Graine snorted his disgust and passed out 
 of the room. 
 
 "You're coming to Paris to-morrow, Peter?" 
 the Duke shouted after him. 
 
 "Of course," answered the Professor. 
 
 The Duke sat down again and slowly filled his 
 pipe. For a man of thirty-eight his life had been 
 one of no little achievement. He had done none 
 of the things that everybody does. He had never 
 published a book, written a play, or even attended 
 the House of Lords. But the hum of Piccadilly, 
 which he could hear faintly in his study, still sounded 
 to him like laughter, and in the sea of faces which 
 he saw in the streets he could still detect smiles 
 which other men could not see. And this is an 
 achievement. True, his optimism had been largely 
 fostered by a studied policy of living the life of a 
 hermit, as far as possible. But it is very hard for 
 
 19
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 a peer to be an anchorite, and Piccadilly is not the 
 best place for the cloistered life. Therefore, he 
 may be counted to have achieved something. Most 
 of his family considered him a little mad. 
 
 His niece Mary, who was just passing through 
 one of the most virulent attacks of Romance that 
 even nineteen is exposed to, had once said that 
 Uncle Henry was a dear. To which her mother, 
 Lady Octavia, had replied that she never had been 
 able to understand why he hadn't had it knocked 
 out of him at Eton. In that remark her whole 
 outlook was embodied. Lady Octavia was a capa- 
 ble woman; in her own sex she might have for- 
 given the kind of incompetence which is so often 
 fascinating. Even then she would only have for- 
 given it as being part of a bag of tricks which go 
 toward making a woman charming and marriage- 
 able. In a male, of course, it could serve no pur- 
 pose and was unforgivable. And in addition to 
 that it made a man a continual source of alarm. 
 Lady Octavia could never be quite certain that 
 Henry would not do something grotesque. Her 
 own boy, Gerald, was to succeed to the title, as 
 it was inconceivable that Henry would ever do any- 
 thing so orthodox as to have a son. She was the 
 first to acknowledge that Gerald was utterly fatuous, 
 but she considered he would make a much better 
 head of the family. At any rate, Gerald's trousers 
 never bagged at the knees. 
 
 The Duke touched a bell on his right. Almost 
 immediately the valet, Dunn, came in. 
 
 "We are going to Paris to-morrow, Dunn." 
 20
 
 A DUKE 
 
 "Very good, your Grace." 
 
 "And I wish you to take a note." 
 
 The valet picked up a book from the table. 
 
 "I wish two pounds a week sent to this address," 
 the Duke went on. "Miss Shine, 3 Ball Street, 
 Bermondsey. In the first instalment you will en- 
 close a note which I will write now." 
 
 He sat down at the table and wrote a few lines. 
 The valet remained like a statue opposite him. 
 Suddenly the ghost of a smile sped over his face as 
 he watched his master. The student of psychology 
 might have noticed something maternal in it. 
 
 The D-uke finished his note and handed it to 
 Dunn. 
 
 "Is it going to be a fine evening, Dunn?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I think so, your Grace." The Duke turned 
 to the window. 
 
 "Have you ever reflected upon the significance 
 of a fine evening?" 
 
 "No, your Grace." 
 
 "It means, Dunn, that more people in the world 
 are laughing than crying." 
 
 "And a wet one, your Grace?" 
 
 "Have you ever noticed how often a wet day 
 breaks in the evening? It is nature turning opti- 
 mist at the last minute at least, if it isn't it ought 
 to be." 
 
 "Yes, your Grace." 
 
 He turned back from the window. 
 
 "Well, well. We go to Paris to-morrow, and I 
 shall have to behave myself." 
 
 21
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The valet went out by the big doors, closing 
 them noiselessly behind him. 
 
 The Duke mechanically swept up some papers 
 from his table. 
 
 Then the door opened, and a young man of some 
 twenty summers came in, in evening dress. 
 
 "Why, Gerald," said the Duke, "what are you 
 doing in town?" 
 
 The young man laughed. He had a pleasant 
 laugh and a pleasant face, but his physique was 
 frail, and he had the air of a self-indulgent boy. 
 
 "Oh, the usual thing." 
 
 "And what is that?" 
 
 "Girls. Can you let me have a couple of fivers, 
 Uncle Henry? The banks are closed, you know. 
 I just blew in. I thought you might be here." He 
 sat down at the table and drew out a check-book. 
 The Duke unlocked a drawer. 
 
 "Girls!" he said. "How very important women 
 seem to be!" 
 
 "They are," said Gerald simply, taking the two 
 five-pound notes his uncle was holding out to him. 
 The Duke smiled. 
 
 "Are you in love, Gerald?" he asked. 
 
 "Well, yes, but there's no need to tell anyone," 
 he hesitated. "She's the finest little woman in the 
 world, Uncle Henry," he said suddenly, "and she's 
 promised to be my wife." 
 
 "My dear boy, how splendid !" The Duke took 
 his hand. Gerald looked down. 
 
 "If you ever hear anyone say anything against 
 her, don't you believe 'em." 
 
 22
 
 A DUKE 
 
 "But why should anyone say anything against 
 her?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know; people are such cads, you 
 know." 
 
 "And what is her name?" 
 
 "I'm not telling anyone that yet in fact, I'm 
 not telling anyone I'm engaged at all." He looked 
 suddenly up. "Especially not the mater," he 
 added. 
 
 "But why not?" 
 
 The boy hesitated. 
 
 "She wouldn't understand," he said. "You'll 
 keep the secret, Uncle Henry." 
 
 "Of course," said the Duke as Gerald went to 
 the door. "Give the lady my best wishes, please." 
 
 Gerald turned. 
 
 "I will," he said. "You're a damned good sort, 
 Uncle Henry. I wish you could fall in love it's 
 tophole. But you aren't made that way, are you?" 
 He went out, passing Peter Graine in the doorway. 
 They exchanged the usual greetings, and Peter 
 came in. 
 
 "What's Gerald doing in town, Henry?" he 
 said, selecting a cigarette from a box on the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 "Oh amusing himself," said the Duke. 
 
 Graine grunted. 
 
 "Getting into trouble, I expect," he said. 
 "Well, my dear Peter, everybody has a perfect 
 right to do that. And people who are going to 
 Paris in the morning shouldn't throw stones." 
 The Professor laughed. 
 
 23
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "All right, Henry," he said, "it's nothing to do 
 with me I'm not his uncle." 
 
 "Are you dining here, Peter?" 
 
 "Please." 
 
 There was a long silence. The Duke was star- 
 ing out of the window. It was certainly a fine eve- 
 ning, but a long line of rain-clouds lay low down in 
 the east. Peter came silently up behind him. Sud- 
 denly the Duke stretched out his arms. 
 
 "A glorious evening!" he said. "It makes one 
 feel all is right with the world. Ah, Peter, what a 
 thing it is to live ! To think 'I will go to Paris' 
 and to go! To feel hungry, and to eat! To feel 
 thirsty, and to drink 1 What are your amusements 
 compared with that? A wonderful sky! There 
 are very few tears being shed to-night." He 
 pointed to the clouds on the horizon. "Where are 
 those, Peter?" 
 
 The Professor thought for a moment. 
 
 "That is the east," he said slowly. 
 
 The Duke's hand fell to his side. 
 
 "Ah!" he said. "Bermondsey way." 
 
 Peter Graine stared at him; the Duke went 
 slowly to the door; then he turned. 
 
 "What a thing, Peter!" he said. "To see the 
 Golden Gate and have no key! Poor little devil!" 
 
 He went out. The Professor looked after him 
 a moment; then he shrugged his shoulders. Henry 
 was always inexplicable.
 
 MR. AND MRS. SHINE 
 
 GLADYS SHINE, sitting on the end of her bed, glow- 
 ered, in a thoroughly pre-breakfast state of mind, at 
 Molly's back. 
 
 "Well," she said at last, "'ow long are you going 
 to be with the glass, your Ladyship?" 
 
 "I've got more hair to do than you," returned 
 Molly complacently. "It didn't take me nearly so 
 long when I was a flapper." 
 
 "Flapper!" snorted the other. "My hair's going 
 
 up at Christmas " She stopped abruptly. "Did 
 
 you get a job yesterday?" she said. 
 
 "No," answered Molly shortly. 
 
 "Hum!" said the other. "Father won't 'alf be 
 pleased." 
 
 "Jobs don't grow on trees," said Molly, as she 
 put the finishing touches to her toilet. 
 
 "What about Sid Goyle?" The question came 
 suddenly from the younger girl. Molly suddenly 
 clenched her hands. 
 
 "Well, what about him?" 
 
 " 'E'd marry you that's what about him." 
 
 "Think so?" 
 
 "I don't think I know. What's more, so does 
 mother and father. I 'card father say last night, 
 if you couldn't get a job " She stopped. 
 
 "Well?" said Molly. 
 
 25
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "You'd better marry 'im," went on Gladys im- 
 perturbably. She couldn't see from where she was 
 standing the sudden tightening of the muscles, the 
 slight contraction of the lips, and the smoldering 
 fury in Molly's eyes. She went on, evenly. 
 
 "What's wrong with 'im?" she said. " 'E's got 
 enough to keep you, and if 'e thinks it worth it. 
 I know father does. And think of a wedding!" she 
 added enthusiastically. 
 
 There was a moment or two of complete silence. 
 The alarm clock on the stained mantelpiece ticked 
 on monotonously. 
 
 "You beast!" said Molly suddenly. "Oh, you 
 beast!" The door banged behind her, and Gladys 
 heard her footsteps hurrying down the stairs. The 
 younger girl shrugged her shoulders; it was the 
 gesture of a woman of the world. 
 
 When Molly entered the little sitting-room, it 
 was empty. The cloth, remaining on the table from 
 last night's supper, was still covered with crumbs 
 and litter. Molly removed these, and, going to the 
 sideboard, a peculiar erection of yellow wood, began 
 to lay the breakfast. This the two girls took it in 
 turns to do. 
 
 As she put the crockery on the table, every piece 
 seemed to be a memorial of some dreadful meal; 
 meals when her father had been drunk and her 
 mother in tears; maudlin meals, violent meals, or 
 just silent, dull meals. There was a piece off the 
 spout of the tea-pot which had led to a terrible 
 scene between husband and wife. It had been a 
 long time ago, that scene, and had since been many 
 
 26
 
 MR. AND MRS. SHINE 
 
 times repeated, but Molly remembered it for the 
 reason that the occasion had been the first that she 
 had realized the sort of existence her parents led. 
 The impression had stuck. 
 
 Strange to say, the personal memories of the 
 pieces of china affected Molly a great deal more 
 than the jarring and hideous decoration of the 
 room itself. She was used to oleographs of swans 
 with necks that were too long, or of lovers with 
 smiles that were too sickly. They did not offend 
 her. She never considered whether they were beau- 
 tiful or not. If she had she would probably have 
 thought them "all right"; but, for all that, she 
 could show enthusiasm for a beautiful sky or even 
 the green of an anemic tree in an East End square. 
 Her sense of beauty, except for a vague longing 
 after something other than dulness, was not de- 
 veloped. 
 
 Her mother, wearing her usual pained look of 
 astonishment, though she no longer had the spirit 
 to be astonished at anything, came in, finishing her 
 dressing in the doorway. She sat down heavily on 
 a chair and sighed. It was her method of beginning 
 another day. 
 , "Eggs on?" she said. 
 
 "No," said Molly, diving for the cruet. 
 
 "Your father'll be down in five minutes. Sam 
 don't like to be kept waiting." Molly went out of 
 the room, and in a few moments the sizzling eggs 
 could be heard. When the eggs had almost arrived 
 at the precise pitch of perfection which Molly knew 
 her father required of them, she heard a heavy 
 
 27
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 footstep just behind her. She turned. Samuel 
 Shine stood there regarding her with his heavy red- 
 rimmed eyes. 
 
 "Take 'em off now," he said. Molly removed 
 the eggs. Then she noticed that her father was 
 carrying the shilling novel she had had at the Zoo. 
 
 "I found this last night," he said slowly, "be'ind 
 the clock. Is it yours?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "When I sent you out yesterday to look for a 
 job I gave you a bob to get your food. You bought 
 this muck instead?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 He regarded her steadily for some time. When 
 he was sober in the mornings, that is to say she 
 puzzled him; at night, when he was drunk, she ir- 
 ritated him. 
 
 " 'Ow much money 'ave you now?" he said. 
 
 "Threepence," said Molly. 
 
 "Give it to me," commanded her father, holding 
 out his hand. Molly dived into an elusive pocket 
 and gave it to him. 
 
 "To-day," went on Mr. Shine, "you'll just go out 
 without any money see?" 
 
 "Yes, father." 
 
 "And you won't come back till supper-time." 
 
 "No, father." 
 
 "An' you'd better find a job. 'Adn't you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "All right; come on with the eggs." The big 
 man turned to go out of the little kitchen. 
 
 "May I keep the book, father?" said Molly. 
 28
 
 MR. AND MRS. SHINE 
 
 He turned and looked at her. He was a man 
 with certain elementary notions of justice. She had 
 sold her lunch for the book. It was hers. He 
 held it out to her. 
 
 " 'Ere you are," he said, "but you'll be bloomin' 
 'ungry abaht four this afternoon." 
 
 She smiled radiantly. 
 
 "That's all right," she said. They understood 
 one another, these two. Molly could see that her 
 father had a perfect right to refuse her more 
 money. He could see that the book was hers. 
 Samuel Shine went back into the sitting-room. 
 Molly heard a few words, then an exasperated 
 shout from her father. 
 
 "Oh, don't start sniveling, Em, for God's sake !" 
 
 As she put the last egg on its dish she smiled. 
 
 "I believe I'd get drunk myself i f I was him," 
 she murmured to herself, and carried the breakfast 
 in to her parents. 
 
 Gladys had come down and was pouring out 
 tea. 
 
 As Molly took her place her mother looked up 
 from her cup. 
 
 "Young Mr. Goyle came in yesterday," she said. 
 There was dead silence. 
 
 "I think you might answer when I speak to you," 
 went on Mrs. Shine in a peevish tone. 
 
 Molly looked up. 
 
 "I didn't know you were talking to me," she said. 
 
 "Yes, you did," said her father; "didn't you?" 
 
 Molly said nothing. 
 
 "Come on," said her father; "I want an answer." 
 29
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Yes," said Molly. 
 
 "Then don't tell lies," said Mr. Shine in his 
 husky voice. 
 
 "I don't know what will become of you, I'm 
 sure," sniveled her mother. "Only last Sunday in 
 chapel we was being told about it. 'Those that 
 lie'll perish' that's what the minister said." 
 
 "Then you do know what'll become of me," said 
 Molly. "I'll perish." 
 
 Mrs. Shine threw up her hands. 
 
 "Is there any woman 'oo's cross is as 'eavy to 
 bear as mine?" she cried. "My own daughter one 
 of those that scoff in the market-place and take 
 the Lord's name in vain I And my 'usband as ought 
 to be my shield and buckler will stand by without 
 raising a 'and! There'll be a judgment one day, 
 mark my words!" 
 
 "Shut up, Em, and 'old your tongue. Moll, give 
 me that last egg." It was Mr. Shine's way of deal- 
 ing with the problem, and was completely successful 
 in so far as a heavy silence fell upon the breakfast 
 table. It was broken by the postman's knock. 
 
 Molly, being nearest to the door, went out into 
 the narrow passage. The light was bad, and she 
 had almost reached the sitting-room door again 
 before she realized that the single letter was for her. 
 She stopped and turned it over. On the envelop 
 was a little black coronet. Molly stared straight in 
 front of her. . . . 
 
 Her father's voice brought her back to herself. 
 
 "What on earth are you doing?" he shouted. 
 
 She thrust the letter into her frock and went in. 
 30
 
 MR. AND MRS. SHINE 
 
 "There was only one, and it was for me," she 
 said. 
 
 "Any work?" said her father. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Well, what was it?" came her mother's irri- 
 tating whine. 
 
 "Only from a girl at the boot store." 
 
 Molly lied easily and fluently this time. She 
 didn't care whether she perished or not. He had 
 written to her. 
 
 Breakfast went on in the usual dismal silence, 
 broken every now and then by one of Mrs. Shine's 
 automatic sighs. For Molly, the whole room had 
 grown suddenly larger, its three other inmates were 
 no longer there, the yellow vases that flanked the 
 clock on the mantelpiece had turned the duller 
 yellow of gold, and through the cheap looking-glass 
 on the wall she seemed to see long pergolas of sun- 
 lit flowers that died away in a riot of color and 
 loveliness the garden of a fairy palace. 
 
 It was only the reflection from the door which 
 she had left slightly ajar, but it does not matter 
 what things are ; it is what they seem that counts. 
 
 Molly was suddenly living in a world where 
 nothing was so unreal that it could not happen, nor 
 anything so real that it could not be dispensed with 
 at will. The most ordinary things had become 
 wonderful; the most wonderful things had become 
 ordinary. 
 
 He had written to her. 
 
 The meal came to an end, and Mrs. Shine and 
 Gladys disappeared to wash up.
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Samuel Shine slowly filled a large pipe with 
 tobacco of a suspiciously dark color. Suddenly he 
 spoke. 
 
 "About young Goyle," he said. Molly waited. 
 "I dare say you know Vs got a 'ankering after 
 you?" 
 
 "He hasn't said so." 
 
 "You've only got to look at 'im a bit, and 'e 
 would." 
 
 "Perhaps he would." 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 "I couldn't marry him, father." She spoke with 
 a quiet determination. She wanted to avoid a 
 scene. 
 
 "Supposing I said you was to?" 
 
 "I should disobey you." 
 
 "Would you? You don't think you owe any- 
 thing to your parents, I suppose ?" 
 
 "Not that." 
 
 "I've reared you and I've kept you, my girl, 
 and now you're throwin' over your job because you 
 couldn't keep a man in 'is place, which is a thing 
 any girl's supposed to be able to do. An' there 
 conies along a man like young Sid Goyle, 'oo can 
 keep you, and won't knock you about if you be'ave 
 yourself and you say 'No.' You'll just go on 
 living on your father. Well, it won't do." 
 
 There was a long silence. Then Molly spoke. 
 Her hand clutched a little nervously at her breast, 
 where lay the unopened letter. 
 
 "I will never marry Mr. Goyle, father," she 
 said, "not even if you were to turn me into the 
 
 32
 
 MR. AND MRS. SHINE 
 
 streets; he is a nice man, I dare say, but I don't 
 love him, and I never could." 
 
 " 'Ow do you know?" said her father. "You 
 don't love anyone else, do you ? 'Ow do you know 
 you couldn't never love Sid Goyle?" 
 
 Molly's hand felt the letter lying in her frock. 
 
 "I just do know," she said simply. 
 
 Her father swung round. 
 
 "Damn you all!" he said. "I don't know what 
 to do with you." He turned again. "Well, get 
 out," he shouted; "get out, and get a job of your 
 own!" 
 
 Molly turned to the door; as she was going out 
 she heard his voice again. 
 
 "Moll," he said, "I'm sorry, girl I didn't mean 
 to speak to you like that. I'm getting old, and the 
 drink's breaking me up, too. And Em my God, 
 Em! If you only knew what she was at night 
 it's hell and wickedness and Bible talk all the time. 
 I sometimes wonder 'ow long I'll keep my 'ands 
 off Em." 
 
 He stopped, and a pathetic little smile twisted 
 his lips. 
 
 "But she weren't always this way," he said. "I 
 find I love her better when I'm drunk; I can think 
 she's the old Em then." 
 
 Molly came back. 
 
 "Poor old father !" she said. "I'm sorry I You 
 and I understand each other a bit, don't you think? 
 Do you remember the day I ran out of church 
 when the man said the world was a nest of vipers?" 
 
 The man shook his head. 
 33
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "I remember. I beat you, Moll." 
 
 "Yes; but we kissed each other good-night, didn't 
 we?" 
 
 "I'm a rotten lot, Moll," he said, "and the 
 drink's got me; I'll get worse, you'll see, instead of 
 better. But you're a good girl thank God! 
 though I don't deserve it." He put his hand into 
 his pocket. 
 
 "Here," he said, holding out a shilling, "I can't 
 get 'appily drunk if I know you ain't going to have 
 any dinner." 
 
 She took it and kissed him. She felt dreadfully 
 soft, dreadfully wicked. 
 
 "I hope you get awful happily drunk," she said 
 in a whisper. Somehow she felt that was the best 
 she could wish him. 
 
 She turned into the passage. 
 
 "I'll come back with a job to-day," she said. 
 "You see if I don't." 
 
 She heard his heavy footsteps going up the stairs 
 as she went out, and as she closed the door she 
 heard her mother's whining voice calling from the 
 kitchen: "Sam! Sam!" 
 
 Molly almost ran up the street. 
 
 Samuel Shine was a cabinet-maker and very clever 
 at his trade. When he worked his work was such 
 that his employers overlooked his irregularities, and 
 were only too anxious to secure his services. Some 
 years ago he had a windfall from an old relation 
 and had bought a small annuity. It was not enough 
 to keep him, of course, but it was enough to make 
 him take weeks, sometimes months even, of what 
 
 34
 
 MR. AND MRS. SHINE 
 
 he called holiday. Among his acquaintances these 
 were called drinking bouts. 
 
 Now he went upstairs, shaved himself, put some 
 money in his pocket from a cheap cash-box, stole 
 quietly downstairs, and disappeared for the day. 
 When next he should be seen at Number Three, it 
 would be an entirely different man. 
 
 Molly walked some way before she opened her 
 letter. She looked at the handwriting and won- 
 dered that it was so good. He hadn't seemed that 
 kind of man. 
 
 Then she opened the envelop. Postal orders 
 for two pounds were inside. 
 
 For a moment she went hot all over. She was 
 bitterly, dreadfully ashamed. It was as if she had 
 begged from him. What could he think of her, to 
 send her money like that? She crushed the orders 
 in her hand. 
 
 Of course, that wasn't his writing. He had 
 simply told someone to send it. She was just a 
 charity. Well, she thought to herself, why should 
 she hope he would regard her as anything else? 
 She was too shabby to be suspected of pride, after all. 
 
 Then she discovered the note inside. Her fingers 
 trembled as she drew it out. It was very short and 
 dreadfully badly written, but she smiled when she 
 read the quaint sentences, and her anger vanished 
 as if at a magic touch. 
 
 "DEAR Miss SHINE" (he had written), "I be- 
 lieve you said two pounds a week would buy you a 
 sufficient number of silly books. Please allow me 
 
 35
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 to be your librarian to that extent. I should be so 
 proud to feel that someone was looking upon me 
 as a dream-monger. Will you? It is going to be 
 a fine evening, thank God. 
 
 "Yours very truly, 
 
 "WYNNINGHAME." 
 
 She read the little letter again and again. Her 
 dream-monger! It seemed a wonderful word to 
 her; it made her feel that London was a little place, 
 and that she had a great many friends. She 
 climbed on to a 'bus and after a long ride reached 
 Regent's Park. She walked to the seat where he 
 had sat down with her, and she began to think. 
 She couldn't take the money, of course. And yet 
 what would he think of her if she didn't? He 
 would think she was just a conventional, silly girl 
 who was afraid of the dreams she professed to love. 
 But what would the family say? She saw no reason 
 why they should know she could think of some 
 story or other. But if she refused, the last the 
 only link between her and her dream-monger would 
 be broken. She wouldn't she Couldn't refuse. 
 You see, poor Molly hung on to her star with a 
 pathetic indifference to her difficulties. Whatever 
 happened, she was determined that he should never 
 think she was afraid. His own words kept ringing 
 in her head : "Dreams stick to them, cling to them, 
 my child, even if you lose everything else." And 
 she was going to cling to them, she said. She 
 wouldn't acknowledge that it was to him she was 
 clinging. 
 
 36
 
 MR. AND MRS. SHINE 
 
 She went out of the Park and bought some paper 
 and envelops, then she sat down and began to 
 think of what she should say to him. Finally she 
 wrote this, with a badly sucked pencil: 
 
 "DEAR SIR, I ought not to take it. But, if you 
 please, I will and thank you. 
 
 "MOLLY SHINE 
 
 "P. S. I am afraid I do not know how to ad- 
 dress a Duke." 
 
 The envelope she addressed to 
 "The Duke, 
 
 "Wynninghame House, 
 "Piccadilly." 
 
 And she determined to deliver her note there 
 herself. She wanted the little thrill of seeing where 
 he lived, quite close. 
 
 She walked to Piccadilly and stopped outside the 
 great gates with the two lions on their tops. Some- 
 how it looked much too like a prison for a dream- 
 monger to lodge there. Then she took her courage 
 in both hands and walked up the step to the large 
 front doors. She turned a little white as she 
 pressed the bell, and her heart seemed to stand 
 quite still when they swung back and revealed a 
 grave-looking man-servant. Somewhere in there, 
 she thought, he is sitting with his books roomfuls 
 of them; and his dreams universes of them. 
 
 She handed her note to the man. 
 
 37
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Please, sir," she said, "is the Duke of Wynning- 
 hame at home?" 
 
 "No, miss," he answered her. "His Grace left 
 for Paris this morning." 
 
 Left! The palace was there, but the magician 
 was away. Paris? He might just as well have 
 been in the Antipodes. He was gone. London got 
 larger and larger till it was all Bermondsey. Even 
 tears came into her eyes. 
 
 "Shall I leave him this note, miss?" the man was 
 saying. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she stammered, feeling her face 
 growing red. The doors shut and she went slowly 
 down the steps. Of course, why should he be 
 there? Mentally, she shook herself for behaving 
 like a child. Only, she had been imagining him 
 inside, all the way from Regent's Park; and it had 
 been a sudden shock to her to find the palace empty. 
 
 As she drifted out into Piccadilly, a curious 
 thought struck her. Paris! In the silly books a 
 great deal was said about Paris. She found herself 
 hoping he had not a large connection as a dream- 
 monger; in fact, that she was his only client. She 
 had to laugh at herself, but it wasn't a very satis- 
 factory laugh. 
 
 Meanwhile, her little note, placed on the Duke's 
 desk by a careless man-servant, slipped into the 
 waste-paper basket, and left Wynninghame House 
 almost as soon as it had entered it.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE GOLDEN TOAD 
 
 THE DUKE lay back in his chair at the hotel in 
 Paris; his eyes were closed and his finger-tips 
 pressed lightly together. On the other side of the 
 mantelpiece Peter Graine was talking. 
 
 "You have made an absolute fool of yourself, 
 Henry," he was saying. "Here we have all the 
 modern scientists that matter practically the entire 
 scientific brains of the universe gathered together 
 in one room," he waved an arm, dramatically, 
 "Doussac, Carnforth, Mardovitch, von Rosen and 
 you stand up and talk absolute rubbish to them 
 for an hour. If you didn't happen to be an English 
 peer you would have been thrown out of the Con- 
 ference. As it was, von Rosen absolutely pulver- 
 ized you." 
 
 "It is quite easy for a materialist to pulverize 
 anyone," said the Duke, slowly; "equally easily 
 could I have pulverized von Rosen by asking him 
 where the wind started; but one refrains. The 
 victories of facts and figures are the most easily 
 won, but they carry little booty with them. The 
 
 victories of faith, on the other hand " He broke 
 
 off. "I gather you don't believe in the golden 
 toad, then, Peter?" 
 
 The Professor gave a short laugh. 
 
 "The thing is ridiculous, Henry," he said. 
 39
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "There is no known genus that could produce such 
 a species." 
 
 "There is no known personality that produces 
 electricity," murmured the Duke. 
 
 Graine snorted. This sort of thing irritated 
 him. 
 
 "Look here, Henry," he said. "The whole thing 
 is perfectly obvious to anyone that knows you. 
 This man Cook, in 1883, wrote a letter saying that 
 he captured and lost a toad which was of complete 
 gold coloring. Being fantastic, the thing appeals 
 to you. You write an absurd paper endeavoring 
 to prove the possibility of this phenomenon. Von 
 Rosen refutes the whole thing, and Doussac shows, 
 beyond any doubt, that the man Cook happened to 
 be a confirmed drunkard. There you are!" 
 
 "Perhaps, if Doussac could have shown that 
 Cook was drunk on the island, but he couldn't. 
 You cannot get whisky on a desert island." 
 
 "What is the use of arguing with you?" said 
 the Professor. "In many ways you are a simple- 
 ton, Henry. Any beggar in the street can take 
 you in with a plausible tale; a woman or a child 
 can take you in by simply standing and looking at 
 you. You persist in believing that everybody is an 
 angel from heaven. Upon my word, I think the 
 mere fact that it isn't so makes you believe it!" 
 
 "The things worth looking for," said the Duke, 
 "are the things that everybody says do not exist; 
 it is obviously dull to find things that you knew 
 all the time were there." 
 
 "Anyway," said Graine, "I trust your contribu- 
 40
 
 THE GOLDEN TOAD 
 
 tion to the Conference will not be reported in the 
 papers." 
 
 The Duke rose and knocked out his pipe. 
 
 "Would you be surprised to hear," he said, 
 "that I am going to look for my toad?" 
 
 "Going to look for it?" 
 
 "Certainly. I am going to that island in the 
 South Seas that Cook spoke of. For many reasons, 
 I believe the thing exists. The fact that all those 
 reasons have been refuted by Herr von Rosen and 
 M. Doussac does not disturb me in the least." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I think both von Rosen and Doussac 
 are entirely lacking in imagination. What lies at 
 the root of a good scientist, Pete, though I am per- 
 fectly well aware that you will deny it, is imagina- 
 tion. Look at Leonardo da Vinci." 
 
 "Leonardo da Vinci was not a scientist." 
 
 "Nevertheless, were he to come to life to-day and 
 were you to argue with him on any subject you cared 
 to choose, he would, to use your own phrase, Peter, 
 pulverize you." 
 
 "Supposing I were to ask him questions concern- 
 ing the lateral formation of the hippocampus minor, 
 he would have nothing to say." 
 
 "And I hold that any man with imagination and 
 a fluent tongue would find something to say, even 
 about the hippocampus minor, which is a ludicrous 
 thing for anyone to talk about." 
 
 Peter Graine smiled. 
 
 "Your theory of life, Henry," he said, "would 
 make interesting reading."
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "I have no theory of life," said the other, "but 
 I have a theory of living for myself." 
 
 "And that is?" 
 
 The Duke smiled. 
 
 "No, Peter," he said. "If I were to tell you 
 you would only go and warn Octavia about it. All 
 I ask is that when I do something grotesque you 
 will try to bear in mind that somewhere behind that 
 is my theory of living." 
 
 He went over to the large window with its violent 
 brocade curtains and yellow tassels and looked out 
 on the people in the streets. He stood there for 
 some time, a little smile playing about his lips. 
 
 " 'Plus je vois des hommes, plus j'aime mon 
 chien,' " he said suddenly. "The man who wrote 
 that should be hanged." 
 
 "And how would you alter it?" said the 
 Professor. 
 
 "Plus je vois des hommes et des animaux, plus 
 j'aime le monde." 
 
 Peter Graine laughed. 
 
 "Et les femmes?" he asked. 
 
 "Mais elles ne sont pas du monde, n'est ce pas?" 
 the Duke said, suddenly digging his friend violently 
 in the ribs. "Surely you are not going to waste 
 your last night in Paris?" 
 
 "Certainly not," returned the Professor, picking 
 up his cloak. "I have a supper party. You're 
 not really going on an expedition to the South Seas, 
 Henry?" 
 
 "Certainly I am." 
 
 "But it's absurd." 
 
 42
 
 THE GOLDEN TOAD 
 
 "Perhaps; but there is an outside chance in every- 
 thing. Can you imagine the sensations of the mo- 
 ment when I dangle a golden toad in the face of 
 von Rosen?" 
 
 Peter laughed. 
 
 "No, I can't," he said. 
 
 "Who is the lady to-night, Peter?" asked the 
 Duke as he slid back into his armchair. 
 
 "A supper party of young Henry Bourrien. 
 Can't I tempt you to join us?" 
 
 "Hardly," returned the Duke. "I am afraid I 
 should find M. Bourrien's friends a little too bril- 
 liant for me." 
 
 The Professor turned. 
 
 "Henry," he said, "it is positively disgusting for 
 a man of your age to be entirely unmoved by the 
 sight of a pretty woman. You talk a great deal 
 about beauty, but you don't know what beauty is. 
 You don't know the difference between a frock from 
 Redfern's and an overall ! You are a fish." 
 
 He gazed at the Duke, who sat twiddling a paper- 
 knife in his long fingers. Graine frowned. 
 
 "What the devil do you think women are for?" 
 he said. 
 
 The Duke laid down the paper-knife. 
 
 "I think," he said, "that women were created in 
 order to give a man the opportunity of becoming a 
 gentleman." 
 
 The Professor made a gesture of disgust, as he 
 opened the door. 
 
 "I will tell you," he said, "what is the matter 
 with you. You are a prig, Henry." 
 
 43
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Duke selected his book from the table. 
 
 "There are worse things," he said slowly, "than 
 being a prig." 
 
 The door banged, and the outraged Professor 
 stalked out into the night to enjoy himself.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 FOR two weeks everything went as well as possible 
 with Molly. The girl in the draper's up the street 
 fell ill and her position was given to Molly tempo- 
 rarily. Each Saturday she had been able to inter- 
 cept the post which brought the coronated letter, or 
 explain it as from a girl friend ; and her salary from 
 the shop was enough to account for the novels which 
 found their way into her bedroom, though her 
 mother had several Biblical texts to repeat dealing 
 with the subject of extravagance. 
 
 It must be admitted that Molly chose her books, 
 at present, almost solely from the pictures on the 
 jackets. It must also be admitted that these gen- 
 erally depicted an almost incredibly athletic-looking 
 man, holding in his arms a woman with a quite 
 impossible complexion. At the same time the con- 
 tents were generally clean, and somehow the more 
 villainous characters seemed unreal, while the very 
 good and noble people seemed quite possible to 
 Molly. From which you will perceive that she 
 was well fitted to be a brilliant pupil of any dream- 
 monger. 
 
 This Saturday afternoon the volume she was 
 bringing home was entitled "The Path of Patricia," 
 and the picture on the cover had suggested to Molly 
 that it might be a pleasant path. As she walked 
 
 45
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 along the pavement of Ball Street she felt very 
 happy. It is really rather wonderful to have one's 
 feet in Bermondsey and one's head in Piccadilly; 
 but Molly was accomplishing that feat as she 
 stepped up to the little front door and walked into 
 the sitting-room of Number Three. Once inside, 
 her thoughts came swooping to earth with the speed 
 of an aerial torpedo. 
 
 Sidney Goyle was sitting in the armchair, his 
 long legs stretched out on the well-worn rug. He 
 was a young man of twenty-seven, with an anemic 
 face, rather listless gray eyes, and a straggly yellow- 
 brown moustache. He, too, had yearnings after 
 literature, and on that account partly, he considered 
 that he should be attractive in Molly's eyes. But 
 unfortunately Sidney Goyle was not honest with 
 himself; he wished to be thought literary rather 
 than be literary. One of the results of this was that 
 he martyred himself considerably by reading books 
 which he didn't understand and which could give 
 him no satisfaction. But, for all that, he was a 
 nice young man, and had the reputation of being 
 very "steady." As Molly came in the room 
 Mrs. Shine slipped out. Molly knew instinctively 
 that Sidney Goyle was going to propose to her. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Miss Shine," he said, getting 
 up awkwardly and speaking in a thin, rather high 
 voice that gave one the idea that he had taken a 
 great deal too much trouble in cultivating it. 
 
 "Good afternoon," said Molly, removing the 
 pins from her hat. 
 
 "Have you been reading much lately?" he 
 46
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 said, picking up "The Path of Patricia," which she 
 had placed on the table. 
 
 "Oh, only silly books," she said. 
 
 Mr. Goyle raised his eyebrows at the picture on 
 the jacket. 
 
 "I dare say this is quite good," he said. "I've 
 been reading philosophy lately. Oliver Wendell 
 Holmes, you know." 
 
 She didn't know a bit, but she nodded. 
 
 "You ought to read a few really good books," 
 he went on; "one gets so much more out of them 
 they feed one." He gave a little wave of the 
 hand, vaguely. "One gets a bigger grasp," he said. 
 
 "Yes," said Molly. 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "I've thought we might read together, perhaps, 
 if you cared to," said Sidney Goyle, with the least 
 possible air of a Maecenas. 
 
 "Oh! I'd be stupid," she said quickly. 
 
 "Poohl" He waved his hand again. "You're 
 afraid of the good books." 
 
 "Perhaps I am," she said. Somehow she didn't 
 see Sidney Goyle as a dream-monger. 
 
 "But that's a great mistake, Molly," he said. 
 "I may call you Molly, mayn't I ?" 
 
 She said nothing. It was coming. Oh! why 
 didn't he get to it at once? Ought she to anticipate 
 him? He was impossible, dreadful she saw him 
 out of the corner of her eyes. How could he hope 
 to be a dream-monger? He was talking again; 
 she forced herself to listen to take him seriously. 
 
 "I wonder," he was saying, "I wonder if you 
 47
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 could ever care for me, Molly. We both love 
 books and literature; we have so much in common. 
 I don't want an answer all at once but if you 
 thought you could we could get married fairly 
 soon. I could take a little house we could have 
 a library." 
 
 She saw that little house and shuddered. He 
 was going on talking. Why couldn't she stop him? 
 She felt as if someone had tied her tongue; some- 
 how the whole thing seemed preposterous and 
 grotesque. 
 
 He was coming over to her. 
 
 "What do you think about it, little woman?" he 
 was saying. "Don't you feel we'd get on fine?" 
 
 What was he doing? He was putting his arm 
 round her waist; he was going to kiss her. 
 
 "Don't touch me!" she cried suddenly. "How 
 dare you?" 
 
 He started back, looking at her as if he 
 couldn't believe his ears. 
 
 A sudden wave of pity for him came over her. 
 He had meant to be kind. He didn't know. She 
 put out her hand and took his. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said; "I didn't mean to be 
 unkind; I couldn't marry you no," as she saw he 
 was about to speak, "not if I thought it over for 
 years I don't love you I couldn't ever love you. 
 I don't mean to hurt you. . . ." 
 
 She went on talking to him, telling him she was 
 honored by his proposal, telling him a great many 
 things which were quite untrue. She felt that what- 
 ever happened she must prevent htm opening his 
 
 48
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 mouth again. And as she talked she did not hear 
 the postman's knock or her mother's footsteps in 
 the passage. 
 
 Mrs. Shine took the single letter and, fumbling 
 for her glasses, stared at the address. She saw that 
 it was for Molly, but she had always opened her 
 children's letters without any scruples, and, not 
 knowing this handwriting, she immediately tore 
 open the envelop. Inside were two one-pound 
 postal orders. 
 
 Mrs. Shine gazed at them for a moment blankly. 
 Then she turned over the envelop. There was no 
 doubt about it. It was addressed to Molly. She 
 turned it over again, and suddenly her hand fell to 
 her side. She stared straight in front of her, stand- 
 ing quite still, unnaturally still. 
 
 This, then, was the secret of these late extrava- 
 gances! Mrs. Shine had noticed, in her less bitter 
 moments, that her daughter, who seemed to her 
 only yesterday to be a grubby child with one ragged 
 pigtail, was growing into a beautiful woman. In 
 her own mind any kind of beauty was vaguely con- 
 nected with wickedness; and now . . . She 
 crushed the letter in her yellow, bony hand. 
 
 She heard her daughter's voice in the sitting- 
 room. What she was saying she could not hear. 
 A man was proposing to her; Mrs. Shine knew that 
 was going to happen. And now now Molly was 
 not fit to be the wife of a decent man. 
 
 For a moment she thought she was going to 
 faint; it was impossible, incredible. They had 
 always been respectable; her husband's drinking 
 
 49
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 bouts belonged to another category in the society 
 she lived in. But this? This meant fingers pointed 
 in scorn, whisperings, even laughter. What would 
 Sam say to this? For a few seconds she stood 
 there realizing the thing that had happened. 
 Gradually a hard light came into her eyes the 
 light one sees in the eyes of a fanatic. 
 
 She turned the handle of the sitting-room door 
 and went in. 
 
 There are many people who cannot forgive sins 
 that are beyond repair. When there is nothing to 
 be done but suffer, they are less ready to alleviate 
 that suffering with the balm of understanding. If 
 a murderer could bring his victim back to life, we 
 could find excuses for his mistake. It is the irre- 
 trievable that is unforgivable as much in Park Lane 
 as in Stockwell and the Mile End Road, for human 
 forgiveness is as illogical as human punishment and 
 human sin. That is a common enough fault. But 
 Molly's mother was not even of these. 
 
 Mrs. Shine was a sort of negative Medea. She 
 was of the blood of those who burned witches and 
 bishops indiscriminately. Her gospel was a gospel 
 of repression. She did not believe that any good 
 could come out of a human being till it had first been 
 driven in with a hammer. With this child the 
 hammer had not been heavy enough that was all. 
 
 Thus, having made up her mind that Molly's 
 soul was irretrievably lost, no thought of trying to 
 find it entered her mind. As she went into the room 
 it is safe to say that Mrs. Shine hated no one so 
 much as her elder daughter.
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 Molly still had Sidney Goyle's hand in hers, and 
 was still trying to pour oil on the ruffled waters of 
 that young man's conceit. 
 
 "We should hate each other in a week," she was 
 saying. "I'm such a fool, and you are so clever; 
 I know you'll see I'm right when you think it over." 
 She gave a little laugh. "And you wouldn't be able 
 to get rid of me, you know," she added. 
 
 "Jezebel!" The word came in a kind of biting 
 whisper from the other side of the deal table. The 
 absurd melodramatic interruption made the two 
 swing round almost simultaneously. For a moment 
 Molly thought her mother was mad. She was 
 standing staring at her, her thin lips almost white 
 and drawn down at the corners with an unnatural 
 tightness; her gray eyes looked like circles of 
 polished granite. 
 
 Sidney Goyle's mouth hung open, making him 
 look more than ever like an imbecile. 
 
 "Why, mother!" said Molly slowly. "What's 
 the matter with you?" 
 
 Mrs. Shine shifted her eyes to the young man. 
 
 "Mr. Goyle," she said, "you came 'ere to make 
 an offer of marriage to my daughter; you can take 
 it back; she ain't fit to marry you nor any decent 
 man. I know my duty. The Lord 'as chosen me 
 to tell you the truth an' I'll tell it, if it's my death." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 "Mother," cried Molly suddenly, "are you 
 mad?" 
 
 "Better for me if I was or dead," answered 
 Mrs. Shine. Her expression changed suddenly to 
 
 51
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 one of fury. She flung the letter and the two postal 
 orders down on the table. 
 
 " 'Oo sent you that?" she cried. '"Go's been 
 sending you two pounds each week, an' you sayin' 
 it's a girl writing from the boot store?" She leaned 
 across the table. "No more lies, if you please 
 time's past for lying. 'Oo is it?" Her voice sunk 
 to a whisper again. "Is it a man?" she said. 
 
 Molly stared stupidly at the orders and the en- 
 velop. Somehow she had never pictured it hap- 
 pening like this. The first thing her mother should 
 think of! Her mother ... It was sordid, 
 horrible. The door had opened, and Gladys was 
 in the room; she realized at once that something 
 dreadful had happened. Molly saw her without 
 taking her eyes off the table. No one moved. 
 
 "Is it a man?" her mother repeated in that awful 
 whisper. 
 
 Still the hopeless silence. Even the ticking of 
 the clock on the mantelpiece seemed an imperti- 
 nence. Sidney Goyle all at once took his hand off 
 the sofa back and examined his nails, like a man 
 who feels suddenly awkward at a tea-party. Up 
 the street a man began to whistle. "You Made Me 
 Love You" in a mixture of keys. He came nearer, 
 and Molly recognized her father. He always 
 whistled that when he was fuddled and happy. 
 She suddenly found her voice. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "it is a man." 
 
 No one moved. 
 
 Mr. Shine was passing the window and was 
 humming his song to himself with intense satisfac- 
 
 52
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 tion. Sidney Goyle suddenly woke up to the irony 
 of the obbligato. 
 
 "My God!" he said, and, turning his back, 
 stared out of the window. 
 
 Mrs. Shine opened her mouth to say something, 
 then closed it like a trap as she heard the front door 
 shut. The father was in the passage; he sounded 
 very cheerful. Gladys, standing pressed up against 
 the yellow sideboard, shivered. 
 
 A moment later and Mr. Shine was in the room. 
 He saw at once that one of his hated "scenes" was 
 in progress. Samuel Shine hardly ever became 
 really drunk; it is too expensive a proceeding for a 
 seasoned toper. But when he had absorbed a cer- 
 tain amount of alcohol, the soft parts of his nature 
 seemed to merge into a general hard cheerfulness 
 and a capacity for furious anger should anything 
 happen to disturb his good spirits. Now he looked 
 round the room and its motionless occupants with a 
 sort of intuition that something unpleasant was 
 going to be said which would jar upon his artificial 
 cheeriness. A wave of anger came over him. It 
 was uneconomical to get drunk if you were to be 
 annoyed in the process of enjoying it. He turned 
 to his wife. 
 
 "What's all this?" he said in a hostile tone. 
 
 Mrs. Shine pointed to the papers on the table. 
 
 "She's been getting that every week from a 
 man," she said; "that's what it is. Our daughter 
 ain't fit to marry anybody as is honest, any longer." 
 Her husband was looking at the postal orders and 
 the envelop. 
 
 53
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "D'you understand?" she asked shrilly. 
 
 He said nothing. 
 
 "It's a judgment on us," she went on, with a 
 return to the whine that he knew so well. "The 
 Lord's visited your 'ouse, Sam, with no uncertain 
 'and. It's a judgment on you that the daughter I 
 bore should be no better than a common " 
 
 Mr. Shine looked at her. 
 
 "I won't 'ave those words used 'ere," he said, 
 and turned to Molly. 
 
 "Is this true?" he asked. 
 
 She did not answer. Somehow it seemed to her 
 extraordinary that all these people should take this 
 thing for granted. They did not even imagine any 
 other explanation possible. She looked round at 
 them with their shocked, awed faces. How could 
 she tell them the truth? Far from believing it, 
 they wouldn't even understand it. 
 
 And yet in a queer way she realized that they 
 were right. It was she who was beating her wings 
 against the bars of the cage that is called the world. 
 Her family all seemed suddenly to have become 
 strangers to her, but she saw that they understood 
 each other, and that it was she who had refused to 
 play the game of life according to the rules. She 
 was a rebel, and rebels are in the wrong when they 
 are in the minority. She had the sense not to 
 pretend to herself that she was a martyr. They 
 were forcing her to play according to rules she had 
 never agreed to; but then, she thought, neither 
 had they. She saw her father's face growing more 
 stern as she did not answer, and she felt somehow 
 
 54
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 sorry for him. Her mind traveled back to that 
 afternoon in Regent's Park, and the puzzle became 
 greater still. What had he said? "Dreams stick 
 to them, cling to them, my child, even if you lose 
 everything else." To her it seemed as if he could 
 not be wrong. And surely this was a good dream ! 
 
 She looked at her mother, hard, uncompromising. 
 No I she could never tell them. Good or bad, it 
 was her dream, and it would be inevitably soiled if 
 exposed to the light of day. When fairy tales come 
 true they cannot be told. 
 
 You cannot serve two masters. As Molly stood 
 there watching her father's face growing harder 
 and harder, she enrolled herself finally and ab- 
 solutely under the standard of the dream-monger. 
 
 "Is this true?" he repeated, and this time she 
 looked him in the face. 
 
 "A man sent me that," she said; "yes, that is 
 true; but I have done nothing wrong." 
 
 "Done nothing wrong!" Her father repeated 
 her words with a world of scorn in his voice. Then 
 he stuck his hands into his pockets. 
 
 "Explain," he said. 
 
 "I can't," answered Molly; "you'll just have 
 to take my word for it." 
 
 "That a man sends you two pounds a week, and 
 you ain't done wrong? D'you think I'm as simple 
 as that?" 
 
 "No," she said, "I don't." 
 
 She did not realize the profound truth of what 
 he had said. She just knew that the collision had 
 come and that they were both right. It was a silly 
 
 55
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 collision, because she had not done the thing which 
 was causing it. But it did not matter. Sooner or 
 later the clash between the two natures was bound 
 to happen. In a way the whole thing was a pity. 
 Perhaps, if Molly had never met the Duke she 
 would have schooled herself in time to obey the 
 rules, like all the other players; the young always 
 kick and, after all, a Duke is more or less above the 
 law. At any rate, to a certain extent he can make 
 his own conventions. Yes, it looked as if it was a 
 pity that Henry had left his hat just where he did 
 on that Friday afternoon. 
 
 "Is that all you've got to say?" her father was 
 asking. 
 
 "Yes, father," said Molly, "that's all." 
 
 For a moment or two Samuel Shine was non- 
 plused. He had not expected this. Denial, per- 
 haps; tears, perhaps; but not this. It was quite 
 ridiculous. He did not know what to say. 
 
 And then a peculiar thing happened. Sidney 
 Goyle, who had not turned round, even when Mr. 
 Shine came in, now faced the father with his weak 
 mouth shut in a thin line and a new light in his gray 
 eyes. 
 
 "Whatever she's done," he said simply, "I am 
 willing to make her my wife." He must have 
 thought of the cost while he stood looking out of 
 the window, for this sort of thing never remained a 
 secret long in Bermondsey circles. Anyway, there 
 he was with his offer, a little white, a little over- 
 emphasized, a little awkward, but a man with his 
 big moment. Sidney Goyle would never rise as 
 
 56
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 high as that again. Mrs. Shine gulped incred- 
 ulously. 
 
 But Molly laughed, though she could have bitten 
 her tongue out when she saw the face of the poor 
 knight-errant. The bathos of the thing! She had 
 done nothing, yet in one moment to become Mrs. 
 Goyle had become an honor she could hardly hope 
 to expect! And so she laughed she really could 
 not help it. The stark tragedy in that room so 
 nearly overlapped into farce. 
 
 Sidney Goyle looked at her for a moment, then 
 picked up his hat; he bowed to Molly a little 
 awkwardly and looked at Mrs. Shine. 
 
 "It is no longer," he said, "any business of 
 mine," and in dead silence he left the house. 
 
 In very trying circumstances Mr. Goyle had 
 given an excellent imitation of a gentleman. 
 
 Mrs. Shine turned to her husband. 
 
 "She's not only bad," she said, "she don't want 
 to be an honest woman." 
 
 "Shut up, Em!" said her husband brusquely. 
 "Leave it to me." He bent over the table. "Tell 
 me the truth," he said to Molly hoarsely. 
 
 "I have told you the truth," she answered. 
 
 "You lie!" he said. "What's the man's name?" 
 
 But Molly was silent. What difference would it 
 make? What difference could anything make? 
 
 "Tell me his name," said her father, his voice 
 growing more harsh. 
 
 She just shook her head. 
 
 "Obstinate, eh?" His voice shook a little with 
 suppressed passion. "There's never been a thing 
 
 57
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 like this in my family, nor in my father's before me. 
 If a man 'ad told me one of my own daughters 'ud 
 go wrong I'd 'ave knocked him down, I would. 
 An' you can laugh at it I You must be bad to the 
 bottom, that's what you must be!" 
 
 He suddenly took her arm and twisted her round 
 so that his face was close to hers. 
 
 "Tell me his name!" he said in a sudden access 
 of fury. "Tell me his name!" 
 
 She shook her head and he let her go. His 
 fingers closed and unclosed spasmodically. 
 
 "What's done's done," he said, "but you shall 
 know what your father thinks of you. You're a 
 bad woman and a liar, and what's left o' sinfulness 
 don't amount to much. The first's too bad to cure, 
 but I 'ad a way of teachin' you to tell the truth, 
 and, by God ! I'll do it now, if you were twice your 
 age." 
 
 He took her by the shoulders and showed her 
 the door. 
 
 "Go into the kitchen," he said savagely. 
 
 For one second she looked at him over her 
 shoulder. Then she turned and went slowly into 
 the kitchen; it was no good. She couldn't ex- 
 plain. 
 
 Mr. Shine turned round to his wife. "Wait for 
 me," he said, and turned to the door. Gladys 
 made a sudden movement. 
 
 "Father," she cried, "what are you going to do?" 
 
 He pushed her aside. 
 
 "What has this to do with you ?" he said. 
 
 He stopped for a moment in the hall. Then 
 
 58
 
 SEQUITUR 
 
 they heard his heavy footsteps going into the 
 kitchen. Gladys didn't care to look at her mother; 
 she went across and sat on the sofa, her knuckles 
 showing white on her clenched hands. 
 
 And all at once she heard what she dreaded to 
 hear the dull, vicious thud of a stick on human 
 flesh. 
 
 Gladys stared with wide eyes out of the window. 
 It was too dreadful; surely her father was wrong. 
 The thing was too big to be dealt with like this. 
 It seemed bathos that Molly should be beaten for 
 ruining her body and soul. Gladys gave a quick 
 look at her mother. Mrs. Shine was sitting at the 
 table, her hands clasped together. The younger 
 daughter almost thought she could see a look of 
 satisfaction in her eyes. If so, it was the fierce 
 satisfaction that the Inquisitors felt at the purging 
 of a soul. 
 
 The dreadful sounds from the kitchen seemed 
 endless. Just .the dull thuds of the stick nothing 
 else. Molly had always been like that, Gladys 
 thought to herself. 
 
 Would he never stop? 
 
 Suddenly there came a long wail of pain and 
 almost immediately the blows ceased. 
 
 Gladys shifted uneasily on the sofa. Her mother 
 had not moved. They could hear Mr. Shine com- 
 ing back. 
 
 He came into the room slowly, and jerked his 
 head toward the girl on the sofa. 
 
 "Get out, Gladys!" he said. She went out 
 with a last glance at the still motionless figure of 
 
 59
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 her mother. Samuel Shine went up to the mantel- 
 piece and brought his hand down upon it heavily. 
 
 "My God, Em I" he said. "My God 1" 
 
 He was quite sober now. 
 
 The mother said nothing. He gave a dry sob. 
 
 "I'd never 'ave believed it of Moll," he said, 
 "never. She were always my favorite." 
 
 Perhaps if Molly had seen him then she would 
 have attempted the impossible, told him everything, 
 and trusted in a good Providence that he should 
 believe her. But Molly was sitting, dry-eyed, on 
 her bed near the little window, wondering with that 
 quaint mind of hers whether she was supposed to 
 be any better for the bruises on her back. 
 
 Mrs. Shine answered nothing to her husband's 
 words, but she rose and walked over to the window. 
 Suddenly she turned. 
 
 "She's dead to me," she said. "The wages of 
 sin is death, and dead she is." 
 
 The man shrugged his shoulders. If ever he 
 had needed his wife it was at this moment, but 
 that she should fail him was only to be expected. 
 He sat down rather heavily in the Windsor chair 
 that was especially his seat; in this chair he had 
 held Molly on his knee. He remembered, in hap- 
 pier days, he had made her a doll's house a 
 splendid doll's house it was. He used to play with 
 it, for her amusement in this chair. He sat there 
 now, far into the night. He did not even notice 
 when his wife went out of the room. 
 
 When Gladys went upstairs Molly was in bed; 
 60
 
 NON SEQUITUR 
 
 propped up on one arm she was looking out of the 
 little window over rows of chimney-pots and tele- 
 graph wires and smoke, all toned into one weird 
 picture by the darkness of the night above and the 
 lights in the streets below. 
 
 The younger sister began slowly to undress. 
 There was a gulf fixed between the two now, she 
 thought. This thing that had happened had made 
 them strangers. Curiously enough, she felt shy of 
 speaking to Molly. But as she was getting into 
 bed she wondered that her sister should not move, 
 but looked steadily out over the roof-tops. 
 
 "What are you looking at, Molly?" she said. 
 
 "Piccadilly," said Molly. 
 
 Gladys stared at her. She never had understood 
 her sister. She got slowly into bed, and was about 
 to blow out the candle. 
 
 "Is that where he lives?" she asked suddenly, 
 with a quaint note of awe. 
 
 Molly turned and looked at her; she saw the 
 worldly little face, the over-wise eyes, the thin 
 lips. She sighed. 
 
 "Yes," she said; "that's where he lives," 
 
 The candle went out. 
 
 61
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE DUKE'S CREED 
 
 LADY OCTAVIA sailed into the study at Wynning- 
 hame House with a light in her eyes that heralded 
 the imminent organization of someone. Behind 
 her came her daughter, Mary Blake, a slim girl of 
 nineteen, with a wealth of very fair hair and a 
 fresh, sweet face, which her ultra-fashionable 
 clothes were unable to spoil. It is fortunate that 
 mothers cannot have the molding of their daughters' 
 faces as well as their figures. 
 
 Henry had a large chart of the Pacific Ocean 
 spread out on the table, and was poring over it 
 while Peter Graine stood on the hearthrug looking 
 extremely superior. Lady Octavia began to take 
 off her gloves at once. 
 
 "Old Edgeware's nephew proposed to Mary yes- 
 terday afternoon," she said. "Of course I refused 
 him." 
 
 "Why?" the Duke asked without looking up. 
 
 "Why?" echoed his sister. "My dear Henry, 
 he is twenty-seven and already has gout; and his 
 mother says he snores, but then she hates the idea 
 of his marrying anybody." 
 
 Peter Graine laughed as Mary went over to him. 
 
 "Mother loves to arrange everything," she said; 
 "but of course I shall marry whom I please in the 
 end." 
 
 "Of course," said the Duke gravely. 
 62
 
 THE DUKE'S CREED 
 
 Lady Octavia sighed. 
 
 "I believe girls do now," she said. "You have 
 not asked me to sit down, Henry." 
 
 "Do I have to ask?" 
 
 "No," she said, seating herself by the table; 
 "but it would sound rather well. Henry," she 
 added, "I read the report of the Conference in the 
 Times. How could you? Why did you let him, 
 Peter?" 
 
 "Well," said the Professor, "for one thing I 
 didn't know he was going to; and in the second 
 place " 
 
 The Duke cut in. 
 
 "It would not have made any difference," he 
 said. "I believe in every man's right to tilt at his 
 own windmills." 
 
 "But the wings always hit his relations," said 
 Octavia. She sighed. "Never mind," she added; 
 "we are used to it. I met Mr. Pardoe-Vine in 
 Bond Street. He said at once, 'I see Wynning- 
 hame has made a fool of himself again.' ' She 
 looked at her wrist, then leaned over and touched a 
 bell on the desk. "It is half-past four," she said. 
 "I accept your offer of tea, Henry, in the spirit in 
 which it should have been made." 
 
 "I'm sorry, Octavia," said the Duke; then, as a 
 servant appeared: "Tea, please." 
 
 "And toast," added Octavia. "Tea time," she 
 went on, as the man left the room, "is the only 
 possible time for toast. At breakfast it is too 
 brisk a food. I hate anything that crackles for 
 breakfast. It should be a soft and gloomy meal." 
 
 63
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Peter Graine laughed. 
 
 "Since you have come in, Octavia," he said, "no 
 one else has spoken save in monosyllables. I say 
 it in admiration. You are a mistress of trivialities." 
 
 "If you or Henry have anything to say," an- 
 swered Lady Octavia imperturbably, "say it." 
 
 "Personally," said the Duke with a shade of 
 irony in his voice, "I have nothing to say at all." 
 
 "Well, Henry," Octavia went on, "I admit that 
 you are a clever man and that I am not a clever 
 woman. On the other hand, as a business propo- 
 sition I should be the one that would appeal to 
 the investor. You think a great deal, Henry, and 
 it is possible that one day you will give birth to an 
 idea of importance, though personally I am inclined 
 to think your life will be one long miscarriage. I 
 suppose I am being coarse. You had better not 
 listen, Mary." 
 
 "I never do, mother," said the girl simply. 
 
 Peter Graine gave a roar of laughter. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Octavia," he said, "but 
 that was really funny." 
 
 "I suppose it was," admitted Octavia; "one 
 brings up one's children and then they proceed to 
 take one down." 
 
 "I never meant " began Mary, but Octavia 
 
 cut in. 
 
 "Then you should have," she said; "never admit 
 that you have been witty unawares. Here is the 
 tea! Henry, you look tired of me. Are you?" 
 
 "My dear Octavia, is that a polite question 
 to ask?" 
 
 64
 
 THE DUKE'S CREED 
 
 "Then you are well, it won't make any differ- 
 ence." She poured out some tea and selected a 
 piece of toast. "As a matter of fact," she went on, 
 "I have not come here simply to drink your tea, 
 which is horrid, or to indulge in the trivialities 
 which tire you, Henry." 
 
 The Duke smiled. 
 
 "You have an object?" he said. 
 
 "I always have an object," answered his sister. 
 "Do you ever intend to marry, Henry?" 
 
 He leaned back in his chair. 
 
 "No," he said at length. 
 
 "I do not believe you ever have any temptations, 
 do you?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. There are lots of people I should 
 like to murder." 
 
 "Is it necessary to be personal?" 
 
 "You are quite safe, Octavia." 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "Why don't you wish to marry, Henry?" she 
 asked. "Have you never been in love?" 
 
 "All my life," he said, "with the world and 
 everything that is in it." 
 
 She snapped her fingers. 
 
 "You cannot marry a syndicate like that," she 
 said. "It is one of my ambitions to be an aunt." 
 
 "Henry is a fish, Octavia," said the Professor 
 sadly. 
 
 "We have had this out so many times," said the 
 Duke; "you think it is my duty to marry. I be- 
 lieve you think it is waste of a Duchess. Well, 
 Octavia, women do not attract me in that way. 
 
 65
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The er follies of a young man" he looked at 
 Mary out of the corner of his eye, but she was 
 placidly sipping her tea "the follies of a young 
 man," he went on, "I have never experienced. I 
 have never wished to experience them. What is 
 marriage but an old man's folly?" 
 
 "You don't mean that, Uncle Henry," said Mary. 
 
 "Perhaps not, my dear," he said. "But for me 
 to marry would be a crime. People tell me that the 
 capacity for loving a woman is the most beautiful 
 thing in the world. Well, I have missed it." 
 
 Octavia sighed. 
 
 "You are a great disappointment, Henry," she 
 said. 
 
 "I should be a greater disappointment to my 
 wife." 
 
 "Isn't every husband?" cried Octavia. 
 
 "I love to hear people talking about marriage," 
 said Mary from her corner. "Nobody has a good 
 word to say for it; but the world goes on all the 
 same." 
 
 "At your age," said her mother, "one always 
 marries an angel." 
 
 "Later," added the Professor, "one discovers 
 that it is the one with the flaming sword." 
 
 "How do you know?" said Mary. "You have 
 never been married." 
 
 "I never deserved it," said Peter ambiguously. 
 
 "At least," said the Duke slowly, demolishing 
 in a sentence the Professor's hastily thrown-up 
 defenses, "at least no woman has ever suffered on 
 my account." 
 
 66
 
 THE DUKE'S CREED 
 
 "How do you know?" cried Mary again. Even 
 at nineteen one has had one's affairs. 
 
 "Women only suffer about the things that inter- 
 est them," he said. "I am uninteresting." 
 
 Octavia helped herself to some more tea. 
 
 "Very few nice men," she said, "realize how 
 many girls have lain awake all night on their ac- 
 count. All nice women realize that men are having 
 insomnia over them. It is one of the differences 
 between the sexes. Peter imagines every woman 
 whose supper he pays for is in love with him. But 
 then, of course, he is not a nice man." 
 
 "You say that, Octavia," said the Professor, 
 "because I have never made love to you." 
 
 "It appears," rejoined Octavia, smiling at him 
 blandly, "that he is vulgar as well." 
 
 "I am annihilated," said Peter, "but I have had 
 a very happy life." 
 
 "In that case," said Lady Octavia, "you need no 
 excuses." 
 
 "Think so?" broke in the Duke. "That is not 
 my opinion." 
 
 The Professor snorted. 
 
 "Henry has one vice at least," he said. "He 
 talks like a clergyman." 
 
 "As a class, Peter," the Duke said, "I should say 
 that clergymen speak more sense in a year than 
 any other profession. They are severely handi- 
 capped by being so plainly labeled. If scientists 
 had to wear their collars the wrong way round, 
 science would be even more neglected than it is." 
 
 67
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Anyway," said the Professor, "I refuse to 
 justify my peccadilloes." 
 
 "We haven't the time," said Henry dryly. 
 
 "Oh, come," cried Octavia; "don't snap at one 
 another. The truth of the matter is, Henry does 
 not know the difference between right and wrong. 
 He imagines because his own pet sins are peculiar 
 that they are not sins. He pauperizes the people 
 on his estates, and makes all the neighboring vil- 
 lages jealous. That is causing strife, and is there- 
 fore a sin. His indiscriminate charity is exactly the 
 same as Peter's indiscriminate love-making lack of 
 self-control. Love should be organized, like every- 
 thing else. If it oughtn't to be, what is marriage 
 for? Personally, I want you to marry, Henry. I 
 think it might save you. And what does it matter 
 to me whether Gerald succeeds to the title or not? 
 Only I want to know whether there is any likelihood 
 of your marrying. You are thirty-eight, and should 
 be able to tell. If Gerald is going to be Duke of 
 Wynninghame he will have to be carefully watched. 
 Do you think the Marquis of Cartley would have 
 been allowed to marry his wife if they had known 
 he was going to succeed to the title ? Certainly not. 
 Even now, after seven years' training, her skirts 
 hang down farther at the back than in front." 
 
 "You may take it as official," said the Duke 
 smiling, "that Gerald will one day possess Wynning- 
 hame House." 
 
 Octavia rose. 
 
 "Well," she said, "you are peculiar, Henry. 
 Somehow, after a man has returned from Paris, one 
 
 68
 
 THE DUKE'S CREED 
 
 feels one must inquire after the state of his heart; 
 I have done my duty." 
 
 She went over to the door, where Peter joined 
 her. Mary came across to the Duke. 
 
 "Uncle Henry," she said, "what is your creed?" 
 
 "My creed?" he repeated. 
 
 "I don't want you to recite the Prayer Book, but 
 you are one of the few men I know who have a 
 creed, and I should like to hear it." 
 
 The Duke's lips curved into a whimsical smile. 
 
 "If I have a creed," he said, "it is to do what 
 one thinks right at the moment and correct one's 
 mistakes as they occur." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 "There is a second half," he said, "It is: 'Ignore 
 the opinions of your relations.' " 
 
 "That sounds very dangerous," said Octavia 
 from the door. 
 
 Mary slipped her hands into her uncle's. 
 
 "I think it is a beautiful creed," she said. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "it is the creed of a prig." 
 
 She lowered her voice. 
 
 "If ever I marry," she said, "I hope it will be 
 a prig with gray eyes and curly hair," she added as 
 she walked across to the door. 
 
 "Henry," cried Octavia, "is this right, what Peter 
 is telling me about your going to the South Seas?" 
 
 For answer the Duke pointed to the map. 
 
 "Well, really," said his sister; "but you were 
 always an obstinate man. Come along, Mary! 
 These days in town are too fatiguing, but Mary 
 must have clothes. She has not a thing to wear." 
 
 69
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "I hadn't noticed it," said the Duke. 
 
 "Pooh!" said the Professor. "Did you ever 
 know the woman who had got anything to wear?" 
 
 "You forget, Peter," he rejoined, "I have not 
 mixed in your circles." 
 
 Octavia smiled. 
 
 "If Henry had been a woman," she said, "he 
 would have been called a cat." 
 
 The Duke looked at Peter. 
 
 "That must be the feminine of prig," he said. 
 
 Mary laughed. 
 
 "I have plenty of clothes, Uncle Prig," she said. 
 "You are quite right; but mother thinks that though 
 marriages are made in heaven they are made much 
 more quickly in the season which is just coming 
 on." 
 
 "Really, that's quite smart," said Lady Octavia. 
 "It must be, because if I'd said it at your age I 
 should have been sent to my room." 
 
 She went out, and the Duke and Peter watched 
 them go down the steps and into Piccadilly. As 
 they turned back Peter stopped. 
 
 "So no woman has ever suffered on your account, 
 eh, Henry?" he said suddenly. 
 
 "I hope I may say so," returned the Duke. 
 
 "Bahl" said the Professor, swinging open the big 
 doors. "Go and look in the glass. You're just the 
 sort of man women go and pine away about." 
 
 But, of course, the Duke, who forgot everything, 
 forgot to look in the glass.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MOLLY DISCOVERS HERSELF 
 
 SAMUEL SHINE found himself in a very serious 
 dilemma. His wife would neither speak to Molly 
 nor even admit that she existed, except when she 
 would turn suddenly round on her husband and 
 tell him it was his sacred duty to turn his daughter 
 into the streets. To the cabinet-maker, however, 
 who, amazing as it may appear, had not been drunk 
 once since the discovery of the letter, this course 
 seemed tantamount to driving Molly even more 
 firmly on to the rocks than she was already. Be- 
 sides, he could not bring himself to throw a child 
 of his out of the house, whatever she had done. 
 Samuel Shine was one of those queer mixtures of 
 brutality and sentiment so often found in his class 
 of life. 
 
 To all of this his wife would merely raise her 
 eyebrows and remark that it wasn't 'ardly fair to 
 Gladys. And so, hour by hour, the unfortunate 
 affair was only serving to make wider and wider the 
 breach between the two. Every night would be 
 made hideous in the man's ears by the reiteration 
 of those parts of the Bible dealing with adultery, 
 or any phrases which could possibly be twisted into 
 showing the likelihood of eternal damnation for 
 wrong-doers. Mrs. Shine actually and vividly be- 
 lieved that her daughter's body would survive its
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 earthly death in order that it might be served up in 
 flames before God, like a sort of rum omelette. 
 Her husband, whose intellect was not overdevel- 
 oped, did not worry about her future existence, a 
 subject on which he was always sufficiently hazy, but 
 endeavored, struggling beneath an avalanche of 
 texts, to concentrate his mind upon the immediate 
 position. 
 
 Worst of all, the affair had become known to the 
 neighbors. Mrs. Shine, with yet another cross 
 piled on her already overburdened shoulders, could 
 not refrain from drawing attention to her load, 
 and now almost the whole of Ball Street knew, dis- 
 cussed, and, as is the curious habit of people, re- 
 joiced over the tragedy at Number Three. Gladys, 
 who, for all her worldly wisdom, was but a child, 
 regarded the whole affair as an extra excitement in 
 a rather dull world, and held her head even higher 
 than usual on her way to the dingy little room in 
 the City, where she was wrestling with the mysteries 
 of "short'and" and "commerce." She seemed to 
 herself a more important personage than ever. 
 Whereby you see Gladys had the soul of a press- 
 photographer. 
 
 Meanwhile, Molly had her meals in the kitchen. 
 Except for the fact that she felt very sorry for her 
 father, her fresh young mind, as soon as the bruises 
 on her back ceased to worry her, had dived deep 
 into the tragedy and found the face of Comedy grin- 
 ning at her from the bottom. When the Truth, if 
 told, would only sound like a very inadequate lie, 
 what is one to do? "Tell the Truth," cries the 
 
 72
 
 MOLLY DISCOVERS HERSELF 
 
 Christian philosopher, "and shame the Devill" 
 But Molly, like everyone else in this wicked world, 
 had a preference for being considered a knave 
 rather than a fool, and if she were to go to her 
 father and tell him the Duke of Wynninghame was 
 sending her two pounds a week from his mansion 
 in order that she might buy books like "The Path 
 of Patricia," and that he wasn't a man at all but a 
 dream-monger, she could see that he would be per- 
 fectly justified in giving her another beating. What 
 is more, she knew he would do so, and that 
 settled it. So Molly did the next best thing, and 
 prayed to God to solve the problem. Her faith 
 being simple and sure, she had no doubt that He 
 would do it, and in the meantime she didn't see 
 why He should expect her to be miserable about an 
 affair which she had placed unreservedly in such 
 safe hands. 
 
 There came an afternoon when a knock at the 
 door (the bell had been out of order for two years) 
 was followed by the entrance of a young clergyman 
 of so athletic and vigorous a build that the little 
 skylight seemed suddenly abashed, and the mere 
 entrance of this giant plunged the passage into 
 Stygian darkness. Molly recognized his voice as 
 that of the curate of the church which she had 
 attended ever since she was five, and for which her 
 mother's unfortunate temperament had given her 
 an equally unfortunate contempt. But the curate, 
 the Rev. Christopher Warden, she liked in so far as 
 she knew him, which was very little. What prob- 
 ably appealed to Molly was that he was a fervent 
 
 73
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 idealist, to whom the ugliness of the world was a 
 real pain and its beauty a genuine delight. His 
 belief in Divinity sprang from his belief in Hu- 
 manity; not vice versa, which is such a common 
 mistake. He felt certain the man who can imagine 
 "Excelsior" can ultimately reach Excelsior, and this 
 belief led him logically to the conviction that 
 wherever and whenever that end was reached there 
 would be found God; at the same time he prided 
 himself on being a practical man of the world. 
 
 Molly heard his deep voice outside the sitting- 
 room, saying, "Can I come in?" and after that she 
 heard no more. But an intuition told her that she 
 was the reason of his visit, and that it was the 
 saving of her soul that was now under discussion. 
 She was right. After about a quarter of an hour 
 she was sent for, and went into the little sitting- 
 room, which had been more or less forbidden 
 ground since that momentous Saturday afternoon. 
 
 The young clergyman rose as she came in. 
 
 "I feel sure," he said in his deep bass, "that 
 there must be some explanation of this." 
 
 "Who told you?" asked Molly. 
 
 "My dear child," he said, "I cannot help hear- 
 ing what people say, can I ? But I need not believe 
 it." 
 
 He held out his hand and she took it. 
 
 "That is very good of you," she said. 
 
 Her mother shrugged her shoulders. She saw 
 no use in these honeyed words. 
 
 "Won't you tell us the truth?" said the curate 
 gently. 
 
 74
 
 MOLLY DISCOVERS HERSELF 
 
 Molly looked at him and at her father. It was 
 now or never. Well, she thought to herself, she 
 would tell them. It would be a big test, anyway. 
 She suddenly sat down on the edge of the table. 
 
 "Ever hear of the Duke of Wynninghame ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 The clergyman stared at her. 
 
 "Of course," he said. 
 
 "Well," she went on, "he's the man that's been 
 sending me the money." 
 
 She became aware that they were all looking at 
 her incredulously; she began to take a delight in 
 adding improbability to improbability. 
 
 "I met him at the Zoo," she said, "for about 
 twenty minutes, and had tea with him. He gave 
 me a splendid tea, and sent me two pounds a week 
 afterward to buy books with." She stopped with 
 a little gasp and closed her mouth firmly. That 
 was all she was going to tell them; they should 
 never know of the nights she had spent trying to 
 re-create the picture of her dream-monger as he dis- 
 appeared around the corner into the Snake House, 
 his hat in his hand and his hair blowing in the wind. 
 
 She became aware of her mother's monotonous 
 whine. "A lie," she was saying, "is an abomination 
 in the sight of the Lord I" 
 
 The slow voice of the clergyman broke in on 
 her. 
 
 "You cannot expect us to believe that," he said. 
 
 "I don't," answered Molly. 
 
 "Then what was the use?" asked her father, a 
 little wearily. 
 
 75
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "You asked me to tell the truth," she said. "I 
 can't help it if you don't believe it." 
 
 Her mother regarded her husband sternly. 
 
 "I told you it weren't no good letting her spend 
 her time reading fairy tales an' trash," she said; 
 "now you see ... she'd be a liar even if she 
 weren't worse." 
 
 After which statement, which appeared in some 
 mysterious way to comfort her exceedingly, Mrs. 
 Shine sat back in her chair and linked her hands, 
 as much as to say, "That finishes it as far as I am 
 concerned." Perhaps she felt that as Molly would 
 have been a constitutional liar anyway, this other 
 catastrophe was not of such great importance. 
 With souls, as in other matters, she believed in 
 cutting her losses. 
 
 The clergyman rose, not without dignity, and 
 turning his back upon the occupants of the room, 
 stared sorrowfully out of the window. He was not 
 a man of great imagination, and Molly's story was 
 too much for him. He believed it to be a clergy- 
 man's duty to be a man of the world, and perhaps 
 this belief led him into a certain conventionality of 
 outlook that left him wholly unprepared for the 
 extraordinary or even the whimsical. It is the 
 danger of living in the world that as we grow older 
 we find more difficulty in getting out of it, even for 
 a moment. That is why children are sometimes 
 inexplicable; up to the age of seven we are per- 
 mitted to shake hands with the angels. Afterward, 
 only at a price unless, of course, one is a member 
 of the Peerage. 
 
 76
 
 MOLLY DISCOVERS HERSELF 
 
 As the curate looked out of the window he was 
 wondering what he should say to Molly. He de- 
 cided that her whole story was a fabrication in the 
 hope that, by some extraordinary chance, they might 
 be foolish enough to believe her. Yet it was in the 
 nature of the man to be kind, and when he turned 
 round his eyes held very little of condemnation in 
 them, but perhaps rather too much pity. 
 
 "Do not think," he said to Molly, "that I do 
 not appreciate your loyalty to this man whoever 
 he is. I do. But it is a mistaken loyalty. In 
 these circumstances I am old-fashioned enough to 
 believe it is the man who must take the blame and," 
 he brought his fist down on the table, "such share 
 of the consequences as he can be made to bear. 
 You have done wrong. The least you can do is to 
 take other people's advice as to how to pick up the 
 pieces." 
 
 He paused. 
 
 "Such pieces as can be picked up," he added, a 
 little bitterly. 
 
 Molly, who had risen when the clergyman began 
 to speak, plumped suddenly down into the black, 
 shiny chair by the fire. So they didn't believe a 
 single word of it! The thought made her feel 
 suddenly rebellious. It had cost her a little to tell 
 them what she had told them, and they thought 
 apparently that she had simply composed the story 
 as she went along. Well, she would tell them no 
 more. 
 
 "I can't see any pieces to pick up," she said. 
 
 The clergyman regarded her sternly. 
 
 77
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Do you still persist that the man is the Duke 
 of Wynninghame ?" he asked. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 The Rev. Christopher Warden was silent. He 
 stole a look at her, and saw that she was beautiful. 
 After all, it was possible that the Duke had seen her 
 and desired her; and the fact that so great a man 
 had stooped so far the curate's lips curled in irony 
 at his own thoughts might explain the fall of a 
 good girl like Molly. After all, the Peerage was 
 human. He remembered the old Earl of Cole- 
 borough, a sporting gentleman of eighty-seven, who 
 had come down in a gray top-hat to open the new 
 Sunday school buildings, and who, when pressed for 
 a speech, had blown his nose violently and said, 
 "Deuced fine lot of women about here." Yes, even 
 the Peerage was human, and a pretty girl is a pretty 
 girl and has no class. The curate decided to drop 
 a bomb shell. 
 
 "Very well," he said suddenly. "You and I will 
 call upon the Duke of Wynninghame 1" 
 
 Molly jumped up. 
 
 "No!" she cried. "Crikes no!" Her vehe- 
 mence surprised even herself. It seemed almost 
 sacrilege to transpose this sordid business into the 
 magician's palace. Her mother, putting the obvi- 
 ous construction on the refusal, smiled sardonically 
 at her husband, who, truth to tell, was weary of the 
 whole affair. 
 
 "What would be the use, anyway," he said. 
 
 "Use!" shouted the clergyman. "Why should 
 the man who has done this thing go on his way un- 
 
 78
 
 MOLLY DISCOVERS HERSELF 
 
 challenged? It is wrong that he should not be 
 faced with his own sin definitely wrong." 
 
 " 'E ain't the man," put in Mrs. Shine, a world 
 of scorn in her tone. "A duke? If 'e were, don't 
 you think we'd 'ave 'card of it long since?" 
 
 And, indeed, Mrs. Shine herself thought vaguely 
 that, in all probability, hell fire was kept at a lower 
 temperature for anyone above the rank of an Hon- 
 orable. 
 
 Molly, staring into the glass on the mantelpiece, 
 could see all three of them looking at her. What a 
 puzzle it all was! She had told them the truth, 
 and they had not even tried to believe her. Molly 
 herself admitted that the affair was fantastic, but it 
 had happened, and, after all, we take for granted a 
 thousand miracles in our daily life. At that mo- 
 ment the problem appeared to her insoluble. 
 
 Then slowly her mind reverted to the magician 
 who had spun this web. If a dream-monger sup- 
 plied dreams that went bad, she thought, quaintly, 
 the proper course must be to take them back. 
 Dared she? Dared she go to that big house and 
 ask him what to do when you hang on to a dream 
 and it skids? She felt she was losing faith in fairy 
 tales, and, if she once lost faith, she knew that the 
 whole dreadful affair, with all its drabness, would 
 overwhelm her and bring her tumbling down far, 
 far lower than the angels. Her father's weariness, 
 her mother's bitterness, the clergyman's stern kind- 
 ness, were all insidiously folding themselves round 
 her like the tentacles of an octopus, and dragging 
 her remorselessly away, till the moment would come 
 
 79
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 when she would give a last desperate clutch at her 
 star, miss it, and go plunging down, down . . . 
 to a world she had never been able to understand, 
 which would inevitably crush her the world of 
 every day. 
 
 And as she stood there with all these thoughts 
 tumbling through her mind like clowns at a circus, 
 those three apostles of the ordinary, blessed in their 
 creed, stood watching her. Rebels must be brought 
 into line ; Benvenuto Cellini would rightly have been 
 given six months in Bermondsey to-day; and the 
 position of the three judges is unassailable. 
 
 Still, there are yet places in the world for Dresden 
 Shepherdesses, and it is wiser to try to find their 
 niche than to try to fit them with overalls. 
 
 But whoever pulls the strings that guide us 
 through the comedies and tragedies of our world 
 got suddenly to work, and Molly, just as the situa- 
 tion was about to sweep her out of her depth and 
 drown her, was given a clear vision of the dream- 
 monger's dark gray eyes and his silver-brown hair, 
 and with a little leap of her heart (whether of joy 
 or surprise, who can tell?) realized that she loved 
 him, not for his dreams, but for himself. 
 
 And with this realization came the feeling that 
 she must see him again, even if it meant bearding 
 him in his palace, attended by a clergyman and 
 her very mundane father. 
 
 So she turned quite calmly to her inquisitors and 
 said: 
 
 "All right! I'll go to him any time you like." 
 
 But with her head full of this great new thought, 
 
 80
 
 MOLLY DISCOVERS HERSELF 
 
 her whole being deluged with bitter sweet emotions, 
 and everything else in the world crowded out to 
 make room for the only thing that mattered, she 
 could not wait to hear what any of them had to say, 
 and rushed precipitately out of the door up to her 
 bedroom. 
 
 There she sat on her bed and stared before her. 
 Then she began to rock slowly to and fro, moaning 
 in a sort of monotone, "I love him oh, I love 
 himl" till at last the tears rushed to her eyes, and 
 she flung herself down by the bedside. 
 
 God must hear some curious prayers sent flying 
 helter-skelter up to His seat from a puzzled world, 
 and perhaps in heaven it was not considered comic 
 when Molly whispered brokenly into her torn coun- 
 terpane : 
 
 "Oh, God . . . oh, God, let me wake up 
 and find he is a clerk !" 
 
 81
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 THE Duke of Wynninghame was feeding his lizard. 
 It was a new lizard, and the Duke had some quite 
 impossible theory regarding the formation of its 
 head. He had not been in the least in the mood to 
 see his solicitor, who always annoyed him by his 
 severe business attitude and the irritating way in 
 which he gloried in his own efficiency. However, 
 the interview, dealing with the necessary financial 
 arrangements for the proposed expedition to what 
 was now generally designated in the family as Toad 
 Island, was over, and the solicitor had gone on his 
 way with a curt remark to the effect that he had a 
 divorce at eleven. 
 
 The Duke looked up from the little zinc cage 
 which he was vaguely stuffing with ants' eggs and 
 regarded Peter Graine, who was in his usual posi- 
 tion of authority on the hearth-rug, with a slight 
 frown. 
 
 "I cannot really like a man who says he has a 
 divorce at eleven, Peter," he said. "It seems so 
 crude." 
 
 Then his habitual good nature asserted itself. 
 
 "But I hope it is a lucrative divorce," he added, 
 peering in at the lizard, which, like the rest of his 
 acquaintances, took no notice of him whatever. 
 
 82
 
 THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 "There is no doubt," he said, "that the cerebel- 
 lum is overdeveloped." 
 
 The Professor laughed. 
 
 "If you pile any more of that stuff in, the stomach 
 will be overdeveloped, too," he said. 
 
 Peter Graine was staying at Wynninghame 
 House, directing the arrangements for the expedi- 
 tion, a task for which the Duke was wholly incompe- 
 tent. The Professor had become quite enthusiastic 
 about the voyage, not, it must be confessed, be- 
 cause he had any faith in its object being attained, 
 but because, as usual after his holiday in Paris, he 
 badly needed a change, and a trip to the Pacific in 
 the Duke's comfortable yacht would be a very 
 pleasant way of getting one. 
 
 Now he endeavored, as he had already several 
 times endeavored, out of a sense of duty, to bring 
 Henry sufficiently to earth to understand in what 
 sort of directions his money was being spent. 
 
 "There are," he said, "several sun-helmets 
 coming up to-day, Henry, for your approval." 
 
 The Duke made a gesture of irritation. 
 
 "No, no, Peter," he said; "I don't in the least 
 wish to approve helmets. That is your affair. Be- 
 sides, I shall wear a cap." 
 
 "You cannot wear a cap in the sun." 
 
 "Well, then, I shall wear a cabbage-leaf. A 
 helmet makes one look like an American staring at 
 the Sphinx; I would far rather be mistaken for a 
 tropical plant than for an American." 
 
 Peter smiled. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid," he answered; "you are 
 83
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 far too inefficient ever to be mistaken for anything 
 else than an English Peer." 
 
 "Well," said the Duke, "one should be satisfied 
 with that station of life to which it has pleased 
 God to call one." 
 
 "One invariably is," said the Professor dryly, "if 
 it includes fifteen thousand a year and seven 
 estates." 
 
 "There seems, then, a fallacy in the story of the 
 camel and the needle's eye," said the Duke, putting 
 the lizard, who was now absolutely panting with 
 indigestion, on to the table. 
 
 Peter Graine shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "There are fallacies in everything that is writ- 
 ten," he said; "a thing is not necessarily great be- 
 cause it is inspired. For instance, the slopes of 
 Parnassus are crowded ten deep with people on 
 whom Love has dropped his first visiting card; 
 but the verses they write to the little god in re- 
 turn " He broke off. "One wonders Cupid 
 
 doesn't get fed up with and emigrate to Saturn." 
 
 "I think," said the Duke, "that if the emotion 
 is great, the work will be great; at any rate, in the 
 eyes of the author of the emotion." 
 
 The Professor gave his usual little snort of dis- 
 gust. 
 
 "Of course, Henry," he said, "that is your creed. 
 Do what you think best at the moment, and if the 
 world puts you down a fool or a knave, what does 
 it matter? There is probably some supreme being 
 who shares with you the knowledge that you are 
 right. It's a very easy creed and a very cowardly 
 
 84
 
 THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 one. A very usual form of funk is that which 
 makes a man an eccentric." 
 
 The Duke nodded good-naturedly. 
 
 "You should have been a barrister, Peter," he 
 said, "always, of course, on behalf of the Crown; 
 in a year we should have a museum for innocent 
 men." 
 
 "Sarcasm, Henry, is not your strong point." 
 
 "On the contrary, I excel at it; only, fortunately, 
 everybody thinks it is politeness." 
 
 The Professor gathered up from the table several 
 imposing lists of necessaries for the voyage. 
 
 "Very well, Henry," he said, "have it your 
 own way. Only, if ever you are faced with a real 
 problem, my advice to you is to do the exact oppo- 
 site to that which you think right; otherwise, take 
 my word for it, you will be wrong." 
 
 The Duke walked over to the window and 
 smiled. 
 
 "Thank you, Peter, for your advice," he said; 
 "I shall do my best to forget it immediately." 
 
 The Professor stopped with his hand on the 
 door. 
 
 "Like all idiots, you are as obstinate as a mule," 
 he said. "Will you or will you not try on those 
 sun-helmets?" 
 
 "I will not," said the Duke pleasantly. 
 
 "Then I must guess the size of your head," 
 answered Peter. "If it isn't seven and three- 
 eighths, you will endure agonies on the Equator." 
 
 He vanished with the last word, and the Duke, 
 who hardly ever spoke to his friend at all without 
 
 85
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 some such passage of arms, retired into his chair 
 with the comfortable feeling that nothing could 
 shake a friendship that continued so steadfast under 
 such conditions. And as it was a friendship, curi- 
 ous as it may seem, which both valued exceedingly, 
 this was very satisfactory. 
 
 His long intimacy with the cynical Peter, far 
 from robbing the Duke of any of his obstinate 
 optimism and good-will toward men, had had the 
 opposite effect. Like all obstinate men, the more 
 opposition that he had received the more tenacious 
 of his own theories of life he became. And Henry 
 had had plenty of opposition from the days of his 
 boyhood, when Octavia, in short frocks but silk 
 stockings, had endeavored to graft the philosophy 
 of Mayfair a very fair smattering of which she 
 had mastered at the age of fourteen on to one 
 who insisted on walking down Piccadilly with his 
 feet on the pavement and his head in heaven. This 
 attitude toward life is very charming and attractive, 
 but in effect it simply amounts to not looking where 
 one is going. And, as everyone knows, in a crowd 
 there is nothing more annoying than that. 
 
 Henry himself recognized that it was an ex- 
 tremely lucky thing that he had not had to face and 
 solve any of the more acute problems of living. An 
 army of servants, headed by the absolutely in- 
 valuable Dunn, who remembered everything, had 
 saved the Duke the trouble of withdrawing his head 
 from the clouds even for a moment. 
 
 His ship sailed calmly on, manned by an excellent 
 crew, and so, far she had never entered waters 
 
 86
 
 THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 where the shallows and the reefs were known only 
 to the captain, and where he would be forced to 
 take the wheel himself. 
 
 Fate, however, is a theatrical sort of goddess, 
 and she chose just this moment for Dunn to come 
 in, bearing on a tray the card of the Rev. Chris- 
 topher Warden. 
 
 The Duke turned the card over in his fingers. 
 
 "Is this someone I have forgotten, Dunn?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "No, your Grace," answered the valet, "I have 
 never seen the gentleman before." 
 
 "Ought I to see him?" 
 
 Dunn considered for a moment. 
 
 "I do not know, your Grace," he said at last. 
 "One judges men by their trousers, but with the 
 clergy it is no sort of guide." He paused. "Per- 
 haps," he went on in a moment, "it would be wiser 
 to see him, your Grace." 
 
 "Really," said the Duke who had done nothing 
 at all since breakfast except feed the lizard, "really, 
 this is a very busy morning." 
 
 As Dunn retired he sat down and endeavored to 
 remember the name of Warden, a perfectly hope- 
 less proceeding, as, even had he met the man the 
 day before, by now he would have completely for- 
 gotten his existence. 
 
 The clergyman came into the room, a very monu- 
 ment of Christianity determined to be muscular. 
 As the Duke rose and thrust out his hand, the curate 
 put his firmly into the pockets of his trousers and 
 shook his head slightly. 
 
 87
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "I have not come here, "he said, "to shake hands 
 with you." 
 
 "Of course not," said the Duke readily. "Think 
 of the time wasted in the world shaking hands." 
 He waved toward a chair. 
 
 "No," said the clergyman. "What I have to say 
 will be better said standing." 
 
 The Duke sat down. 
 
 "We all have our eccentricities," he said. "You 
 will forgive me if I prefer to sit." He took a long 
 look at the athletic young man. "Correct me if I 
 am wrong," he went on, "but you appear to me 
 to be angry about something." 
 
 "I have certainly done an unusual thing in coming 
 here to see you," said the curate slowly. "Perhaps 
 I have done a foolish thing; my excuse is that I am 
 an idealist." 
 
 "So am I," murmured the Duke. 
 
 The eyes of the clergyman blazed. 
 
 "Is the seduction of innocent women one of your 
 ideals?" he snapped. 
 
 For a moment or two the Duke regarded him in 
 a puzzled silence. 
 
 It was evident that the young man was very much 
 in earnest. Henry pushed a box of cigarettes 
 toward the clergyman. 
 
 "Sit down," he said, "it appears that you and 
 I are of some interest to each other." 
 
 It seemed to the curate the moment for falling 
 back upon his man-of-the-world methods. He took 
 the chair indicated and lighted a cigarette. 
 
 88
 
 THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 "Doubtless," he began, "you consider me an 
 impetuous young fool." 
 
 The Duke answered nothing; he was blowing 
 smoke rings with an absent-minded precision that was 
 amazing. 
 
 "Also," his companion went on, "I dare say all 
 clergymen annoy you; I know there are people 
 like that. But we are not, believe me, the whole- 
 sale purveyors of blame and censure that the lazier 
 kind of layman likes to suppose. We recognize 
 that the world is imperfect; indeed, it is the struggle 
 against its imperfections that make a great deal of 
 what is beautiful in it." 
 
 The Duke nodded. Christopher Warden had a 
 musical voice to which it was quite charming to 
 listen. 
 
 "The seduction of women," went on the young 
 man, "is unfortunately a common enough evil. In 
 all cases it is very wrong, very sad; but there are 
 times" the young man rose, his enormous presence 
 dominating the room "there are times, your 
 Grace, when it is damnable, utterly damnable I" 
 
 The Duke rose, too, and confronted the clergy- 
 man. 
 
 "I go farther," he said; "I say it is always 
 damnable 1" 
 
 "You? You have committed the sin in its most 
 cowardly, its most shameless form. You have 
 taken advantage of the glitter of your wealth and 
 your title to tempt an innocent and clean girl." 
 
 ,The Duke's eyes strayed toward the window. 
 89
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Very wrong of me," he murmured. "How 
 thankful Peter would be to hear it I" 
 
 "You prefer to forget it?" 
 
 "I always forget everything, Mr. Warden. If 
 there are any women I have seduced my servant 
 will be sure to have made a note of it." 
 
 The clergyman looked grave. 
 
 "One cannot joke," he said, "about a soul that 
 is hurt. It is blasphemy." 
 
 "My dear sir," answered the Duke, "there is not 
 one woman whose virtue has ever suffered on my 
 account." 
 
 His companion shook his head. 
 
 "One expects denials," he said. "But I am 
 not a fool; a girl in Bermondsey only gets two 
 pounds a week from a peer of the realm for one 
 reason." 
 
 The Duke looked puzzled, and Warden felt that 
 the moment to which he had been working was 
 come. 
 
 "It's not true, then?" he cried. "As I sus- 
 pected, she told a lie. You have never heard of 
 Molly Shine, or of Number Three Ball Street?" 
 
 "Of course," said the Duke; "the girl at the 
 Zoo!" 
 
 His mind traveled back slowly to Molly, and 
 he conjured up a dim picture in his brain of that 
 tea they had had together in Regent's Park. So 
 she had taken advantage of him, after all! He 
 had heard, of course, that women did this sort of 
 thing, but it was a side of life with which he was 
 coming into touch for the first time. He smiled a 
 
 90
 
 THE CHURCH MILITANT 
 
 little as he thought of Lady Octavia's many warn- 
 ings about indiscriminate charity. 
 
 Then the smile disappeared. He remembered 
 the sympathy he had felt for the girl, whose circum- 
 stances were robbing her of what should be free to 
 everyone her dreams. And all the time she had 
 never seen the Golden Gate at all. She was one of 
 those who play in the puddles of the world and find 
 their pleasure in making mud pies. If there was 
 one thing the Duke hated above all others, it was 
 to be disillusioned. So long as he was allowed to 
 go through life believing what he wished to believe, 
 and shutting his eyes obstinately to the facts which 
 he liked to pretend did not exist, he was happy. 
 It was a selfish plan of existence, and Henry would 
 have been the first to admit it. But it was the way 
 in which he found happiness, and he had never been 
 able to make the necessary effort to throw it off. 
 His whole life, his wealth, his rank, had conspired 
 toward making it possible for him to create his own 
 paradise and lock the gates firmly against intruders. 
 And now he had put his own head outside, and 
 was faced with one of the very muddiest of the 
 puddles of which he had so persistently ignored the 
 existence. 
 
 His voice was a little hard as he turned to the 
 clergyman again. 
 
 "And the girl," he asked, "what does she 
 say?" 
 
 The young man had entirely misunderstood the 
 Duke's silence; he saw in it the breathing space 
 required by a scoundrel who is found out and is
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 rapidly turning over in his mind the ways and the 
 price of escape. 
 
 "The girl?" he echoed. "She denies it, of 
 course. Have you ever known the woman who 
 would not defend, with her last breath, the man who 
 has wronged her?" 
 
 The Duke's face became suddenly wreathed in 
 smiles. 
 
 "Do they?" he asked. "Now the female lizard 
 is very different; most ferocious when annoyed by 
 the male." 
 
 He found himself surprised at the delight he felt 
 in the knowledge that he had not been deceived in 
 Molly, after all. He would not have known her 
 by sight if he had met her in the street, but what 
 mattered was that he had been right. The triumph 
 of Lady Octavia was not yet. 
 
 He seated himself again and selected another 
 cigarette. 
 
 "Go on," he said happily to the clergyman. 
 "Go on."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 THE Rev. Christopher Warden regarded the Duke 
 for a few moments without saying anything. 
 Vaguely and with a growing feeling of irritation, he 
 was beginning to suspect that he was out of his depth. 
 For one thing, whenever this man with the pleasant 
 smile and gray eyes opened his mouth, he not only 
 said something utterly unexpected, but also something 
 which entirely scattered his interlocutor's continuity 
 of thought and made conversation a matter of con- 
 tinual mental starting again. Moreover, his smile 
 and his pose were not those of a bland villain. 
 What they meant the curate was entirely unable to 
 conjecture. His speculations stopped short with a 
 sense of discomfiture and ignorance, and, as it is in 
 the nature of man and beast to suspect that which 
 he cannot understand, the clergyman's attitude to- 
 ward Henry grew gradually the more hostile as his 
 preconceived notions of the man were first checked, 
 then scattered, routed, and finally lost in a fog of 
 bewilderment. Naturally enough, being in the very 
 center of Piccadilly, he suspected everything except 
 simplicity. 
 
 How often in Bermondsey, with that broad-mind- 
 edness which he considered part of his stock in trade, 
 had he quoted with a smile, "It takes all sorts to 
 
 93
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 make a world !" But how many of those who make 
 use of this well-worn adage ever consider that God, 
 who made the murderer, the thief, or the roue, has 
 balanced all things on earth and fashioned their 
 counterparts in the other side of the scale ? We are 
 so trained nowadays to understand complexities that 
 it is only unawares that we stumble upon simplicity. 
 Yet all the multitudinous intricacies of modern life 
 rest, some firmly, some insecurely, upon a simple 
 truth. Blessed are they that never "progress" so 
 far as to be out of sight of their starting point. 
 After all, we envy the children because we know they 
 are still in Eden, little Adams and little Eves who 
 will all too soon pluck the apple and be as those who 
 have "progressed." 
 
 But this is a digression and entirely unjustifiable. 
 
 After some few moments of puzzled silence, the 
 clergyman moved uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "I do not really know," he said, "what motive it 
 was that sent me here on an errand not only hopeless 
 but, in the circumstances, absurd; I think it was the 
 sight of that girl trying to bear up, with a smile upon 
 her lips, against the inevitable results of her sin 
 your sin," he added with sudden venom. "Molly 
 was always a good girl; it is all the harder for her to 
 hear the sneers of her neighbors, the silence of her 
 friends." 
 
 The Duke sighed. 
 
 "Is it possible?" he murmured. 
 
 The curate just caught the last word. 
 
 "In Bermondsey," he said, "we draw a far firmer 
 line between good and bad than you do in Belgravia." 
 
 94
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Perhaps," said Henry gravely. "And where is 
 Miss Shine now? In Bermondsey ?" 
 
 "No," replied the curate, dropping his bomb with 
 immense satisfaction. "She is outside with her 
 father." 
 
 The Duke rose. 
 
 "Surely, Mr. Warden," he said, "you have for- 
 gotten your manners, to leave a lady standing in the 
 street!" He shrugged his shoulders and began to 
 play again with the overfed and uncomfortable 
 lizard. 
 
 The clergyman drew up the corners of his lips in 
 a slight sneer. 
 
 "Would you rather," he asked, "that I brought 
 her in here?" 
 
 "Of course," answered the Duke. 
 
 The young man stared at him, and suddenly, to his 
 great annoyance and for no reason at all that he 
 could see, felt the blood rushing to his face like a 
 schoolboy who has been snubbed at his first dance. 
 
 "Very well," he cried in a voice rather unneces- 
 sarily loud, "I'll bring her in." 
 
 And he left the room hurriedly with a sense of 
 defeat for which he could assign no cause. 
 
 Left to himself, the Duke walked slowly across 
 to the window and gazed out on a typical London 
 fog. He smiled as he recognized how exact a replica 
 this was of his state of mind toward the problem with 
 which he was faced. For that his first real problem 
 had now arisen he had no doubt. 
 
 Originally, he could not help feeling, he had only 
 done the reasonable thing. Out of the superfluity 
 
 95
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 which had been his by inheritance, he had tried to 
 divert a little pleasure into the life of one whose 
 cup was not so full. And now, as the direct and 
 immediate result, this had happened. 
 
 It annoyed Henry considerably to feel that no one 
 in the matter could be blamed. Each was acting for 
 the best according to his own particular lights. He 
 bit his lip and stared into the fog. 
 
 Was this, then, the result of being a prig? He 
 could imagine the airy way with which Peter and 
 Octavia, and indeed the vast majority of quite decent- 
 living folk, would dismiss the problem. But just be- 
 cause he had never mixed freely with the world, and 
 never learned the accepted values of life, he could not 
 dismiss it thus easily. He had, throughout his whole 
 life, acted on and thought along a creed which had 
 never been asked to stand the test of rubbing shoul- 
 ders with the world. Now, for the first time, it was 
 called upon to prove itself, and he must either shelve 
 it or . . . 
 
 But Henry believed in the creed which he had 
 evolved for himself among his books and his animals. 
 It was no mere theory to him. He realized this now 
 for the first time, seeing plainly that if he was forced 
 to admit its inability to cope with the first problem it 
 had come up against, he would have to begin all over 
 again in fact, the stimulus of his whole course of 
 life would be torn up by the roots. 
 
 It was this fear, too, which had clutched with an 
 icy hand at Molly's heart when she had been faced 
 with the idea of giving up her right to dream. She, 
 too, had felt that once the world she understood was 
 
 96
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 taken from her, only the quicksands of unreasoning 
 obedience to convention would be left. She had not 
 put it to herself like that, since hers was an unedu- 
 cated intelligence. Rather had she felt a vague and 
 dreadful fear of the unknown, which had been suffi- 
 cient to make her cling to her own frail structure of 
 belief even in the very face of disaster. 
 
 The Duke, on the other hand, with his trained and 
 scientific mind, could see plainly not only the painful 
 effects of such a mental revolution, but also the waste 
 of time involved in building up new foundations, 
 were he to abandon the building already all but com- 
 pleted. 
 
 The way is hard for those who have grown up 
 in a nursery of their own. And as the Duke stared 
 into the yellow, uncompromising fog, he shook his 
 head slightly, and in that movement signified the 
 intention of sticking to his ship and trusting to the 
 vessel he himself had built. 
 
 "To do what one thinks right at the moment," he 
 had said to his niece, "and to correct one's mistakes 
 as they occur." 
 
 He came slowly back to his chair. 
 
 "Correct one's mistakes as they occur." He real- 
 ized that the difficult part of his creed was before 
 him for the first time. 
 
 There was no doubt about the solution it offered. 
 There was only one way of correcting the mistake 
 that had occurred. No amount of arguing would 
 persuade these people of the truth. No amount of 
 conviction could undo the insults to which the girl 
 had already been subjected. 
 
 97
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 He must either "correct the mistake," or desert in 
 the face of the enemy and leave his standard in rags 
 on the field of its first battle. 
 
 "Octavia would never understand," he murmured, 
 picking up the little cage and addressing the inside, 
 "but you see there are really no two questions about 
 it, are there ?" 
 
 The sleepy lizard lifted one eye sharply and closed 
 it again. The matter was settled. 
 
 I take this opportunity to beg you, stockbrokers, 
 business men, ladies of fashion, philosophers, cos- 
 mopolitans, to refrain from laughing. Please re- 
 member that Henry was a peer of the realm. 
 
 When Molly came into the room, a few moments 
 later, followed by the curate and a very sheepish- 
 looking Samuel Shine, the Duke was leaning back 
 in his chair, with a cigarette between his lips, and 
 his smile of greeting told Molly at once that the 
 picture of him that she had retained was the picture 
 with which she had originally fallen in love. As he 
 rose and held out his hand she gave a little involun- 
 tary shiver. As her hand touched his she experi- 
 enced a thrill which had never come her way before. 
 And it was a thrill of pure pleasure, for Molly was 
 one of those women by whom a hopeless passion was 
 far more to be desired than none at all, and, although 
 the prayer she had breathed in the first moment of 
 realization that he might prove to be something 
 more approachable than a Duke had been quite 
 sincere, she was content now with the desperately 
 one-sided love-affair which she knew it must be. 
 
 But as she dropped his hand her momentary 
 98
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 ecstasy fell away to a feeling of dull despair. What 
 could he think of all this? Above all, what could 
 he think of her, the centre figure in the sordid little 
 picture ? 
 
 As for Mr. Shine, he stood on the rug, just inside 
 the door, twirling his cap in agitated fingers and 
 wishing to heaven he had never been persuaded to 
 come. The solemn splendors of his surroundings, 
 the staircases, the pictures, the great pieces of furni- 
 ture about Wynninghame House, all of which had 
 had no effect upon Molly at all, had struck him dumb 
 and reduced him to a condition of muddled abase- 
 ment. 
 
 Thus he found himself shaking hands with the 
 Duke and saying "Good morning, sir," in the same 
 sort of voice with which he followed the prayers in 
 church, and this was the more odd as, all the way 
 from Bermondsey he had been rehearsing a scene 
 in which he was the outraged father and the Duke 
 a villain exposed, offering, if the truth must be told, 
 large sums of money as compensation for his mis- 
 doing. 
 
 "It is very nice," the Duke was saying to Molly, 
 "to see you again." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," she replied, almost in a 
 whisper. 
 
 Henry guided her to a chair. 
 
 "And have you been receiving the money regu- 
 larly?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, sir." 
 
 "And the silly books are they satisfactory?" 
 
 "Yes, thank you, sir." 
 
 99
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Duke went back to his chair and his eye 
 wandered toward the clergyman. 
 
 "But other things, I gather, are not," he said 
 slowly. 
 
 Molly felt herself blushing horribly and hung her 
 head. 
 
 "Tell me," he said, "just what has happened." 
 
 "I ... I can't," she murmured. 
 
 "You told them the truth," he asked gently. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "They will never believe it; they can't, sir." 
 
 The Duke said nothing and, since the silence 
 positively hurt her, Molly felt she must go on talking. 
 
 "I knew this would happen," she said; "I oughtn't 
 to have taken the money." 
 
 "And why did you?" asked the Duke. 
 
 She stared for a moment at her boots. 
 
 "Because of what you said, sir," she whispered; 
 "about clinging to one's dreams." 
 
 "Ah!" The monosyllable broke unbidden from 
 his lips; he had, then, made a convert unawares. 
 The responsibility was his. 
 
 "Even," Molly was going on in a low voice, "even 
 if one loses everything else." 
 
 He leaned forward. 
 
 "And you believe that?" 
 
 "Oh, sir I'm trying to." 
 
 It was absurd to see how seriously these two took 
 themselves. The curate's lips curled a little cynic- 
 ally. There was evidently a very complete under- 
 standing between them, he thought. 
 
 100
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Duke lay back in his chair. 
 
 "What happened," he asked, "when they found 
 out and ... er ... interpreted the 
 affair?" 
 
 The girl sighed. 
 
 "Father thrashed me," she said, and a smile broke 
 out on her lips. The bathos of that thrashing 
 seemed more evident than ever now. 
 
 "Very wrong of him," said Henry firmly, fixing 
 his gaze upon Samuel Shine, who wished sincerely 
 that an oubliette would deposit him at once under 
 the ground or at any rate in the servants' hall. 
 
 "They'll never believe us, sir," said Molly. 
 
 "No," he answered; "I think one can hardly ex- 
 pect them to. Only those who are fast asleep can 
 be expected to dream efficiently. Besides," he added 
 simply, "you are beautiful; that is a great mistake. 
 It is always the women with the worst figures who 
 are credited with the best intentions." 
 
 Molly felt her head whirl with all the sensations 
 she had had when she first touched his hand. He 
 had said she was beautiful! She heard his voice 
 again. 
 
 "And since the catastrophe?" he was asking 
 smoothly. 
 
 She was thankful that it was the clergyman who 
 answered; she felt she could not trust herself. 
 
 "Since?" the young man said. "One cannot sin 
 without paying the price, your Grace!" He heard 
 the Duke sigh. "One cannot even commit indis- 
 cretions," he added, "without paying the price. 
 Molly Shine is cut by her friends she is a bad 
 
 101
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 companion for her sister, and her mother's love for 
 her will never be the same again." 
 
 Molly gave a short laugh, and Samuel Shine found 
 his voice for the first time. 
 
 "Now, then, my girl," he said. 
 
 It was a kind of loyalty to Em that dragged a 
 protest against Molly's laugh from his lips. 
 
 The Duke turned. 
 
 "Is all that true?" he asked. "Have they made 
 you as miserable as that?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I can stick it," she said. "It isn't your fault." 
 
 The Duke rose and faced the two men. 
 
 "Good God!" he said suddenly, then wheeled 
 away to the window. He was furiously angry with 
 himself. He saw how the few words he had let fall 
 had taken root in the girl's heart, and how she had 
 tried to rear that hothouse plant in unprotected soil. 
 And he had thought, for one moment, that she had 
 never felt the need to enter the Golden Gate I Why, 
 her knuckles were bleeding from knocking at the 
 bars. He saw himself inside the gates, one to whom 
 the keys had been given for the asking. He con- 
 jured up a picture of himself looking out through 
 the gates one day and seeing her and saying, "Life 
 is grand inside," and then marching away to leave 
 her to the mercies of those who would force her 
 fingers away from their hold. As he gazed out into 
 the fog he was not ashamed that his eyes became 
 moist when he thought of the little figure in the 
 chair behind him, blindly trusting, in the face of 
 overwhelming disaster, the stray words he had let 
 
 1 02
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 drop to her and forgotten. He could see vaguely 
 the sort of men who were pointing their fingers at 
 her in her own surroundings the Peters of Ber- 
 mondsey and the Octavias of Ball Street. He 
 squared his shoulders and thrust his hands deep 
 into his pockets. He had always fought with the 
 gentle weapon of words against the cheap cynicisms 
 and the meretricious values of Peter's life, the 
 worldly code which governed Octavia's existence. 
 Now he was called upon to quit the guerrilla warfare 
 of Mayfair drawing-rooms and fight a pitched battle, 
 or desert for ever the Cause that he had lazily es- 
 poused for twenty years. Very well, he accepted the 
 challenge. He would fight. He swung round sud- 
 denly and crossed the room to Molly. 
 
 "Will you marry me?" he said. 
 
 A little gasp escaped from Molly's lips, and her 
 face went very white. Samuel Shine breathed 
 heavily, and his hands flapped in a vague, silly sort 
 of way. 
 
 It was the curate who broke the spell. He had 
 taken a sudden step forward at the abrupt question, 
 and his foot, catching in the chair at the desk, over- 
 turned it. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he muttered, as he stooped 
 to pick it up. When he rose he regarded the Duke 
 sternly. 
 
 "I did not think, your Grace," he said, "that a 
 man in your position could find it in his heart to 
 make a joke of that description." 
 
 Henry laughed. 
 
 "Allow me to point out, Mr. Warden," he said, 
 103
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "that you are a very young man. A very nice young 
 man, I am sure, but just at the age when we are 
 sure that we know the whole world. Believe 
 me, that is always a mistake." He turned to 
 Molly. 
 
 "Do you think," he said, "that you would find it 
 possible to get on with me?" 
 
 She got out of the chair and moved past him a 
 little shakily. 
 
 "Don't, sir," she said suddenly. "You . . . 
 you . . . it's just because you're a good man 
 you say that. We haven't done anything wrong. 
 It's the silly world " 
 
 He regarded her gravely. The two onlookers 
 found themselves completely ignored. As for 
 Samuel Shine, nothing on earth could have loosened 
 his tongue at that moment. 
 
 "My child," said the Duke, "I do not think it fair 
 for you to suppose I could insult you like that. I 
 have asked you to marry me. I want to know 
 whether you feel you could ever care for me ?" He 
 offered her marriage as a man offers to put up an- 
 other for a good club; but Molly could endure no 
 more. 
 
 "Care for you !" The cry was wrung from her. 
 "Don't you know that my whole world only holds 
 you? Don't you know I love you so ... so 
 that it hurts like hell?" 
 
 The tears rushed to her eyes and blinded her. 
 He put his hand on her shoulder. How could he 
 have known this? The floodgates of human emo- 
 tion had suddenly been let loose on Henry, the hermit 
 
 104
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 of Piccadilly. It had never entered his head to 
 guess that it was because she loved him that she 
 had clung so tightly to her dreams. The one gift 
 he had ever given her. 
 
 She was not a convert, after all, then, only a 
 woman in love. But he had gone too far now; and, 
 anyway, there was nothing else to do. 
 
 He bent down and kissed her hand, entirely un- 
 conscious of the inadequacy of the gesture. 
 
 "Then we may consider ourselves engaged to be 
 married," he said. 
 
 The clergyman suddenly found his voice. 
 
 "Do you mean to say," he said hoarsely, "that 
 you are willing to marry Molly?" 
 
 "Of course," answered the Duke shortly. 
 
 "In church?" 
 
 Henry smiled. 
 
 "Wherever these things are done," he said. 
 
 Then Samuel Shine spoke for the second time. 
 
 "There's something wrong 'ere," he said. "I'd 
 rather 'ave two tenners." 
 
 Molly rose and came over to the Duke. 
 
 "But you don't care for me," she said. "You 
 can't." 
 
 "Have I not asked you to marry me?" 
 
 "That is because you're sorry for me." 
 
 He looked into her large brown eyes which re- 
 minded him of a frightened hare, and realized that 
 this pitched battle under the standard of his ideals 
 had committed him to many things. 
 
 "I care for you," he said slowly, "a great deal 
 a very great deal."
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 It was the first lie he had told consciously for 
 many years. 
 
 She looked him steadily in the face for some 
 moments, then suddenly gave a little sigh and turned 
 away. It might have been a sigh of content, or it 
 might have been a sigh of regret. Henry's knowl- 
 edge* of women was not extensive enough to enable 
 him to tell the difference. 
 
 The clergyman held out his hand jerkily and with 
 the other picked up his hat. 
 
 "I never thought," he began, "I never imagined 
 for an instant . . ." 
 
 But that was as far as he could get. He turned 
 round to Shine, who was staring at the Duke as if 
 he were an exhibit in a museum. 
 
 "Come along, Shine," he said; "we aren't wanted 
 here." He took the man's arm and steered him 
 toward the door. As the cabinet-maker went out 
 he was murmuring thickly, "Duchess o' Wynning- 
 hame! My Gawd! Duchess o' Wynninghame !" 
 
 106
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 WIGS ON THE GREEN 
 
 ONE of the immediate results of the Duke's offer of 
 marriage had been to remove the last doubt the 
 curate had entertained as to the relations between 
 him and Molly. Perhaps the sight of the girl had 
 revived his original passion; perhaps he had been 
 sincerely sorry for what he had done, and decided 
 to make what reparation was in his power, though 
 such readiness to pay debts was not usual. Any- 
 way, the outcome was as satisfactory as it had been 
 unexpected, and it left both the clergyman and the 
 cabinet-maker curiously silent and puzzled on their 
 way back to Bermondsey. In fact, Samuel Shine 
 frankly did not believe his own ears. 
 
 This confirmation of the original suspicion was 
 another by-product of the Duke's determination to 
 adhere to his standard, which his Grace had not fore- 
 seen. It was always the inevitable that escaped his 
 notice, the indefinite that engrossed his attention. 
 
 After the two men had left the room there came 
 a long silence. She stood under the great window, 
 knowing to the full the feminine ecstasy of belonging 
 to a man. She was his. How sweet it would be to 
 feel him hit her or kiss her I How she could revel 
 in the joy of surrender ! 
 
 These were the emotions which were flooding her
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 whole being and threatening to bring the tears to 
 her eyes. 
 
 She showed none of it. She simply stood under 
 the window, her hands locked together, her big 
 brown eyes half veiled by her lashes, looking gently 
 out on her new world with the puzzled submission of 
 one of Raphael's Madonnas. 
 
 And Henry, looking at her, felt curiously uneasy. 
 
 He knew the ambiguity of his sentence, "I do 
 care for you" he knew that it might mean one 
 thing to her and another to himself. He did care 
 for her, as he cared for all forlorn things and for so 
 many lost Causes, for he was one in whom the pro- 
 tective instinct swamped altogether .the ordinary 
 emotions of a man toward a woman. Then he knew 
 that he could never love her as a woman demands 
 to be loved, and, moreover, he was not the kind of 
 man who can live a lie, however good the Cause. 
 
 He must tell her and let her choose. Yet some- 
 how, when he raised his eyes and saw her standing 
 there, and realized how utterly she had given herself 
 to him, the words would not come. 
 
 But the depths of feminine intuition were un- 
 revealed to Henry, and it came as a shock to him 
 when she asked suddenly : 
 
 "Why did you ask me to marry you?" 
 
 He did not answer. He could hardly explain 
 that she was incidental to his justifying his creed to 
 himself. That sounded too selfish, though it was 
 undoubtedly the truth. 
 
 "You don't love me," she was saying calmly. 
 "Why should you? . . ." (And all the time 
 
 icS
 
 WIGS ON THE GREEN 
 
 her heart was beating into her head, in its perverse 
 womanly way, "Why shouldn't he ? He said I was 
 beautiful. Why shouldn't he?") 
 
 The Duke came slowly toward her and took her 
 hand; he led her over to the armchair and sat down, 
 pulling her gently on to its arm by his side. 
 
 "Little one," he said, as he would have spoken 
 to a child, "listen to me. I have never loved any 
 woman. I do not think I ever could love any 
 woman. What you mean when you speak to me of 
 love is an emotion I know nothing of." 
 
 "You are sorry for me ?" she asked. 
 
 "Is that wrong of me?" The simplicity of his 
 question broke down the pride which he had hurt. 
 
 "It is dear of you very dear of you," she said 
 quickly, her hand tightening suddenly upon his. 
 Her dream-monger could do no wrong. 
 
 "When I offer you marriage," he went on, "it is 
 because that is the only way in the world we live in 
 that I can give you what I want to give you, what 
 you are so very worthy of having good dreams." 
 
 She said nothing. 
 
 "We are two of God's Babies," he went on, "and 
 I offer you a share of my nursery. It has more toys 
 in it than yours. Will you take it on those terms ?" 
 
 She dropped her head a little, and the curl that 
 played about her ear brushed his cheek. He did not 
 move. Like all girls, she had dreamed of the pro- 
 posal she would one day accept, but how different 
 those dreams had been from this ! 
 
 Her voice was a little broken as she replied : 
 
 "You are a good man," she said. "I didn't know 
 109
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 there were men so good. I ... oh 1 ... 
 I love you too much to let you go. You are too 
 wonderful." 
 
 "My dear," he answered gravely, "they tell me I 
 am a prig." 
 
 She looked at him equally gravely and replied: 
 
 "I will tell you that when you have kissed me." 
 
 He drew down her face and kissed her on the lips. 
 So he had kissed Mary Blake when she was a little 
 girl. 
 
 Molly raised her eyes and smiled. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "you are a prig. But I will make 
 you love me like hell one day. Am I the first woman 
 you have ever kissed?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "And you?" he asked. 
 
 She was very much a woman. 
 
 "That is nothing to you," she replied, "for you 
 do not love me, and you have taken me on trust." 
 
 "My whole life," he said, "has been spent by 
 instinct." 
 
 "At any rate," she answered, still fencing with 
 his impassivity, "I know more about what a kiss 
 should be than you." 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 "They say," he said, "that we come naked into 
 the world; it is untrue. A woman is born with a 
 kiss in each hand." 
 
 She became suddenly grave again and a little 
 ashamed of herself. 
 
 "Will you let me try to make you love me?" she 
 asked simply. 
 
 no
 
 WIGS ON THE GREEN 
 
 "I am not sure," he answered, "that it is not a 
 wife's duty." But he was not thinking of love, and 
 she knew it. 
 
 She drew her hand out of his after that, and sat 
 for a long time on the arm of the chair in silence. 
 Her thoughts followed one another like the waves 
 of an incoming tide. She tried to be unselfish, to 
 realize what his relations would say, what this mar- 
 riage would mean to him yet all the time something 
 was telling her that none of his relations understood 
 him as she understood him, or could give him the 
 sympathy that she could give him all these thoughts 
 tumbled over one another in her mind. And then, 
 like the bigger wave that flings itself contemptuously 
 in as the tide rolls up and out, swamping the others 
 and leaving them only a ridge of foam and splutter, 
 so her great love for the dream-monger surged over 
 her again until all other ideas were scattered, and 
 she wanted simply to fling her arms round his neck 
 and tell him that she was all his. But at the same 
 time she knew that he wouldn't understand, so she 
 got up, and going over to the desk, stood there a 
 few moments nervously fingering the books and 
 papers. 
 
 At last she turned. 
 
 "Very well," she said. "If you are sure you want 
 it, I'll share the nursery with you." 
 
 He rose and crossed to her. 
 
 "Welcome, fellow Babe," he said with his old- 
 world air, and for the second time he kissed her 
 hand. And if her lips trembled as she looked over 
 his bowed shoulders, he never saw it. He did not
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 understand how should he? the dreadful naked- 
 ness of a love that is not returned. 
 
 And so, for a moment or two, they stood there 
 in silence, a whimsical, ridiculous, tragical couple, 
 whose union would be so much matter for the laugh- 
 ter or condemnation of Society. Yet, for all that, 
 they had in their marriage a distinction which is not 
 given to all a pure, genuine emotion. She loved 
 him with the love that no man is good enough to 
 deserve from a woman, and he he had, at any rate, 
 plunged for an ideal, right or wrong. 
 
 Nevertheless, as a combination, Society would be 
 justified in opining that no two people had ever asked 
 so surely and certainly for disaster. Some such 
 thought as this flashed through Henry's brain when 
 she turned to him shyly and said : 
 
 "Would you like to take me to the Pictures?" 
 
 Of course, Henry might have known that Molly's 
 idea of a honeymoon would not coincide with 
 Octavia's, but the thing had never occurred to him 
 at all, and this bald throwback to the courting con- 
 ventions of Bermondsey disconcerted him not a little. 
 He might, too, have realized that a great love is 
 generally as crude in its outward and visible signs as 
 a vulgar flirtation, and oh, well! he might have 
 remembered all the old and true sayings about little 
 things not mattering and all the rest of it. But he 
 did not, and if the truth must be told, the words 
 which were running through his brain as he answered 
 "Of course" to her invitation, were "My God! is 
 she going to squeeze my hand?" Thus are great 
 minds wont to waste time over trifles. 
 
 112
 
 WIGS ON THE GREEN 
 
 As for Molly, she turned to Romance and the 
 unreal as a bird turns toward the sky, and the cinema 
 was one of the most complete of her pleasures. 
 Naturally, therefore, to share it with him was her 
 idea of a fitting celebration of their engagement. 
 
 And although Molly wanted to go to the Pictures 
 and the Duke was afraid that she might squeeze 
 his hand, yet something of the spirit of real Romance 
 breathed over them at the moment. Society would 
 have exercised an easy wit over the dilemma; and, 
 indeed, Society was going to enjoy many a laugh 
 over Henry's crusade, whereto, laughter being really 
 rather uncommon, they are welcome. But for all 
 that, when a smile comes too easily, beware of the 
 wit that mothers it. A stone will make a tempest 
 in a puddle, but only the winds of God can ruffle the 
 surface of the Atlantic. 
 
 They were about to leave the room together on 
 what, for the Duke, was a veritable voyage of dis- 
 covery when the door opened, and Peter Graine came 
 in with a white tropical helmet in each hand. He 
 stopped on seeing Molly and looked questioningly 
 at Henry, who realized that the first shots of 
 his campaign were about to be fired. He re- 
 solved to open with a violent and paralyzing 
 offensive. 
 
 He turned to Molly. 
 
 "Allow me to introduce you," he said, "to a very 
 old friend of mine, Professor Peter Graine. Peter, 
 this is Molly, who is going to be my wife." 
 
 Luckily the helmet that the Professor dropped 
 was the one that he held in his right hand, so that it
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 appeared that he only freed it in order to be able to 
 shake hands with the future Duchess. 
 
 This he did with an effort at composure. His 
 eyes rested on the Duke. 
 
 "Congratulations," he murmured. 
 
 "Thank you," said Henry imperturbably. He 
 had never seen the Professor so completely at a loss. 
 There was a moment's awkward silence, broken by 
 Molly, who, looking smilingly into Peter's face, 
 slipped her arm through the Duke's and remarked, 
 "We are just off to the Pictures." 
 
 She had realized at once that she was facing the 
 first of the many antagonists that Society was going 
 to hurl against her, and the simple statement that 
 they were going to the Pictures was a direct challenge 
 to Society as personified in the unhappy Professor, 
 whose mind was already a chaos of wild devices for 
 getting the Duke out of this astounding engagement 
 before Octavia could hear of it and appear at Wyn- 
 ninghame House to produce the inevitable tornado. 
 
 "I may say," said Henry, "that we are going to get 
 married as soon as possible, as neither of us believes 
 in a long engagement. It creates such tension for 
 one's relations. No one has any right to be the 
 cause of the agony of wedding presents." 
 
 Peter was gradually pulling himself together. 
 
 "I wonder, Henry," he said, "whether you could 
 give me a few moments in private?" 
 
 The Duke laughed and Molly looked up at him; 
 in the brief silence she managed to whisper a ques- 
 tion into his ear. 
 
 "Are you quite, quite sure?" she said. 
 114
 
 WIGS ON THE GREEN 
 
 And he, realizing what she meant, and with the 
 lust for battle on him, answered: 
 
 "Quite sure." Then he turned to the Professor. 
 
 "Peter," he said, "there is no need for any hedg- 
 ing between you and me. Molly and I are perfectly 
 well aware that our marriage will cause an outburst 
 of unwarranted interference from my relations. Oc- 
 tavia will behave like a wildcat. You, if you had 
 any hair, would be tearing it at this moment. Well, 
 you might as well grasp our point of view, once and 
 for all. We propose to marry each other, even if 
 the Archbishop of Canterbury himself forbade it. 
 We do not consider it anybody's business but our 
 own, and we shall not hesitate to be rude to people 
 about it. What's more, Peter, you know me to be 
 an obstinate man." 
 
 He paused, and Molly, who was enjoying this 
 open declaration of war immensely, took up her 
 cue, fortified by her proximity to her dream- 
 monger. 
 
 "Of course," she said, "I know I won't do, and 
 shall be a hell of a guy as a Duchess, but that's his 
 affair, isn't it?" 
 
 "You are putting me in a very awkward position," 
 hazarded the wretched Peter. 
 
 "Not at all," Henry rejoined. "It's got nothing 
 to do with you." 
 
 "But, Miss . . . Miss . . ." The Professor 
 hesitated. 
 
 "Shine," said Molly. "I expect you'd like to 
 know the worst about me. I've been a shop-girl, 
 and my father is a cabinet-maker, and I'll love
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Henry till the cows come home." She felt very 
 reckless. 
 
 "The whole thing appears to me " began 
 
 Peter. 
 
 "Nobody cares," said Henry, "how the matter 
 appears to you. If I like a cabinet-maker for a 
 father-in-law, what does it matter?" 
 
 "When your own father was a Cabinet Minister," 
 said the Professor stiffly. "I am bound to say, 
 though, it is a very unpleasant task. . . ." 
 
 The Duke took Molly's arm and they went to the 
 doorway. 
 
 "It is a common mistake with people that they 
 are bound to say things, Peter," he said. "There 
 are just two accidents that will stop this marriage; 
 one is if I am run over by a motor-bus and killed, 
 the other is the end of the world. Meanwhile, we 
 are going to the Pictures." 
 
 And they disappeared down the corridor and out 
 of the building, while Molly, realizing that this was 
 only the third time she had passed through the gates 
 with the lions on the top, felt convinced that by 
 some extraordinary magic she must have been turned 
 into one of the characters in her silly books. The 
 Duke, too, felt unaccountably gay in the knowledge 
 that the first line of the enemy's defenses had been 
 rushed and taken by storm. 
 
 Meanwhile Peter, alone in the study, his head a 
 perfect whirl of amazement and perturbation, seized 
 the telephone and fell back on his heavy guns, by 
 asking in a hoarse voice for a trunk call to Elton 
 Wick, which was the village where stood the Duke's 
 
 116
 
 WIGS ON THE GREEN 
 
 country mansion, Wynninghame Towers. Octavia, 
 he felt instinctively, would know what to do. 
 
 But, failing to get through, he rushed for a Brad- 
 shaw, and ten minutes later was in a taxi, speeding 
 for Waterloo and help. 
 
 At the same moment Molly was squeezing Hen- 
 ry's hand at a particularly thrilling presentment of 
 the pursuit of a horse-thief by a crowd of curiously 
 handsome cow-punchers, and Henry was finding that 
 the anticipation of things is always worse than the 
 reality. 
 
 117
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 LADY BLAKE GOES TO TOWN 
 
 PETER gazed out of the window, as the train drew 
 him swiftly toward Southampton Water, with an 
 expression on his face such as a bulldog wears when 
 it sees a rabbit disappear into a hole. The dog is 
 utterly mystified, and so was the Professor. He had 
 seen, of course, at a glance that Molly was a beau- 
 tiful girl, and since to him womanhood was merely 
 a question of samples, he could have understood and 
 even sympathized with a passion that dared every- 
 thing in order to consummate its desire. But with 
 Henry this idea was out of the question. It was 
 perfectly true, as the Professor had said, that he 
 had no idea of the difference between a frock from 
 Redfern's and an overall. Therefore he was not in 
 love with Molly in the ordinary or Octavian sense. 
 How, then? Henry was not the kind of man to 
 conceal anything. If he had known the girl for 
 long and had slipped into one of those passionless 
 friendships which finally make men feel it is their 
 duty to marry, instead of allowing the thing to rest 
 on the foundations upon which it had been built, 
 Peter felt sure that everybody would have known 
 of the affair from start to finish. 
 
 What conceivable motive, then, could he have 
 118
 
 LADY BLAKE GOES TO TOWN 
 
 had? The Professor drew a handkerchief from his 
 pocket and mopped his forehead. Perfectly baldly, 
 the story he had got to tell Octavia was that he had 
 left Henry apparently sane and healthy one minute, 
 and found him engaged to be married the next. 
 What is more, he knew perfectly well that he would 
 be held responsible for it. Whenever the Duke got 
 into any trouble which caused Octavia the annoy- 
 ance of having to explain things away among her 
 friends, she invariably attacked Peter, who was al- 
 ways about with his friend, as if he had been in a 
 position to prevent the catastrophe. That is why, 
 as his train drew nearer and nearer to Elton Wick, 
 the unfortunate Professor mopped his brow with 
 his handkerchief at more frequent intervals, and 
 almost groaned aloud as he thought of the hopeless 
 inadequacy of the tale he must tell to Lady Blake. 
 
 "He must be mad," he muttered finally as the 
 train came to a standstill and he caught sight of 
 Lady Blake's car, with Mary Blake sitting at the 
 wheel. 
 
 "Welcome, Peter," she said, as he got in beside 
 her. "I brought the car down myself because I 
 thought you'd like to see me. Why have you 
 come ?" 
 
 The car started to wind up the hill toward Wyn- 
 ninghame Towers, and the Processor's courage 
 seemed to ooze out as he caught sight of the chim- 
 neys peeping over the trees. 
 
 "Why did I come?" he echoed. "Because I 
 wanted to see you, of course." 
 
 "Shall I tell you what you ought to be made 
 119
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 to do?'* she said. "You ought to write out a hun- 
 dred times every day, 'I am bald.' I heard all about 
 your behavior in Paris, Peter; you are a thoroughly 
 undignified old man." 
 
 "Very well, my dear," he returned meekly. "How 
 is your mother?" 
 
 "Oh I she's rather upset about things in general." 
 
 "Damn 1" muttered Peter. "Of course, when I've 
 got the plates ripped out of my keel, I strike a 
 gale. What's she worried about?" he asked aloud. 
 
 "Gerald. Haven't you heard? He's engaged 
 to be married. Mother says that if you get married 
 to the wrong person you might just as well be a 
 murderer and a forger and an anarchist, because if 
 your wife's wrong nobody will notice little things 
 like that." 
 
 The car turned into the drive and Peter began 
 to wish that he had left Henry to his fate and 
 washed his hands of the whole business. However, 
 it was too late now, for there was Lady Blake on 
 the steps and three minutes later he was sitting alone 
 with her in the great morning-room of Wynning- 
 hame Towers that always seemed to stand for the 
 acme of comfort combined with the rigidity of aris- 
 tocratic convention which was bread and meat to 
 Octavia. 
 
 "Well, Peter," she began, "I got your wire. 
 What are you running away from? Women or 
 debts?" 
 
 "Neither," answered the Professor, and added 
 weakly, "how are you, Octavia ?" 
 
 "I'm the most harassed woman in England, Pe- 
 120
 
 LADY BLAKE GOES TO TOWN 
 
 ter, if you wish to know. What do you think has 
 happened? Gerald has got himself engaged to be 
 married to a tight-rope walker. I don't know which 
 is worse, to be like Gerald and have no sense of 
 decency, or like poor Henry and have no sense at all. 
 I shall have to take Gerald up to Wynninghame 
 House and Henry will have to deal with the mat- 
 ter in his capacity as head of the family." 
 
 "Boys will be boys," said Peter, feebly, begin- 
 ning to think that catastrophe had him firmly in its 
 
 grip- 
 
 "Thank you, Peter, for being so helpful," re- 
 marked Octavia crisply. 
 
 "I can't help it, Octavia," wailed the Professor. 
 "I'm the most harassed man in England." 
 
 "What's the matter with you?" 
 
 "Henry is engaged to be married to a shop- 
 girl." 
 
 Lady Octavia sat down suddenly and stared at 
 him. 
 
 "Is this a new kind of wit?" she asked. 
 
 The Professor was annoyed. 
 
 "I don't go a hundred-mile journey in order to 
 make a joke," he snapped. 
 
 She looked at him curiously. 
 
 "Did you say," she said, "that Henry was en- 
 gaged to be married to a shop-girl?" 
 
 "I did," said Peter. 
 
 Octavia sat quite still for a few minutes, letting 
 this fact become real to her. When she spoke, her 
 remark was entirely typical of the woman. 
 
 "Is the engagement published?" she asked. 
 
 121
 
 "He only did it this morning," said the Professor. 
 
 "Then there is some sort of hope! Have you 
 seen her?" 
 
 "For about three minutes." 
 
 "Is she an adventuress?" 
 
 "She is pretty, certainly; I suppose that is an 
 essential in adventuresses." 
 
 Octavia tapped her fingers on the edge of the 
 chair. She spoke impersonally to the fireplace. 
 
 "It's always the way with these ascetics; when 
 they do get a disease they die of it." 
 
 "But," said Peter slowly, "I am perfectly con- 
 vinced that Henry is not in love with her." 
 
 "Not in love with her?" 
 
 "That was the impression I received." 
 
 "Then why ?" The sentence remained un- 
 finished. 
 
 Peter rose and went over to take up his stand 
 on the hearthrug. He always felt safer there. 
 
 "The plain facts of the case are these, Octavia," 
 he began. "At ten-thirty this morning I left Henry 
 overfeeding a lizard; at eleven-twenty-five he intro- 
 duced a girl to me as the future Duchess of Wyn- 
 ninghame." 
 
 "Did he produce any explanation?" 
 
 "None whatever. He anticipated opposition to 
 the marriage, and remarked that there was only one 
 thing that would stop it, and that thing was the end 
 of the world. The girl remarked that she realized 
 that she would look a ... er ... hell of a guy 
 as a Duchess, and announced it as her intention 
 to lavish her affection upon Henry until the cows 
 
 122
 
 LADY BLAKE GOES TO TOWN 
 
 came home. Then they went away together to a 
 cinematograph performance." 
 
 Octavia listened to this recital with a frowning 
 conviction that there was nothing left in the world 
 that would ever cause her any surprise, and when 
 the Professor stopped speaking she looked him 
 gravely in the face for a few moments. At last, 
 fixing him with her eyes, she said in a low tone: 
 
 "Do you think, Peter that Henry is mad?" 
 
 But Peter, who had a deeper insight into things 
 than Octavia could ever compass, shook his head. 
 
 "I think he is worse, Octavia. I think he is a 
 perfectly honest man." 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I don't quite know, myself," he returned, "but 
 Henry has never been in tune with the world. He 
 has cultivated himself intensively. I have a feel- 
 ing that somewhere behind this affair we should find 
 an overdeveloped sense of honor." 
 
 "Do you mean he is endeavoring to make things 
 all right for a woman who has been his mistress?" 
 
 Peter laughed. 
 
 "Henry a man with a mistress!" he said. "No, 
 no, Octavia I don't mean anything definite, only 
 I remember Henry saying to me once, 'If ever I 
 do anything grotesque, try to realize that some- 
 where behind that is my theory of living.' ' 
 
 Octavia shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "What are we to do?" she asked. "That is the 
 question." 
 
 "Indeed, yes," answered the Professor. "Sisy- 
 123
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 phus himself had an easier task than breaking down 
 the illusions of middle-aged men." 
 
 "Don't make silly epigrams, Peter," snapped Oc- 
 tavia. "What on earth induced you to allow Henry 
 to get into a mess like this?" 
 
 "How could I help it, Octavia? I can't possibly 
 keep pace with people who get engaged at that rate." 
 
 Octavia was silent for a few moments. 
 
 "Did you say she was pretty?" she asked sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 "I was wondering which of us would have to go 
 and buy her off; it's no manner of use your trying 
 it if she's a pretty woman." 
 
 Peter felt immensely relieved. 
 
 "No," he said with emphasis; "certainly not." 
 
 "I shall have to do it myself," said Octavia with 
 a sigh. "The sooner the better, I suppose. I'm 
 beginning to think, Peter, that this ridiculous ex- 
 pedition of Henry's to the South Seas is going to 
 fall out very well." 
 
 "By George, yesl" said the Professor, who had 
 forgotten all about the golden toad in the catastro- 
 phe of the last few hours. 
 
 "Do you mind ringing the bell?" asked Octavia. 
 "I'll find out the trains to town and go up this after- 
 noon. After all, nothing is published. Perhaps it 
 isn't so dreadful as it looks." 
 
 Inspection showed that the next train they could 
 catch did not leave until six o'clock, and Peter felt 
 a great deal less gloomy when he set out with Mary 
 on a walk round the grounds before tea. 
 
 124
 
 "Why is mother going up to town?" she asked, 
 as she stopped at an old oak to show him where 
 she had smashed the lamps of the car the week 
 before. 
 
 "Your mother and I have decided to elope," an- 
 swered Peter gravely. 
 
 Mary sighed. 
 
 "I'm not in short frocks still, Peter," she said, 
 "and I can quite understand the meaning of the 
 word 'private.' But tell me, it isn't anything to do 
 with Uncle Henry, is it?" 
 
 "Why do you want to know?" 
 
 "Because," said Mary slowly, "I think Uncle 
 Henry is the best and finest man I know, and if 
 anything happened to him I should be very un- 
 happy." 
 
 "More unhappy than if something happened to 
 me?" urged the Professor whimsically. 
 
 "So many things have happened to you, Peter, 
 but nothing has ever happened to Uncle Henry 
 that makes all the difference." 
 
 And, after all, the wisdom of nineteen is often 
 as much to the point as the wisdom of our elders 
 and betters. 
 
 "You needn't be afraid," said the Professor, with 
 a vision of Lady Blake's inexorable face, backed up 
 by her very capable check-book. 
 
 But for all that, Mary was not satisfied, though 
 she made no further reference to the subject and 
 endured quite good-naturedly Peter's rather childish 
 humor at the tea-table. The Professor could never 
 get it out of his head that she was anything but 
 
 "5
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 the pig-tailed ragamuffin he had carried round the 
 lawn on his shoulders ten years ago. A decade, 
 when one has passed five of them, is essentially a 
 thing to be ignored. And youth, not uncommonly, 
 begins putting its spoke into the wheels of age long 
 before it has been noticed about the place at all. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lady Blake and Peter went up to 
 town. 
 
 126
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME 
 
 WHEN once she had taken a thing in hand it was 
 characteristic of Octavia to go straight for her goal 
 with as little finesse as the problem demanded, and 
 the buying-off of a shop-girl appeared to her one or 
 the simplest undertakings that had ever come her 
 way during a life largely occupied in messing up 
 other people's affairs. She knew Henry's obstinate 
 nature, but she calculated that he would be just as 
 determined to go on his ridiculous expedition as to 
 persist in his ridiculous match, and she saw a very 
 good opening for making the one militate against 
 the other. Thus she was not as disturbed as one 
 might have expected in the circumstances, especially 
 as Society had had no time, so far, to learn of 
 the Duke's indiscretion. As for Peter, the joy of 
 finding himself unexpectedly left out of the cam- 
 paign made him almost disgustingly cheerful as a 
 taxi landed him once more at the doors of Wyn- 
 ninghame House. 
 
 There was no sign of Henry as they went up the 
 broad staircase and into the study, but scarcely had 
 the Professor shut the large doors when the smaller 
 one below the fireplace opened, and Molly herself 
 came in. Peter gave an almost imperceptible nod 
 in answer to Octavia's unspoken question, and re- 
 ceived in reply a telegraphic signal to leave them 
 
 127
 
 alone. This, with as few words as possible, he 
 did. 
 
 Of course, Molly knew at once that this was one 
 of Henry's relations, probably summoned in a hur- 
 ry. She felt a little flutter of excitement as it ap- 
 peared that she was going to be given an oppor- 
 tunity to cross swords with her own sex in single 
 combat. She would far rather fight under these 
 conditions with Lady Octavia than under the pro- 
 tection of Henry. Besides, she held a trump card 
 which she was determined to play only at the last 
 moment. 
 
 Octavia entered the lists at once with no pre- 
 liminary fanfare. 
 
 "You are engaged to be married to Henry, I 
 believe?" she asked. 
 
 Molly nodded. 
 
 "I am his sister," went on Lady Blake evenly. 
 "Of course, you do not expect me to approve of 
 the marriage?" 
 
 Molly smoothed out her skirt and forced her 
 voice to remain steady. 
 
 "You are Lady Blake," she said. "I remember 
 the Duke saying you were an overwhelmer." 
 
 "It always annoys people who cannot take care 
 of themselves," said Octavia, "when other people 
 attempt to see that they don't get into trouble. Of 
 course," she went on, "this engagement cannot go 
 on; I will give you credit for enough sense to see 
 that. At the same time, it appears that Henry 
 has ... er ... put himself under an obligation 
 to you, to say the least of it. I am sure you will 
 
 128
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME 
 
 agree with me that that obligation can be best dis- 
 charged on a cash basis?" 
 
 She talked to Molly, who was standing at the 
 corner of the desk, while she herself sat in the big 
 armchair by the fire, as if she were a mistress dis- 
 charging a servant. Molly said nothing. 
 
 "The only question is," Octavia was saying, "how 
 much?" 
 
 Molly looked hard at her with real astonishment 
 in her great brown eyes. 
 
 "Do you really think, Lady Blake," she said, 
 "that people are like that?" 
 
 Octavia was at a loss. The girl seemed cleverer 
 than she had imagined. She gave a hard little laugh. 
 
 "Oh, come," she said. "I know what you are 
 going to say to me. That you love him, and true 
 love is above all else, and all the rest of it. But 
 need we waste our time over that? If you were 
 really fond of Henry you would see that the last 
 thing you should do would be to marry him." 
 
 Molly's heart gave a little jump of fear as Octavia 
 said this. Was it not the very thing she feared most, 
 that she would not be able to make him happy and 
 would only succeed in making his whole life a burden 
 of social pin-pricks? But again the whole wealth of 
 her love surged up in her, and she put it out of her 
 mind. If Henry had cared for Society-life and the 
 conventions of his class it might have been different. 
 Luckily he did not, and to Molly he was simply her 
 dream-monger, for whom she would gladly die or do 
 any of the myriad things in life which are worse than 
 death. She followed her instinct, trusting that it 
 
 129
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 would not cheat her, and knowing anyway that she 
 had no other guide to follow. Bermondsey is not a 
 university in which one can take a degree in any of 
 the subtler arts, but a good instinct at any rate has 
 less sophistry to meet there than in Belgravia. 
 
 "So I think," she heard Octavia saying, "we will 
 cut all that out and see if we cannot settle the busi- 
 ness in the least possible time. It cannot be pleasant 
 to either of us." 
 
 "No," said Molly softly. 
 
 "Well, you're a pretty girl," returned Octavia 
 blandly, "and you've made a fool of Henry, which 
 is a far cleverer thing to do than you imagine, for 
 he doesn't care at all about women, as a rule. You 
 see, I admit you've been clever, and clever people 
 are worth their money." 
 
 She felt from Molly's silence that she was getting 
 on rather well; evidently the girl was not going to 
 storm and rave in an endeavor to put the price 
 up. 
 
 "What is your name ?" she asked pleasantly, with- 
 drawing her check-book. 
 
 "The Duchess of Wynninghame," said Molly in 
 a soft, caressing voice. 
 
 It was her trump card, and she played it with the 
 dramatic instinct that is in all women. 
 
 "A little premature, aren't you?" asked Octavia. 
 
 "No," answered Molly, with the feeling of a 
 buccaneer about to fire a mine. "You see, we were 
 married an hour and a half ago." 
 
 Whatever may be said of Lady Octavia, she knew 
 how to behave. She never doubted for an instant 
 
 130
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME 
 
 the truth of Molly's statement, for she had wit 
 enough to perceive the genuine when it was laid be- 
 fore her. She rose and faced her. 
 
 "I am sorry," she said, "that I have been so rude 
 as to sit while you were standing. I dare say 
 your Grace will forgive my mistake in the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 There was not a shade of malice or irony in her 
 tone. Lady Octavia's code told her that Molly was 
 now her superior in rank, and she behaved to her 
 as she had been taught to behave. The ridiculous 
 side of it she would never have been able to under- 
 stand. But Molly, who saw in her words only a 
 rather dignified and fine amende, held out her hand 
 impulsively as she recognized one of the possessions 
 which Lady Blake had and which she knew she could 
 never hope to acquire. 
 
 But Octavia shook her head. 
 
 "No," she said. "Henry has made you his 
 Duchess and you have been too clever for me but 
 we are enemies, and we shall always be enemies." 
 
 "Surely not ?" said Molly. "Why ?" 
 
 "I will tell you," answered Octavia. "I know 
 nothing whatever about you, and for all I know to 
 the contrary you may be the nicest girl in the world, 
 but you are not of our caste, and when I have said 
 that I have said everything. It is an unpleasant 
 thing for me to say, for we do not talk of such things, 
 as a rule, but it is an affair that means so much to 
 me that I shall not rest until I destroy this marriage." 
 
 And by her tones Molly realized that she had 
 said her last word as far as that was concerned.
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Yet, curiously enough, Octavia's iron pride was a 
 matter for envy to her antagonist, who saw in it 
 another sign of all the things that she would never 
 be and again the dreadful fear that her love would 
 not be strong enough to break down these barriers 
 which were already rising about her like the heads 
 of Hydra swept across her mind and left her white 
 and trembling before Octavia. 
 
 And this lady, in her foolish wisdom, thought that 
 the Duchess was white with rage, so that the passage 
 of arms, short though it had been, had shown the 
 weakness and strength of each party as under the 
 glare of a searchlight. The worst feature of battle 
 is that even chinks in the victor's armor are apt to be 
 exposed during the conflict. 
 
 Molly had nothing to say to Octavia in answer to 
 her bare statement of facts. Truth to tell, Lady 
 Blake, without knowing it, had pierced the heel of 
 Achilles. It was this question of caste which was 
 already beginning to torment Molly with its un- 
 reasonable disabilities, and which was to torment her 
 a thousand times more than she imagined. Curi- 
 ously enough, she felt very little elated at being a 
 Duchess; she would far rather have been Mrs. 
 Wynninghame, of Stockwell. That would have 
 meant something. To be mistress of Wynninghame 
 House seemed to make her more of a curiosity than 
 anything else. Wisely, she did not attempt to de- 
 fend herself against Lady Octavia, but simply nodded 
 and said, "Yes, it will be very difficult for me." 
 
 Octavia, who had expected anger, was surprised 
 and in her turn dumb. Thus it was a relief for them 
 
 132
 
 both when Henry appeared quietly in the doorway 
 and came into the room. 
 
 Now Henry had not the slightest idea that he had 
 entered at a dramatic moment, or that, in his hurried 
 marriage, he had done anything more than an unusual 
 thing. He had put it to himself that anything in 
 the nature of an engagement would involve a great 
 deal of argument with Octavia, which he desired to 
 avoid, and a great many explanations to Society, 
 which he was not prepared to give; whereas a fait 
 accompli and a Duchess had to be taken more or 
 less for granted. 
 
 Octavia was not one to mask her guns. 
 
 "I came up," she said, "the moment I heard of 
 your intended marriage, in order to stop it; it ap- 
 pears that I am too late." 
 
 The Duke pulled out his watch. 
 
 "By an hour and three-quarters, Octavia," he 
 answered cheerfully. 
 
 "You have been very quick," she said dryly. 
 
 "The Archbishop of Canterbury," returned the 
 Duke, "happens to be a personal friend of mine, and 
 special licenses are really quite easy to get." 
 
 "Thank heaven," snapped Octavia, "archbishops 
 do not gossip !" 
 
 She turned to Molly. 
 
 "I wonder whether you would allow me ten 
 minutes' conversation alone with your husband?" 
 she said. 
 
 Molly looked at Henry, and with a little nod left 
 the room. 
 
 "Henry," said Octavia suddenly, when the door 
 133
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 had closed behind the Duchess of Wynninghame, "I 
 think it is just three weeks ago that you told me 
 you never intended to marry." 
 
 The Duke nodded. 
 
 "You must have met this girl since then?" 
 
 Henry nodded again and reached for the cigar- 
 ettes. 
 
 "You don't mind if I smoke, Octavia?" he said. 
 "To be perfectly accurate, I met my wife before 
 then." 
 
 "Oh! Where?" 
 
 "At the Zoo, Octavia. To be precise, in the 
 Snake House." 
 
 "Very fitting," remarked Lady Blake bitterly. 
 "What is her father?" 
 
 "I really forget," answered the Duke. "He 
 makes something, which is more than I do." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you do," returned his sister. "You 
 make trouble wholesale." 
 
 Henry said nothing, and she continued: 
 
 "For some extraordinary reason you have fallen 
 in love with this girl." Henry was thankful she 
 had not put it as a question. "Well, I hope you 
 understand that you are dragging the family in the 
 dirt." 
 
 The Duke rose slowly to his feet and threw away 
 his cigarette. A curious light smoldered in his gray 
 eyes. 
 
 "Octavia," he said, "I think we had better under- 
 stand one another. I do not expect you to sympa- 
 thize with my marriage, and had you not come here I 
 should not have attempted to talk to you on the 
 
 134
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME 
 
 subject. Now you are here, I wish you to under- 
 stand that I am not open to argument of any kind." 
 
 Octavia gave a little gesture of disgust. 
 
 "A grubby girl," she said, "in a ready-made 
 frock." 
 
 "An hour and three-quarters ago, Octavia," he 
 returned, "that grubby girl became Duchess of 
 Wynninghame. I cannot allow the Duchess of 
 Wynninghame to be insulted. If you are not able 
 to refrain from telling me that she is a disgrace to 
 the family or that her clothes do not meet with 
 your approval, I must ask you to leave the house, and 
 not to enter it again until you are ready to treat its 
 mistress as she should be treated." 
 
 Lady Octavia had not been prepared for this. 
 She had expected Henry to be vague, even apologetic, 
 but that he would ever threaten to turn her out of 
 the house she would never have imagined. It was 
 a new side of his character. 
 
 "Are we not getting a little heroic, Henry?" she 
 said softly. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "I fancy our class of people become heroic rather 
 too seldom," he said. "But, however that may be, 
 in this matter, Octavia, I can't be bothered with you." 
 
 Octavia said nothing. There seemed no answer 
 to this. During her career Lady Blake had met 
 with a great deal of opposition and had made a 
 great many enemies, but she had never been ignored. 
 There is no knock-out blow which is so effective when 
 used for the first time, and Octavia cast wildly round 
 in her mind for some new line of attack; she was 
 
 135
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 still silent when the Professor returned. Peter 
 noticed at once that Octavia seemed somehow to 
 have lost her buoyancy. His heart sank. What 
 new disaster had supervened? 
 
 "I was just telling Octavia," he heard the Duke 
 saying, "that I cannot have her abusing my wife; 
 it doesn't do, Peter." 
 
 "Your wife?" The Professor almost shouted 
 the words. 
 
 "Don't make such a noise, Peter. Yes! I told 
 you we did not believe in long engagements. We 
 were married a couple of hours since." 
 
 Octavia rose and took a step or two toward the 
 Professor. 
 
 "You are behaving like a child, Henry," she said. 
 "A thing like this cannot be hushed up and ignored." 
 
 "Who wishes to hush it up, except you and Peter ?" 
 said the Duke. 
 
 Octavia's lips set in a firm line. 
 
 "You cannot present that girl to Society as your 
 wife," she said. 
 
 "Damn Society!" returned the Duke. "I beg 
 your pardon, Octavia, but that is my opinion." 
 
 "You cannot get rid of it by swearing at it." 
 
 The Duke swore again, softly. 
 
 "It's utterly sickening," he said. "I don't wish to 
 have anything to do with Society. It annoys me and 
 it despises me ; yet it's always in my way. I cannot 
 walk into the street without my hat but Society pre 
 sumes to tell me I must put it on. I have even heard 
 Society say that it is absurd for a Duke to take an 
 interest in lizards. And now Society tells me my 
 
 136
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME 
 
 wife is all wrong. What have I done to it that it 
 should always be getting in my way? I don't mind 
 Society thinking I'm a lunatic, but I do object to its 
 regarding itself as my keeper." 
 
 Octavia looked at him with a compassionate smile. 
 
 "Now listen to me, Henry," she said. "What- 
 ever you may think about Society, it will always be 
 with you, unless you go and live in a balloon. It 
 will not accept that girl as the Duchess of Wynning- 
 hame, and that is a fact which you cannot ignore. 
 What is more, to anybody who has not completely 
 lost his head it will appear perfectly obvious that 
 she has caught you with her pretty face and demure 
 ways. That is the worst of growing to your age 
 without knocking about the world. You have not 
 been in the habit of falling in love, so you don't 
 know the proper women to fall in love with. As I 
 have always told you, these things happen through 
 lack of organization. Society will call your wife an 
 adventuress, and neither I nor Peter will be able to 
 deny it!" 
 
 The Duke walked over to the doors and threw 
 them open. 
 
 "Good evening, Octavia 1" he said. "I need not 
 repeat what I said to you just now. I trust you will 
 not be here when I return unless you are ready to 
 respect the foolish foibles of a husband, which make 
 it impossible for him to listen to people calling his 
 wife an adventuress." 
 
 He went out and closed the doors. 
 
 "Damnation 1" said the Professor. "Henry starts 
 an avalanche on the roll and thinks he can stop it 
 
 137
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 from falling with his eighteenth-century manners. 
 What in Heaven's name are we to do?" 
 
 Octavia shook her head. 
 
 "In the first place," she said, "the girl is a great 
 deal cleverer than I imagined she would be. She 
 knows that so long as she holds her tongue and looks 
 innocent it will be very difficult to deal with her." 
 
 For a long time there was silence between them. 
 Octavia played with her gloves on the table and 
 tapped out a tune with one of her Parisian heels on 
 the carpet. Suddenly a slight smile spread across 
 her face. 
 
 "Peter!" she asked softly, "is this island in the 
 Pacific a place where a woman could go?" 
 
 "Certainly not," he returned; "it's simply a 
 swamp." 
 
 "Then Henry will either have to give up the 
 expedition and look a fool, or else he'll have to leave 
 his wife behind." 
 
 "He will not give up the expedition. I've never 
 seen him so obstinate about anything in my life as he 
 is about that mythical toad." 
 
 "When is the expedition to start?" 
 
 "Nominally in a week but now " 
 
 Octavia checked him. 
 
 "It must start in a week, Peter," she said. 
 
 "And if it does?" 
 
 "Given the absence of Henry, I have brought off 
 more difficult propositions than the dethroning of 
 the Duchess of Wynninghame." 
 
 She went to a mirror and adjusted her hat. 
 
 "I anrgoing back to the Towers now, Peter. The 
 138
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME 
 
 only thing you can do is to see that as few people as 
 possible know before the yacht sails. One can dis- 
 pose of rumors. I do not think Henry will publish 
 the marriage. I do not think it will enter his head 
 if no one puts it there." She turned in the doorway 
 as Peter came up behind her. "The Dukedom of 
 Wynninghame is too old to be allowed to be thrown 
 in the gutter," she said. And Peter saw behind the 
 words an apology for the cruelty which he realized 
 she was prepared to use against this girl whom she 
 hardly knew. 
 
 The Professor followed her downstairs in silence. 
 On the steps he looked at her and wondered whether 
 it was good to be so hard; but at the same time he 
 was glad Octavia was able to face the situation in 
 the way he knew it had to be faced, and above all 
 was he glad that he himself was not cast for the 
 leading part in her programme. Peter was a selfish 
 man, and it was his happy nature to be able to shelve 
 unpleasant thoughts whenever, which was very 
 seldom, they came to trouble his easy philosophy of 
 life. 
 
 Thus the campaign on behalf of Henry's creed 
 opened. Two simple souls were determined to up- 
 hold their right to make fools of themselves. The 
 Duke was actually enjoying the opening stage of the 
 battle. The doubts and pains of love were not 
 his, and he was experiencing the exhilaration of 
 the crusader. With Molly it was very different. 
 Though she had always clung to the childlike ro- 
 mance which was one part of her nature, she had been 
 brought up in a school of common sense, and it was 
 
 139
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 not possible for her to compass the blithe disregard 
 which Henry showed toward the future. She knew 
 too much about the world not to respect it as an 
 enemy. 
 
 In a country cottage, with only Nature looking on, 
 she felt sure that, with all the love and service she 
 was ready to lay at his feet, she could not fail to win 
 his love in return. In Piccadilly, in a setting which 
 only served to show her faults, it seemed as if the 
 odds might turn out to be too strong for her. She 
 felt so desperately alone, and she was afraid, dread- 
 fully afraid, of Octavia and all that lay behind her. 
 It seemed only too likely that while she grasped the 
 very triumph of her Romance in one hand, she was 
 to write its obituary notice with the other. 
 
 There was another blow in store for her when the 
 Dujce returned. His creed was so complete, and his 
 opportunities for carrying it out had been so utterly 
 unhindered, that it left him curiously egoistic. It 
 had never entered his head that his marriage would 
 in any way interfere with the expedition on which he 
 had set his heart, and judging Molly by himself, he 
 had never troubled to consider whether a six-months' 
 absence from her husband immediately after the 
 wedding would be altogether acceptable to his wife. 
 The word "honeymoon" was meaningless to him. 
 It is perfectly possible, had Molly showed the un- 
 happiness she felt when he calmly told her that at the 
 end of the week he was going abroad for six months, 
 he would have swept the whole expedition out of 
 his mind, as another sacrifice to the Cause he had 
 determined to espouse, and, with what Peter had 
 
 140
 
 THE DUCHESS OF WYNNINGHAME 
 
 called his eighteenth-century manners, smoothed over 
 any storm that arose. But no storm followed his 
 statemen*, only a rather long silence and a hesitating 
 hope that "he would enjoy himself." 
 
 He endeavored to interest her in his scientific pur- 
 suits and told her the story of the golden toad he 
 was going to find, and though the subject did not 
 interest her in the least, yet the way he told it, like 
 some living fairy tale, brought back to her all the 
 first love she had experienced when he was only her 
 dream-monger, and made the tears all the harder 
 to keep back. When he had gone she flung herself 
 into the armchair and felt certain, for the first time, 
 that she had made a mistake, that she ought never 
 to have let him marry her, and that she could never 
 bring him anything but unhappiness. And again she 
 sent a broken prayer up to heaven, this time breathed, 
 between her tears, into the ducal cushions of 
 Wynninghame House: "O God let me die if I 
 make him unhappy."
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO 
 
 OcTAVlA told nothing of the Duke's marriage either 
 to Mary or to Gerald. On the boy it could not fail 
 to have a demoralizing effect. With a complete dis- 
 regard both of the feelings of his relations and the 
 dictates of caution, Gerald had got himself engaged 
 to an ex-circus artiste with a reputation (both for 
 her art and other things) which extended from 
 Moscow to Los Angeles. The affair did not really 
 disturb Octavia overmuch, as he had come to the 
 age when a young man is morally certain to become 
 engaged to someone, and it really simplified matters 
 that the lady should be absolutely undesirable rather 
 than simply ineligible as, for instance, a governess. 
 That, at any rate, was the way Octavia looked at it, 
 and for a highly trained Mayfair mother the affair 
 was really elementary. As for Mary, her mother 
 had never understood her, and was not in the habit 
 of telling her anything. Lady Blake hoped to get 
 Henry away on to the high seas before matters be- 
 came really awkward, and, with a clear field, she felt 
 pretty certain of her own capabilities for dealing 
 with the situation. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mary having been promised a fare- 
 well dance on board the Duke's yacht, the "Cobra," 
 which was even now lying at anchor in Southampton 
 Water, Octavia thought it best to allow the arrange- 
 
 142
 
 ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO 
 
 ment to continue, and maneuvre the Duchess out of 
 the way rather than cancel the invitations and be 
 forced to supply some explanation for so doing. 
 What was her satisfaction, then, a few days later, 
 on receiving a letter from the Professor telling her 
 that Henry was arranging to send his wife back to 
 her home pending his return from the South Seas! 
 
 To tell the truth, the marriage over and the first 
 storm of indignation safely survived, the Duke had 
 almost forgotten the existence of his wife, and had 
 devoted himself once more wholeheartedly to the ex- 
 pedition. The difficulty before had been that Molly 
 could not receive money from him because they were 
 not married. Now that difficulty was solved, and as 
 his wife she could buy as many books as she liked. 
 That was as far as Henry looked. Already the 
 affair had become almost an incident in his life. He 
 slipped straight back, after his momentary exhibition 
 of e .ergy and decision, into his old habits of absent- 
 mindedness, laziness, and leaving his hat on seats. 
 He did not realize in the least that human emotions 
 are dangerous things to play with or even to leave 
 lying about, and that his marrying Molly had fired a 
 mine that was ultimately to bring down the whole 
 edifice of his self-made paradise clattering about his 
 ears, while amid the ruins a woman was to rise up 
 and bid him build a new and better one upon the 
 debris. 
 
 But for the present that woman, thinking only of 
 his happiness, had acquiesced meekly in a return to 
 No. 3 Ball Street, and that very night, after being 
 mistress of Wynninghame House for four hours, she
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 drove off in the Duke's car, his kiss still wet upon 
 her hand, back to Bermondsey; and had you asked 
 her what she was thinking of as the great automobile 
 drew her again toward the mean streets where for 
 many years she had kept the pale flame of Romance 
 alight, she would have answered truthfully, "Noth- 
 ing." She felt that she had been caught up in a 
 whirlwind of unreality, and was being deposited 
 miraculously in front of her father's house again. 
 She would not have been surprised had her father 
 greeted her with the old formula, "Well, got a job?" 
 
 She was recalled by the voice of the chauffeur 
 saying, "Is this the house, your Grace ?" And in his 
 last words she realized that she could at length 
 answer her father in the affirmative. She had cer- 
 tainly got a job! She could not help wondering 
 whether she would be able to keep it. 
 
 On going into the house she found that nobody 
 was at home, so that the Duchess of Wynninghame, 
 avoiding from habit her father's Windsor chair, sat 
 down in the other, and realized for the first time 
 that the springs were broken. They had been 
 broken for five years, and it had been accounted 
 the most comfortable chair in the house. Now it 
 was dreadful, and she got up almost immediately. 
 Thus it is to become suddenly a Duchess. 
 
 She looked round the room, and the black horse- 
 hair of the sofa recalled suddenly the figure of Sidney 
 Goyle, whose wife it was to have been an honor for 
 her to become. She remembered it without a smile. 
 The horror of that general accusation, when every- 
 one had taken her guilt for granted, was not going 
 
 144
 
 ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO 
 
 to be effaced from her mind for many days. In cer- 
 tain matters Molly, like the Duke, had lived in a 
 paradise of her own. Like the Duke, she was going 
 to suffer for it. A feeling of dreadful loneliness 
 came over her. She was a Duchess without a home. 
 She went up to the little bedroom which she had 
 shared with Gladys, and where she felt that some- 
 thing might remain which she could call her own. 
 But this, too, had changed even since last night when 
 she had slept there. The magic wand of the dream- 
 monger had swept away in a moment all her old life ; 
 what had he given her in exchange? It only shows 
 how dangerous it is to meddle with magic of any 
 kind. Henry had yet to learn that the pebble 
 thrown into a pond causes ripples that have no end. 
 
 Finally, Molly wandered into the kitchen, where 
 Romance had looked like ending in a beating, and 
 she wondered whether her father would find it as 
 easy to thrash a Duchess. There she lost herself 
 in a tangle of dreams and questions which she could 
 not answer, wondering at the past and fearing the 
 future, yet all her problems colored with a love that 
 refused to give up hope. 
 
 And there, sitting on the dresser and swinging her 
 legs, the family, returning from a triumphant tour 
 'of the homes of incredulous neighbors, found the 
 iDuchess of Wynninghame. 
 
 Samuel Shine regarded her in stupefaction for 
 some moments; then his face settled into a grim 
 smile. 
 
 "I knew it," he said. "What did I say? You've 
 made a pretty set of fools of us, Em, dragging us 
 
 145
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 round to tell everybody. He's turned 'er down and 
 sent 'er 'ome. I knew there was 'umbug some- 
 where." 
 
 Mrs. Shine's rat-trap of a mouth snapped at once. 
 
 "Then she's not an honest woman, an' won't be," 
 she said. 
 
 Molly got down off the dresser. 
 
 "I was married this afternoon, mother," she said 
 evenly. 
 
 "Special license?" said Gladys, to whom no detail 
 of the marriage laws was unknown. 
 
 "I don't believe it," said her mother. Only the 
 production of the certificate served to convince her. 
 When it was finally borne in upon the three that they 
 stood in the presence of the Duchess of Wynning- 
 hame, their tongues seemed suddenly tied. 
 
 "And what is more," said Molly suddenly and 
 indignantly, "I am not in the least an honest woman." 
 
 "The Lord 'as 'eaped coals of fire " began 
 
 Mrs. Shine feebly, but her husband cut her short. 
 
 "Shut up, Em!" he shouted. "It's a bloomin' 
 miracle that's what it is !" 
 
 "And what have you got to say, Gladys?" said 
 Molly to her sister. 
 
 "Oh, you lucky!" ejaculated the mistress of 
 "short'and." 
 
 She had some difficulty in explaining to them that 
 she had come back to Ball Street for six months be- 
 cause the Duke was going abroad. She spoke of 
 him always as the Duke, for it was some time 
 before she got used to the idea of referring to her 
 husband. 
 
 146
 
 ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO 
 
 "What!" said Gladys, after her sister had spent 
 weary hours trying to make them understand the 
 Quest of the Toad. "What, ain't there going to 
 be a 'oneymoon?" 
 
 The question brought a blush to Molly's cheeks. 
 
 "Not yet," she answered shortly. 
 
 That her family had an indisputable right to ask 
 these questions annoyed her. On the other hand, 
 their speechless amazement every time they realized 
 afresh that they were talking to a Peeress amused 
 her. They were untrained in the surprises of 
 Romance, and this proof that fairy tales are never 
 really impossible took them out of their depth at 
 once. The mere fact of cooking eggs and bacon 
 every morning at a quarter to eight for twenty years 
 is quite sufficient to make many of us incapable of 
 realizing that there is a great deal more in the world 
 due to accident than to design. The illimitable pos- 
 sibilities of life get easily lost among its duller prob- 
 abilities. The plain man is annoyed by the fantastic 
 in theory, in practice he finds it an antagonist that 
 disarms him at a blow. It is sometimes not realized 
 how much importance we attach to motives in life. 
 We pick up a morning paper and read of something 
 quite outside our experience, quite in line with the 
 methods of fiction. We can do it every day; a 
 murder, an intrigue, a romance, a war. But if be- 
 hind that we can read a motive, greed, love, or ambi- 
 tion, the whole thing becomes commonplace. Where 
 no reason for an event can be found it quickly 
 becomes a nightmare. 
 
 And the family could discover no motive for the 
 
 147
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Duke's marriage. For common-sense folk it is one 
 of the most difficult things in the world to imagine 
 an idea or a conviction running riot. Their emotions 
 are orderly, schooled to a scheme, and they look 
 upon life as a dull game, where the breaking of rules 
 leads to the police-station. Wisely, they have con- 
 sented to run in harness, and the unbridled colts of 
 the world merely get in their way. A buccaneer has 
 no real existence for them; a crusader is simply 
 History. Yet there are buccaneers in every city and 
 crusaders all over the world. 
 
 But it is, naturally, the instinct of the harnessed 
 ones to be irritated with the buccaneer and impatient 
 with the crusader. Thus, mingled with the pride 
 of Molly's position there grew in the Shine family 
 a feeling of irritation and rebellion against this un- 
 reasonable business. Mrs. Shine could find no prec- 
 edent for it in her Bible, though her husband, driven 
 to desperation, remarked that there was no reason 
 to suppose that Adam wasn't a gentleman and that 
 he married a thief. Invention, however, is some- 
 times Necessity's illegitimate child, and Mrs. Shine 
 remained unconvinced of the presence of the hand 
 of God in the affair. Gladys became annoyed for 
 a more simple reason. Her friends in the City 
 refused to believe her story. As for Samuel Shine 
 himself, the first result of being a Duke's father-in- 
 law manifested itself in an interminable desire among 
 his friends that he should pay for their liquor. Like 
 a great many people before them, the Shine family 
 discovered that sudden fame is rather like hock in 
 a champagne bottle. 
 
 148
 
 ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO 
 
 To Molly, too, unexpected annoyances kept ap- 
 pearing. She became tired and, curiously enough, a 
 little ashamed of answering the same question, asked 
 in awed tones by her girl friends, "Are you really a 
 Duchess?" 
 
 She was quick to see that they felt something 
 strange about her marriage, the honeymoon of which 
 she was to spend alone. It matters very little what 
 title your husband confers on you, what position or 
 what wealth you may have achieved, some immutable 
 facts remain, and one of them is that a newly married 
 woman, even if she is a queen, desires to be able to 
 exhibit her man. Thus at the end of two days 
 Molly found herself more unhappy than she had 
 ever felt under the old regime. Her friends with a 
 not unpardonable jealousy became aloof, and partly 
 because they were not certain how to address her, 
 partly because they could not bring themselves to 
 label with a title one they had known so long as 
 plain Molly Shine, they gradually avoided her and 
 left her alone with her glory. 
 
 She had nothing save a little housework to occupy 
 her, and even the discipline of that was ineffective 
 now that, by general consent, she was considered 
 above it. The silly books in which before, had she 
 so wished, she was able to drown herself, now seemed 
 too silly for words. Above all, there was always 
 with her the knowledge that her husband, for whom 
 she would cheerfully have bartered her chances of 
 heaven at any moment, did not love her, and, more- 
 over, that she was debarred from exercising on him 
 her arts or making any attempt to win his love for 
 
 149
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 herself. She looked back to those few weeks in 
 which she had carried the image of him in her heart 
 under his letter, hugged to herself her love-affair 
 with passionate jealousy for its privacy, and tortured 
 herself with delicious dreams of what could never be, 
 and saw that she had had happiness within reach 
 of her fingertips then, whereas now that she had 
 grasped it with both hands, there was nothing left. 
 
 Her father, a good-hearted man, realized that she 
 was unhappy, and cursed the world ineffectually. 
 Her mother dealt at length with the nature and 
 ultimate fiery results of the sin of ingratitude. 
 Imagine the added zest to a sermon preached at a 
 Duchess ! Gladys, with whom Molly had never had 
 anything in common, was now intolerable in the child- 
 ishness of her reflected glory. 
 
 Molly became more and more miserable. And 
 Henry, forsooth, deep in charts and maps and speci- 
 fications at Wynninghame House, was laboring under 
 the delusion that he had made her happy, and as 
 an extra testimonial to the Cause, had a vague idea 
 that he would make her still happier on his return. 
 
 The first sign that the ripples made on the pond 
 by the pebble the Duke of Wynninghame had thrown 
 in were likely to go farther than the eye could see, 
 became evident about three days after Molly's re- 
 turn home, when Mrs. Shine suddenly showed a 
 desire to move into "a bigger 'ouse an' live in a style 
 according'' on Molly's very liberal allowance. The 
 determined opposition of Samuel, an essentially con- 
 servative man, who hated getting used to a new 
 public-house much as a boy hates going to a new
 
 ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO 
 
 school, caused a serious tension in the Shine house- 
 hold. To Molly it seemed that her family could 
 do nothing that was not sordid. And yet, for all 
 her distaste, she felt ashamed of herself for being 
 ashamed of them. 
 
 And then, suddenly, Mrs. Shine made a discovery 
 the result of which was to precipitate matters very 
 considerably. This was no less than the fact that 
 her neighbors, after the first day or two of stupefied 
 admiration, began to form twos of their own mak- 
 ing and add them together. The non-appearance of 
 the Duke, the lack of cars and coronets and tiaras, 
 the sight of Molly cleaning the steps one morning, 
 which had been whispered round the whole parish 
 with awe, all told gradually upon their imaginations. 
 In short, Mrs. Shine, four days after the return of 
 the Duchess, discovered to her horror that a general 
 impression was making itself felt in the parish that 
 the story was not true after all. 
 
 This new development kindled the righteous wrath 
 of Mrs. Shine past all bearing. It appeared that 
 there was no limit to the number of crosses she was 
 to be called upon to bear. She worked herself into a 
 positive whirlwind of fury at the first sign of in- 
 credulity in Ball Street; her set form of prayer was 
 augmented that night with a petition which was 
 blood-relation to a curse. Her whole twisted and 
 fanatic nature revolted at this injustice, and she 
 tossed about in her bed most of the night, groping 
 wildly for a means of redress. And just as the gray 
 of the early morning insinuated itself round the 
 corner of the blue blind, the solution came to her
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 and she fell asleep. Mrs. Shine had suddenly re- 
 membered the Press. 
 
 On the ne v t day which was Friday she dug out 
 of a workbox an old card Ym which was the name 
 of a reporter who had once been to see her about 
 a local inquest, and made a pilgrimage to the address 
 on its face. 
 
 The journalist, a somewhat decayed gentleman of 
 fifty years, who had lived his whole life in anticipa- 
 tion of a scoop which never came, received her rather 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Madam," he remarked pompously, when she had 
 told him her story, "your tale is ridiculous upon the 
 face of it, and I am not sure if it does not amount 
 to libel." 
 
 "You're a liar," retorted Mrs. Shine, "and may 
 the Lord have mercy upon you !" Upon which she 
 triumphantly produced Molly's marriage certificate. 
 The journalist wavered; his life had seen so many 
 disappointments that he could not believe in such a 
 scoop as this purported to be. 
 
 "Very well," said Mrs. Shine, "ring up his Lord- 
 ship an' ask him." 
 
 There was such a note of certainty in her voice 
 that his barrier of distrust crumpled and fell. 
 
 "If your story proves to be true," he said, "it will 
 be in every London paper by Saturday night !" His 
 air of pomposity was ridiculous, but it impressed 
 Mrs. Shine. 
 
 "You gentlemen 'ave got a power, an* no mis- 
 take," she said, as she left the house. And she 
 returned to Number Three Ball Street, in the com- 
 
 152
 
 ON THE EDGE OF A VOLCANO 
 
 fortable assurance that by to-morrow night there 
 would not be a doubter in the parish but would owe 
 her an apology; and what she was owed, that Mrs. 
 Shine was the sort of woman to receive. 
 
 And so telephone bells were set ringing and 
 inquiries were set on foot through the mysterious 
 channels at the disposal of the Press, and, since it 
 was the Dog Days, it was determined that the Duke's 
 marriage should be one of the headlines of the early 
 evening papers for Saturday. Poor Henry's little 
 campaign, seized by the gods as a splendid plaything, 
 was like to make a nine days' wonder. 
 
 A modern prayer might well include a petition 
 that we may live dull and uneventful lives and may 
 never be raised to the Peerage, lest by chance the 
 dragon of the Press, gazing hungrily out of his cave, 
 may notice us, and all our little adventures, our little 
 passions, our little tragedies, may only serve to make 
 a meal for him and his babies, the great big public. 
 And though other people's affairs make very good 
 reading, one's own are apt to become a little naked 
 in the transition from the home to the world. When 
 Molly went to bed that night she had no idea that her 
 Romance had been popped into the sausage-machine, 
 and to-morrow would become a sausage. 
 
 And since the gods, once they get a plaything, are 
 adepts at getting the best possible fun out of it, it 
 happened that Henry left for Wynninghame Towers 
 at ten-thirty on that Saturday morning, just two 
 hours before the midday papers came out, for on 
 that night he was to start for the South Seas in 
 quest of the Golden Toad. He had quite returned 
 
 153
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 to his old self, for he left his hat at Waterloo and 
 his umbrella at the junction for Elton Wick, and, 
 as Octavia remarked, arrived socially naked. As a 
 Napoleon of Ideals he must have cut a very sorry 
 figure as he drove up the avenue with his hair blow- 
 ing over his face, but Mary, always stanch in her 
 admiration for him, gave him a welcome which many 
 an uncle might envy. Even Octavia greeted him 
 without restraint. She felt she could afford to, for 
 everything was going well. One thing alone was 
 harassing: Gerald, lost to all sense of decorum, had 
 brought his fiancee, a muscular woman of the name 
 of Belle Ellis, to the Towers for the dance. 
 
 Peter Graine, too, looking forward to his change 
 of air, and fully confident in Octavia's power to 
 smooth out the creases at home, was in the best of 
 spirits. Yet they were all to dance that night round 
 the edge of a volcano. The Duke's ideals, with all 
 their splendid errors, had long been innocuous within 
 the four walls of Wynninghame House. Now they 
 were loose and stalking abroad. Henry was like a 
 lion-tamer whose beasts have escaped. At no mo- 
 ment had he ever been less master of his fate. He 
 had pitted his Philosophy against Truth, and he had 
 underestimated his enemy. Rather, he had not 
 estimated him at all. Truth was going to seize him 
 in both hands, shake him till his brains rattled in 
 his head, and put him down finally either a cynic or a 
 man. 
 
 Meanwhile, Elton Wick, being one of England's 
 tiniest hamlets, was impervious to the evening 
 papers. 
 
 154
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 MOLLY'S DILEMMA 
 
 IT happened that Molly, at the* same moment that 
 her husband arrived at Wynninghame Towers, was 
 walking down Piccadilly alone. She had not dared 
 actually to re-enter the house which was her own, 
 but the place had proved, as before, a magnet to her, 
 and she had been unable to keep away from its 
 precincts. Yet it was by no means a thrill of hap- 
 piness that the great gates gave her now. They 
 merely served to remind her that for six months she 
 would not look on her beloved's face. And after? 
 Might he not have repented of his charity by then, 
 and never give her the opportunity for which she 
 craved, the opportunity to do him service ? It never 
 entered her head that, being his wife, he could not 
 very well get rid of her without cooperation on her 
 part. Molly, in many ways, was built on the heroic 
 scale, and once she had felt he wished to get rid of 
 her, she would have gone to any lengths in order to 
 make his path easier. There is a heroism of service 
 which is worthy of another Homer. 
 
 Thus the tears were in her eyes as the Duchess 
 turned away from the palace of her lord and master 
 and set her face toward Bermondsey. She was 
 puzzled at the change in her family, the strangeness 
 of her friends. She felt that she was not handling 
 the affair in the right way, yet she could not see 
 
 155
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 where the mistake lay. Like all people who arc 
 getting fogged in the art of living, she felt very 
 lonely. 
 
 It was while feeling so that she suddenly caught 
 sight of a newspaper placard. 
 
 "Peer's Secret Marriage," it read. For a mo- 
 ment she did not connect it with herself. She had 
 never thought of her marriage as secret. The Duke 
 had taken no pains to hide it. It was only when she 
 saw a second poster, fluttering, like a frightened bird, 
 in and out among incurious passers-by, that she real- 
 ized that it was she who was providing England's 
 after-lunch sensation on that day. 
 
 For on this poster, as clear as day, she read, 
 "Marriage of Duke of Wynninghame : Strange 
 Story." For the first time she realized that she 
 had married a public character. To those whose 
 taste runs toward the picturesque, the flaunting mid- 
 day posters may well stand for Henry's banner, 
 whereon the device, as once upon a time, chronicled 
 the piece of knighfr-errantry which won him his spurs 
 and lost him his peace of mind. 
 
 But Molly cared for none of these things. 
 
 At one bound, the pride which in her selflessness 
 toward Henry she had been in danger of losing, re- 
 asserted itself and sent the blood surging through 
 her cheeks like a tidal wave on a Devon river. She 
 imagined the paragraphs, penned with a genius for 
 mixing mental cocktails, laying bare the nakedness 
 of herself and her home. It seemed monstrously 
 indecent. 
 
 She opened a paper and read. It was all there. 
 156
 
 MOLLY'S DILEMMA 
 
 The journalist who had written up the story had 
 only the barest facts to go on, but he seemed to 
 Molly to know everything. Such is the power of 
 quite lawful innuendo in the hands of the artist. 
 She was not of the kind that derive a thrill of satis- 
 faction from seeing their names in print. She looked 
 around at the myriads of quite uninterested folk, 
 hurrying past her. To her imagination they were 
 all pointing fingers at her, staring at her; the new 
 sensation, King Cophetua's beggar-maid who had 
 been interviewed by the Press. She blushed again, 
 raging. In the big affairs of our lives we are apt 
 to confuse ourselves with the Universe. It appeared 
 to Molly that the world gaped at her, and, like a 
 real woman, she looked around her for a protector. 
 
 In her childhood it had always been to her father 
 that she had turned in emergency. On more than 
 one occasion he had actually comforted her. Samuel 
 Shine had once been a very decent sort of man. Em 
 and drink (they were two sorts of intoxication) had 
 told on him, yet it was toward her father that Molly 
 turned now. He must do something; it never en- 
 tered her mind to turn to her natural protector, her 
 week-old husband. 
 
 Thus, the paper crumpled in her hand, she fled 
 back to Bermondsey and into the little front sitting- 
 room. 
 
 They were all there, a paper spread out before 
 them on the table. Mrs. Shine with her thin lips 
 parted in triumph; Gladys, both elbows on the table, 
 drinking in the journalist's little romance. 
 
 She looked up as Molly came in. 
 157
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Oh, you lucky thing!" she said. 
 
 Molly stopped short suddenly. 
 
 "You've made a 'it," said her father with a con- 
 tented smile; "that's what you've done." And Mrs. 
 Shine nodded with an air of mixed pride and for- 
 giveness for past sins. They were genuinely pleased 
 about it. 
 
 "But but," she stammered, "it's dreadful! 
 Don't you see that it's dreadful?" 
 
 They stared at her in astonishment. Thus there 
 was packed into one moment all the difference in 
 nature between Molly and her family which had 
 made her childhood unhappy and her maturity a suc- 
 cession of puzzles. 
 
 Her mother's face became hostile at once. 
 
 "We don't need," she said, "any of them fine airs. 
 If you're too good for your family you can go. 
 You've never been easy to get on with since a child, 
 and if you can't see things as others see them, you'd 
 better go to those 'oo can't. Rejoice with those that 
 rejoice an' weep with those that weep you'll find 
 that in the Bible, an' you'll not dare gainsay it." 
 
 Molly stared at her. She could not keep back 
 the contempt in her face. She picked up the paper. 
 
 "Who did this?" she asked. 
 
 "I did," said her mother. "If you think that my 
 daughter being a Duchess ain't to be published in 
 the streets of Ashkelon, you've gone up the wrong 
 street yourself." 
 
 "Can't say," began Samuel Shine, "that I see 
 anything specially upsettin' about it." 
 
 "Why, you ought to be proud as proud," said 
 158
 
 MOLLY'S DILEMMA 
 
 Gladys, snatching back the paper and eagerly eating 
 up the headlines. 
 
 Molly felt all at once utterly lonely. There was 
 no protection here. She felt as if she was standing 
 naked on the steps of the Royal Exchange ; she was a 
 metropolitan Lady Godiva. There are people, even 
 in our own age, who feel like that about advertise- 
 ment, and they are not always to be found among the 
 "refined." 
 
 One thing was certain, she could no longer remain 
 in Ball Street. She could not face her friends with 
 the knowledge that each one of them had cut out her 
 little romance from the paper and was regarding it 
 as a curiosity. She wanted to hide herself. 
 
 "I'm going," she said suddenly. "I can't stay 
 here after this." 
 
 "Can't stay?" It was Samuel Shine who spoke, 
 a genuine astonishment in his voice. 
 
 "It's no use trying to explain," said Molly quickly; 
 "you wouldn't understand. It may be me that's all 
 wrong I don't know; but I must go." 
 
 She opened the door and Samuel Shine sprang up. 
 
 "You can't go," he said. "You've got nowhere 
 to go to." 
 
 Nowhere to go to! The words stung her. She 
 turned round in the doorway and looked at them. 
 
 "I shall go," she said proudly, "to my husband." 
 There was something in the tone of her voice which 
 stifled any remarks the family were about to make. 
 By the time they were ready to speak the front door 
 had slammed, and Molly had gone. 
 
 Her father summed up the situation with a sigh. 
 
 159
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Always been the same since she was a kiddie," 
 he said. "Something 'ad to bust." 
 
 In the street it appeared to Molly that her only 
 course now was actually to go to Wynninghame 
 Towers and ask Henry for the protection which he 
 owed her. When she had announced her determina- 
 tion to go to her husband she had said it in pride and 
 anger, and had had no real intention of doing any- 
 thing but leave the neighborhood. Now it was being 
 borne in upon her that it was the only thing she had 
 left to do. She did not think overmuch about the 
 wisdom of such an action, for once it appeared as a 
 possibility, her desire to see him, which it had caused 
 her such pain to suppress for the past week, swayed 
 her judgment to the exclusion of all reason. 
 
 So she, too, fled to Waterloo, and was soon on her 
 way to Elton Wick, very frightened, very indignant, 
 and very anxious to see his face again. But all the 
 time there was growing in her the sense that she 
 was a married woman with certain rights which she 
 could demand and certain concessions to her pride 
 which she could insist on being made. 
 
 At Eton Wick, on asking the way to Wynning- 
 hame Towers, she discovered that she had nearly 
 two miles to go, and there being no sort of convey- 
 ance available, she had perforce to set out on foot. 
 
 There is nothing which is more apt to assist the 
 evaporation of one's courage than a lonely walk be- 
 fore one's ordeal, and by the time Molly turned in 
 at the drive up to the Towers she was beginning to 
 wish that she was still in London. 
 
 As she approached the house she heard the laugh- 
 1 60
 
 MOLLY'S DILEMMA 
 
 ter and shouting of people playing tennis away on 
 her left. Her heart almost stopped beating, for she 
 heard Octavia's voice above the rest, urging them 
 to come in and dress for dinner. But she clenched 
 her hands and went on. She had gone too far now 
 to turn back. 
 
 Wynninghame Towers was a large Tudor build- 
 ing with an enormous courtyard to traverse before 
 one came to the entrance hall. When Molly peeped 
 into the courtyard she was overcome with horror 
 at the windows, which seemed to her interminable 
 and alive. She could not possibly pass beneath their 
 gaze. 
 
 She slipped along the front of the house until she 
 came to the French windows of the morning-room. 
 There she stopped and looked in. Her heart 
 jumped within her, for there, standing with his back 
 toward her and trying on a large cork helmet, was 
 Henry, and, miracle of miracles, he was alone. 
 
 She stepped quietly into the room.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 
 
 NATURALLY, the moment Molly had entered the 
 Duke saw her in the mirror. He turned round at 
 once and took off the helmet. 
 
 "Ah, my child," he said. "It is really very nice 
 to see you again." 
 
 She answered nothing. As usual, he had said 
 the one thing she had not expected. 
 
 "If you had let me know you were coming the car 
 would have met you," he went on. "Did you get 
 a trap ?" 
 
 "I walked," she said. 
 
 "Walked!" he echoed. "But how perfectly out- 
 rageous !" 
 
 "Henry," she began timidly, and then, seeing that 
 he did not seem at all surprised, she took her courage 
 in both hands. " "Henry, have you seen the papers?" 
 
 "It is," he answered, "the supreme advantage of 
 this place that everything is out of date by the time 
 it reaches us. No, I have not seen the papers. I 
 suppose they have an entirely false account of our 
 wedding in them?" 
 
 "How did you know?" said Molly. 
 
 "My dear, it was quite inevitable. That is what 
 papers are for. To provide interesting reading for 
 uninteresting people, it is naturally necessary to make 
 a little go a long way." 
 
 162
 
 THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 
 
 She stared at him. 
 
 "But don't you mind?" she asked curiously. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "No," he said. "One cannot afford to. Why, 
 do you ?" 
 
 "I am so ashamed," she answered, "that I don't 
 know what to do. I've left home because oh, be- 
 cause they are booming me it's horrid dreadful." 
 
 She buried her head in his shoulder. 
 
 "They say all about me being a shop-girl," she 
 sobbed, "and . . . and they call it a romance 
 of love I" 
 
 "I am sorry. I thought you knew that that was 
 bound to happen." 
 
 She said nothing, but simply cried on his shoulder. 
 As a matter of fact, now that she knew he did not 
 mind, she was prepared not to mind herself, but the 
 joy of seeing him again and her exhaustion could 
 only find its natural safety valve in what cooks call 
 "a good cry." 
 
 As for Henry, he patted her head and wondered 
 what he had better do next. It began to appear that 
 a married man has responsibilities. The Duke was 
 still vaguely playing with Molly's curls and asking 
 himself what was the proper course for him to adopt, 
 when Octavia, in the height of fashion as reflected 
 in garden frocks, stepped in at the French windows. 
 She stood for a moment at the window, absorbing 
 into her system this new situation. Molly, her head 
 still hidden in the rapidly dampening folds of 
 Henry's coat, had no idea of her presence, and the 
 Duke, though the imminence of a scene made him 
 
 163
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 feel extremely uncomfortable, could not help smiling 
 whimsically at his sister over his wife's head. The 
 fantastic nature of the picture appealed to him. On 
 the one side, Octavia, a living mass of etiquette and 
 tradition, on the other himself, with his absurd creed 
 and his ridiculous marriage both he and his sister 
 as obstinate as granite in their different ways; and 
 between them, crying with an abandon hopelessly 
 impolite, wonderfully pretty and amazingly unloved, 
 the sad misfit that was the Duchess of Wynninghame. 
 
 With a little shiver for it was turning cold in 
 the garden Octavia came in and shut the window. 
 Here, indeed, was a complication which she had not 
 foreseen, and which looked like being very awkward 
 to deal with. The Duke's marriage, as has been 
 said had been announced to no one at Wynninghame 
 Towers, and it was no part of Octavia's plan of cam- 
 paign to make it public thus at the eleventh hour. 
 Moreover, there was the dance that very evening on 
 the yacht which lay in Southampton Water, half a 
 mile out from the landing stage at Elton Wick, and 
 the lines of which were quite visible from the upper 
 windows of the Towers. Being the first event of 
 its kind which the season had yet produced, Society 
 was going to grace it in large numbers, and anything 
 in the nature of a scene in that assembly would be 
 the worst kind of disaster which Octavia could 
 imagine. Of course, she had no notion that many 
 of her guests were to find an added piquancy in the 
 dance by reading the well-written story of the mar- 
 riage on the way to the yacht. 
 
 Molly looked up on the click of the window bolt 
 164
 
 THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 
 
 and saw Octavia. She endeavored, out of a kind of 
 protective instinct toward Henry, to break away 
 from him, but to her astonishment and not a little to 
 her joy, she found that his arm round her shoulders 
 tightened its hold, and so it was for the first time 
 that they faced Octavia together, literally in each 
 other's arms. 
 
 "I imagined," said Octavia slowly, "that your 
 wife had gone to her home." 
 
 "She wished, apparently," returned the Duke, "to 
 see the last of me." 
 
 "Yes," echoed Molly. 
 
 Octavia moved across to the sofa. 
 
 "Not an unnatural desire in one's wife, is it?" 
 went on the Duke. 
 
 "Not at all," answered Octavia dryly. "Only it 
 seems a pity she preferred to enter the house through 
 the window like a burglar." 
 
 "You came in at the window yourself," said 
 Molly, surprised at her own intrepidity. 
 
 "One can take liberties with one's house," said 
 Octavia, "when one has lived in it for twenty years." 
 She examined her fingers carefully. "Are you going 
 to stay to dinner?" she added. 
 
 "Yes," said Henry decisively. 
 
 "I asked the Duchess," murmured Octavia. 
 
 Molly stole a look at the Duke. 
 
 "My husband has invited me," she said. 
 
 "Personally," answered Octavia, "I was always 
 given to understand that one's husband's invitations 
 were those one should never accept." 
 
 "I wonder," said the Duke, as he placed a chair 
 165
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 for Molly, "if you have ever realized, Octavia, how 
 artificial you are." 
 
 "It takes an outstanding intellect," answered 
 Octavia, "to rise above its education." 
 
 "It appears an easy matter, however," said Henry, 
 "to sink below it. You cannot persuade me that you 
 are the triumph of upper-class education. If so, by 
 all means abolish the House of Lords." 
 
 "I don't pretend to be clever, Henry; I merely say 
 I am not a fool." 
 
 The Duke smiled gravely. 
 
 "That, again, is a pose," he answered. "You 
 know perfectly well that you are clever. What you 
 do not realize, apparently, is that you are merely 
 clever. Now there are some things in life to which 
 the application of cleverness is like trying to build 
 a battleship with a sixpenny hammer." 
 
 "Such as?" 
 
 "Such as simple ideals and love." 
 
 "On the other hand, Henry, common sense can be 
 applied to both." 
 
 "It can. So could prussic acid be applied to you, 
 and with the same effect." 
 
 The Duke turned to his wife. 
 
 "My dear child," he added, after a pause, 
 "naturally you will dine with us to-night, and, I hope, 
 come on board the yacht to the dance afterward." 
 He touched a bell. "If I may advise, I should go 
 up to your room and make yourself tidy. In my 
 presence, of course, your hair can come down as 
 
 much as it likes, but with other people " He 
 
 broke off as Dunn appeared in the doorway. 
 
 166
 
 THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 
 
 "The Duchess has arrived unexpectedly, Dunn," 
 he went on. "Show her to her room and send Miss 
 Mary's maid to her." 
 
 "Very good, your Grace," answered the valet. 
 
 But the prospect of a maid was too much for 
 Molly, even with her newborn courage. 
 
 "Crikes, no !" she said. "Not a maid !' ' 
 
 "Just as you like, my dear," said the Duke, and 
 Molly went out of the room, followed by the in- 
 valuable Dunn. 
 
 For some moments Octavia regarded her brother 
 in silence. 
 
 "Have you realized," she said at last, "that that 
 girl has got nothing to wear?" 
 
 The Duke was about to reply when he was inter- 
 rupted by the entrance of Peter Graine, hot and 
 dishevelled from a game of tennis. 
 
 "My word, Octavia!" said the Professor. "I 
 beg your pardon. I didn't know you were here, or 
 I'd never have come in in this state. My last game 
 of tennis for six months, Henry. After this, deck 
 quoits for exercise." 
 
 "Peter," said Octavia solemnly, "the very worst 
 has happened." 
 
 "Eh, what ?" said the Professor. "What's Henry 
 done now?" 
 
 "She is here," said Octavia. "She is to dine with 
 us in a Mile End Road creation she is to dance 
 Bermondsey dances on the yacht; she is to meet the 
 Countess of Edgeware and Lord Henry Fairlees, 
 who blackballed Mr. Pennington-Gore because he 
 wore a tie pin in the shape of a horseshoe at the 
 
 167
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Pantheon. She is to grace the first ball of the season 
 as the Duchess of Wynninghame." 
 
 "Which," said Henry softly, "happens to be her 
 name." 
 
 The Professor stared helplessly at Octavia. 
 
 "But it is out of the question," he said. "Look 
 at the effect it will have on Gerald, whom you are 
 trying to disentangle from his tight-rope walker." 
 
 "If the Duchess of Wynninghame is so impossible, 
 Peter," said Henry, "surely it will be a splendid 
 object lesson for Gerald. Not that I have by any 
 means made up my mind that Miss Ellis would not 
 be an admirable woman for him to marry. I confess 
 she seems rather crude to me, but that may be be- 
 cause I have not been fortunate enough to mix with 
 tight-rope walkers. Anyway, I should be the last 
 to interfere with anything Gerald wished to do." 
 
 "I," said Octavia firmly, "should be the first." 
 
 The Duke rose. 
 
 "Of course yo\i would, Octavia," he said. 
 "You'll probably succeed in driving them more firmly 
 than ever into each other's arms. As I said, clever- 
 ness is the last weapon to use against love." 
 
 "Love I" echoed Octavia scornfully. "You have 
 admitted again and again that you know nothing 
 about it I" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "That is why I treat it as an enemy," he said, 
 "and am taking the trouble to try to discover what 
 is the most effectual weapon with which to deal 
 with it." 
 
 "And what is it?" cried Peter in desperation. 
 168
 
 THE ENEMY'S COUNTRY 
 
 The Duke shrugged his shoulders and opened 
 the door. 
 
 "Not the epigrams of 1880," he said. "It is 
 getting late, and I am going up to dress for dinner. 
 With regard to the Duchess, I propose to announce 
 the marriage and introduce my wife to the family 
 before dinner, in here. I'll be glad if everybody is 
 present. I wish to make the announcement myself, 
 Octavia, please." 
 
 "Very well, Henry," said Octavia dully. The 
 immensity of the catastrophe was beginning to dawn 
 upon her, and the realization had robbed her of 
 repartee. 
 
 The door closed softly behind the Duke, and left 
 his sister and the Professor staring at each other. 
 
 "My God, Octavia," said Peter. "It's impos- 
 sible! Henry must be a fool a damned fool." 
 He recovered himself quickly. "I beg your pardon," 
 he said. 
 
 "You are quite right, Peter," answered Octavia 
 as she opened the door. "Henry must be a damned 
 fool." 
 
 As a last word on the situation it seemed a trifle 
 inadequate. 
 
 169
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 DRESSED FOR THE PART 
 
 IT is a curious trait in the characters of human beings 
 that the imminence of a trial of strength, to which 
 they have looked forward with considerable appre- 
 hension, produces an entirely unexpected confidence 
 in the result. What we fear most is what is going to 
 happen to-morrow. To-morrow comes, and we 
 realize that human nature is a machine that has never 
 tested its highest running capacity. There is always 
 a little more speed to be got out of it. The im- 
 possibility of the old injunction, yv&fft <reaor<5v, is what 
 gives life its zest and joyous mystery. We are all 
 of us engineers, and none of us knows the point at 
 which our pressure gauge will burst. In the crises 
 of life the man or woman who knows how to live 
 will gamble merrily with their own capacities. 
 Molly, who had refused to be taught, knew very well 
 how to live. She had, what is more commonly found 
 among the uneducated classes than the rest of us, 
 a complete knowledge of her limitations. She knew 
 that in the warring of words she was a child in the 
 hands of Octavia, and she felt a babyish awe and 
 admiration when she saw her husband utterly un- 
 abashed before his sister and returning thrust for 
 thrust with entire lack of effort. This part of So- 
 ciety technique she knew would always be a closed
 
 DRESSED FOR THE PART 
 
 book to her. On the other hand, she knew that her 
 capacity for loving her dream-monger was entirely 
 unlimited, and in a vague way she realized that this 
 was a weapon before which Octavia was powerless. 
 
 As she followed Dunn up the staircase and along 
 the tortuous passages of Wynninghame Towers, she 
 experienced an excitement which was like champagne 
 running through her veins. She would show the 
 Duke how high she could hold her head. He should 
 see she would not disgrace him. For a brief mo- 
 ment she realized the triviality of these forces that 
 were being brought against her, the Lares and 
 Penates of Good Form and the tenacious parasites 
 of an honorable tradition. Convention is a good 
 and a beneficent goddess, but she was unfortunately, 
 born blind. It would have surprised Octavia not a 
 little to learn that the traditions that burned so 
 brightly in Molly's soul were precisely the same as 
 those which had won his spurs for the first Duke of 
 Wynninghame the traditions of loyalty, love and 
 honor. These are commodities which no one has 
 yet succeeded in cornering. 
 
 She was shown into a large bedroom, the white- 
 and-gold panelling of which made an instantaneous 
 appeal to her love of bright things. Like all of us 
 when we enter a room for the first time, she moved 
 instinctively toward the windows. It is perhaps 
 significant of the fact that four walls are not really 
 good companions for anyone. Terraced gardens 
 ran down far below her window to the belt of woods 
 which surrounded the estate, and through which she 
 had made her way with so many misgivings not very
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 iong since. Away over the trees through the bluish 
 haze which was the herald of the summer night, she 
 could see the water still loyally throwing back the 
 last rays of the sun, and out beyond she saw the 
 outline of the yacht which was to take Henry to the 
 other ends of the earth. But she brought her eyes 
 quickly back to the gardens and the trees, and 
 breathed deeply in the beauty of it all. These, she 
 felt, were the things that she was made to love, the 
 sweet and simple joys of living the quiet and the 
 romance of the world. How much better the trees 
 and the grass and the homing birds than the hectic 
 gayeties of Piccadilly and the stern splendors of 
 Wynninghame House! 
 
 She turned and realized with a start that the valet 
 was waiting. A week ago he had been her superior. 
 To-night he was her servant. She did not trouble to 
 think much about that, but to Dunn, who was a man 
 to whom all the ironies of life made their appeal, the 
 comedy of this quick change appeared matter for 
 amusement. The world, thought the valet, was a 
 whimsical place, and one need never go to the theatre 
 for one's comedies. But in his grave eyes lay sym- 
 pathy for the newly made Duchess. Perhaps Molly 
 saw this kindness peeping out, for she turned to him 
 suddenly and said: 
 
 "Do you think I'll do?" 
 
 The valet raised his eyebrows. 
 
 "It is no part of my business, your Grace, to be 
 a critic." 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "You could teach me so much," she murmured. 
 172
 
 DRESSED FOR THE PART 
 
 "Only the things that do not matter, your Grace," 
 he answered. 
 
 She stretched out her hands toward the window. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried. "Fancy dressing for dinner 
 when that is there! Do you think the trees laugh 
 at us?" 
 
 He said nothing. He could not follow her fancy 
 so far. She turned again. 
 
 "You will teach me, won't you?" she said. 
 
 "I will tell you anything you wish to know, that 
 I can, your Grace," he said, and she felt that she 
 had made an ally. 
 
 "Shake hands on it," she said impulsively. 
 "P'r'aps I'll pull it off, after all." 
 
 He took her outstretched hand and ratified as 
 curious a compact as was ever made between mis- 
 tress and servant, and then, as she turned once more 
 to the window as if she could not leave the vision of 
 that fast-disappearing landscape, he stepped quietly 
 out and when she turned again she was alone. 
 
 But in the servants' hall, where the word of Dunn 
 was the mandate of the hour, the valet took occasion 
 to point out that the new Duchess was an unqualified 
 success. For these things are a matter of mo- 
 mentous interest to servants. 
 
 Annie, Mary Blake's maid, was inclined to be 
 supercilious about the matter. 
 
 "No luggage !" she said shrilly. "That's a nice 
 thing! How can you know what sort of a lady she 
 is till you've been through her boxes?" 
 
 Dunn laughed. 
 
 "Seems to me," he observed, "that anybody who 
 173
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 employs servants is a fool. I suppose you judge all 
 your mistresses by the color of their petticoats?" 
 
 "Shows how much you know," returned the maid 
 wickedly. "The first thing to look at is the heels 
 
 of their stockings, and then But I'm not going 
 
 to satisfy your curiosity, Mr. Dunn. What I want 
 to know is, is she worth dressing?" 
 
 "Go up and see," remarked the valet. "I haven't 
 seen the heels of her stockings." 
 
 "Yes," persisted Annie, "but you know what I 
 mean. What do you think of her?" 
 
 "I? I consider her Grace is admirable in every 
 way." 
 
 The deep silence that followed the remark indi- 
 cated that this was looked upon in the servants' hall 
 as an official statement. 
 
 "What's her figure ?" said Annie, turning, on her 
 way out, in the doorway. 
 
 "Much the same as Miss Mary's," answered the 
 valet. 
 
 Annie selected a frock from Mary Blake's ample 
 collection, and knocked primly at the Duchess's door. 
 
 "Come in," said Molly, who had spent her time 
 undoing and rebuilding her hair. 
 
 The maid came in and shut the door. She gave 
 one practised glance over the Duchess and decided 
 at once that she was a worthy subject for her work. 
 
 "I am Miss Mary's maid, your Grace," she began. 
 
 "Oh, but I ..." The words died away as 
 her eyes fell upon the glory that was Mary Blake's 
 evening frock. A "creation" has been the Waterloo 
 of many a woman's resolutions. 
 
 174
 
 DRESSED FOR THE PART 
 
 "I brought one of Miss Mary's gowns, as your 
 Grace did not bring your own. I think it should 
 suit you, your Grace, if you would care to wear it." 
 
 "But what will she say?" hazarded the Duchess, 
 never taking her eyes off the frock. 
 
 "I'm sure she'll be very honored," said Annie; 
 "especially as I know she is going to wear her white 
 to-night." 
 
 Somehow or other, Molly found herself in a chair, 
 with her hair down her back once more and her 
 curls crackling indignantly in swift professional 
 hands. 
 
 "Miss Mary comes in so late from her tennis, 
 your Grace, I'll be done with you just in right time 
 for her. She'll want extra time to-night, though, 
 for the dance. I wouldn't like to dance on board 
 ship not if it was me. Mortal terror I'd be in all 
 the time. But there! some people will dance on 
 Judgment Day." 
 
 The voice babbled on while the skilful hands coiled 
 and uncoiled, bullied and cajoled, caressed and be- 
 labored the rebellious tresses of the Duchess. 
 Molly realized, in a sort of dream, that to look in 
 the glass was going to be a great adventure. . . . 
 The gorgeous luxury of having someone standing 
 behind you, making you beautiful, the certainty that 
 that person knew how to get the last ounce of fascina- 
 tion out of her raw material, the knowledge that 
 when you looked at yourself in the mirror you were 
 going to see something you had never seen before 
 all this for the very first time in your life did you 
 ever experience such a whirlwind of excitement, 
 
 175
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Neaera, even if your hair were to be far too well 
 dressed to allow anyone playing with its tangles ? It 
 was a new kind of joy that Molly was sampling, the 
 joy of being managed, of being "produced." And 
 as the maid patted the last curl into place and im- 
 prisoned the last rebel that was trying to escape down 
 Molly's neck, the Duchess realized that she could 
 command this blissful hour every night for the rest 
 of her life. In the vulgar phrase, Molly had tasted 
 blood. 
 
 And then the frock, with which Annie performed 
 absolute miracles in order to make it look, as indeed 
 it finally did, as if it had been made on Molly's back. 
 Never before had the girl worn an evening gown, 
 and she gazed in an awed and shy way at her bosom, 
 much as a baby looks at its toes. It rose and fell 
 in a most immodest fashion, thought the Duchess. 
 She could not help feeling that there was something 
 very indelicate in allowing all the world to see you 
 working, so to speak. Like a clock with glass sides. 
 She wondered what her mother would say, and she 
 wondered, too, why it was that she knew that it was 
 beautiful, and was unashamed. The maid wheeled 
 a great pier-glass in front of her, and at the first 
 glance she knew that if all this loveliness was evil, she 
 must perforce become a disciple of the Devil. 
 
 As for Annie, she stood and looked at her handi- 
 work as Botticelli must have looked at his completed 
 Madonna. 
 
 "Is your Grace satisfied?" she asked. 
 
 "I think," returned Molly, "that you must be very 
 clever." The maid smiled with pleasure. 
 
 r/6
 
 DRESSED FOR THE PART 
 
 "Your Grace is very kind," she said. "May I 
 go to Miss Mary now?" 
 
 "Yes, yes of course you can," said Molly, in a 
 surprised tone; one cannot get used to being a 
 Duchess all at once. As the maid reached the door 
 Molly could not help asking a question. 
 
 "Is Miss Mary as pretty as me?" she said un- 
 grammatically. 
 
 Annie smiled. 
 
 "Oh!" she said; "she's the fluffy sort, your Grace; 
 pretty, yes but beautiful well, we all think dif- 
 ferent, don't we, your Grace ? But they don't repay 
 labor, not like the dark ones do." 
 
 She slipped out, and her verdict in the servants' 
 hall was that "her Grace was a bit familiar at 
 present, but that would wear off, and a more beauti- 
 ful picture she'd never wish to see." Meanwhile 
 Perrin, the butler, who had gone down to the station 
 on business, had lighted on an evening paper, which 
 he had brought back, so that it turned out, as usual, 
 that the servants' hall was in full possession of the 
 facts before the upstairs people knew that anything 
 had happened at all. And, being kindly folk and 
 enlightened Liberals, they wished the Duchess luck 
 and prepared to serve her well all except the cook, 
 who was a Conservative from Devonshire, and was 
 understood to refer to the time when she was a girl 
 as one in which folk knew their place, whereas nowa- 
 days there was room for doubt as to what the world 
 was coming to, not that it was her business or ever 
 likely to be but there it was. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Duchess sat before her pier-glass 
 177
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 and wondered why she had never thought of doing 
 her hair that way. And as she gazed and gazed at 
 her radiant reflection, the woman in her asked again 
 and again why Henry did not love her. He knew 
 that she was beautiful; he had said so. Yet she felt 
 that he would not notice whether she appeared in a 
 ploughman's smock or a miracle from Paris. Would 
 he notice to-night? 
 
 She looked down at her rich young arms and 
 wondered whether everybody else would be wearing 
 bangles, and she ran her finger round her neck and 
 hoped the absence of a necklace would not prove 
 to all that she was only a pretense Lady. And then 
 she sat down and folded her hands round her knee 
 and gave herself up to the most delightful thoughts 
 in the world. But what those were no gentleman 
 would be uncouth enough to ask, and every lady will 
 know beforehand, so there is no need to enumerate 
 them here. Suffice it to say that quite a considerable 
 time elapsed before the booming of a great gong 
 told her that the time had come when she had got 
 to enter the arena and tremblingly await the verdict, 
 the lowering or raising of the thumbs. 
 
 She crept down the stairs on tiptoe; why, she 
 could not have told you. Half-way down she 
 stopped. Voices could be heard in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 A panic seized her, and for a moment she almost 
 ran away upstairs again to hide. But that would 
 have been to disgrace him. 
 
 Again, according to her quaint habit, she sent a 
 mad little prayer flying up to God. "O God," she 
 
 178
 
 DRESSED FOR THE PART 
 
 breathed, "watch over me at dinner, and see I do 
 the right thing with the knives and forks and things." 
 Only the very best of us can make a request like that 
 and know that they will not laugh in heaven. 
 
 The butler bowed to her in the hall, and she smiled 
 to him bravely enough. Though he had but just 
 completed the journalist's account of the shop-girl's 
 marriage, Perrin found that it needed no effort at 
 all to treat this lady as a Duchess. 
 
 He put his hands upon the door-handle, and her 
 heart beat very fast indeed. She suddenly became 
 conscious of nothing but the bareness of her bosom. 
 It appeared to her a monstrous and grotesque in- 
 decency.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 THE collection of humanity which had gathered in 
 the drawing-room before dinner was quite interest- 
 ing in its several ways. There was Lady Octavia, 
 wonderfully turned out, whose icy exterior was find- 
 ing it still a little difficult to hide the turmoil of 
 anxiety which was going on in her brain. There was 
 Peter Graine, whose bald head always, unfortu- 
 nately, glistened immediately before and after a 
 meal. Complete silence and continual application of 
 a large silk handkerchief to the inside of his collar 
 served to indicate the Professor's state of mind. 
 Then there was Gerald, who, with a fine disregard 
 both for his mother's wishes and the dictates of good 
 taste, had brought his fiancee to Wynninghame 
 Towers for the dance, and was thus privately under 
 a cloud. But he bore up under it wonderfully. The 
 truth was that as Lady Blake had never ceased to 
 nag him throughout the whole of his boyhood, first 
 on one trivial count and then on another, complete 
 disregard of her wishes had become a habit with 
 Gerald. As for Belle Ellis, the tight-rope walker, 
 she was probably the least interesting person in the 
 room. She was completely obvious, from her type 
 of beauty to her intentions. A large muscular wo- 
 man probably the wrong side of thirty, with a bold, 
 dark beauty and large hands. She was wise enough 
 to make no effort to ape the manners of Society, and 
 
 180
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 her ordinary conversation was freely interlarded with 
 slang from every quarter of the globe. Like 
 Ulysses, she knew men and cities well, the former 
 probably a great deal better than he did. She man- 
 aged to get on perfectly well in the rarefied atmos- 
 phere of Wynninghame Towers, or thought she did, 
 which amounted to the same thing. As Peter had 
 said of her, she was used to balancing herself in mid- 
 air. Of course, she had carried Gerald right off his 
 feet, as any woman who has large eyes and a fund 
 of risky stories from every capital in Europe and the 
 East will overwhelm any young man of twenty years. 
 Gerald imagined himself genuinely in love with her, 
 and had even been overheard talking to his friends 
 of a grand passion. Some of these friends related 
 the affair with great gravity to their fathers, and 
 quarrelled with them at once when they began to 
 talk sense. Old Mr. Pardoe-Vine, an octogenarian 
 friend of the family, who felt that the country owed 
 him a peerage at least because he still drank a bottle 
 of port after his dinner, in order to keep up the 
 tradition of the roaring forties, and who was always 
 called Prometheus by his intimates, because of the 
 hazardous condition of his liver, had been genuinely 
 pleased at Gerald's misdemeanor, remarking only 
 that wild oats were not what they were, for in his day 
 there would have been no question of an engagement. 
 Mary Blake, whom it was fashionable to describe 
 as a "dear, sweet girl" among people who had no 
 idea either of the depth of her emotions or the range 
 of her intelligence, both of which were considerably 
 above the average, had not yet appeared. 
 
 181
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Duke came in upon this assembly in a state 
 of perfect composure. As he entered the room Miss 
 Ellis turned to him. 
 
 "I think it's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "to 
 go all the way to the South Seas to give us an excuse 
 for this cute little dance." 
 
 "But that," said Henry, "is not the sole object of 
 the expedition." 
 
 "It's all that matters," put in Gerald. 
 
 "I've never been nearer the South Seas than 
 'Frisco," said the tight-rope walker. "That's the 
 devil of a place, you bet. I remember one night 
 there an old guy, who looked like a bishop, got oiled, 
 and loosened up, and he spun one of the funniest 
 yarns I've struck yet. It went this way: 'There was 
 an oil-and-tar merchant ' ' 
 
 But Gerald, who had heard the story before, broke 
 in. 
 
 "Hasn't the gong gone?" he asked hurriedly. 
 
 "No," said Henry. "I have an announcement 
 I wish to make to you all before dinner. Where is 
 Mary, Octavia ?" 
 
 The question was answered by the arrival of Mary 
 herself in a high state of excitement. Annie had 
 already told her the amazing news. 
 
 "What I wish to tell you all," said the Duke 
 calmly, "is that I was married a week ago to- 
 day." 
 
 "Ohl" gasped the romantic Mary; "and we've 
 missed the wedding I Mother, did you know?" 
 
 Octavia endeavored to smile. 
 
 "Hints were given to me," she murmured. 
 182
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 "My wife," went on Henry, "has unfortunately 
 come down without any evening gowns so I will 
 ask you to excuse her to-night." 
 
 "You won't have to," said Mary. "She's bor- 
 rowed one of mine. Oh, Uncle Henry, I do hope 
 you will be happy." 
 
 He kissed her affectionately. 
 
 "As you have so often told me," he said, "all 
 married people are." 
 
 "Well," said Gerald slowly, "it's been a bit of a 
 surprise; we're all awfully glad, of course." 
 
 "Thank you," said the Duke. "But as the eve- 
 ning papers have a full account of the affair in them 
 to-day" here Octavia went extremely white "I 
 wish to tell you a few more of the facts. My wife 
 was a shop-girl." He made the remark entirely un- 
 dramatically. "And I am sure very good at her 
 job," he added, vaguely. 
 
 Octavia winced perceptibly. Surely Henry was 
 not going to enlarge on the subject in public? 
 
 She rose. 
 
 "It will be annoying," she said, "if dinner is late, 
 as we have to get down to the yacht. I dare say, 
 Henry, you would like to defy convention and take 
 your wife in to-night?" 
 
 He could not but admire her self-control. It 
 seemed that he could almost hear his mother's voice. 
 He nodded. 
 
 The gong boomed its evening message through 
 the house, and Peter Graine started to talk very 
 quickly about the expedition in an effort to lift the 
 situation. Octavia had recovered and was already 
 
 183
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 revolving in her mind possible solutions of the eve- 
 ning's catastrophe. 
 
 Only Mary did not disguise her anxiety to see the 
 Duchess, and so it was she who was standing op- 
 posite the door when Perrin threw it open and an- 
 nounced, "Her Grace the Duchess of Wynmnghame." 
 
 And so Molly came into the room, the butler's 
 sonorous announcement leaving her completely 
 tongue-tied. And Henry himself, who had not ex- 
 pected to see her like this her hair done by an artist, 
 her gown throwing up all her young beauties, so that 
 she looked as if she had but stepped down from some 
 picture in a gallery of artists' dreams Henry, too, 
 was tongue-tied. While the Professor, being quite 
 the most susceptible man in the room, said "My 
 God!" quite audibly, and then in a panic searched 
 hurriedly for his pocket handkerchief. And Molly, 
 being a thoroughly natural girl, knew perfectly well 
 that it was her beauty which was causing all this 
 confusion. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, my child," said the Duke sud- 
 denly. "I must introduce you." Somehow Molly 
 wished he would not say "My child." 
 
 "This is my niece Mary," he was saying, and the 
 girls shook hands, while there was in Mary's eyes 
 that frank admiration which is so rare in one woman 
 to another. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Molly simply. "I'm wearing 
 your frock. I hope you don't mind." 
 
 "You look simply splendid in it," said Mary, and 
 Molly knew at once that she was a dear. 
 
 The other two introductions were effected, though 
 184
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 Molly shied rather at the cosmopolitan Miss Ellis, 
 and wondered whether here she had to meet another 
 antagonist of a new and unknown type. As for 
 Gerald, he was not unnaturally shy, partly at her 
 beauty and partly because of the curious scene that 
 had led up to her entrance. Octavia, of course, 
 though the steel-gray of her eyes never changed or 
 softened, behaved brilliantly, and became in a mo- 
 ment the hostess of her brother's wife a part she 
 played so well that simple Molly was completely de- 
 ceived and believed her change of frock had worked 
 a miracle. The Professor sat covertly glaring at 
 Henry, while his bald head glistened protestingly 
 against the evening's outrageous events. It was 
 rather a relief when the announcement that dinner 
 was served bade them make a move to the dining- 
 room. 
 
 Do we ever realize the amount of training that is 
 necessary before a man or woman can become 
 technically perfect in the art of eating the evening 
 meal? We go in to dinner by rule, we eat by rule, 
 we leave it by rule. The whole thing is a meaning- 
 less labyrinth to those who have spent their lives 
 content with the lesser intricacies of high tea. Why 
 do we not take each other in to breakfast? Our 
 tempers, perhaps, would not stand the test so early. 
 The truth is that the elegancies of life are out of 
 date. We are not an elegant generation. We lean 
 more toward the grotesque than the picturesque; it 
 was one thing to lead a lady delicately in to dine when 
 you wore something very chic in the way of knee- 
 breeches and had taken quite as long over your hair 
 
 185
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 as Mademoiselle herself. It is quite a different busi- 
 ness when the lady is showing twice as much leg as 
 you are, and the utmost limit of your decorative dar- 
 ing is a piece of insignificant braiding on your trou- 
 sers and a mildly pretty set of waistcoat buttons. If 
 is true that we are probably in a better mental condi * 
 tion than our forefathers, who were called upon to 
 pretend that ladies had no legs at all, but, for our 
 manners, when the spirit has evaporated, what is the 
 use of parading the letter? 
 
 Henry, it is true, succeeded fairly well in combin- 
 ing eighteenth-century deportment with twentieth- 
 century surroundings. But even with his advantages 
 the result was sometimes grotesque and always a 
 source of irritation to his friends and relations. 
 
 Dinner at Wynninghame Towers was always 
 formal. Lady Blake's mother had been a woman 
 who saw, in the- loose manners which even in her 
 younger days were growing up strongly in the new 
 generation, a positive danger to society. Her train- 
 ing had bred in Octavia a rigid conventionality which 
 had become part of her nature; in Henry it had 
 produced an unconventionality just as rigid. The 
 truth is that neither the Duke nor his sister was of a 
 really flexible nature. They tended toward settling 
 into ruts. 
 
 As for Molly, she would have been much more 
 herself eating a bun out of a paper bag. So, prob- 
 ably, would they all, had they been willing to try it. 
 The desire in humanity for picnicking is simply a 
 revolt against our self-imposed rules of living. No- 
 body really likes having his soul standardized. 
 
 1 86
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 Molly's first impression was that her knives, forks, 
 and spoons were as the sand of the seashore, in- 
 calculable. Their mere number and brilliance de- 
 moralized her. She saw that it would become a 
 question of watching Gerald, who was on her left, 
 and endeavoring to give an imitation that would de- 
 ceive the rest. 
 
 To-night's conversation was a little difficult. 
 Henry's incredible announcement before dinner was 
 still uppermost in everybody's mind. Even the in- 
 domitable tight-rope walker was a little subdued by 
 the general atmosphere. 
 
 "Well, Henry," said Octavia, with the greatest 
 good-humor, as the meal drew to a close and Molly 
 began to feel a sense of profound relief, "I suppose 
 the moment has come when we ought to drink to the 
 success of your expedition." 
 
 "It is very kind of you, Octavia," he replied, 
 "especially as you are convinced that it is a wild- 
 goose chase." 
 
 "Well," she laughed, "if you must chase geese, 
 I suppose you get more enjoyment out of a wild 
 one." 
 
 The remark was double-edged, and Molly felt 
 Octavia's eyes on her, though she did not understand 
 the allusion to herself in the retort. Henry, how- 
 ever, missed nothing of it. 
 
 "It is the spirit of adventure," he said. "So many 
 of us are afraid of the wild things." 
 
 "Surely not of geese, Henry?" murmured Lady 
 Blake. 
 
 "In this case," said the Professor, who was a 
 187
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 little obtuse as far as conversation was concerned, 
 "in this case the goose is a toad." 
 
 "Of pure gold," said Henry quickly. 
 
 "It sounds," murmured Molly timidly, "like a 
 fairy toad." 
 
 "It is," rejoined her husband, "but my sister 
 doesn't believe in fairies." 
 
 "Well, who does?" said Gerald. 
 
 "Uncle Henry does, and I do," answered Mary 
 firmly. 
 
 "Of course we do," said the Duke, "if only be- 
 cause we can't see them." 
 
 "I guess," said Miss Ellis slowly, "the fairies quit 
 this planet some time back. Things move too fast 
 for them nowadays." 
 
 "People will go through life wearing goggles," 
 Mary murmured, almost to herself. "Don't you 
 think, mother," she said aloud, turning toward 
 Octavia, "that we ought to drink the health of the 
 bride? This is a sort of wedding breakfast, you 
 know." 
 
 "Of course," said Octavia without enthusiasm. 
 
 They all rose to the toast and Molly, whose imita- 
 tion of Gerald's methods had up to now proved 
 faultless, rose also, still trusting that what he did 
 was right. 
 
 Thus, without any conception of the enormity of 
 her behavior, the Duchess of Wynninghame pro- 
 ceeded to drink her own health. 
 
 As they sat down again the Duke stole a look at 
 his sister. She was leaning across the table, murmur- 
 ing the necessary and conventional words which fol- 
 
 188
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 low the toasting of a bride. But Henry had known 
 her far too long to be deceived. In her eyes he saw 
 what was not so much a light of disgust at Molly's 
 mistake as of triumph at the realization of her fore- 
 bodings. And for the first time in his life the Duke 
 realized that his sister was a snob. He started 
 vaguely trying to classify her as he would one of his 
 reptiles. She was an emotional snob. It is a form 
 of barrenness which is found most often with intel- 
 lectual bankruptcy. Lady Blake could always be 
 relied upon to do the right thing. Had Molly 
 started to drink out of her finger bowl, her hostess 
 would have been the first to put her lips to her own. 
 She would never make anyone feel uncomfortable or 
 embarrassed, as Henry, lurching his way through 
 life, was continually doing. Indeed, Octavia was a 
 machine of breeding and education, absolutely per- 
 fected. But her snobbishness lay in the fact that 
 these things the fish knives, the finger bowls, and 
 all the rest of it really mattered to her. 
 
 Her emotions had become questions of like and 
 dislike not love and hate. Perhaps, mused Henry, 
 the change had happened in her childhood. Or was 
 it possible that some people were born only with a 
 capacity for distaste and approval ? That was why, 
 he decided, one could not hate Octavia, although she 
 was hateful; to all intents and purposes she was not 
 there. 
 
 She had opened the book of life, become intensely 
 interested in the number of its chapters, and had 
 never read a word. She might just as well be buried. 
 
 . . Well, she would be, one day. 
 189
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 He decided at once that he himself would be 
 cremated. Then Henry pulled himself together, 
 and realized that this was neither the time nor the 
 place for soliloquy. 
 
 Lady Blake had risen and Perrin was holding the 
 door open as the ladies retired to the drawing-room. 
 Later, in three cars, they were to motor down to the 
 landing stage for the dance on the yacht. Molly, 
 with Octavia chatting affably into her ear, was con- 
 vinced that she was a success. 
 
 Left alone at the table, the three male members 
 of the party remained for some moments in silence. 
 Gerald felt unaccountably awkward, while at the 
 same time he pondered, not without wonder, on the 
 trick of fate which had secured for his uninspired 
 uncle such a beautiful Duchess. The Professor was 
 engaged with the immediate future. What was 
 Octavia going to do about the dance? He remem- 
 bered with cold horror Henry's remark about the 
 evening papers. The Duke was thinking of nothing 
 at all. He cracked his nuts and drank his port, con- 
 scious of a vague feeling of triumph. He felt much 
 as an amateur who, buying a picture on trust from 
 an obscure dealer, discovers, on its arrival, tha*t he 
 has had a lucky accident and that the forebodings of 
 his friends are not to be realized. 
 
 Gerald rose suddenly. All at once it had ap- 
 peared to him that he was not wanted. 
 
 "Excuse me, Uncle Henry," he said, "I want to 
 see about my gloves." 
 
 The Duke nodded carelessly as the boy went out. 
 Peter looked up as the door shut. 
 
 190
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 "Henry," he said, "you told me once that if ever 
 you did anything grotesque, I was to remember that 
 somewhere behind that lay your theory of living. 
 Is there some . . . some creed behind this 
 marriage?" 
 
 The Duke put down his glass. He cracked and 
 excavated another nut before replying. 
 
 "There is an ideal behind it, Peter," he said, "as 
 there should be behind every marriage." 
 
 "But not," asked the Professor, "the ordinarily 
 accepted ideal?" 
 
 "What is that?" asked the Duke. 
 
 "Love," replied his friend; "or, at least, com- 
 panionship." 
 
 Henry was silent. When he spoke it was to be 
 irrelevant. 
 
 "What do you think of my wife, Peter?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "She is very beautiful," he answered; "very 
 beautiful indeed." 
 
 The Duke nodded. 
 
 "Expert opinion," he said, "is always desirable. 
 You, of course, Peter, are a connoisseur; you can 
 tell whether she is only 'chic' or whether she has 
 'flair' as well. You can tell whether she is fast or 
 slow, vicious or good-tempered. There is some- 
 thing, after all, in graduating for life in Continental 
 cafes." 
 
 He smiled at Peter over his coffee, and the Pro- 
 fessor smiled back. He recognized the raillery un- 
 der the words, and he knew that the Duke was try- 
 ing to lead him away into the paths of small talk. 
 
 191
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 But Peter was puzzled and serious. He had no 
 intention of being side-tracked in this way. 
 
 "I know nothing of your wife, Henry," he said, 
 "except that you should not have married her. You 
 see, I am relying on your granting me the privileges 
 of a very old friend." 
 
 "They are yours, Peter," said the Duke, "but I 
 am afraid I cannot gratify your curiosity. My mar- 
 riage is one of the many things in the universe which 
 even a scientist must take for granted." 
 
 "At least answer one question. You do not love 
 her?" 
 
 "If you will tell me what love is, I will answer 
 you." ' 
 
 The Professor pushed back his chair. 
 
 "If you do not know, I am already answered," 
 he said. 
 
 "Peter," said the Duke slowly, "you and I are 
 very old friends; in many ways very deep friends. 
 But we have never ploughed up each other's natures 
 to see what sort of soil lies underneath. There are 
 some friends who can do that; but it is very risky. 
 We know each other's lives, you and I, but of each 
 other's souls we know nothing; it would be fatal to 
 try to discover one another so late in the day. But 
 this much I will tell you. I have a creed according 
 to which I have tried to live my life. That creed, 
 like all that are anything more than pose, has now 
 become a crusade. My standard is a banner lily- 
 white, without device. My motto, 'Simplicity.' I 
 want to lead a simple life. I want my conscience to 
 ask simple questions and my actions to answer them 
 
 192
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 simply. I want to contrive to do without the amaz- 
 ing superstructure which civilization has built up 
 about us cults and rules and problems which we 
 create merely to waste time over. Life is not a 
 question of how much one can get into it, but how 
 much one can push out of it. Our churches en- 
 deavor to occupy God, whereas it is my belief that 
 God has produced plenty to occupy us, but we have 
 made such a labyrinth of our lives that we have no 
 time for Him." He drained his glass and wiped 
 his lips. "That is all I am going to tell you, Peter," 
 he said, "and somewhere behind all that you will find 
 the reason for my marriage. You have my per- 
 mission to look for it." 
 
 The Professor made a gesture of disgust. 
 
 "Your creed can be summed up in one word, 
 Henry," he said. "Laziness." 
 
 The Duke smiled at him, and for a long time 
 Peter said nothing. He gazed into the bottom of 
 his glass at the little ruby circle that reflected the 
 electric lights. So, in his marriage, as in everything 
 else, Henry had been introspective. The Professor 
 had a mental picture of Molly, full of vitality, alive, 
 the slave of no monastic shibboleth, ready to enjoy 
 the riches of the world its jewels, its pleasures 
 above all, its passions and its love. And Henry saw 
 none of it. Yet he had never suspected him of being 
 among the Pharisees. He looked up suddenly and 
 stared at the Duke as he lay back in his chair with 
 that look of grave contentment which had so often 
 irritated his friend when they had been engaged 
 in some scientific controversy. "My God!" he 
 
 193
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 thought. "The man is the very apotheosis of the 
 Prig." 
 
 He suddenly flung a question across the table. 
 
 "And what about her?" he asked. 
 
 The Duke looked puzzled. A look of distress 
 came into his eyes. 
 
 "Her?" he echoed. 
 
 "Yes," said Peter. "Your simple life is so sim- 
 ple that it reduces everything to the figure one. 
 What about her?" 
 
 He rose and went out; a feeling of intense an- 
 noyance came over him. It was incredible such 
 selfishness. Yet Peter had never thought of anyone 
 else but himself throughout his life. But that is the 
 way of folk. 
 
 The Duke sat still in his chair, a troubled look 
 in his gray eyes. 
 
 "What about her? What about her?" 
 
 Suddenly the stem of his wine glass snapped be- 
 tween his fingers. He sat quite still. After all, 
 Peter had been the first to deal a serious blow at 
 the crusade for the lily-white banner. Was it a 
 pose, after all? "What about her?" 
 
 He suddenly realized that he had been thrusting 
 aside this question from the very first. Yet he sup- 
 posed that she was happy. Why not? He did not 
 trouble to consider whether happiness was a nega- 
 tive or a positive proposition. 
 
 And yet he could not feel satisfied. Supposing 
 she was not happy? Well, what more could he do? 
 At least he had not deceived her. He had never 
 
 194
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 pretended to be in love. In love? Why on earth 
 did people demand of a man that he should in- 
 evitably produce a certain set of emotions at a cer- 
 tain age ? He drifted off into an absurd analysis of 
 Love which left it with about the same status as 
 malignant influenza. Then he rose and lighted an- 
 other cigar. After all, he thought, perhaps he was 
 a prig. Perhaps he was in the habit of putting a 
 reserve price on his own virtues so high that they 
 became unmarketable hothouse blooms. He knew 
 now, at any rate, that he deliberately wished only 
 to matter to himself that he had always wished it 
 so. Peter, whom he had often found himself de- 
 spising, could not be said to be a really bad man, 
 merely an amiable ordinary sinner and he was very 
 human, he radiated much farther. . . . 
 
 This girl, then, whom he had married he had 
 attached no meaning to her at all. He had smiled 
 indulgently when she had told him that she loved 
 him. He remembered that his smile was the same 
 and his feelings the same when Mary had com- 
 plained of the fever of measles. It was a "You'll- 
 be-better-soon" smile. Now he saw that Molly was 
 not merely a collection of curious clothes hung on 
 to something. She was definitely in opposition to 
 him. She was determined that he should matter to 
 someone else besides himself. She, too, was fighting 
 a crusade. Its end was that they should matter to 
 each other. It struck Henry with sudden and vio- 
 lent force that his life had suddenly changed. In 
 his usual introspective way he cast back for a prece- 
 dent to his feelings. He found it suddenly. It was 
 
 195
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 when he left the nursery for the first time and went 
 to a preparatory school. 
 
 He remembered that it had been most unpleasant. 
 
 But any further reflections which the Duke might 
 have been inclined to make were cut short by the 
 entrance of his wife. Molly had thought of nothing 
 else since dinner than her husband's verdict on her 
 behavior. Now she came straight up to him with 
 characteristic simplicity and said: 
 
 "Did I get through it all right?" 
 
 "Perfectly," answered Henry mechanically. 
 
 "It isn't any use for me to ask you questions," 
 said Molly firmly, "if you are going to answer them 
 like that." 
 
 "Well, what do you want me to say?" 
 
 "I want you to tell me what I did wrong, of 
 course." 
 
 The Duke smiled. 
 
 "My dear child, what does it matter?" he said. 
 "What on earth can be the importance of a set of 
 arbitrary rules for eating? Short of making un- 
 pleasant sucking noises with one's soup, the whole 
 bag of tricks is manifestly of no account." 
 
 "I dare say," said Molly, "if you live alone. If 
 you don't, you must eat like the next person." 
 
 "Why?" asked Henry. 
 
 "Why? Because, of course, you must." 
 
 "A woman's reason." 
 
 "You don't want a reason for a thing like that." 
 
 "On the contrary," returned the Duke, "there 
 should be reason in everything." 
 
 "Oh, well," said Molly, "if you really want rea- 
 196
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 sons, I suppose it is that it's such a little thing that 
 it isn't worth being different about; at home we used 
 to throw salt over our shoulders when we spilt any. 
 I don't know which one originally believed in it, but 
 it wasn't worth while upsetting 'em by not doing it, 
 was it? Same with the knives and forks an' things. 
 If everybody did it their own way, it might do. But 
 if only one does, nobody knows which way to look. 
 I know as much as that, anyway. 'Tisn't that they're 
 ashamed of you, it's because they're sorry you're un- 
 happy 'cause you don't know the rules." 
 
 "So that when it sends him to prison, Society is 
 not ashamed of the burglar, but of the system?" 
 
 "Oh, what do I know about burglars and So- 
 ciety?" said Molly a little impatiently. "I want you 
 to tell me things." 
 
 "What things?" he asked. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment and he noted the rest- 
 less movement of her fingers. 
 
 "Well," she began slowly, "I . . . I've a dread- 
 ful feeling there's too much of me showing; I've 
 never done it before, and I suppose you get used to 
 it. But I want to know whether there was more 
 bare of me than of anyone else. You see, I haven't 
 got anyone else I can ask," she added, in quick 
 apology. 
 
 "You can be perfectly certain," answered Henry 
 gravely, "that any frock of Mary's will be exactly 
 as low or as high as the latest decree of the gentle- 
 men in Paris who manage these absurdities allows." 
 
 "I'm glad it's all right," said Molly with a sigh. 
 "But why do you think everything is absurd?" 
 
 197
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Well, are not most things?" 
 
 "I don't know. I never think about them," she 
 answered, "but I remember once I went to an exhi- 
 bition where there were queer looking-glasses that 
 made people all shapes, and there was a very solemn 
 man behind me who said, 'If we were all like that, 
 straight-backed men would be ugly.' I couldn't 
 think what he meant but I did later. If everybody 
 agreed with you, this frock would be absurd; as no- 
 body does, it isn't." 
 
 This was exactly what had happened at his pre- 
 paratory school, thought the Duke. He was being 
 forced to detach himself from his ... well, yes, 
 it seemed more than ever like a pose. 
 
 "Lilliput and Brobdingnag," he laughed. "I 
 didn't know you thought so much. It isn't fashion- 
 able." 
 
 "Nor am I," she returned. "That is why I must 
 be taught how. If only Lady Blake " 
 
 Suddenly a great rage surged up in Henry. 
 
 "There is nothing Octavia can teach you," he said 
 sternly; "nothing at all." 
 
 "But there is lots," she answered, looking up at 
 him sharply. 
 
 He stretched his arms a little wearily. It had 
 started as a brilliant and quixotic romance, this mar- 
 riage of his. Was it rapidly becoming a common- 
 place misalliance where relatives with a sense of 
 duty were laboriously to teach the bride her new 
 tricks ? 
 
 "Why can't you go on believing in your silly 
 books?" he said suddenly. 
 
 198
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 "One day," she said with a quaint shyness, "I 
 hope I shall." 
 
 And he realized with a sense of impotent irrita- 
 tion that that future date was tied up with the in- 
 cubation period of the pestilent disease, Love. 
 
 "It's a shame to bother you," she said, quickly 
 divining his embarrassment, "but I came here be- 
 cause I may not have another opportunity of being 
 alone with you ; I want to know what are you going 
 to do with me?" 
 
 "Do with you?" 
 
 "Yes. What do you want me to do when you've 
 gone ? I ... I can't go home again, you know." 
 
 "Your allowance " 
 
 "Oh, hell !" she cut in distractedly. "That's not 
 what I'm thinking about." She recollected herself 
 suddenly. "Sorry!" she said. "I oughtn't to have 
 said that." 
 
 "Why not?" said the Duke. "You meant it." 
 
 "My allowance is more'n I'll ever spend. What 
 I want to know is, where'll I go? What'll I do? 
 How'll I learn to be a lady?" 
 
 "I don't want you to learn to be anything. If 
 you do, you will make yourself a dustbin for other 
 people's foibles that is all." 
 
 "But when you come back?" 
 
 "You can chew your table-napkin for all I care." 
 
 His egoism reared itself before her like a vast 
 wall. That so kind a man could be so obtuse I 
 
 "But," she said, "it is I that want to behave 
 properly." 
 
 "It is a case," he said, "where the will is the 
 199
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 deed." He saw suddenly a dreadful vision of Molly 
 as an automatic doll with the jerky utterance and 
 mechanical gestures of Eliza Doolittle. It appalled 
 him. Molly, for her part, saw that she did not in- 
 terest him in the least. The frock, the hair . . .. 
 all had counted for nothing. She was merely a 
 problem. He would solve her to his own satisfac- 
 tion and go happily on his way. She was to be left 
 behind to build a fool's paradise for herself out of 
 cheap novels. She saw the enormity of his charity 
 when she realized that this was all he imagined she 
 was worth. 
 
 And she had thought she was to be allowed to 
 make him happy ... at least, to try. Now she 
 was only to be solved. 
 
 "I'll write to Padwick, my solicitor, about you," 
 he was saying. "He will fix you up wherever you 
 want to stay. Of course, you have got to be very 
 comfortable and happy." 
 
 Oh, of course ! Had he the remotest idea of 
 what happiness was? She said nothing. She had 
 thought he would have realized that this was the 
 last time she would see him for six months, that 
 she would want to know what he wanted her to do, 
 that perhaps he might feel a little sorry for her. 
 Apparently he felt no emotion of any kind she 
 might be a puzzling feature in one of his reptiles. 
 She remembered that she had never seen him dis- 
 play any feeling over anything. He stood now, his 
 eyes fixed dreamily on a point of the wall just above 
 the clock. His thick hair was a little untidy, his lips 
 a little curved. She could see that his thoughts were 
 
 200
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 far away in the South Seas, perhaps. Why did 
 she love him? Not for his ascetic, self-centred per- 
 sonality it was all too cold. Not even for his 
 kindness, for dimly she began to perceive that that 
 too sprang from a certain disgust, a shrinking from 
 the unpleasant things of life. Yet love him she did, 
 and that as much as ever before, when the glamor of 
 her dream-monger blinded her to the impenetrabil- 
 ity of the man himself. And suddenly, though only 
 in part, she realized that it was something behind 
 those gray eyes that appealed to her, something that 
 had never come out into the light of day, perhaps 
 because there had never yet been anyone strong 
 enough to drag it forth. All at once she felt the 
 desires of the pioneer she would be the one to ex- 
 plore the depths of those steady eyes she would 
 never give up she would be indefatigable. Some- 
 how, she thought suddenly of the only time she had 
 ever been to the seaside. A man had been almost 
 drowned, and they had spent four hours trying to 
 bring the life back into his body; toiling until the 
 succorers themselves were well nigh spent. But the 
 man had lived. Then she remembered how lonely 
 that half-dead victim of the sea had looked, every- 
 one save he pulsing with life and movement and en- 
 deavor. He had been a thing apart alone. She 
 stole another look at the man standing by her side, 
 and with a start realized that he was lonely, too. 
 
 And her intuition was right, for Henry was and 
 had always been a very lonely man. He had never 
 realized that mortals were as dependent upon each 
 other's souls as upon each other's bodies. He had
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 seen only the barrenness of the life into which he 
 had been born, and he was trying to live by bread 
 alone. His soul was starving because he had in- 
 herited the whole world and none of Heaven. He 
 had not been so foolish as to accept the world as a 
 substitute, but he had not been wise enough to find 
 a heaven for himself, and though he had told her 
 that there was nothing on the earth like good dreams, 
 he had never been able to make realities of his own. 
 So he hung poised between earth and sky, touching 
 neither, a waif, ignorant of his own beggardom, a 
 waif who was gradually giving up even the tearful 
 ecstasy of crying for the moon. 
 
 But Molly, being one of God's real babies who 
 hung on to a star with her hands and dabbled her 
 feet delightedly in the gutter at the same time, saw 
 only that he stood alone, and did not give herself 
 the trouble of asking why. Now, other people's 
 loneliness is sometimes the open sesame to a woman's 
 heart, and Molly, who had already given the whole 
 of hers to her dream-monger, discovered all of a 
 sudden a little piece which had been overlooked, and 
 sympathy and tears and hope for him welled up in 
 her all at once, so that she suddenly tiptoed and 
 kissed him longingly, lingeringly, on the lips; a kiss 
 that was the raising of the standard of her crusade, 
 which had nothing to do with a creed or a formula, 
 a circumstance for which, it may be, it was a thou- 
 sandfold more strong. 
 
 As for Henry, he patted her cheek good-naturedly 
 and did not realize that he had become an object 
 of pity. 
 
 202
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 Anyway, the net result of all this tangled psy- 
 chology was that Molly decided that he was lonely, 
 and Henry himself became the object of a cure; so 
 that both husband and wife now had their own pri- 
 vate crusade, and to Molly, at any rate, the ambi- 
 tion to make him "love her like hell" was renewed 
 a thousandfold. 
 
 After this, the first spontaneous kiss that she had 
 ever given him, Molly felt a fervent desire to get out 
 of the room before he said anything to spoil the mo- 
 ment. She gave a little laugh, half nervous, half 
 triumphant, and stepped out of the door before 
 Henry realized that she was gone. When he was 
 alone he shrugged his shoulders suddenly, for all 
 the world like a dog shaking water from its back, 
 and then threw the end of his cigar into the fire- 
 place. It was time, he thought, to go down to the 
 yacht. What a nuisance the dance was! How 
 ridiculously the world took its pleasures ! 
 
 His mind was exclusively engaged on thoughts 
 reptilian as he drove down to the landing-stage 
 alone, for Henry never waited for anyone, any more 
 than he expected anyone to wait for him. His 
 thoughts were still in the South Seas as he climbed 
 up to the chart-house of the "Cobra," after returning 
 the salute of Captain Phillips, the skipper, and sat 
 down, with a feeling of splendid isolation, in a cor- 
 ner of the little room. His hand stretched out idly 
 and picked up a book which lay beside him. Cap- 
 tain Phillips was a family man, and his wife and 
 children had but just left the yacht after saying 
 good-by to him. This book had been a parting gift 
 
 203
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 to one of his children, and had been left behind by 
 mistake. Henry looked dreamily at its cover and 
 read the title: "Fairy Tales for Little Folk." In 
 five minutes the Duke of Wynninghame was com- 
 pletely immersed in it. 
 
 Meanwhile, Molly, still marvelling a little at her 
 new-born courage, had gone upstairs determined to 
 ask Mary to lend her something in the nature of a 
 cloak to wear on the way down to the yacht. As she 
 passed the door of her own room she decided to go 
 in and see whether her appearance was still com- 
 pletely undamaged. She was adding those finishing 
 touches to an already completed toilet, to which, it 
 appears, there is no end, when she suddenly heard 
 the key turn in the door. 
 
 In a moment she was across the room, trying the 
 handle. She was locked in. Down the passage she 
 heard footsteps. She knew at once that they be- 
 longed to Octavia. l/i a moment she realized that 
 Lady Blake was determined she should not go to 
 the dance. She stood absolutely still for a moment. 
 She had not been such a success, then, at dinner, 
 after all. A fury of rage welled up in her. She 
 wanted to scream, bring everyone to her door, and 
 insist upon being released. But this, she realized, 
 would only prove conclusively that she could not 
 behave that she had no dignity. 
 
 She crossed and sat down on the bed. She was 
 not to see him again, then. By the time the door 
 was open Henry would be far away on the high seas, 
 and she she would be left to fight a long battle 
 with Octavia and Octavia's entourage. She shivered 
 
 204
 
 CRUSADERS 
 
 a little and looked out of the window. It was dark 
 now, and far away the illuminated decks of the yacht 
 twinkled like a little constellation on the water. 
 Well, she must not let him down. She must be dig- 
 nified. She drew down the blind, for somehow those 
 little twinkling lights seemed rather like a bad joke. 
 So she wasn't to have her chance to show Henry that 
 she could hold her head high in the Society that sur- 
 rounded him. And there was something else that 
 this action of Octavia's showed. After Henry was 
 gone, the war was to go on. Undoubtedly Lady 
 Blake would try to get rid of her. Could she do 
 it? Molly knew little of the law or its power. Per- 
 haps Henry might miss her and send for her from 
 the yacht. But no Octavia would tell him she had 
 been afraid to come. Afraid! She clenched her 
 fists in a paroxysm of rage. 
 
 Suddenly she caught sight of herself again in the 
 great pier-glass. For some moments she gazed at 
 her own reflection. It seemed to comfort her not a 
 little. After all, she was not entirely unarmed. 
 
 Above all, she must not disgrace him. 
 
 In the hall Peter was struggling into a big fur 
 coat. 
 
 "Where is Uncle Henry?" asked Mary, at the 
 foot of the stairs, rosy with anticipations. 
 
 "It appears," said the Professor panting, "that 
 he has gone on alone." 
 
 "How like him!" laughed the girl, and then in 
 answer to a call from Gerald, who was already 
 seated with his cosmopolitan in the second car, she 
 hurried down the steps into the night. 
 
 205
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Peter was to go down alone with Octavia. She 
 appeared now, majestically gowned, and eyed the 
 Professor for a few moments. 
 
 "Have you everything on board for the voyage?" 
 she asked suddenly. 
 
 "Why, of course," returned Peter. "The last of 
 the packages went down yesterday." 
 
 "I only asked," added Octavia, "because it would 
 be a pity if you had to put back for anything." 
 
 He understood and said nothing. 
 
 "By the way," she went on smoothly, "the Duch- 
 ess has a headache and will not be able to attend 
 the dance." 
 
 The Professor looked up quickly. 
 
 "She seemed quite well at dinner," he hazarded. 
 
 "Perhaps she ate too much," said Octavia, button- 
 ing her glove. 
 
 Peter looked her full in the face, but she did not 
 waver. 
 
 "Octavia," he said at last, "is it fair?" 
 
 As you remember, he was the most susceptible 
 man in the house. Octavia returned his look un- 
 flinchingly. 
 
 "The question is, Peter," she said, "is it neces- 
 sary?' 
 
 For a moment their eyes held each other, then 
 the Professor's dropped. He felt vaguely for his 
 best friend, his large silk handkerchief. 
 
 "If we don't hurry, Peter," said Octavia, in level 
 tones, "we shall be late." 
 
 He held the door open for her. 
 
 206
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 
 
 THE scene on the yacht was one of those which 
 Society journalists love to describe as brilliant but 
 which are in reality a trifle dull. Everybody looked 
 very expensive, but nobody very expressive. Some- 
 how, it was the kind of assembly that one instinc- 
 tively reckons up in cash value rather than on any 
 other basis. But it was a genuine aristocracy, for 
 their cash was on their backs rather than in their 
 banks. 
 
 Meanwhile, they were experiencing the immense 
 and unlooked-for relief of having something to talk 
 about. The triumph of the evening came to him 
 or to her who discovered someone who had not read 
 an evening paper. Octavia had made no remark 
 about the marriage, and in the circumstances no one 
 cared to broach the subject with her. As for the 
 Duke himself, he had not put in an appearance at 
 all, which was causing Octavia not a little uneasii 
 ness and the guests a topic of endless speculation. 
 
 Mr. Pardoe-Vine endeavored for some time to 
 buttonhole Peter with the intention of forcing the 
 truth out of him and being the first to make an 
 official statement. But as the Professor, who hated 
 the old gentleman more than anyone of his acquaint- 
 ance, because they had exactly the same bad habits, 
 
 207
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 avoided him like the plague the whole evening, the 
 unfortunate bachelor was bound to remain among 
 the speculators. 
 
 He was talking to Lord Hartbloom, who, shaking 
 his head reproachfully, remarked that "marriages 
 of that kind were not fair to the Peerage." Lord 
 Hartbloom's grandfather had been raised to the 
 dignity of a hereditary legislator at a stiff price, 
 which he had been able to pay as a result of Govern- 
 ment contracts during the Napoleonic wars. In 
 order to establish a family tradition, it was said 
 that none of the Hartblooms had been allowed to 
 laugh aloud since the Reform Act. 
 
 Neither Gerald nor Mary would have thought of 
 volunteering any kind of information on a family 
 matter such as Henry's marriage, without receiving 
 first official instructions from Octavia. But with the 
 arrival of the Countess of Edgeware, some statement 
 was bound to be made. 
 
 The Countess was an old lady of seventy. One 
 of her many grievances was that she was Henry's 
 godmother. Although long past the period when 
 she should have settled down into a dignified old age, 
 Lady Edgeware had never abandoned her efforts to 
 cheat time of ten years by wearing a mask of pomade 
 and enamel. The result was that she looked like a 
 gargoyle. She had divorced her first husband be- 
 cause he insisted upon walking round Berkeley 
 Square in his dressing gown. Her second husband, 
 the Earl of Edgeware, was an old gentleman whose 
 bones had become too stiff for the hunting field, and 
 who was therefore only interested in the next world, 
 
 208
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 
 
 where there was the odd chance that he might become 
 a supernatural M.F.H. Heaven without horses it 
 was beyond his power to conceive. As for Lady 
 Edgeware, she was well known as the most inveterate 
 marriage broker in London. She had made several 
 attempts upon Henry's life, and her lack of success 
 had caused her to look upon his ultimate marriage as 
 the crowning glory of her activities. The announce- 
 ment of his wedding, therefore, which had been 
 maliciously read to her by her husband, she felt not 
 only as a social disaster of the first magnitude, but 
 also as a personal slight to herself. 
 
 As she bore down on the spot where Lord Hart- 
 bloom was still holding forth on the obligations of 
 caste he happened to catch sight of her out of the 
 corner of his eye, and with a muttered apology dived 
 incontinently down the companion-way toward the 
 saloon. Mr. Pardoe-Vine, slower of initiative, was 
 caught and immediately buttonholed. 
 
 "What!" said the Countess. "Are you here?" 
 
 The old gentleman smiled wanly. 
 
 "Yes," he replied. " 'I go everywhere and do 
 nothing.' Was it the Duke of Wellington who said 
 that, or someone else?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know," returned the old lady. 
 "You are one of our club men," she said in a thrilling 
 whisper. "What is everybody saying?" 
 
 Mr. Pardoe-Vine had no intention of being drawn 
 into a discussion of his host's marriage. He was 
 loyal, if he was critical. 
 
 "What does everyone always say, Lady Edge- 
 ware?" he said airily. "As usual, the young people 
 
 209
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 are talking seriously about Death, and the old are 
 talking enthusiastically about Life." 
 
 Lady Edgeware rapped impatiently on the rail 
 with her fan. Then she shook her finger at the old 
 gentleman so that it exploded in a series of rheumatic 
 reports. 
 
 "That's not what I want to know at all," she said. 
 "I want to know what people are saying about 
 Henry's marriage." 
 
 "Oh, that!" returned Mr. Pardoe-Vine. "Charm- 
 ing quite charming!" And murmuring that it was 
 high time they presented themselves before Lady 
 Blake, he adroitly steered the baffled Countess to the 
 companion-way and down into the saloon. 
 
 Meanwhile, Octavia had escaped for a few mo- 
 ments from her duties as hostess, and, by this time 
 thoroughly uneasy at the non-appearance of the 
 Duke, and connecting it vaguely in her mind with 
 some hitch in her efforts to circumvent the Duchess, 
 had sent for Dunn, and discovering from him that he 
 knew nothing of the whereabouts of his master, had 
 ordered him to search the most unlikely places in the 
 ship, and if the Duke failed to materialize, to return 
 to Wynninghame Towers and find out what had hap- 
 pened to him. 
 
 "Peter," she said to the Professor, "I shall only 
 feel quite happy when you and Henry are among the 
 cannibals." 
 
 "But it is a desert island," he protested. 
 
 "All the better," retorted Lady Blake. "If there 
 was Society of any sort, Henry would be certain to 
 get into trouble." 
 
 210
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 
 
 At this moment the Countess appeared with Mr. 
 Pardoe-Vine as escort, and Lady Octavia realized 
 that the moment had come when she was to be forced 
 to make a statement of some kind. 
 
 Mr. Pardoe-Vine, after delivering up his burden, 
 disappeared as quickly as good manners allowed in 
 the direction of the supper-room. Peter wandered 
 out on deck again, where the strains of the orchestra 
 drew him like a magnet and so, since all introduc- 
 tions and arrivals had now been dealt with, Lady 
 Blake and the Countess were left alone. 
 
 "Yes," Octavia was saying, "the marriage is, of 
 course, quite impossible." 
 
 "Lady Blake," snapped the Countess, "it is an 
 absolute catastrophe." 
 
 "Worse mistakes have been corrected," returned 
 Octavia calmly; "it is all the easier because Henry 
 is not in the least in love with her." 
 
 "What!" cried Lady Edgeware. "Why, his only 
 possible plea is infatuation. Henry has always been 
 the same. As a boy, he never had any excuse for 
 anything." She began to talk at a great pace. . . . 
 
 Away from the dancing, where two deck chairs 
 nestled together under the rail, Gerald and the object 
 of his grand passion were sitting out together. The 
 tight-rope walker was leaning over the rail admiring, 
 with the professional appreciation of one who had 
 seen nearly all the beauties of the world, the reflec- 
 tion of the ship's lanterns in the dancing waters and 
 the soothing sound of the lap-lap against the yacht's 
 sides. 
 
 "Ohe!" she sighed at last, stretching out voluptu- 
 211
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 ous arms in a gesture of weariness. She had played 
 a big fish and lost it at the last moment through no 
 fault of her own. Well, there were other fish in the 
 sea, and there was still some bait left, though her 
 looking-glass warned her that it would be wise to 
 confine the sport to the young. Experience is a 
 shrewd detective. "Ohe!" she sighed again, as she 
 looked across the waters and knew that she must 
 become a rolling stone once more. Yet she was not 
 really sorry; four walls had never been able to con- 
 tain her for long at a time, and she aimed a great deal 
 higher than a merely nice young man. 
 
 "Ohe I" she murmured for the third time, so that 
 Gerald removed the cigarette from his mouth and 
 asked her what was the matter. 
 
 "Nitski on the wedding, boy Gerald," said Miss 
 Ellis sadly. 
 
 "Whatever do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "Don't you see, boysie? Yesterday twopence 
 colored, to-day a penny plain q a se volt." 
 
 "You mean you're turning me down?" 
 
 She dropped her cigarette over the side and 
 watched the glow suddenly eclipsed. 
 
 "Your uncle," she murmured slowly, "is so very 
 casual; he might have a son." 
 
 "Of course," murmured the boy bitterly. "I 
 never thought of that." As for his sarcasm, it was 
 as effective as a pea-shooter on an india-rubber ball. 
 
 "Somebody," returned the tight-rope walker, un- 
 ruffled, "somebody has got to think about these 
 things." 
 
 "You never cared for me a bit, then ?" said Gerald. 
 
 212
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 
 
 It is a sore blow to a young man's pride to discover 
 that his face value is not what he thought it. But 
 Belle Ellis was not an entirely callous individual. 
 
 "You don't understand, boysie," she said. "I 
 like you well enough; just as much as I'll ever like 
 any man, whether I marry him or not. Only, you 
 see, I've got to make a splash. I can't help it. If 
 I'm not hunting big game, I'm not there. I'm a sort 
 of female company promoter. Say, you and I know 
 too much about the world to go breaking our hearts, 
 eh ? I'm thinking it would take an almighty eruption 
 even to get a bend on mine." 
 
 Appealed to as a man of the world, Gerald quickly 
 started to adapt himself to the new situation. At 
 any rate, he had had an adventure. He found that 
 his mind was sufficiently composed to enable him to 
 light another cigarette. 
 
 "Good Lord!" he said, as he flung the match over 
 the side. "We men do get had." There was a 
 certain amount of glory to be extracted even from 
 getting "had." 
 
 "It's a quaint thing," said the tight-rope walker, 
 looking over the water. "I'll go off this yacht to- 
 night, and it's a tiara to a hairpin you won't ever clap 
 eyes on me again; but if that girl with the rose-bud 
 mouth and the blush hadn't doped uncle with wet 
 kisses, we'd have been in the same loose-box till we 
 got our contracts for the Better Land." 
 
 "Oh," said Gerald, "I might have found you out 
 before then!" 
 
 She looked at him with an almost maternal smile, 
 thinking of other "cases" she had handled. 
 
 213
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "You ?" she echoed. "You wouldn't have had any 
 more chance than a snowball in hell. Care for an- 
 other dance?" 
 
 But even Gerald was not quick-change artist 
 enough for this. 
 
 "I think not," he said stiffly. 
 
 "Allowing a decent interval for mourning?" she 
 laughed. "Ah, Gerald boy, don't waste time curing 
 a heartache that's not there. Life's too short to 
 wear black for one's mistakes. Hear that waltz? 
 I danced to that last with a ring-master in Belgrade. 
 It's pulling me. So long!" 
 
 Gerald sat out for two dances, fighting against an 
 inexplicable sense of relief. It is annoying to find 
 that one's grand passion is not so grand as one 
 had thought, but it is still more annoying to have 
 to tell one's mother that one has made a fool of 
 one's self. 
 
 He was beginning on his fourth cigarette when 
 Mary, who had already danced herself into a state 
 of fatigue, and who had refused everybody this num- 
 ber in order to go and romance to herself in some 
 quiet corner, came upon her brother frowning bravely 
 across the water. 
 
 "Why, Gerald," she said, "what is the matter?" 
 
 Gerald removed his cigarette slowly. 
 
 "Life's a sham, kid," he replied with dignity. 
 "The world is a hollow farce." 
 
 She laughed merrily. 
 
 "Oh, not to-night," she answered. "Can't you 
 see the stars shining in the waves?" 
 
 He got up gloomily. 
 
 214
 
 "You think everything is romantic," he said; "just 
 like a kid always pretending." 
 
 "Well, if one must pretend," she answered 
 shrewdly, "it is better to pretend one is happy than 
 pretend one is miserable." 
 
 "Words!" scoffed her brother. "You live on 
 them." 
 
 "Don't be cynical, Gerald," she begged. "No 
 disaster can be great enough to excuse that." 
 
 "If you want to know," he said slowly, "I am no 
 longer engaged." 
 
 Mary was silent for a moment. She could not 
 pretend to any sorrow. 
 
 "Oh!" went on the boy, "I didn't expect you to 
 be sympathetic. You were one of the first to throw 
 mud at Belle." 
 
 "Some of it seems to have found a home," she 
 answered. "Of course, she did not want you after 
 Uncle Henry's marriage. I can't pretend I'm not 
 very glad to hear it." 
 
 "Oh, well," answered Gerald, "I'm not going to 
 make a tragedy out of it !" 
 
 "I believe," said his sister, "that even you recog- 
 nize that it is a case for a Te Deum." 
 
 He looked at her with surprise. Mary apparently 
 wasn't quite so dense as he had liked to think her. 
 She seemed to have divined that inexplicable relief 
 of his. It was disconcerting, and he did not imme- 
 diately meet her eyes. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, looking away over the 
 water, "well, at any rate, don't tell mother; I may 
 have been an ass, but I'm hanged if I'm going to 
 
 215
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 stand months of 'I told you so.' I'm going to tell 
 her my own way." 
 
 "Come and have a dance with me," she answered, 
 and they moved off toward the strains of the or- 
 chestra. 
 
 "I say," said Gerald, as they threaded their way 
 past ghostly ventilators and phantom davits, "what 
 about the Duchess? Old Henry seems to have 
 struck a winner, though she did drink her own health. 
 You know, Mary, you can't be a real woman, or 
 you'd have been almost crazy at her taking the shine 
 out of you in your own clothes what?" 
 
 "Don't be silly, Gerald," she returned. "She'd 
 have taken the shine out of me if she'd been dressed 
 in a sack. There's a difference between being pretty 
 and being beautiful, you know." 
 
 "Very few pretty women," he said, "would ac- 
 knowledge it." 
 
 "They would look infinitely less pretty," she 
 retorted, "if they did not." 
 
 "Where is she?" put in Gerald suddenly. "I, 
 haven't seen her since dinner, or Uncle Henry 
 either." 
 
 "The Duchess," said Mary in a detached sort of 
 way, "has too bad a headache to come to the dance." 
 
 Gerald looked at her sharply. 
 
 "By George!" he said. "That will be mother's 
 finger in the pie !" 
 
 They came upon the dancers, a splendid picture 
 of iridescent color and high-pitch happiness, its bril- 
 liance redoubled by the background of the night and 
 the sea. 
 
 216
 
 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN 
 
 Mary stopped suddenly. 
 
 "It's a shame !" she said tensely. "A shame I" 
 Gerald was startled by the anger in her voice ; he 
 was about to answer, but the next moment she had 
 flung herself into the dance and he was forgetting 
 everything in the intoxication of rhythm. For 
 though the accomplishments of her soul were many, 
 Mary had not neglected her body, and she was an 
 excellent dancer. 
 
 217
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 THE valet discovered Henry at last digesting with 
 great appreciation the story of Cinderella. The 
 Duke looked up as Dunn came into the chart-house 
 and put the book aside with a sigh. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, your Grace," began the valet, 
 "but Lady Blake sent me to express the hope that 
 you have not forgotten that you are giving a dance." 
 
 "Very wrong of me," murmured Henry. 
 
 "I was also to say, your Grace, that the Duchess 
 has a headache and is too unwell to come to the 
 yacht." 
 
 "Ah!" said the Duke, looking out of the little 
 square window. "Now that sounds very improb- 
 able." He remained silent for a few moments figur- 
 ing out to himself why Molly should suddenly have 
 developed a headache. Perhaps she had been afraid 
 to face the ordeal; perhaps Octavia . . . 
 
 Now, interference with his concerns always an- 
 noyed Henry more than anything else. 
 
 He turned suddenly to the valet. 
 
 "Have you ever read 'Cinderella,' Dunn?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Certainly, your Grace." 
 
 "A very pretty story." 
 
 "Very pretty and charming indeed, your Grace." 
 
 "Curious that I should never have actually read 
 the story until to-night," went on the Duke. "I 
 
 218
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 suppose such abysmal ignorance is really only toler- 
 able on the Bench. Now I wonder what was wrong 
 with Cinderella?" 
 
 Dunn perceived that a comment was expected. 
 
 "Nowadays, your Grace," he said, "all she wanted 
 would be a little swank." 
 
 "I am afraid you are very worldly," murmured 
 Henry, rising; "but you are probably right." 
 
 He ran his finger idly over the pages of fairy tales. 
 
 "Go back to Wynninghame Towers, Dunn," he 
 said at last, "and see if her Grace is sufficiently re- 
 covered to attend the dance." 
 
 "Very good, your Grace." 
 
 "On the way tell Lady Blake that I am just about 
 to make my appearance in the saloon." 
 
 "Very good, your Grace." 
 
 Dunn turned and went down the ladder. Henry, 
 after a few moments' reflection, became more than 
 ever convinced that Octavia had manufactured this 
 sudden headache. He suddenly remembered, too, 
 the paragraphs in the evening papers, and realized 
 that in all probability he would be expected to make 
 some sort of statement. 
 
 The realization annoyed him considerably. He 
 remembered also that Lady Edgeware would be sure 
 to be in evidence somewhere, and he began to wish 
 very earnestly that it was to-morrow. He, too, 
 began to think that he was only safe upon the high 
 seas. However, there was nothing for it, and so he 
 descended the steps and entered the saloon, which 
 was quite empty save for Mr. Pardoe-Vine, who was 
 thoughtfully smoking a cigar and drinking cognac. 
 
 219
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Well, Wynninghame," began the old gentleman, 
 "I hear you've made a fool of yourself again." 
 
 "So they say," replied Henry. 
 
 "I always knew," said Mr. Pardoe-Vine, sipping 
 his brandy, "that you would end with some kind of 
 midsummer madness of this sort; always told your 
 father you would. Now it's happened, and you're 
 finished. What does Octavia say?" 
 
 "Exactly what one would expect Octavia to say," 
 said the Duke. "Nothing of any importance." 
 
 "Don't be bitter!" snapped the old gentleman. 
 "I always said to your father, 'The boy's mooning 
 about. He ought to be getting into trouble it's all 
 wrong. He'll grow up bitter I" 
 
 "How glad you must be," said Henry, as he moved 
 toward the door, "that you are no relation of mine !" 
 
 "H'm!" grunted the apostle of the roaring for- 
 ties. "In my young days people used to say what 
 they thought." 
 
 "What an indictment of the Victorians!" mur- 
 mured Henry. He went out to where the dancing 
 was in full swing and gazed upon the scene for some 
 moments. The measure came to an end, and for 
 some time Henry was meeting old acquaintances and 
 endeavoring to remember the names of new ones. 
 Someone, bolder than the rest, congratulated him 
 upon his marriage and, the lead once given, every- 
 body followed suit. 
 
 It was not till some time later that he was run 
 to earth by Lady Edgeware, who steered him firmly 
 to a secluded corner and flung herself forthwith into 
 a searching cross-examination. Henry bore it all 
 
 220
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 good-naturedly enough, but his lack of serious atten- 
 tion to her drove the old lady nearly crazy with irri- 
 tation. "No one," she wound up, "will ever receive 
 your wife." 
 
 "In that case," said Henry, "seeing that the whole 
 of my existence has been an effort to escape being 
 received, she will be an excellent helpmate to me." 
 
 "You are a fool, Henry," snapped the Countess; 
 "an utter fool." 
 
 "Leave it at that," he returned. "Can the 
 leopard change his spots?" 
 
 "He can take the advice of his relations," she 
 answered. 
 
 "But then," returned Henry, "you will find that 
 all a leopard's relations have private spots of their 
 own, so it becomes a choice of evils." 
 
 "That a man of your age should be fooled by a 
 pretty face!" she ejaculated. "It is almost in- 
 credible." 
 
 "Yet, you married the Earl late in life, Lady 
 Helen," he said. 
 
 "Do you suggest that I fooled him with my 
 face?" 
 
 "How did you fool him, then?" he asked. 
 "Apparently you regard all marriages as some sort 
 of swindle." 
 
 Lady Edgeware was annoyed. 
 
 "Your marriage and mine, Henry, have nothing 
 in common. Yours is an entirely one-sided con- 
 tract." 
 
 The Duke rose. 
 
 "Do you know," he said, "not very long ago I 
 221
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 was impertinent enough to believe that myself? 
 Now, however, I am not nearly so sure." 
 
 The old lady stared at him. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me," she said, "that you 
 are not in love with the girl?" 
 
 "You must see her, Lady Helen, and judge for 
 yourself." 
 
 "I refuse to meet her. I will have nothing to do 
 with such a marriage." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "A pity!" he said. "I think my wife would have 
 been interested to see my grandmother. Still of 
 course, you must do as you think best. Shall you 
 cease sending me invitations for your second Thurs- 
 day afternoons?" 
 
 "You are an incorrigible and absurd idiot," 
 shrilled the Countess, losing control of her temper. 
 "I have a great mind never to speak to you again. 
 You have created an impossible situation, and you 
 do not even give it serious thought. It is madden- 
 ing." 
 
 It was at this moment that the Earl of Edgeware, 
 moving stiffly with the aid of an ebony stick with a 
 magnificent handle of ivory, in the form of a crouch- 
 ing lion with jade-green eyes, appeared in the circle 
 of light formed by the arc-lamp above them. 
 
 "Evening, Henry," he said in a dry voice. 
 "Helen congratulating you on the wedding? Very 
 sudden. Very sudden indeed; you never could do 
 things like other people, could you? Take a steep 
 jump, blindfold, into a canal as likely as not; I've 
 seen 'em do it. Damn lugubrious temperament! 
 
 222
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 Well, we all have our eccentricities, don't we? 
 I'd like to see your temptation, Henry; I'm in- 
 terested to see what sort of woman you think you'll 
 run in double harness with. Something out of the 
 ordinary, if I know you. One of these things you 
 see about with cropped hair, eh? Or a reclaimed 
 sister of mercy, eh?" He chuckled to himself 
 merrily till, happening to catch sight of Lady Edge- 
 ware's eye fixed upon him in stern disapproval, he 
 ceased suddenly, and his short and rare burst of 
 cheerfulness died immediately. 
 
 "Henry's marriage, Edward," she began, "is not 
 a matter to be flippant about." 
 
 "Certainly not, Helen," mumbled the Earl; "cer- 
 tainly not. Can't imagine what I was thinking 
 about." 
 
 "It will be quite impossible for us to receive his 
 wife," went on the Countess; "quite impossible." 
 
 "Oh, come, my dear," remonstrated her husband, 
 whose kindly nature was revolted by this attitude, 
 "you know, things aren't what they were. Look 
 at Cartley's wife goes everywhere everywhere 1 
 Nobody minds. Must be catholic, you know. Must 
 keep up to date !" 
 
 Henry leaned against the rail and watched the 
 two old people. Really he found it impossible to be 
 angry with them. It was a revelation to him to see 
 how the most private of his affairs were treated as 
 pooled among his friends and relations. 
 
 "Cartley's wife," the Countess was saying, "was 
 an entirely different case. At least he was married 
 properly, whereas Henry 
 
 223
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Hole-and-corner business," said the Earl, shak- 
 ing a trembling finger in Henry's face. "Hole-and- 
 corner business." 
 
 "Well," said the Duke, "surely anything was better 
 than an argument with Lady Helen and Octavia at 
 the church door?" 
 
 "If the affair had been conducted openly," said 
 Lady Edgeware stiffly, "you would never have got 
 as far as the church door." 
 
 "In that case," answered Henry imperturbably, 
 "mine was the only way." 
 
 "I shall not receive the girl," repeated the Coun- 
 tess obstinately. 
 
 "Come, Helen," said her husband; "must keep 
 abreast of the times, you know. Folk ride other peo- 
 ple's indiscretions on a light rein nowadays. When 
 we were young we rode hard and broke knees as 
 often as not. Can't be done now; old folk must fall 
 in with new ways ; need not agree, but must acquiesce 
 Parliamentary phraseology, but sound sound." 
 
 "If you wish, Edward," she retorted, "to fly in the 
 face of my wishes " 
 
 "Greatest mistake, my dear," returned her hus- 
 band hastily. "I only thought perhaps we'd better 
 think it all out first. Don't want to be left jibbing 
 at the post while the rest of our set are making the 
 running eh ?" 
 
 The Countess rose. 
 
 "I'm going to speak to Octavia," she said. "At 
 least it is providential that the girl had enough good 
 sense not to make an exhibition of herself here to- 
 night." 
 
 224
 
 CINDERELLA 
 
 She moved off toward the dance. 
 "Sorry about this, Henry," said the old Earl 
 "Deuced sorry. My wife, you know blue blood 
 breeding and all that but never can behave like a 
 lady never could never will. But charming na- 
 ture charming, if one were ever to get to know her. 
 I feel sure of it. As for you, I'm with you, Henry 
 sympathize entirely. Follow your head. I've seen 
 a scratch mare leave a thoroughbred ten lengths in 
 five furlongs before now. You can't tell you can't 
 tell. But Octavia and Helen are the old school, you 
 know. Break things if they won't bend, and all 
 that. Had its points, but we live in a more facile 
 generation, eh ? Liberty, Equality, and Eccentricity, 
 what? Must keep young!" 
 
 He chuckled to himself and hobbled off in the di- 
 rection in which the Countess had disappeared. 
 The unfortunate old gentleman spent his whole time 
 following her about and pouring oil upon the 
 troubled waters that always seethed and bubbled in 
 her wake. 
 
 Henry stood looking over the water for some time. 
 He wondered whether Lady Edgeware really meant 
 to cut his wife, and, if so, what sort of attitude he 
 himself ought to adopt. It appeared that in his 
 efforts to bring to life the wonderful happiness of 
 Molly's silly books he had only succeeded in giving 
 her a husband who did not know his duties, a home 
 that she regarded as a museum, and a title which was 
 about the heaviest liability she had ever incurred. 
 The Duke began to feel serious doubts as to the 
 progress of his campaign. It seemed possible that he 
 
 225
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 was to be taken out of his depth. He would have 
 to practise swimming. 
 
 A little dancing light appeared suddenly on the 
 black curtain into which Henry was peering. It 
 pirouetted and leaped capriciously to and fro like a 
 countryman on a moving staircase. Henry realized 
 suddenly that this was the boat returning from the 
 landing-stage. He wondered whether Molly had 
 made up her mind to come, and, if so, what would 
 take place when he presented her to his guests. She 
 appeared to him then a somewhat pathetic little 
 figure. For the first time he felt that it was part of 
 his business to protect her. 
 
 There was something rather comic in the way 
 these two pitied one another. 
 
 The boat drew nearer and the dancing light now 
 showed the dark figure of a man rowing, in the bows 
 the unmistakable rigidity of the valet, and in the 
 stern another figure quite overwhelmed by furs and 
 rugs, with a white face peeping out from the top and 
 eyes that scanned the decks of the yacht with a fright- 
 ened curiosity. 
 
 The boat came alongside, and Henry stepped to 
 the head of the gangway and leaned far over the 
 side. She looked up at him from the boat. 
 
 "Hullo, Cinderella !" he called down to her. 
 
 Her voice floated up to him, a new note of hap- 
 piness in it. Had not her husband actually re- 
 membered her existence? 
 
 "Hullo, Prince Charming!" she said. 
 
 226
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 COLLISION 
 
 MOLLY came up the accommodation ladder two steps 
 at a time. 
 
 "Headache better?" he asked, as he lent her his 
 hand. 
 
 She looked at him with a slight smile. So that 
 was the story Octavia had told. 
 
 "Oh, yes quite well," she answered; "but I got 
 locked into my room and couldn't get out. Dunn 
 broke the lock in the end." 
 
 "Ah!" said Henry. But it did not express the 
 rage which he felt. He was at any rate progressing 
 toward a realization of the married state, for he 
 was already beginning to look upon Molly as his 
 property. It annoyed him intensely that Octavia 
 should secrete his personal belongings. 
 
 "Well, now you are here, you will dance with 
 me ?" he asked. 
 
 "Do you dance?" she said in surprise. 
 
 "I hate it," he admitted. 
 
 Molly laughed. 
 
 "We won't risk it," she said without affectation. 
 "You hate it, and I'm not at all sure I know how to 
 do it. You know all that knee-bending and waggling 
 looks awful difficult." 
 
 "Positively idiotic it looks to me," answered her 
 husband. 
 
 227
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 She looked at him in silence. 
 
 "Oh! I do wish you weren't going away!" she 
 said. "And I hope you'll find the toad," she added 
 hastily. 
 
 Henry made no answer. He wished fervently 
 that his wife did not love him a wish that is not so 
 uncommon as it sounds. Life is so much easier 
 when one is indifferent. 
 
 "I shall be back within six months," he said at 
 last, "and then we must make our plans for the 
 future." 
 
 She slipped her hand suddenly into his. 
 
 "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to say that 
 about your going away. I don't want to bother you 
 with my love until until you want me to. It isn't 
 fair of me. And I owe you so much." 
 
 "That," he returned, "is quite absurd." A week 
 ago he would not have meant it. 
 
 "Listen!" she said suddenly. "It's the last time 
 we'll be alone for months. If you are only being 
 kind to me if you are certain you can never be any- 
 thing else, I'd like you to say so. I sort of feel, in 
 a cottage I I could work things but this way it 
 isn't any good. I want you to tell me the truth. If 
 I'm in the way, I'm far too fond of you to to go 
 on. And I'll just slip back into the boat, and you 
 need never see me again. I won't do anything silly, 
 but . . . but I'll make it easy for you to get 
 rid of me." 
 
 It cost her something to say it, but it was what 
 she had wanted him to know since she had first come 
 down to Wynninghame Towers. 
 
 228
 
 COLLISION 
 
 "As for love," he answered, "there is no time-table 
 on the subject, is there ? And for the rest, you are 
 my wife, my child, and I am afraid you must stick 
 to me, however unsatisfactory you may find me." 
 
 She sighed. As usual, he had skated delicately 
 over the thin ice when she had so wanted him to 
 fall in. 
 
 "I wish I knew," she said, "why you married me.'* 
 
 "I told you," he returned, "it was in order that 
 you might have scope for your dreams and play 
 with the toys in my nursery." 
 
 "Perhaps," she answered in a low voice, picking 
 nervously at the fur round her shoulders, "perhaps 
 your toys won't work for me ; I don't think you quite 
 understood what a simple little fool I was. Those 
 books were really very silly books, you know. Per- 
 haps your toys are beyond me." 
 
 "Really," said the Duke, "I don't think we've 
 given them a fair trial yet." 
 
 She stood up suddenly. 
 
 "I'm a hell of a brute to worry you like this," 
 she said. "Sorry! I suppose the band makes me 
 sloppy. You'll positively hate me soon." 
 
 "Let us go down and watch people enjoying them- 
 selves," said Henry. "It is always a perpetual 
 marvel to me." 
 
 "Another absurdity 1" she laughed as they moved 
 off toward the dancing. "I shall really begin to be- 
 lieve you are a prig if you are so superior." 
 
 He felt her hand close on his arm as they came 
 into the blaze of light. 
 
 "Oh 1" she said, as she saw the glittering kaleido- 
 229
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 scope of dancers. "Oh! I am afraid afraid of 
 them!" 
 
 "It is only their envy you have to fear," whispered 
 the Duke. But good manners never quite healed any 
 hurt. Even Henry was beginning to despise his 
 politeness to his wife. 
 
 Octavia sighted them from afar and realized that 
 she was called upon to make the best of a bad busi- 
 ness. Of this, as of everything else which was a 
 question of suavity rather than sincerity, she had the 
 technique at her fingers' ends. Nevertheless, she 
 was not quite sure how the Duchess of Wynninghame 
 would receive her after being locked in her bed- 
 room for the greater part of the evening. 
 
 She came up to Molly with a smile of welcome on 
 her face, and, greeting her in a voice loud enough to 
 be heard within the immediate vicinity, told her how 
 pleased she was that she had been able to come down 
 to the yacht after all. 
 
 "And is your headache really better?" she finished 
 up, ignoring the rather ominous frown on Henry's 
 face. 
 
 "Much better, thank you," said Molly, and 
 Octavia gave a sigh of relief. At any rate, the girl 
 was intelligent enough not to make a scene. She 
 went on talking quickly, however, for she knew that 
 Henry, once he was genuinely irritated, was capable 
 of any outrage. 
 
 "I dare say," she went on, "that you would rather 
 not dance, in case it were to come on again?" 
 
 "That is extremely unlikely," put in the Duke 
 dryly. 
 
 230
 
 COLLISION 
 
 "It is quite well, thank you," said Molly, "but I 
 won't dance, all the same. I'd like just to listen to 
 the band." 
 
 Good, thought Octavia; that, at any rate, elimi- 
 nated the cake-walk. It appeared there was yet a 
 chance of coming through the evening without dis- 
 aster. At any rate the plunge must be taken. Old 
 Mr. Pardoe-Vine, who was beginning to think of 
 leaving the yacht, as nothing of any interest for 
 future retailing in clubs seemed to be going to 
 happen, caught sight of Octavia and came up in order 
 to make his excuses. 
 
 Octavia plunged. 
 
 "May I introduce Mr. Pardoe-Vine?" she said to 
 Molly. "He is a very old friend of the family, and 
 has been so anxious to meet you. This is the 
 Duchess of Wynninghame," she added as the old 
 man bowed. 
 
 "I am very pleased," he said, "to meet Henry's 
 wife. I knew his father before he was married; I 
 was present at his wedding. I am only sorry that 
 I was not present at yours." 
 
 Molly took his outstretched hand, and thought 
 what a nice old gentleman he was; while in Henry's 
 head there were buzzing the words, "Well, Wyn- 
 ninghame, I hear you've made a fool of yourself 
 again." What a game it all was ! And what a silly 
 game! 
 
 "I trust you are going to be very happy," the old 
 man was saying. "I am glad to be the first of 
 Henry's friends to congratulate you both together." 
 
 Henry once more found himself repeating, "Well, 
 231
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Wynninghame, I hear you've made a fool of yourself 
 again!" 
 
 Molly was thanking him for his good wishes. 
 The Duke felt that in a few moments he would be 
 repeating his line aloud. 
 
 "Come, Molly," he said, "everyone will be going 
 soon, and there are other congratulations for us to 
 receive." 
 
 They left Octavia and the old gentleman alone. 
 
 "What a nice old man!" said the Duchess. "I 
 didn't feel a bit afraid of him." 
 
 "Charming," returned Henry; "but he has one 
 fault. He knows the rule of the game too well. It 
 becomes monotonous." 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Pardoe-Vine gazed after them. 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that Henry is 
 not in love with that girl?" 
 
 Octavia sighed. It appeared that Lady Edge- 
 ware had not been able to hold her tongue for very 
 long. 
 
 "No. Not a scrap 1" she said in answer to his 
 question. 
 
 The old gentleman's eyes were still fixed on the 
 disappearing figure of the Duchess. 
 
 "The man must be a fish," he snapped suddenly. 
 
 "Curious you should say that," returned Octavia. 
 "It is just what Peter Graine calls him." 
 
 "But why on earth did he marry her, then?" 
 
 "That," she answered, "is one of the questions I 
 am tired of not being able to answer. Really, I 
 think sometimes he must have done it in one of his 
 fits of absentmindedness." 
 
 232
 
 COLLISION 
 
 The old man grunted in an irritated way. 
 
 "No man," he grumbled, "has any right to be as 
 inexplicable as Henry." 
 
 Still, he had seen the Duchess, and at least a 
 fortnight's club conversation was provided for. He 
 said good night, wrapped himself up in an enormous 
 coat and a white silk scarf, and returned to town, 
 sleeping happily all the way and dreaming of a recep- 
 tion in which a Duke dropped his aitches and a 
 Duchess swore like a fishwife. 
 
 Society found the process of being introduced to 
 Molly a little difficult. The stereotyped phrase- 
 ology designed for weddings does not exactly fill the 
 bill when the ceremony has taken place behind every- 
 one's back and filled two columns of the half-penny 
 press as "A Shop-girl's Romance." Lord Hart- 
 bloom had rather cruelly suggested that the right 
 thing to say on such an occasion was "And the next 
 thing, please?" Molly was aware that all these 
 people to whom Henry was introducing her must 
 have read her "romance," and the knowledge made 
 her more self-conscious than she might otherwise 
 have been. She shook hands and smiled, therefore, 
 just a little too mechanically. 
 
 Society was baffled. It upset the rules of the game 
 that the Duke should be departing for the South Seas 
 immediately after his marriage. There was a time 
 for everything, and this was emphatically not the 
 time for the South Seas. Society was a little an- 
 noyed at having its code so deliberately infringed. 
 However, there was no doubt that the new Duchess 
 was highly ornamental, and, this being so, Society 
 
 233
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 was prepared to exercise to the full its functions of 
 faith, hope, and charity. 
 
 It was the suspicion of this last in its behavior 
 which annoyed Henry considerably. He did not 
 like any kind of criticism of his belongings. As for 
 Molly, she never noticed it at all. 
 
 It was Gerald who took her down to the supper- 
 room and plied her with delicacies she had never 
 before seen outside a shop, and it was Gerald who, 
 now completely recovered from having his grand 
 passion returned on his hands, went out of his way to 
 be merry and amusing, partly because he wanted 
 Belle Ellis to see him and partly because he really 
 was enjoying himself. A pretty girl is a pretty girl, 
 even if she is one's aunt. Thus Molly was beginning 
 to find her feet. 
 
 Henry, seeing her in safe hands, determined to 
 have a word witR Octavia before his departure. 
 The yacht was to start that night, in order to catch 
 the tide, and the Duke had no intention of allowing 
 Octavia to go home without knowing exactly what 
 he thought of her conduct. 
 
 "Yes, Henry," she said crisply, before he had 
 spoken a word, "I locked her in her bedroom. I 
 considered the risk of her coming here was too great; 
 I conceive it as part of my duty to see that you are 
 not made a fool of." 
 
 "It didn't strike you, I suppose," returned Henry, 
 "that it is apt to make a man look a considerable 
 fool if his wife is locked up in her room by his 
 sister?" 
 
 "A choice of wits," she answered. 
 234
 
 COLLISION 
 
 "My affairs," he said angrily, "are my affairs." 
 
 "No, Henry, they are not," replied Octavia. 
 "That is a mistake you have made all your life." 
 
 "Do you propose to meddle with my wife while 
 I am away?" he asked. 
 
 "I have told you," she answered; "you have pitted 
 yourself against me in this marriage. I was brought 
 up to believe in caste, and your title is too old to play 
 the fool with." 
 
 Henry could not help but admire the hard lines of 
 pride in her face. At least Octavia was sincere in 
 this. She really did believe in that thing she called 
 "caste." 
 
 He even thought he could trace some emotion in 
 her voice as she went on. 
 
 "I wish," she was saying, "that anyone but you 
 had succeeded to the title. It is not that you have 
 ever before disgraced it, though it is never wise for a 
 gentleman to be eccentric. A man with a lesser 
 name might be accused of advertisement. But you, 
 Henry, are indifferent to your title. You do not 
 consider, apparently, that you owe anything to the 
 memories of those wRo made the name of Wynning- 
 hame and kept it. A real aristocracy is a society of 
 debtors all trying to pay. It is that which lifts 
 them from the ruck who have no obligations. But 
 you have never cared, Henry, and now there is this 
 final insult to us all, this inexplicable marriage to a 
 shop-girl, without even the dignity of passion about 
 it. Do you wonder I have tried to prevent you 
 from flinging the girl at the head of Society to- 
 night?" 
 
 235
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "I am sorry, Octavia," he replied. "I am afraid 
 I can see no importance in a name. I suppose I was 
 born without the capacity for being blue-blooded, but 
 at the same time I have inherited from someone or 
 other a certain obstinacy in matters connected with 
 myself and my belongings. You seem to take for 
 granted that I am not in love with my wife " 
 
 "I know a lover when I see one," broke in Octavia. 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "At least you will admit that she belongs to me," 
 he said. 
 
 "It appears to me in a different light; I look upon 
 you as belonging to the family," she answered. 
 
 "Well, Octavia," said Henry slowly, "as you are 
 determined that it is your duty to annoy me, I sup- 
 pose I must accept the situation. Short of murder- 
 ing the girl, you cannot get rid of her without my 
 consent and her connivance." 
 
 "No," said Octavia, whose faith in the right 
 lawyer, however, was so great that she fancied that 
 all these little difficulties could be surmounted. 
 
 "In case you annoy her I shall instruct Padwick to 
 look after her interests." 
 
 Octavia laughed. 
 
 "You talk, Henry," she said, "as if you thought I 
 proposed to send her offensive postcards." 
 
 "Well, really," he replied, "I begin to think that 
 you would not stop at anything." 
 
 She laughed again. 
 
 "At any rate," she said, "we know where we stand. 
 I cannot guess why you married that girl, but it is 
 enough for me that the coat-of-arms on your dishes 
 
 236
 
 COLLISION 
 
 will mean nothing to her at all. That disqualifies 
 her in my eyes, you see." 
 
 "I wonder," mused Henry, "whether you will 
 ever see that you are as inexplicable as I am." 
 
 "Certainly not," she returned. "Who has ever 
 been known to call me eccentric? By the way, 
 Henry," she went on, "Gerald is no longer engaged 
 to that creature." 
 
 "You worked that, did you ?" murmured the Duke, 
 not without a note of admiration in his voice. 
 
 "No," returned Octavia; "you did." 
 
 "I?" he ejaculated. 
 
 "Certainly; she came to the conclusion that you 
 might have a son and heir. And then, you see, 
 Gerald would not be Duke of Wynninghame; natur- 
 ally, I knew directly you were married that she would 
 finish with Gerald. That is why I didn't bother any 
 more about them." 
 
 Henry digested this in silence. 
 
 "She cannot have been at all a nice woman, after 
 all," he said at last. 
 
 "She wanted to become a Duchess," said Octavia, 
 as she moved away. "She was not the only one." 
 
 But to Henry, whose illusions were even more in 
 number than his relations suspected, it appeared a 
 particularly shameful and dishonorable affair. 
 
 Meanwhile, the Fates, grinning impartially at 
 Octavia and Henry alike, were pulling strings. 
 
 In the first place, Molly was beginning to enjoy 
 herself. Gerald had persuaded her that champagne 
 is not a sin except when it is bad champagne, and 
 although she had resolutely declined to have more 
 
 237
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 than one glass, it had already done its kindly office 
 and taken off the edge of her nervousness. 
 
 The second pawn in the game which the Three 
 Sisters were playing was the blundering diplomacy 
 of the Earl of Edgeware. The old gentleman, who 
 was as honest as the day and quite unfit to be Lady 
 Edgeware's husband, had learned that the Duchess 
 of Wynninghame was on board the yacht and was 
 filled with alarm lest his wife should carry out her 
 threat and refuse to receive her. Now the Countess, 
 had she been left to herself, would in all probability 
 have received Henry's wife coldly but correctly. 
 But naturally it was out of the question to follow 
 that course when her husband had the impertinence 
 to advise it. Lady Helen was one of those women 
 who believed it necessary, in order to insure a happy 
 home, to ignore everything her husband said and 
 blame everything he did. Thus, when the old man 
 hobbled up to her, looking very serious and obviously 
 having something very much on his mind, she settled 
 down immediately into her most obstinate vein. 
 
 "I say, m'dear," began the Earl in jerks, for he 
 was very much out of breath. "They say that 
 Henry's wife is on board. Most awkward, you 
 know after what's passed. Must do the right 
 thing, of course. Big jump, I know, but we don't 
 want to come down over it, eh?" 
 
 "If you want to talk about horses, Edward," said 
 his wife, "talk about horses; if you want to talk 
 about Henry's wife, talk about her." 
 
 "Yes, Helen," he acquiesced. "Can't get out of 
 the habit, y'know. You're quite right. Devilish 
 
 238
 
 COLLISION 
 
 bad form, like riding over hounds and all that. But 
 the question is, what are we going to do about it, eh?" 
 
 "I have already said that I will not receive her. 
 If Henry chooses to insult us all like this, he must 
 put up with the consequences." 
 
 "But, you know, Helen," the unfortunate old 
 gentleman protested, "that's rather a drastic line to 
 take, what? We don't want to make fools of our- 
 selves." 
 
 "Have you ever known me make a fool of my- 
 self, Edward?" she asked. 
 
 The Earl of Edgeware, who had a most unreason- 
 able aversion from telling a deliberate lie, shuffled 
 awkwardly on his feet. 
 
 "Well, my dear," he said at last, "there's no harm 
 in taking a little forethought about these things, eh ? 
 Question seems to me, what's everybody else's line 
 of country? Follow the field and you can't go 
 wrong, you know, what?" 
 
 "Are we talking about horses or not?" snapped 
 the Countess. 
 
 "No, Helen, certainly not. Very forgetful of 
 me." He sat down with difficulty by her side. 
 "But, you see," went on the kindly old man, "there 
 is another side to the question. The girl is in a 
 very difficult position very tricky mount, eh? got 
 to ride strictly on the snaffle. Question is, do we 
 want to put more difficulties in her way? Seems to 
 me a bit ungenerous not the sporting thing to do, 
 what?" 
 
 "I am not looking at the affair from the point of 
 view of sport," returned his wife dryly. 
 
 239
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Earl blundered deeper and deeper into the 
 pit. 
 
 "Well, my dear," he said, "I am only giving my 
 opinion for what* it is worth." 
 
 "If only you knew, Edward," she replied, "the 
 true worth of your opinions, you would be ashamed 
 of making presents of them to anyone. Now, 
 please, let us have no more of this foolish arguing. 
 I have told you the line that I am going to take, and 
 that is the end of it." 
 
 The old gentleman sat silent for some moments; 
 then he sighed heavily. 
 
 "Well, Helen," he said at last, "all I can say is, 
 it doesn't seem to me the right line of country at 
 all." ' 
 
 The Countess gave him no answer, and her hus- 
 band comforted himself with the reflection that he 
 had done his best. In reality, of course, he had 
 done his worst. Good intentions are as often quick- 
 sands as paving-stones. 
 
 Henry had found Molly enjoying herself im- 
 mensely in the centre of an infatuated crowd of young 
 men. She had never before had the opportunity of 
 tasting the triumphs of her own beauty. Indeed, she 
 had only realized the potentialities of her face and 
 figure for the first time under the tuition of Mary's 
 maid. In her Bermondsey home she had always 
 been given to understand that loveliness and godli- 
 ness could never go hand in hand, and although, of 
 course, she knew that she was not ugly, it had never 
 occurred to her that she was a beauty. 
 
 Now, therefore, she had come suddenly into her 
 240
 
 COLLISION 
 
 own, and the result was that she found herself under- 
 going a complete transformation. 
 
 Her old life and her old associations slipped away 
 from her faster and faster every moment. A sense 
 of power is the finest cure in the world for shyness, 
 and the obvious admiration of the boys who sur- 
 rounded her, and deemed it a privilege to do her any 
 little service, gave Molly just the sense of power that 
 she needed to throw off the last of her chrysalis of 
 self-distrust. So Henry found her laughing and 
 talking gayly, interlarding her remarks quite freely 
 with "Oh, hell, no!" or "Crikes, yes!" without a 
 trace of the abasement and apologies which followed 
 these slips when she was talking to her husband. 
 The young men found this peculiarity charming, of 
 course, and Henry, coming into the room, saw that 
 she was enjoying herself immensely, and, not alto- 
 gether sorry to find her entertainment taken off hi's 
 hands, retired on deck again, and was immediately 
 grabbed by Lord Hartbloom, who pressed him 
 gloomily for his views on the Parliament Act and 
 the ultimate fate of Hereditary Legislation. The 
 Duke, of course, had no views on the subject at all, 
 which was just what Lord Hartbloom desired, for it 
 made the road clear for his favorite monologue on 
 the efficiency and necessity of Government by 
 Caste. 
 
 Octavia came into the saloon just in time to hear a 
 ripple of laughter and an unmistakable "Hell!" 
 from Molly. It appeared to her immediately that 
 the Duchess of Wynninghame would have to be kept 
 under strict surveillance for the rest of the evening. 
 
 2 4I
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Accordingly, very much against Molly's will, she 
 extracted her from the centre of her admiring audi- 
 ence and bore her away, determined to run no more 
 risks from her undisciplined vocabulary. The young 
 men marvelled for some minutes on the strange 
 alliance between the "old crank" whom they knew as 
 the Duke of Wynninghame and this "bubby" girl, 
 until one of their number summed up the position by 
 ejaculating, with real feeling, "What a waste of good 
 material!" 
 
 But Molly had for the second time "tasted blood," 
 as the Earl of Edgeware would infallibly have put it, 
 and she was very little subdued even in the company 
 of Lady Octavia, who steered her skilfully away 
 from the younger members of the party on deck and 
 seemed determined not to lose her for a moment. 
 
 Afar off she sighted the Countess and her husband, 
 and, having no knowledge of the Earl's fatal diplo- 
 macy, Lady Blake thought it would be no bad thing 
 to allow the old lady to make the acquaintance of the 
 girl whom, in her husband's absence, they considered 
 it their duty to dethrone altogether. 
 
 "I want to introduce you to Henry's godmother," 
 she said, as they approached the melancholy couple 
 sitting by the ship's rail. 
 
 "I'd love to," answered Molly, determined to 
 make as many new friends as possible in the ex- 
 hilaration of her newly discovered powers of at- 
 traction. 
 
 The Earl rose at their approach. 
 
 "Sit down, Edward," said Helen sharply. 
 
 "No, m'dear," returned the old gentleman in a 
 242
 
 COLLISION 
 
 loud whisper. "I will not sit down. I insist on be- 
 having myself." 
 
 "Sit down," she repeated severely. 
 
 But he ignored her. His wife's attitude appeared 
 to him "unsporting," and according to his ideas that 
 was the last word on the subject. Toward this storm 
 Octavia steered her bark in blissful ignorance. 
 
 "I want to introduce you," she began, "to Henry's 
 
 wife " But she got no farther. The Countess 
 
 stared at Molly for a moment, then deliberately rose 
 and turned to her husband. 
 
 "I think, Edward," she said, "it is time that we 
 were returning." 
 
 The old Earl was obviously very distressed. 
 
 "We are delighted " he began haltingly, but 
 
 Lady Helen cut him short. 
 
 "I think not, Edward," she said icily. 
 
 Lady Octavia was utterly bewildered. She could 
 hardly believe her ears. For the first time in her 
 life her tongue refused to come to her aid. She 
 stood staring foolishly first at the Countess and then 
 at her husband, who was fidgeting miserably with the 
 handle of his stick. Out of the corner of 'her eye 
 she noticed Henry and a small collection of friends 
 standing near by, equally thunderstruck. 
 
 The Duke was coming forward to the protection 
 of his wife, but Molly herself forestalled him. It 
 had taken her a few moments to realize what had 
 happened. Now the full knowledge that the Coun- 
 tess had refused to receive her struck her like the 
 lash of a whip. A few hours ago she would prob- 
 ably have been covered with shame and burst into 
 
 ?43
 
 tears. But now it was different. During the last 
 hour she had learned to put more confidence in her- 
 self. The insult brought a flush of anger to her 
 cheeks. She looked at the old woman and saw with 
 the unerring disgust of healthy youth the hideous 
 painted face with its unseemly conflict between the 
 red of the cheeks and the age in the eyes. It ap- 
 peared to her a monstrous thing that she should not 
 be considered fit to shake hands with this travesty of 
 an old woman. She had never seen before an 
 example of the world-old struggle to make youth 
 work overtime, for in Bermondsey they have neither 
 the means nor the leisure for trying to conceal the 
 honorable scars of age. Thus the horror and the 
 ugliness of it struck her with a force which the others, 
 brought up to regard such things as regrettable ec- 
 centricities, were quite unable to realize. 
 
 She lost sight of her surroundings, and saw only 
 the cold stare of her antagonist with its grotesque 
 assumption that she was something too insignificant 
 to recognize. Her mind leaped back in one bound 
 to the days when she played in mean streets, and 
 when blow was met by blow. 
 
 "Not good enough, aren't I?" she cried, her eyes 
 blazing. "You're a hell of a fine lady, aren't you? 
 I'm dirt that's what I am ! Crikes ! I don't have 
 to paint my face to make it look like one, any- 
 way!" 
 
 She stopped, out of breath. 
 
 Suddenly she caught sight of Octavia staring at 
 her from the rail. She became conscious of the 
 enormity of her words. The cold, crisp utterance 
 
 244
 
 COLLISION 
 
 of the Countess fell upon her ears in a sort of fearful 
 monotone. 
 
 "Perhaps, Edward," she was saying, "you will 
 take me downstairs. This is not a very pleasant 
 scene." 
 
 They seemed to disappear out of her vision. In- 
 stead, she saw her husband's face, his eyes meeting 
 Octavia's, a slight frown on his forehead. 
 
 It was all over, then, and she had disgraced him,, 
 after all, utterly and publicly disgraced him. 
 
 It seemed miles and miles away that the orchestra 
 was playing "God Save the King." She turned out 
 of the little circle of light and ran blindly into the 
 darkness. Lady Octavia braced herself suddenly 
 and shivered a little. 
 
 "The dance is over, Henry," she said, trying to 
 make her voice natural. "People will be wishing to 
 say good-by to you." 
 
 She noticed suddenly that the Duke's face looked 
 very white. 
 
 "Damn the guests!" he said. "I am going to 
 my wife." 
 
 245
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 "YOU LITTLE FOOL!" 
 
 HENRY disappeared in the direction in which Molly 
 had fled. Though he was more angry than he would 
 ever have imagined it possible for him to be, it was 
 because the Duchess of Wynninghame had been 
 insulted, and not because Molly had suffered hurt. 
 Thus he was not altogether without the pride which 
 Octavia accused him of lacking. He wished to find 
 his wife in order that they two might stand at the 
 head of the accommodation ladder and bid god-speed 
 to the departing guests, together able to ignore the 
 bad manners of the Countess. 
 
 But he did not find her. Instead, he ran right 
 into Belle Ellis, who was just about to leave the yacht 
 and was looking for her hostess, quite indifferent to 
 the rather dubious position which was now hers as 
 regarded Gerald's mother. For the tight-rope 
 walker, like all those who live very fast and under 
 no rules, had discovered long since that it is quite 
 possible to leap through life from stepping-stone to 
 stepping - stone without bothering about little ac- 
 cidents en route, for if by chance one should get a 
 wetting at a long-distance jump, does not the damp 
 quickly dry? Thus, when she met the Duke, she 
 stopped and held out her hand gayly. 
 
 "I'm off!" she said without preamble. "Don't 
 suppose you'll ever see me again, so I'll say 'So 
 long!' I like you, you know. You're fresh." She 
 hesitated a moment. "I'll give you a straight tip," 
 
 346
 
 "YOU LITTLE FOOL!" 
 
 she said. "Don't trust that rosebud Duchess of 
 yours. She's caught you, I know. Take the word 
 of a woman who's walked the high wire at one-night 
 stands and walked Mayfair drawing-rooms, too. 
 I know 'em. The innocent, clinging kind. Large, 
 trustful, baby eyes she has, hasn't she ? They don't 
 miss much, those sort of eyes." 
 
 She laughed merrily. 
 
 "Why, I used to work that innocent stunt myself," 
 she said, "when I was a bit younger. You see, I'm 
 like the conjurer showing how he does the trick. 
 Nice of me, isn't it? But, as I say, I like you. 
 Now, don't go and get moth-eaten about it. I'm 
 only telling you for your own good see?" 
 
 Never in his life had Henry come across a thing 
 like this. 
 
 "Good-by, Miss Ellis," he said stiffly. "As for 
 my wife, I prefer to trust to my own judgment." 
 He passed on quickly. She looked after him and 
 shook her head. 
 
 "Mulish!" she murmured. "Well, it's his sort 
 that gives me a chance. Turns up the pages of the 
 marriage service before he knows his ABC. Ohe ! 
 Well, I warned him; I've done my best for the 
 old guy!" She looked up at the masthead light 
 whimsically. 
 
 "Say, have you got that down for me, Mr. Record- 
 ing Angel?" she said; whereupon she slipped quietly 
 out of the story and went on her way, to play other 
 big fish in other waters, and gamble desperately, 
 with the little lines appearing on her shapely neck. 
 But she was not without her influence on Henry's 
 
 247
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 thoughts. Octavia had told him at once that he had 
 fallen into the trap which had been laid for Gerald. 
 Lady Helen, too, had apparently taken it for 
 granted. The wisdom of a cosmopolitan dipper 
 into the world's lucky-bags had not even considered 
 any alternative as possible. And they were all 
 women, who presumably knew their own sex. 
 
 Henry was not seriously disturbed, but it was a 
 fact that the first enthusiasm of his crusade had been 
 rather overwhelmed by the rush of events which had 
 followed its inception. 
 
 He pursued the quest of his wife, but she was 
 nowhere to be found, and he came to the conclusion 
 that she must have left the yacht by one of the numer- 
 ous boats which had been requisitioned for the con- 
 venience of his guests. But, as a matter of fact, she 
 had done nothing of* the kind. When she had turned 
 and fled, after the disaster which even now she could 
 hardly realize had occurred, her one thought had 
 been to hide herself. As on the occasion when she 
 first noticed the fluttering newspaper placards that 
 had lowered her marriage to the indignity of a cheap 
 romance, she felt the whole world staring at her with 
 curious and pitying eyes. She had run, blindly at 
 first, out of the light, and had finally found a dark 
 corner where the weird shadows of a high-swung 
 lifeboat drew a kindly curtain over her, as she stood 
 clutching the rail and staring with tragic eyes out to 
 sea. At one time her husband actually passed her, 
 and she heard his quick, angry steps disappearing 
 along the deck. But she had nothing to say to him 
 now. Lady .Octavia was right in her prophecy. 
 
 248
 
 "YOU LITTLE FOOL!" 
 
 She had disgraced him. It was only left for her to 
 get out of his life as quickly and as quietly as possible. 
 How he must hate her I 
 
 She thought of all that had happened since 
 yesterday. Her hopes and fears at Wynninghame 
 Towers, the triumph of Mary's frock, the thrill she 
 had had on looking in the glass and realizing for the 
 first time her own loveliness, the admiration of the 
 boys on the yacht and the gradual victory over her 
 own self-distrust and then the final catastrophe with 
 its overwhelming and irremediable disgrace. 
 
 In the space of eight hours she had climbed to the 
 very top of her ladder of life and fallen again to the 
 bottom. She realized for the first time that she was 
 physically and mentally tired out. 
 
 She looked back on her life in Bermondsey and 
 remembered with surprise how she used to revel in 
 the "silly books." How very silly they had been! 
 And it was the influence of these that had led her 
 to believe that her great love for her dream-monger 
 would carry her over every difficulty. The omnip- 
 otency of love, then, was only a fiction. It was not 
 able to stand alone, after all. 
 
 Now she must leave him of that she had no 
 doubt. She would no longer dream of cottages 
 in the air. She had lived on Romance, fed on 
 Romance, wedded Romance well, now she must 
 kneel humbly before the shrine of common sense and 
 ask for a job. 
 
 As for her new-found crusade, if Henry was a 
 lonely man, she was certainly not the woman destined 
 to explore the impenetrability of those gray eyes. 
 
 249
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Yet, as she said it, she knew that she was standing 
 by the death-bed of all the beauty and all the joy 
 that life had to offer her. Even had he never grown 
 to love her, she was one of those to whom real 
 passion only comes once, and simply to serve him 
 would bring to her a far greater happiness than the 
 love of any other man could give her. But now she 
 could serve him best by leaving him. And there 
 was the present to face. She had to get off the yacht 
 alone, if it was possible. She looked down at 
 Mary's frock and longed suddenly to tear it off. It 
 seemed to be laughing at her. It belonged to the 
 life she had shown herself unfit to live. It was not 
 her own, just as the manners, the customs, and the 
 traditions of her surroundings were not her own. 
 
 With an effort she tore herself away from these 
 thoughts. She must go. That was all that mat- 
 tered. Where she was to go, what she was to do, 
 never entered her head except that home now was 
 more impossible than ever. She crept out of her 
 hiding-place and stood still for a moment listening to 
 the murmur of the departing guests at the far end 
 of the yacht. 
 
 That was where the boats were that was where 
 she must go. But she did not move. She could not 
 face them; it was impossible. 
 
 And as she stood irresolute, Henry came upon her 
 suddenly out of the shadows, so that there was no 
 time for escape or even to think what she should say 
 to him. Her husband stopped, surprised at seeing 
 her, for he had thought she had left the yacht. 
 
 And suddenly it flashed upon Molly that here was 
 250
 
 "YOU LITTLE FOOL!" 
 
 her opportunity to cut the knot. She had heard of 
 Gerald's fiancee and her candid admission. She 
 would tell him she had only married him for his title, 
 and that she had not thought the job would be as 
 difficult as it had turned out to be after she had taken 
 it on. Thus she would cut right free from him, and 
 he need not be troubled with any pity for her. She 
 gave a nervous little laugh. 
 
 "I think this is the finish," she said, "so I may as 
 well tell you the truth." 
 
 He had been. about to answer and tell her that he 
 was not in the least angry with her, but the last half 
 of her sentence cut the words from his lips. 
 
 "I thought I could bring it off," Molly was saying, 
 "but the old lady with the painted face did it in." 
 
 She tried to give an imitation of the inconsequent - 
 and unembarrassed manner of the tight-rope walker, 
 and anyone but Henry, whom the sudden suspicion 
 of what sh was going to say had left temporarily 
 deaf and blind to other considerations, would have 
 noticed the false tones of her voice. 
 
 "As I can't do it I don't want to go on with it," 
 said Molly slowly. "It doesn't seem worth the 
 bother, after all." 
 
 The Duke found his voice at last. 
 
 "Will you please explain to me what you mean?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Isn't it as clear as daylight?" she returned, find- 
 ing it easier to keep up the role now there were two 
 of them in the scene. "You tossed a title in the air 
 for me to catch, and of course I caught it. Why 
 not? We've all got to live, haven't we?" 
 
 251
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Do you mean," her husband asked, "that my 
 sister has been right that that Ellis woman has 
 been right about you all the time ?" 
 
 "Well, of course," Molly forced herself to say. 
 
 "And all that about caring for me?" 
 
 "Part of the game," she answered bravely. Even 
 if she regretted her sudden impulse, it was too late 
 now. 
 
 He was silent for a few moments. So his crusade 
 was suffering its final defeat here in the darkness 
 where the whole thing was being turned, in a few 
 ruthless words, to a mockery, with a commonplace 
 adventuress in the centre of the picture. 
 
 "You have been very clever," he said at last. 
 
 "Oh, no," she returned; "I've muddled it badly. 
 It is you that have been very foolish." 
 
 "Somehow," said Henry slowly, "somehow I have 
 never imagined that I had any pearls to give, or that 
 there were so many swine ready to pick them up. 
 I can't believe it now." 
 
 The words cut her to the heart, but she knew that, 
 as he now mus'- see her, they were only her due. She 
 managed to squeeze out another of the tight-rope 
 walker's little laughs. 
 
 "Lucky for you," she said, "that I've turned the 
 job up. Doesn't seem to me that there's much in 
 being a Duchess, after all." 
 
 This was the girl, thought Henry, whom he had 
 found in the Zoo, longing only for the simple 
 pleasures of two pounds a week and unlimited 
 novelettes. 
 
 "And the Zoo and the silly books?" he asked. 
 252
 
 "YOU LITTLE FOOL!" 
 
 Oh! why had he reminded her of that? The 
 memory of those days when she hugged a real 
 romance to her breast tried her so high that she 
 almost forgot the part she was playing, and for the 
 first time since she had spoken those dreadful words 
 to the Countess the tears fought hard to show the 
 Duke that she was only acting a part. But she 
 mastered them for his sake. 
 
 "You see," she said steadily, "we have to size up 
 people and see what tale's going to work with them 
 that game seemed the best to me with your kind 
 the rest was easy it was just a chance, if I did the 
 wronged-woman-in-the-snow business, that you'd be 
 foolish enough to marry me." 
 
 "And I was," said Henry, almost to himself. 
 
 "You can get rid of me easily enough," she went 
 on, fighting hard all the time for the control of her 
 voice. "You said I was clever, but I'm not clever 
 enough for this game. I've got to fly a bit lower." 
 
 He said nothing. Had Lady Octavia been 
 present, Molly's pitiful imitation of an adventuress 
 would not have deceived her for a moment. Indeed, 
 it would only have served to shatter her convictions 
 on the subject. It merely left Henry in a state of 
 complete bewilderment. 
 
 As for Molly, meeting the steady gaze of his gray 
 eyes and reading in them half at least of what was 
 there, she felt that she must bring the little drama 
 to an end if she was to play her part through without 
 collapse. 
 
 "So, you see," she said, with a last and valiant 
 effort at unconcern, "I'm a bad lot altogether, and 
 
 253
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 it's lucky for you I'm not keen on going on with the 
 Duchess business." 
 
 He looked at her for a moment, then suddenly 
 turned his back on her and walked slowly away 
 toward the lighted stern of the yacht. She stood 
 looking after him with a live pain in her eyes. He 
 disappeared, and she realized that she would never 
 see him again. What a "good-by" it had been! 
 Her hands went to her breast, for something seemed 
 tugging at her heart intolerably. Suddenly a voice 
 from behind startled her. 
 
 "You little fool!" it said. 
 
 She turned and saw Mary Blake, standing by her 
 side, her cloak on, ready to return to Wynninghame 
 Towers. 
 
 "You little fool !" repeated Mary. A gentle smile 
 played round the lips of her fresh young face, a 
 grave, kindly smile of wisdom beyond her years, the 
 wisdom of a pure and beautiful nature that knew by 
 instinct the good from the bad and the dross from 
 the gold. The little light on the masthead, still play- 
 ing the role which the tight-rope walker had assigned 
 to it, the role of the Recording Angel, twinkled 
 merrily. So Mary, the "dear, sweet girl" whom 
 nobody ever considered seriously for a moment, the 
 baby of Wynninghame Towers, who really only oc- 
 cupied Octavia's mind when it was a question of the 
 new season's fashions, was going to take a hand in 
 the game, armed only with a splendid desire to share 
 her own happiness in life with all her fellows, and 
 the clear vision of nineteen years. 
 
 "You little fool!" said Mary. 
 254
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE MADNESS OF MARY 
 
 HENRY felt a tap on his arm as he emerged on to 
 the now almost deserted scene of the dance. It was 
 the Earl of Edgeware, who was standing at his side, 
 his fine old face quite drawn with distress. 
 
 "My dear Henry," he began, a little stiffly, "I 
 feel I cannot depart without letting you know 
 without assuring you, that is what I mean to 
 say is that I feel I owe it to you to express . |. : . 
 to . . . " Here the old gentleman broke down. 
 "Oh, it was damnable damnable," he muttered. 
 He gripped his stick till the knuckles of his hands 
 stood out white. "I can't apologize for Helen," he 
 said at last. "You will understand that. There are 
 things a man can't get himself to say but . 
 but I'd like you to know, Henry, I'd like you to 
 
 know " He could get no farther. Had he 
 
 himself been in the wrong his apology would have 
 been an easy matter, for he was a man whose sense 
 of the nobilities of life was conspicuous even among 
 his kind. But this thing he felt to be beyond him. 
 He cleared his throat noisily and rapped his stick 
 upon the deck. "Stiffest jump I ever faced in my 
 life," he said abruptly. 
 
 "I quite understand," returned Henry. "I can 
 assure you, Edgeware, that the whole thing is of no 
 consequence whatever." 
 
 255
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Earl shook hands with the Duke, grateful for 
 the way he had taken the unfortunate affair, but went 
 down the side wondering whether he was quite fit to 
 be a husband, after all. 
 
 Only a few of the departing guests had actually 
 witnessed the scene with the Countess, but others had 
 of course heard of what had occurred, and most real- 
 ized, with that subtle telepathy that pervades man- 
 kind where two or three are gathered together, that 
 something had happened to mar the end of the eve- 
 ning. Not that any hint of catastrophe was to be 
 gathered from Octavia's demeanor. On the con- 
 trary, she seemed even brighter and more brilliant 
 than usual as she stood at the head of the big accom- 
 modation ladder, exchanging farewells with the last 
 of her departing friends and acquaintances and re- 
 ceived their assurances that the evening had been 
 simply too delightful for words. 
 
 The last of them was finally over the side and 
 only the party from the Towers remained on the 
 yacht. 
 
 "Well, Henry," said Octavia, "good-by ! I hope 
 you will have a very successful voyage, though I am 
 afraid that in hunting for the golden toad you are 
 only again testing your usual belief in the things that 
 are not." 
 
 "Perhaps," replied the Duke. "As for this eve- 
 ning's affair " he went on, but Octavia cut him 
 
 short. 
 
 "We'll not speak of that, Henry," she said. "I 
 will see Lady Helen later, and it can all be smoothed 
 over." 
 
 256
 
 THE MADNESS OF MARY 
 
 "I would never have believed," he returned, "that 
 my godmother could have behaved like that." 
 
 "She is getting old," Octavia made answer, "and 
 is losing her grip of things. It is not the first time 
 I have noticed it. All the same " 
 
 But Henry had already drifted away, and her 
 words were lost on the air. The Duke had been hit 
 hard, and now he sat, for a long time, an unlighted 
 cigarette in his mouth and the beginnings of a 
 smoldering fire in his heart. 
 
 Molly did not want to hear what Mary had to say. 
 She wished only to get away from the yacht and be 
 alone with her dead. She was tired; she wanted to 
 let it all alone. She felt she was losing control of 
 herself, and she was experiencing the terrifying sen- 
 sations of the beginning of hysteria. She stared at 
 the younger girl stupidly, and then, with a jerky, 
 inconsequent gesture, turned as if to go away. 
 
 But she felt her hands suddenly imprisoned in 
 Mary's grip. 
 
 "Cry, you silly little idiot cry, quick!" she heard 
 her saying sharply. It was the unerring touch of the 
 artist in sympathy. With a great sob Molly set free 
 the imprisoned tears born of the last hour, and, 
 with her head on Mary's breast and her wonderful 
 coiffure tumbling in mad disorder round her face, 
 wept with all the hopeless abandon of one whose 
 sorrows are past mending. As for Mary, she gently 
 pushed back the riotous hair from her patient's eyes, 
 and took no notice of the ruin which Molly's grief 
 was making of her latest frock. 
 
 257
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Listen 1" she said at last. "Try to stop crying 
 now. There isn't much time, and I've got to go. 
 I heard the last words you were saying to Uncle 
 Henry. What have you been telling him?" 
 
 "The truth," Molly managed to say between the 
 tears. 
 
 Mary raised the tumbled head from her shoulder. 
 
 "No," she said; "it wasn't the truth was it?" 
 
 "I want him to believe it," answered Molly. She 
 knew she could not deceive this girl. Mary was 
 silent for a moment. 
 
 "I know what is the matter with you," she said. 
 "You love him don't you?" 
 
 "Like hell," said Molly, in complete surrender. 
 She was too tired to fight any more. 
 
 "Doesn't he know it?" asked the younger girl. 
 
 "He never knew how much," sobbed Molly. 
 -*'He couldn't know how much. But what's the use? 
 It's all over now and I've disgraced him." 
 
 "It is worse," returned Mary, "to have told him 
 a lie." 
 
 "I want him to be quite free of me." 
 
 Mary shook her head. 
 
 "You love him too much, and you can give him too 
 much for that." 
 
 "No, no," said Molly brokenly; "he doesn't want 
 
 me." 
 
 "He doesn't know what he wants," she answered 
 shrewdly. "He never has, all his life; you know 
 that." 
 
 Molly shook her head. 
 
 258
 
 THE MADNESS OF MARY 
 
 "I've disgraced him," she repeated slowly; "dis- 
 graced him." 
 
 The siren sounded warningly behind them. 
 
 "They all tell me I'm just a silly romantic little kid, 
 you know," said Mary suddenly, "but I can tell you 
 the thing for you to do, all the same." Her heart 
 leaped suddenly at the preposterous idea which had 
 just come into her head. 
 
 Molly looked up at her. 
 
 "There's nothing to do now," she said. 
 
 "There's only one thing," answered Mary. "Go 
 with him ! The boat's just going to start. Stick to 
 him like" she smiled quickly "like hell!" she 
 added, catching one of Molly's hands in hers. 
 
 "Don't you see?" she went on. "What chance 
 have you had of showing him how much he wants 
 you? What's the good of telling him a lie and 
 never seeing him again?" 
 
 "But it's impossible," said Molly, staring at her, 
 suddenly dry-eyed. 
 
 "Why?" cried the romantic Mary. "Doesn't 
 Uncle* Henry always believe in impossible things?" 
 
 "He'll send me back!" The bare idea of this 
 incredible adventure made the Duchess give a final 
 clutch at her own elusive Romance. 
 
 "If I loved a man," Mary retorted, "I'd risk any- 
 thing to stick to him." 
 
 "But I've told him I'm all wrong; what could 
 I say?" 
 
 "Say?" cried Mary. "Tell him to look at you; 
 tell him to sit and watch you; ask him if he ever saw 
 a bad woman with eyes like yours. You needn't say 
 
 259
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 anything you're a silly romantic kid, like me it's 
 advertised all over you." 
 
 The madness of Mary was infectious. This last 
 straw that had appeared on the waters before the 
 drowning votary of Romance was growing bigger 
 and bigger and rounder and rounder, until at last, 
 when, with a quick gesture, she brushed the last of 
 her tears from her eyelashes, it seemed that a life- 
 belt was bobbing up and down before her. But it 
 was mad mad, she thought. It was the very chap- 
 ter and verse of the silly books which had proved 
 such broken reeds upon which to lean one's way of 
 life. Yet here was Mary holding her hand and look- 
 ing eagerly into her face with her clear blue eyes, 
 urging her to commit herself to this most incredible 
 of adventures. 
 
 "My crikesl" said the Duchess, her eyes shin- 
 ing. 
 
 Without a doubt one of heaven's most splendid 
 gifts to humanity are the follies and irresponsibilities 
 of youth. Yet while we are young we undervalue 
 the joy of our mistakes, and if when older we regard 
 the loss of this capacity for unreasonable behavior 
 a little regretfully, we are bound, even the bachelors 
 and spinsters of us, to a conspiracy of silence for 
 the sake of our paterfamilias friends. To most of us 
 the best time in our lives was when we attained to 
 years of indiscretion. 
 
 After all, if wisdom is the knowledge of how to 
 live, one need be no wiser at fifty than at twenty. 
 An ability to count the cost may cause one to miss 
 the heights, while foolish youth may reach the top 
 
 260
 
 THE MADNESS OF MARY 
 
 without knowing how he got there. But he has 
 arrived, and it is no use for middle age to shout 
 through a megaphone that he has no right to be 
 where he is. 
 
 To the two girls the idea of going to sea as a 
 stowaway in an evening frock appeared romantic but 
 not preposterous. To Molly it seemed the last 
 hope. Her ambition always had been to get Henry 
 alone Henry without his surroundings. So, she 
 had thought, she might start digging for the treasure 
 that lay behind those blue-gray eyes. 
 
 Many, after all, have suffered far more perilous 
 adventures for the sake of the magic words, Buried 
 Treasure; mere gold, too, has been their incentive. 
 The querulous note of the siren broke again into her 
 thoughts. 
 
 "But how how?" she cried suddenly. 
 
 "In the boat," returned Mary. "Hide as long as 
 you can. Let them get well out to sea. There'll 
 be less likelihood of his putting back." 
 
 She disappeared suddenly, and Molly stood alone 
 for a few moments face to face with the absurd 
 adventure she had undertaken. But Mary was back 
 before she had had time to think much about it. In 
 her hands she held a large slice of iced cake and 
 a dish in which there la^ half a trifle. 
 
 "It was all I could get," she explained breath- 
 lessly, "but it is something." 
 
 Molly found herself carried off her feet by the 
 enthusiasm of this child. As she climbed with diffi- 
 culty into the great lifeboat whose shadow had served 
 as a curtain for her disgrace, a dreadful sound told 
 
 261
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 her that Mary's dress had failed to survive the eve- 
 ning's events. 
 
 "Oh !" she said. "That's your frock 1" 
 
 "Yours," returned Mary quickly. "My wed- 
 ding present," she added with an excited little 
 laugh. 
 
 She could now see only the head and shoulders 
 of the Duchess standing out from under the boat's 
 coverings. Molly looked down at her in surprise. 
 She seemed to be much farther up than she had 
 imagined. 
 
 "It's mad," she whispered; "perfectly mad I But 
 I don't believe I could get down if I wanted to." 
 
 "Do you want to?" She heard Mary's voice 
 come up from the darkness. 
 
 "No," she whispered in return. 
 
 They discovered that their hands could just touch 
 if Mary tiptoed. 
 
 "I must go," she whispered. "I know that you 
 are doing the right thing, though it's like a fairy tale. 
 Don't you feel it's right?" 
 
 "Yes," returned Molly bravely, though she knew 
 that when Mary had gone she was going to feel very 
 lonely and frightened indeed. 
 
 A faint voice from far down the deck told them 
 that Peter Graine was calling for her. The party 
 from the Towers was about to leave. 
 
 Mary clasped one of the Duchess's fingers in the 
 dark. 
 
 "Good-by !" she said. "Good luck 1" 
 
 But Molly found that the words she wanted to 
 say were choked. However the adventure ended, 
 
 262
 
 THE MADNESS OF MARY 
 
 she was grateful to this girl who should have been 
 her enemy, but had been her only friend. 
 
 A little rustle down there among the ropes and 
 things, and Mary was gone. 
 
 A ridiculous pair of children, were they not? 
 Yet the bold spirit that loves to embrace the wild 
 improbabilities of life lay behind this little enter- 
 prise, just as it has fathered some of the biggest 
 adventures in the world's history. The goddesses 
 of the Sublime and the Ridiculous are on quite good 
 terms sometimes. At this moment they were kissing 
 one another. 
 
 The Professor met Mary as she emerged into 
 the light. 
 
 "Why," he said, "what have you been doing?" 
 
 "Just wondering," answered Mary, "what I'd do 
 if I loved a man." 
 
 "You romantic child I" he said. "You go wander- 
 ing along, gazing at the stars with your mouth wide 
 open " 
 
 "And sometimes," she finished his sentence for 
 him, "a star falls right into my mouth." 
 
 "Peter," whispered Octavia, as they finally went 
 over the side, "I did not see that girl go off . . . 
 I suppose . . ." 
 
 "In one of the small boats, Octavia, " he returned. 
 "Obviously she would try to escape notice." 
 
 "Obviously," answered Octavia coldly. The 
 plash of oars died away in the noise of preparation 
 for the yacht's departure. 
 
 The Professor lit a last cigar and wandered along 
 the deck. He inquired for Henry and discovered 
 
 263
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 from Dunn that the Duke had already retired to 
 his cabin for the night. 
 
 Peter wandered away to look for a chair. It 
 appeared that Henry had really been disturbed at 
 last. He found a seat by the rail under a lifeboat 
 and puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. What a wild 
 and inconsequent week it had been! But the gods 
 had fought on their side. What a wise woman 
 Octavia was! Really, these affairs we are wont to 
 call catastrophes were quite easy to deal with if one 
 kept one's head. One should behave reasonably 
 like a man of the world. After all, incredible things 
 didn't happen couldn't happen anyway, one could 
 always prevent them from happening. . . . She 
 had been such a pretty woman, too. But then, every- 
 one ought to be sensible . . . level - headed. 
 That was at the root of a well-ordered life . . . 
 He could not help feeling sorry for the girl, but fairy 
 tales were demoralizing. 
 
 His cigar went out and he struck another match. 
 
 Over his head, still as a mouse in the bottom of 
 the lifeboat, the Duchess heard him strike that match 
 and feared to move a muscle. A rhythmic kind of 
 buzz told her that the yacht was standing out to 
 sea. She reached out a hand cautiously toward her 
 larder and plunged it clumsily into the trifle. After 
 a moment's reflection she began silently to lick her 
 hand. 
 
 Beneath her the man who did not believe in fairy 
 tales smoked comfortably. 
 
 264
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 AT breakfast the Duke appeared to Peter abso- 
 lutely unaffected by the events of the preceding 
 night. He spoke with his usual enthusiasm of the 
 chances of discovering the toad, and triumphantly 
 dangling the result in the faces of von Rosen and 
 his companions. He discussed at length the methods 
 to be adopted on reaching the island. He made 
 maps with forks and salt-cellars and seemed to the 
 Professor entirely absorbed in the enterprise. Peter 
 himself made no reference to the Duchess. Octavia 
 had triumphed. Sympathy was unnecessary, exulta- 
 tion out of place. Let things take their very excel- 
 lent course, thought the Professor, who was looking 
 forward with zest to his change of air after the 
 enervating effects of Paris. 
 
 Henry took his pipe away on to the upper deck, 
 arranged a canvas chair, and, sinking into it luxuri- 
 ously, settled down to resume his life where he had 
 left it a fortnight ago. 
 
 It was not so easy. 
 
 The Duchess of Wynninghame was an adven- 
 turess ; it appeared that in saying that he had dragged 
 the family in the dirt his sister had been right, after 
 all. That alone was a sufficiently disquieting reflec- 
 tion. He supposed vaguely that machinery would 
 be set in motion to undo the knot' and return Molly 
 
 265
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 to her status quo. But that, also, was a most un- 
 pleasant business. 
 
 Then there was the girl herself. 
 
 It was not that Henry missed her, for he could 
 never have been said to have had her companion- 
 ship, but it was a disturbing thought that she had 
 come into his life and left it, and gone where ? 
 
 It didn't matter, of course, but there it was like 
 a maggot in his brain. He reminded himself that 
 these uncomfortable feelings would vanish in a day 
 or two. Undoubtedly at present he was too near 
 the affairs of yesterday. As for his crusade, it was 
 not really affected one way or another. The subject 
 it had experimented upon had been unworthy that 
 was all. He woke up suddenly to the fact that it 
 was lunch-time. Really, he was wasting a disgrace- 
 ful amount of time on an incident that was finished. 
 
 He spent the afternoon revising his classification 
 of toads. It was d, less interesting document than 
 he had imagined. 
 
 As for Peter, he marvelled, even with his inti- 
 mate knowledge of the man, at Henry's capacity for 
 ignoring disaster. 
 
 The Duke's custom, when on board the "Cobra," 
 was to take half an hour's sharp exercise round the 
 boat before tea. Peter's custom was to take no 
 exercise at all. For his purpose, Henry was wont 
 to change into a pair of white running shorts and 
 a blazer. In these he would run round the ship's 
 decks for half an hour without a stop. Nothing was 
 allowed to interfere with this. Thus, at four o'clock 
 the Professor, half asleep in a deck-chair, saw him 
 
 266
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 emerge from his room ready for his daily per- 
 formance. 
 
 "Really, Henry," he ejaculated with a yawn, 
 "what energy you have ! In this heat, too 1" 
 
 "Mens sana " began the Duke; but Peter cut 
 
 him short. 
 
 "Youl" he ejaculated. "Never mind; don't dis- 
 turb me." 
 
 Henry went down to the accustomed starting- 
 place, where a member of the crew invariably sent 
 him off by a stop-watch so that an accurate half- 
 hour's exercise should be registered. 
 
 The Duke started away briskly. 
 
 Now Molly had caught a violent cold in the head. 
 It is of no use disguising these things, though it is 
 true that they are entirely unromantic. The pro- 
 cesses of nature will not adapt themselves to the 
 vagaries of human imagination, and Nature, finding 
 herself outraged by a girl in an evening frock spend- 
 ing the night in the bottom of a lifeboat, took instant 
 and dire revenge. The Duchess had had the most 
 miserable night she had ever experienced. The mo- 
 tion of the ship had made her feel extremely ill, and 
 the continual patrolling of the watch beneath her 
 had made it impossible even to peep out of her 
 prison. 
 
 The night had seemed interminable, for she had 
 been quite unable to sleep, partly because of her 
 mental agitation, partly because of the cold and her 
 uncomfortable quarters. The cake she had eaten; 
 but the trifle, early in the night, while she was try- 
 ing to attain a more comfortable position, had been 
 
 267
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 inconsiderate enough to upset. In the total dark- 
 ness it had proved quite impossible to mop it up. 
 
 Thus toward morning she discovered that prac- 
 tically everything she touched had its quota of trifle. 
 Her frock seemed covered with it, her fingers were 
 sticky, she located a little dump of it in her hair 
 and another in her shoe. Under these conditions 
 Romance becomes putty-colored, and as the first 
 rod of light crept in under her tarpaulin covering 
 Molly added her tears to the mess, from pure dis- 
 comfort and weariness. 
 
 Later, in the half-light which did duty for day 
 in her quarters, she regarded herself with horror 
 and wondered how she could ever have the courage 
 to make her appearance. The inevitable ravages 
 of a night as a stowaway had never occurred to her. 
 Also, as has been said, she found herself with a vio- 
 lent cold in the head. 
 
 She stroked her nose gently; it was hot. That 
 meant, she thought, that it was red . .. . and 
 shiny. Another tear trickled down her cheek, found 
 a comfortable bed of trifle on her chin, and came 
 to rest. 
 
 Oh, for Annie and a looking-glass! She dared 
 not even touch her hair for fear of what she might 
 find. 
 
 She raised herself and peeped out under the boat's 
 cover on the side toward the sea. The water was 
 blue and fresh; the sun was making rainbows 
 through the crests of the waves. She experienced 
 the feeling which we all have after a bad night, the 
 feeling of being a disgrace to Nature. 
 
 268
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 She had no idea of the time, but judged from 
 the light of the sun that it must be after midday. 
 Greatly daring, she raised the tarpaulin on the ship's 
 side and looked out on to the deck. There was no 
 one in sight. She wriggled a bit farther out of the 
 boat. Suddenly she heard the quick footsteps of a 
 man running. She made a violent effort to draw 
 back, but the folds of the tarpaulin caught her by 
 the shoulders and held her firmly. Henry came in 
 sight on his third round. He was running strongly 
 but unprofessionally, with his head down and his 
 shoulders bowed. Molly held her breath as he ap- 
 proached. 
 
 Then, of course, Fate came up behind and kicked 
 her over the precipice. 
 
 She sneezed violently. 
 
 She made another effort to retire into her fast- 
 ness, but it was too late, and Henry, stopping, dis- 
 gusted at this interruption of his exercise, and look- 
 ing up, saw a sight calculated to make a cat laugh 
 or a clown weep, according as you regard the 
 situation. 
 
 The Duchess's head was sticking out from the 
 black tarpaulin, making spasmodic efforts to dis- 
 appear. Her hair, in hopeless disorder and matted 
 in places with the sticky trifle, tumbled about her 
 head in grotesque and shapeless confusion. Across 
 her cheek lay a great line of black, where her face 
 had encountered some treacherous tar at the bottom 
 of the boat. Her eyes were red with crying and her 
 nose with rheum. She looked down at Henry with 
 
 269
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 a frightened stare, still trying vainly to get out of 
 sight. 
 
 This ridiculous picture, then, was the result of 
 trying to graft the gospel of the silly books on to 
 the uncompromising circumstances of real life. 
 When one becomes ridiculous one is apt to wonder 
 whether there was ever anything sublime about the 
 affair at all. 
 
 Molly sneezed again. 
 
 "I can't get down," she said at last. 
 
 "How did you get up?" asked the Duke. 
 
 "It didn't seem so far in the dark," she returned. 
 She was not going to involve Mary in the conse- 
 quences of this absurd affair. 
 
 The Duke thrust his hands into his blazer 
 pockets. 
 
 "You will certainly have pneumonia," he said, "if 
 you are not careful." 
 
 "How can I be careful," answered the Duchess 
 tearfully, "when I'm up here and can't get down?" 
 
 At that moment Mr. Peters, the second officer, 
 came into sight and stopped, about a dozen yards 
 from the Duke, astonished at the picture before him. 
 Henry turned to him at once. 
 
 "This is my wife, Peters," he said. "She can't 
 get down." 
 
 The young seaman, though he had been in the 
 employ of the Duke of Wynninghame for some 
 time, was not inured altogether to the infinite possi- 
 bilities of his master's peculiar temperament, and he 
 did not respond immediately to the invitation. 
 
 "Well, Peters," remarked Henry plaintively, 
 270
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 "cain't anything be done ? It is wry uncomfortable 
 for my wife up there." 
 
 "Why, of course, your Grace," answered the offi- 
 cer, pulling himself together. "If her Grace will 
 allow me . . . " 
 
 With the peculiar ease of long practice he swung 
 himself up to the boat and freed Molly from the 
 obnoxious tarpaulin. The descent, with the aid of 
 Henry from below, was easily accomplished. Then 
 the sailor, diving into the bottom of the boat, re- 
 trieved the plate and the glass dish in which Molly's 
 unhappy larder had rested. With these he descended 
 to the deck. 
 
 The Duch'i^ looked at her husband anxiously, 
 but apparently Ifo was going to say nothing. 
 
 "Please," she -^lurmured to the sailor, who stood 
 awkwardly by, wondering whether he was expected 
 to disappear, "please don't say anything about 
 this." 
 
 He touched his hat to her. 
 
 "Of course not, your Grace," he answered, and 
 departed below 'decks. 
 
 Henry realized that in certain circumstances it 
 was an advantage to have a wife whose dignity was 
 not above saying what, unfortunately, had to be 
 said. It was lucky for them that Peters was a young 
 man with a very nice sense of honor and an unusual 
 predilection toward minding his own business. 
 
 The Duke conducted Molly to his cabin, where 
 she sat herself down on his bunk and prepared to 
 throw herself on his mercy. 
 
 "In the light of what you said last night," 
 271
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Henry began, "this requires a certain amount of 
 explanation." 
 
 She sneezed violently. 
 
 "I must get some other clothes," she said; "I'm 
 dreadfully cold. I'll tell you everything directly 
 I'm warm." 
 
 Her coldness seemed at the moment the only 
 thing that mattered. 
 
 "But," said the Duke, "we have no clothes." 
 
 He produced a large silk dressing-gown from a 
 cupboard. 
 
 "This," he said, "has at any rate been called 
 effeminate by Peter." 
 
 She took it from him and folded h round her. 
 
 "These things I've got on are -all damp," she 
 said. "That's what's making me so cold." 
 
 "Well," he returned, "you had better have a hot 
 bath; you can get one next door. But that," he 
 added, "is as far as my imagination will carry me." 
 
 He showed her the bathroom and went out of 
 the cabin. It was characteristic of the man that he 
 continued his exercise at the point where it had been 
 interrupted. 
 
 When Molly saw herself in the glass she almost 
 dissolved into tears. Here she was, sticking to him 
 and making a last effort to make him give her some 
 sort of attention, and the first thing she had done 
 was to show him this hideous picture of herself. 
 She took off her clothes, which she found to be even 
 damper than she had thought, and plunged into the 
 big bath. The hot water sent the blood coursing 
 through -her veins and brought back her ebbing 
 
 272
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 courage. After all, here she was, on the high seas, 
 with the dream-monger practically alone. If she 
 could not work the miracle now, she never would. 
 As for getting rid of her, short of throwing her over- 
 board or setting her adrift in an open boat, Henry 
 had got to put up with her. The big sponge which 
 she found on the bath-tray seemed to wash away the 
 memory of last night with every douche that ran 
 down her back. After all, things weren't so bad. 
 Anyway, though it had started badly, she was going 
 to have her chance. There is nothing like a well- 
 filled hot bath for making one regard life from the 
 right angle. She began to kick and splash happily. 
 
 But as the water grew cooler, she peeped over the 
 edge of the bath at the crumpled heap that now 
 represented Mary's wedding present and began to 
 wonder what she had better do next. 
 
 She could not appear again in that torn and be- 
 trifled frock. Besides, it was too wet. She got 
 out and began drying herself, protracting the opera- 
 tion longer and longer as she began to realize that 
 it was about as far as she was likely to get in her 
 toilet. 
 
 She discovered that heaven had its limitations, 
 when she saw the uselessness of praying for a skirt. 
 
 However, something had got to be done. She 
 slipped into Henry's dressing-gown and stumbled, 
 tripping over its voluminous folds, into the other 
 room. 
 
 Then she dived into the Duke's chest of drawers. 
 
 Trousers, in the abstract, are the most uncom- 
 promising things in the world. With a man inside 
 
 273
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 them they lose something of their innate offensive- 
 ness, but held up gingerly toward the light, and 
 regarded as a substitute for petticoats, they appear, 
 however well groomed and creased they may be, 
 as two legs and nothing else. And the feminine 
 mind demands, essentially, something more. So 
 Molly put down Henry's gray flannel trousers in 
 despair more than once before she realized that 
 there was really no help for it, and that she had got 
 to make up her mind to the plunge. 
 
 She discovered that her husband was very big 
 round the middle ; also that his legs were too long. 
 But she turned up the trousers and tied up the waist 
 and regarded herself with complete disgust. 
 
 She also wished they wouldn't flap against her 
 legs. It was a perpetual reminder that she was not 
 decently clad. 
 
 However, there was the dressing-gown. 
 
 She discovered also Henry's sweater, which was 
 infinitely more pleasing, being cut in a V-shape at 
 the neck and quite nicely decorated with the colors 
 of his Oxford college. She pulled it on and tried 
 to shape it to her waist with the cord from the 
 Duke's pajamas. The result was not very good, 
 but the top part was not so unbecoming, after all. 
 
 And then, thank heaven, there was always the 
 dressing gown. 
 
 A knock at the door caused her to fly precipi- 
 tately for this approximately feminine garment, in 
 which she enveloped herself before admitting her 
 husband. Her hair she had not had time to arrange. 
 
 However, it was good hair, and long. . . . 
 274
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 Henry came in, flushed from his exercise, and 
 regarded his wife critically for a moment. 
 
 "I hope you have not caught cold," he said 
 politely. 
 
 "I have had a lovely bath," she replied, drawing 
 the dressing-gown farther round those dreadful gray 
 flannels. 
 
 "I am just about to have a bath myself," returned 
 the Duke. 
 
 He collected his clothes as another knock was 
 heard at the door. 
 
 "Oh please!" gasped the Duchess. 
 
 Henry spoke through the panels. 
 
 "It's all right, Dunn," he said; "I will manage 
 for myself," She heard the valet's steps as he went 
 away. 
 
 "Thank you," said Molly humbly*. 
 
 "Not at all," he answered. She went into the 
 bathroom and turned on the water. 
 
 "Do you like it very hot?" she asked. 
 
 "Please," he answered, "and put the cold in first." 
 It appeared only natural to him that somebody 
 should be turning on his bath. 
 
 She obeyed and produced a clean towel from the 
 rack. 
 
 "Confound it!" she heard him murmuring. 
 "Where's my dressing-gown?" She realized that 
 she was stamping with both feet on the habits of 
 years. Evidently he remembered that she was wear- 
 ing it, for he appeared in a moment in a burberry 
 and bedroom slippers. 
 
 Sitting in the next room, wondering what she was 
 275
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 going to say to him when the time for explanations 
 arrived, Molly heard her husband busily engaged in 
 the bath. After some moments his voice, slightly 
 muffled as he spoke through the towel with which 
 he was drying his head, came through to her. 
 
 "You will find a pair of gray flannel trousers in 
 the bottom drawer," it said. "I wonder if you would 
 mind throwing them in?" 
 
 Molly hunted desperately in the drawer, hoping 
 there would be another pair. "Can't you find 
 them?" she heard him say, a little impatiently, as 
 she gave up the search. She came to the bathroom 
 door and summoned up her courage. 
 
 "I'm wearing them," she said, with a quaver. 
 
 Henry pulled the plug out of the bath viciously. 
 So this was what it meant to be married! 
 
 "The white ones will do," he said, without com- 
 ment. For all that he was annoyed. No one, he 
 thought, had a right to come into a man's life so 
 intimately as this. Besides, what about last night's 
 confession? Henry, a source of continual mystifica- 
 tion to his friends and relations, disliked nothing 
 more himself than inexplicable conduct in others. 
 He dressed with a growing feeling that heaven was 
 not taking him and his creed seriously. 
 
 Indeed, nothing is calculated to make a man look 
 more ridiculous than to be pursued by his wife. It 
 has not even the precarious charm of being illicit. 
 Not that Henry would have been in the least thrilled 
 if someone else's wife had run away with him it 
 would have annoyed him just as much, but though 
 passionate liaisons are charming and natural, passion- 
 
 276
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 ate marriages are, of course, farcical. Who ever 
 heard of a man writing verses to his wife, except 
 perhaps in Turkey, where the wisdom of the East 
 has not eliminated the stimulating element of com- 
 petition? 
 
 As the Duke completed his toilet, he resolved 
 that he would not disturb himself on his wife's 
 account. She had told him what she was, and there 
 was an end of it. He would demand no explanations ; 
 it was so much easier that way. He would tell 
 Captain Phillips to put in at Marseilles, or some 
 port which they could make within the next twenty- 
 four hours, and send the girl back to England with- 
 out any more trouble. 
 
 Thus, after returning to the bedroom, when Molly 
 started a little nervously on her recantation, he cut 
 her short and told her that he did not wish to hear 
 any more about it, and that he proposed to send 
 her home from the nearest port. Whereupon he 
 went on deck to tell the Professor. 
 
 As for Molly, it had never entered her head that 
 he would refuse to hear what she had to say. Her 
 only difficulty had been how best to tell him that 
 she had lied. Now she was just to be returned with- 
 out a word. 
 
 The desperate resolve had been taken, the dread- 
 ful night spent, all for nothing. She sat for some 
 time tragically staring at the chest of drawers. 
 
 The bottom drawer, standing open, in feverish 
 disorder where she had hunted for that second pair 
 of trousers, seemed a silent sympathizer with her 
 forlorn condition. 
 
 277
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "It appears," Henry was saying to the Professor, 
 who had waked up, as he always did, automatically, 
 at meal-times, "it appears that my wife has run away 
 with me." 
 
 Peter sat up in a hurry and made certain of the 
 presence of his silk handkerchief. 
 
 "How can that be?" he asked stupidly. 
 
 "She hid herself in one of the lifeboats," the 
 Duke went on. "The ship's course is being altered, 
 and she will be sent back from the nearest port." 
 
 Now Peter had heard nothing of Molly's con- 
 fession to her husband, and he was surprised at 
 Henry's altered tone. 
 
 "Well, Henry," he began slowly, but the other 
 cut him short. 
 
 "I may as well tell you," he said, "that my wife 
 is an adventuress." 
 
 "Indeed!" ejaculated Peter. "How do you 
 know that?" 
 
 "She told me so herself," said the Duke. 
 
 "Oh!" remarked the Professor inadequately. 
 Things were happening a little too fast for him. 
 
 "At any rate," he said at last, "we may as well 
 have the benefit of her company while she is 
 here." 
 
 "Possibly she is now more in your line than mine, 
 Peter," Henry returned dryly. "Personally, I am 
 tired of being made a fool of." In the circumstances 
 his dignity was slippery foothold, so he disappeared 
 in the direction of the little cabin which served him 
 for a library and gave himself up to his work of 
 classification. But he accomplished very little. The 
 
 278
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 truth is that he was furiously angry with every- 
 thing. 
 
 As for Peter Graine, he sat pondering for a long 
 time over the tea which they brought him. So the 
 Duchess had confessed to being an adventuress? 
 That seemed odd, thought the Professor, as he 
 poured a liberal amount of milk into his cup very 
 odd. But what a triumph for Octavia ! Peter was a 
 little sorry for that, because, away from Lady Blake's 
 sphere of influence, he was a bit of a renegade. Such 
 a pretty woman, too . . . very odd . . . very 
 odd indeed. He nibbled a teacake thoughtfully. 
 Of course it had been impossible to approve of the 
 marriage, but it was unpleasant to fight against a 
 woman. And this is how it had ended ! Well, that 
 was what the world was like, and Peter had his 
 reputation for cynicism to keep up. All the same, 
 he was glad he had not taken an active part in the 
 Duchess's destruction which she had now brought 
 about of her own free will. The Professor felt quite 
 glad about that. The truth is, it was not possible 
 to be as susceptible as the old gentleman was and 
 to be a cynic as well. 
 
 And so she had actually told Henry that she 
 was a wicked woman! He stared pensively at the 
 tea-leaves. Really, it was the oddest thing that 
 had ever happened. 
 
 He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl 
 away over his shoulder. She had confessed to her 
 husband and then had run off with him as a stow- 
 away. Without doubt, thought Peter, a very curi- 
 ous programme. Meanwhile, however wicked she 
 
 279
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 might be, there was a woman on board, all alone. 
 That was waste. 
 
 The old gentleman slowly rose from his chair. 
 
 He was not a little surprised to see Molly coming 
 toward him. After spending some time sitting in 
 the little cabin in silent despair, she had decided 
 that anything was better than doing nothing, and 
 had 'come out determined to find Henry and make 
 him listen to her. 
 
 She stopped when she saw Peter, whom she now 
 regarded as one of her natural enemies. 
 
 "I came to look for my husband," she said hesi- 
 tatingly. "I don't know if he told you " She 
 
 broke off. 
 
 u Oh, yes," answered Peter. "Everything; he al- 
 ways does. We are very old friends, you know." 
 He dragged another chair toward the tea-table. 
 "Have you had tea?" he went on cheerfully. 
 
 "I don't want any," she said. 
 
 "Henry," continued the Professor, "will be on 
 deck again in a moment, I dare say. Meanwhile, 
 you must allow me to try to entertain you myself." 
 
 She sat down in silence in the proffered chair. 
 After all, apparently he was going to be kind to her 
 that was something. 
 
 Peter regarded her with great satisfaction. Really, 
 in that sweater, and the dressing-gown, and the 
 neglige hair . . . What a fish Henry was! And 
 she was a wicked woman! Who'd have thought it? 
 pondered the Professor as he looked at her sorrowful 
 brown eyes. 
 
 Well, it was no use treating an adventuress like 
 280
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 a naughty child and putting her in the corner. As 
 for Molly, she was thankful for anyone who would 
 say a pleasant word to her, though, with her thoughts 
 on one thing only, she found it difficult to keep up 
 with Peter's ripple of conversation. 
 
 Henry did not put in an appearance at dinner, 
 and Peter invented a headache for him which did 
 not deceive the Duchess in the least. The ProfeSsor 
 felt extremely angry at his friend's childish sulks. 
 Meanwhile, of course, there was the advantage of 
 being left entirely alone with a very pretty woman. 
 Indeed, as the evening wore on, the Professor alto- 
 gether threw over his allegiance to Octavia, and 
 would have been perfectly prepared to advise Henry 
 to cleave to his wife were she the wickedest woman 
 in Europe. 
 
 They sat together watching the stars come out, 
 while Molly, completely unconscious of anything 
 but her own disaster, heard as through a fog the 
 continuous prattle of the Professor. As for Peter, 
 stealing sidelong glances at the fresh beauty of the 
 girl beside him, and calling to mind all the adven- 
 turesses he had met in the course of a merry youth, 
 the affair appeared to him odder and odder. 
 
 Toward half-past nine he had decided that the 
 matter called for fuller investigation. At ten he 
 reminded himself that Henry was really a very 
 simple-minded man. At ten-thirty he was convinced 
 that Molly was no more an adventuress than Octavia 
 herself. 
 
 Then Dunn appeared and piloted Molly to the 
 room which had been prepared for her, where she 
 
 281
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 found a pair of pajamas the crudeness of which 
 nearly made her cry, and where she lay for many 
 hours gazing at the low ceiling, reflecting the curious 
 blue of the summer night, and thinking of the triumph 
 that was in store for Lady Blake. 
 
 Now, .although in the ordinary affairs of life he 
 was apt to be cold and calculating, where women 
 were concerned the Professor was a man of violent 
 impulse. Molly's appearance at dinner in Mary's 
 frock had caused the first wavering in the repre- 
 hensible old gentleman's alliance with Octavia this 
 evening had entirely shattered his allegiance to her. 
 Being more or less honestly inclined, so long as he 
 was out of range of Lady Blake's repartee, he was 
 moved to sit down and write to her about it. His 
 letter is of interest as showing to what a pitiable 
 condition an old man of sixty can be reduced by a 
 pretty girl: 
 
 "My DEAR OCTAVIA/' he wrote 
 
 "We are on the high seas, and an amazing thing 
 has happened. The Duchess has turned up as a 
 stowaway. I am sure that you never thought of 
 that. Neither did I. It appears that she has told 
 Henry that she is an adventuress, .and he will have 
 nothing to do with her. Henry is, I fear, as we 
 have always supposed, an absolute idiot. That girl 
 is no more an adventuress than you are. She wears 
 Henry's dressing-gown and his sweater and, my dear 
 Octavia, trousers I How horrified you would be 
 if you saw her! How horrified I ought to be! But 
 I am not. Somehow, out here at sea our objections 
 
 282
 
 AN ADVENTURESS IN TROUSERS 
 
 to the marriage seem a little trivial. Of course, we 
 may be right, but unpleasant doubts come upon me 
 that perhaps some of these things are arranged in 
 heaven, after all. 
 
 "Henry proposes sending his wife back from 
 Marseilles, but it seems to me there is something very 
 odd behind this absurd confession of .hers. I feel 
 it is my duty to ferret it out. My duty, Octavia. 
 There is certainly a great deal more in it than meets 
 the eye. Why do not women wear sweaters? I 
 had no idea they were so becoming. I shall inquire 
 further into this ridiculous story the Duchess has 
 told Henry. At least the girl ought to be given a 
 chance. I am afraid you will think I have changed 
 my views very suddenly, Octavia, and indeed it is 
 quite possible that you are perfectly right about the 
 affair. But I'm not quite satisfied. What an extraor- 
 dinary succession of events it has been! Hasn't 
 it? I wonder whether one is ever really right in 
 trying to interfere with the Fates; policemen have 
 been run over, holding up the traffic, before now. 
 Rather a jolly simile of mine I 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 "PETER." 
 
 "P. S. She can't possibly be an adventuress with 
 those eyes. Do you think class distinctions ought 
 to apply to women? 
 
 "P. P. S. Try one of Gerald's sweaters on Mary 
 and see if something can't be done on those lines. 
 My love to you all." 
 
 283
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Some days later Octavia received this letter. 
 Mary had told her mother candidly of her part in 
 the escapade, and Lady Blake, though extremely 
 angry with her daughter for interfering with her own 
 interference in other people's affairs, had discovered 
 at the same time that Mary had quite definite ideas 
 of her own and was not to be bullied. After which 
 Octavia accepted the position, felt many years older 
 than she was, and began seriously to look albout for 
 a suitable husband for her daughter. It seemed 
 that when she was a girl young ladies did not grow 
 up so fast. She read Peter's letter and tore it into 
 little pieces. 
 
 "Foolish old man!" she murmured. "If Henry 
 doesn't fall in love with his wife soon, Peter will."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 HENRY ASHAMED OF HIMSELF 
 
 MEANWHILE, the "Cobra" steamed through calm 
 seas toward Marseilles. Henry was still extremely 
 angry at being placed in such a foolish position on his 
 own yacht, and, contrary to his usual method of slid- 
 ing comfortably through all disasters, could think of 
 no better way of dealing with the position than that 
 of ignoring his wife entirely. For all that, he was 
 unable, much to his annoyance, to sweep her out 
 of his mind altogether. That old failing of his, 
 the soft heart, so incongruous with the selfish mind, 
 which had always led him headlong into the indis- 
 criminate charity which his sister had so often cen- 
 sured, but which he found the quickest medicine to 
 soothe its distress, now began to torment him on be- 
 half of the forlorn figure of the adventuress. It was 
 quite in vain that he told himself that adventuresses 
 have no right to look forlorn, especially when they 
 are successful. For they do, and Molly was no ex- 
 ception to the rule. It is but fair to the Duke to 
 remark that this uneasy feeling of his would have 
 been just the same had she been as plain as the hero- 
 ine of a Cubist's dream. That, indeed, was Molly's 
 tragedy. But Henry's paramount desire was to have 
 done with the whole business and start again in the 
 comfortable insecurity of his self-made Paradise. 
 
 285
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 Yet, though he twisted and turned and buried 
 himself in his books, and reviewed in one night the 
 peculiarities of almost every variety of toad, he 
 still found that the figure of the Duchess usurped 
 in his mind the throne which had -belonged for so 
 long to the reptiles of the earth. It was as the sus- 
 picion of a blue haze on the horizon told Molly that 
 the end of her adventure was in sight, that the foolish 
 old gentleman who had been so unexpectedly kind 
 to her, assuring himself that he was a quite disin- 
 terested knight-errant, sought out Henry in his little 
 library, and, taking up a position equivalent to the 
 hearthrug, fixed his friend with a mysterious and por- 
 tentous frown. 
 
 "Henry," he said at last, "do you seriously be- 
 lieve that your wife is an adventuress?" 
 
 "I do not know that I any longer seriously believe 
 anything," returned the Duke. 
 
 "That is a perfectly childish remark," snapped 
 Peter. "In fact," he added, "you are behaving alto- 
 gether like a child." 
 
 "The problem is not yours, Peter; it is mine." 
 
 "And you are facing it like a man, I suppose ?" 
 
 Henry answered nothing. 
 
 "That girl is your wife," went on the Professor. 
 "You cannot get over that." 
 
 "Have you not rather changed your tone," asked 
 the Duke, "since we left Wynninghame Towers?" 
 
 "Yes, I have," said Peter stoutly. "And I have 
 written a letter, which I shall post at Marseilles, 
 telling Octavia that I have." 
 
 "Do you think we are far enough away to make 
 286
 
 HENRY ASHAMED O* HIMSELF 
 
 that safe ?" queried Henry. "But I suppose repartee 
 by wireless loses some of its point." 
 
 "I admit," said Peter, "that I am a coward. 
 Where women are concerned I become invertebrate. 
 I am afraid of the clever ones and a slave to the 
 pretty ones. But that is a great deal better than be- 
 ing indifferent to everything, like you." 
 
 "Well," asked Henry with a sigh, "what has 
 made you change your mind?" 
 
 "I have not changed my mind," he replied. "I 
 consider the marriage entirely unsuitable and a great 
 calamity; I consider this stowaway business exceed- 
 ingly regrettable, and, if it gets about, calculated to 
 make you look perfectly ludicrous, Henry. But 
 when you tell me your wife is an adventuress that 
 is absurd." 
 
 "Why absurd?" 
 
 "Just because she is nothing of the kind." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 
 "Because I spent my younger days acquiring the 
 knowledge; a vicious youth is not always waste of 
 time." 
 
 "And you consider yourself infallible in your 
 judgments?" 
 
 The Professor gave a short laugh. 
 
 "An amateur," he said, "would find no difficulty 
 in this case." 
 
 "Can you explain, then, Peter, why she deliber- 
 ately confessed to me?" 
 
 "I could," he answered, "give several hypotheses 
 which would cover that, but I do not propose to 
 do so. You must ask her yourself." 
 
 287
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The Duke rose, stretched his arms rather wearily, 
 and walked to the other side of the little cabin. 
 
 "These things do not interest me, Peter," he 
 said. "I wish to take up my life where I left it 
 off." 
 
 "You cannot correct mistakes so easily," replied 
 his friend. 
 
 The Duke was startled. Was it not the latter 
 half of his disastrous creed? 
 
 Circumstances had routed him in his crusade. 
 Could it be that the moment had come for a rally? 
 He found himself unaccountably glad that perhaps 
 Molly was not so wicked, after all. He would try 
 once more to pick up the pieces of his crumbling 
 campaign. 
 
 "Very well, Peter," he said; "send her to me!" 
 
 The Professor stared at him. 
 
 "Send her to you?" he echoed. "I'll do nothing 
 of the sort. Who are you to grant an audience 
 to your wife? You will go to her, and you will 
 apologize humbly for ever believing a word she 
 said. When you married, Henry, you stepped out 
 of the watertight compartment you have presumed 
 to call your life. It is no use supposing that you 
 can get back again. You have stepped into the 
 world, and you are bound to suffer, because you don't 
 know your way about. Send her to you, indeed! 
 Do you know what she'd do? She'd refuse to 
 speak to you again." 
 
 Not that Molly, whose devotion was quite doglike 
 and undignified, would have done anything else but 
 arrive on the instant, humbly and joyfully. But 
 
 288
 
 HENRY ASHAMED OF HIMSELF 
 
 the Duke felt a little ashamed of himself, and with 
 a great effort endeavored to see the affair from some 
 other angle than his own. It struck him as curious 
 that a marriage which he had perhaps considered 
 rather quixotic and generous seemed to be turning 
 out to be nothing of the kind. For here was Peter 
 simply bristling with indignation at his behavior, 
 and evidently convinced that he was acting like a 
 scoundrel. 
 
 Henry was really bewildered at the sudden turn 
 of events. Peter, of all men, to be telling him how 
 to behave to a woman! Peter, whose cynicism on 
 that subject had so often roused his contempt! It 
 appeared that he had been in the habit of saying 
 pretty things about women and the world from the 
 fastness of his watertight compartment. But now 
 that h : had ventured to come out, he did not know 
 how to behave. 
 
 Well, if Henry's egotism was a little contemptible 
 and if his monastic existence had been a mistake, he 
 was, after all, genuinely anxious to correct his mis- 
 takes as they occurred. 
 
 "Very well, Peter," he answered, "I will go to 
 her. But, first, I want to know what has made you 
 suddenly change your mind?" 
 
 The Professor immediately produced his silk 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "I have," he said, with the most stupendous dig- 
 nity, "I have . . er . . been er . . . talking to 
 your wife. ... I have seen a great deal of her in 
 the last twelve hours. . . . and I have been forced 
 
 to the conclusion " He mopped his forehead 
 
 280
 
 SIMPLE SOULS. 
 
 violently. "You fool, Henry!" he said. "She has 
 the most wonderful eyes I have ever seen!" 
 
 The Duke could not help smiling. So even the 
 altruism of Peter was not altogether unselfish. 
 
 "Has she?" he answered. "What color are 
 they?" 
 
 "How do you expect a woman to remain faithful 
 to you," said the Professor, "if you do not remember 
 the color of her eyes?" 
 
 Again Henry started, for he certainly had sup- 
 posed that she would remain faithful to him. Why, 
 indeed? 
 
 And so the Duke went on deck in search of his 
 wife, and the Professor sat in the library reflecting 
 on his misspent and happy youth, when a pair of 
 brown eyes could mean a great deal more to him 
 than a little sentimental philanthropy, and if his 
 thoughts could not help leaping back once or twice 
 to Wynninghame Towers and Octavia's rage at his 
 treachery, he comforted himself with the reflection 
 that the South Sea Islands are a very long way from 
 Elton Wick. Also he had that very comfortable 
 feeling inside which comes to old men who, as some- 
 one has wittily put it, being no longer able to set 
 a bad example, have started to give good advice. 
 
 The cliffs were already quite visible when Henry 
 found his wife watching the little stretch of blue 
 waters that represented the limit of time that was 
 left for her to drag her Romance out of the ashes. 
 
 Ten minutes later she was telling him the truth 
 as he sat by her side, looking gravely down at his 
 toes. 
 
 290
 
 HENRY ASHAMED OF HIMSELF 
 
 "And so," he said at last, "it was because you 
 thought you had disgraced me?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 "I never saw it in that light," he said. "It is 
 for Lady Helen to be ashamed. But that," he 
 added, "is of course incredible." 
 
 So he believed her. What would he do now? 
 Marseilles was very close. 
 
 "I feel I owe you an apology," he was saying; 
 "an apology for many things : for Lady Helen and 
 Octavia and for Wynninghame Towers. And there 
 is one thing more for which I owe you an apology." 
 
 "What is that?" she asked. 
 
 "It is," he said slowly, "because I do not love 
 you, and you were made to be loved." 
 
 He looked across the water a little wistfully. 
 All in a second he seemed to her to have become her 
 dream-monger again. 
 
 "Must I go back?" she whispered. 
 
 He did not answer her. When he spoke it was 
 almost to himself. 
 
 "My God!" he said, all of a sudden. "What 
 have I done?" The full extent of her devotion to 
 him he now realized for the first time. "I have 
 promised everything, and I have nothing to give !" 
 
 He did not know that she had heard him until 
 he heard her murmur an answer. 
 
 "You promised nothing," she said. 
 
 But he did not heed her. He saw that she had 
 suffered for him and he felt degraded. To him the 
 burden had seemed to belong, but she had carried it. 
 He heard her whispering again. 
 
 291
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 "Must I go back?" she said. 
 
 Still, he thought, she was ready to follow him 
 to the ends of the earth. He had no right to refuse 
 her. He had no right not to want her. A turmoil 
 of desire to atone swept over him. Once let loose 
 from his wonted indifference to things, he lost his 
 balance and made mountains out of mud pies. He 
 saw her as a Joan of Arc crucified on the ruins of 
 his crusade. He cursed himself because he did not 
 know how to start loving her. A mental vision of 
 her night in the lifeboat set the seal on his abject 
 view of himself. Naturally, since his mind was oc- 
 cupied in vividly distorting comedy into tragedy, his 
 words were banal. 
 
 "We shall have to buy clothes," he said. 
 
 And so the Duchess realized that she was, after 
 all, to have the chance for which she had prayed, 
 for surely the next best thing to a country cottage 
 is a desert island. Being a girl who never forgot 
 her friends, she sent a picture-postcard to Mary 
 from Marseilles, bearing this legend : 
 
 "I am going all the way to look for the Golden 
 Toad. I believe now that we shall find it. 
 
 "MOLLY." 
 
 The romantic Mary, who showed the postcard 
 to her mother as a matter of course, did not trouble 
 to explain that the Golden Toad in this case had 
 nothing to do with Uncle Henry's illusions. As for 
 Octavia, as a Christian she could not hope that the 
 ship would founder with all hands, but as a member 
 
 292
 
 HENRY ASHAMED OF HIMSELF 
 
 of the Church of England she had a perfect right 
 to trust that a "judgment" would descend upon 
 the Duchess of Wynninghame, and a minor judgment 
 upon the Professor, whom she liked and whose weak- 
 nesses she knew. 
 
 Meanwhile, a small boat shot away from the 
 yacht's side and bobbed its way toward the harbor. 
 In it sat Peter and the Duke, who were going shop- 
 ping. They were only going to buy enough ward- 
 robe to enable Molly to complete her purchases her- 
 self, and Peter was quite capable of buying a possible 
 coat and skirt and not making an utter fool of him- 
 self over a hat. 
 
 While the boat twinkled in the sun and grew 
 smaller and smaller until it disappeared amongst the 
 shipping, Molly sat on the upper deck following it 
 with dancing eyes. 
 
 Yes, Master Man of the World, it is going to be 
 another of those infernal love stories, after all, and 
 if you did not guess that from their first tea-party 
 at the Zoo, you ought never to have been trusted 
 with a novel at all, and it serves you right. 
 
 All the same, Fate had one more card to play 
 before the Pioneer Duchess was able to drag from 
 behind those kind but cold gray eyes the treasure 
 which she knew lay hidden there. 
 
 293
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 TRUE to her word, Molly did not, as the "Cobra" 
 ploughed through the desert of waters, and as the 
 sun grew hotter every day, intrude her love upon 
 her husband. Rather, she sought the society of 
 Peter, who amused her by telling her the adventures 
 of his youth, a history which he regarded with grav- 
 ity and pride. There is no place where nothing 
 happens so regularly as on board ship, and the single 
 adventure, as far as the Duchess was concerned, 
 was a sudden gale, which she thought heralded the 
 end of the world, but which Captain Phillips called 
 a capful of wind. Molly was as happy as she had 
 ever been during the long hot days, listening to the 
 Professor's stories or watching Henry take his after- 
 noon's exercise round the yacht's decks. At night, 
 when it seemed still hotter and when time stood 
 still, it must be confessed that she sometimes lay 
 awake thinking about her husband and praying for 
 the miracle which never happened. For the Duke, 
 though he did not forget the sudden revelation of her 
 suffering on his behalf, and though he was kindness 
 and charm itself whenever he and his wife were 
 together, yet made no effort to meet his fate half 
 way. 
 
 So the yacht slipped quietly through the water 
 until one morning they woke to find the ship at 
 
 294
 
 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 anchor and the island of Henry's dream, looking like 
 the Prince's Garden in the pantomime, a few hundred 
 yards away. It was a great deal bigger than Molly 
 had imagined it, and she was quite astonished when 
 Peter explained that it would take at least six days 
 to walk round its coasts. 
 
 What astonished her still more was the fact that 
 such a beautiful piece of real estate was entirely 
 uninhabited, while Ball Street contained fifty families 
 on one side alone. This surprising result of Civiliza- 
 tion and Progress she confided to Peter, who as- 
 sured her that her ideas on the subject were absurd) 
 but who was quite unable to explain why. 
 
 Meanwhile, preparations were going forward for 
 the last phase in the expedition in search of the 
 Golden Toad, and finally a boat left the ship's side, 
 and, heavily burdened, proceeded slowly toward the 
 shore. 
 
 In the bows sat Henry, nursing a little zinc cage 
 and thinking of nothing at all but frogs and froggy 
 matters. Near him was Dunn, carrying a heap of 
 mosquito nets in his arms, like a baby. Peter was 
 in the stern; his whole impedimenta consisted of 
 a cigar which he carried in his mouth, and the fumes 
 of which he contended were proof against whole 
 armies of mosquitoes. The Duchess sat by his side. 
 Two members of the crew, besides the rowers, were 
 also included in the landing-party, their duty being 
 to carry the little tents and odds and ends which 
 were to form their quarters during the exploration. 
 
 "The actual spot mentioned by Cook, where he 
 discovered the toad," said Henry, after the landing 
 
 295
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 had been made and they were walking up the beach, 
 "is rather hard to trace." 
 
 "It would be," rejoined Peter, "bearing in mind 
 the man's unfortunate failing." 
 
 "You will never find anything, Peter," answered 
 the Duke, "if you approach it in that way." 
 
 "I am here," said the Professor, "for my health; 
 I am not going to injure it by overworking my 
 imagination." 
 
 "No," murmured Henry; "I should be very care- 
 ful of your imagination." 
 
 Thus they fell to wrangling as to whether Peter 
 actually possessed any imagination at all, which led 
 in a very short while to a discussion on that social 
 high explosive, his sense of humor. It is a curious 
 trait in human beings that they would far rather 
 be accused of lacking a moral sense than of being 
 unable to see a joke. Myself, I confess I would 
 rather share a maisonette with Chicot than with 
 Martin Luther. Still more would I prefer to see 
 them share one together. 
 
 Thus Henry and Peter wrangled and Molly mar- 
 velled at her surroundings. This South Sea para- 
 dise, the defects of which, in the shape of insects, 
 vapors, foul smells and general rankness, never 
 really let themselves go until the evening, seemed 
 to her the nearest possible approach to the Garden 
 of Eden. If one regards the world from the angle 
 of a desert island, what better point of view is avail- 
 able so long as we remain a little lower than the 
 angels? If, I repeat, one has this rare opportunity, 
 many things which constant use has rendered as 
 
 296
 
 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 commonplace as the miracle of life itself will ap- 
 pear in a very different light. To Molly, for in- 
 stance, the fact that the little party of six were the 
 only human beings in this unemployed Paradise was 
 matter of wonder and infinite speculation. She was 
 actually living through the most outlandish scenes 
 of those "silly books" which once upon a time she 
 had been accustomed to invoke, lest Ball Street break 
 her heart. For people's hearts do break, though the 
 whole College of Surgeons deny it; and though 
 Cupid is often arraigned on the charge, what breaks 
 them could best be told by the grim and silent cities. 
 
 So the Duchess, casting her eye over the total 
 population of Toad Island, marvelled that in Bell 
 Street, which was at the bottom of Ball Street, there 
 lived families whose very faces she did not know. 
 It is really a very curious thing that though time 
 and space are being brought to heel more thoroughly 
 every century, our neighbors remain as complete a 
 mystery as Adam, until the unfortunate fruit com- 
 bine, was to Eve. Molly had the unhappy type of 
 mind, commoner among women than among men, 
 which is always endeavoring to piece life together 
 like a puzzle and make it a whole, regardless of the 
 feet that if the world is a puzzle it has several of the 
 pieces missing, lost perhaps by that same Adam and 
 Eve, and never recovered. 
 
 So she puzzled about why men lived in cities, 
 where there were no bright colors, and why every- 
 body lived according to somebody else's rules, so 
 that impoverished clerks in dingy suburbs, who were 
 only really alive when they were asleep and dream- 
 
 297
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 ing, wasted valuable time every night putting their 
 trousers under the mattress, in order that there might 
 be a perceptible crease down the centre in the City 
 next day. And why her own mother thought God 
 was a spiteful policeman with unlimited powers, 
 whereas really He was a bird of paradise high up 
 in a tropical tree. And whether the grace of a lovely 
 woman was as revolting as the beauty of a snake 
 gliding away to some mysterious homestead under 
 the dark foliage. And, if so, why they were in the 
 world at all. And why, under the sea, which is 
 always rippling with laughter at the jokes cracked by 
 the sun, there lay wrecks and bones and disasters. 
 
 And why Henry did not love her. 
 
 They had their lunch in a little clearing where 
 giant trees looked down on them, peering, as it were, 
 over one another's shoulders, like a curious crowd 
 in a London street. It awed Molly, who, like most 
 sensitive people, felt easily dwarfed. She remem- 
 bered her last picnic, a pilgrimage to that little 
 mountainous hillock on Hampstead Heath where 
 seven moribund trees stand stark against the sky, 
 mutely begging some charitable person to cut them 
 down before they suffer the indignity of being com- 
 pletely surrounded by Greater London. It had been 
 a very jolly picnic, where she had lain under a bush 
 and devoured at least half of a silly book. Now she 
 was her own heroine a much less restful occupation. 
 
 After lunch they left the baggage men and Dunn 
 in the clearing, where Peter proposed that they 
 should spend the night, and with Henry's enthusiasm 
 no whit abated by the long morning's walk, set out 
 
 298
 
 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 for the spot where he conjectured that Cook had seen 
 the toad. Molly found herself getting very tired 
 as she tried to keep up with Henry and the Pro- 
 fessor, who were each so set on proving the other 
 a fool that they never noticed either the pace at 
 which they were going or the distance which they 
 were covering. They talked volubly and without ceas- 
 ing about reptiles, and used long and dignified Latin 
 names which made the Duchess feel as if she were 
 an eavesdropper, though in reality they were only 
 speaking of the habits of the common earthworm 
 and might as well have used his English alias. For 
 though scientists and lawyers like their languages 
 dead (on* the theory, perhaps, that dead men tell no 
 tales) , few of us, except very simple souls like Molly, 
 are taken in any more than when we hear our fash- 
 ionable friends speaking French with a county fam- 
 ily accent. But the Duchess, who was always pre- 
 pared to feel small at a moment's notice, fell behind 
 when, the argument becoming fiercer, the Latin grew 
 more virulent, in sympathy. 
 
 So it happened that she wandered along after 
 them, soon lost in her own thoughts, which were 
 highly uninteresting except to herself. For they 
 were of Henry all the time: Henry in his study, 
 Henry in a cottage drawing-room, with her pouring 
 out tea for him, Henry in a kitchen garden holding 
 a basket, while she delved amongst the cabbages, 
 Henry reading, Henry playing, Henry glad, and 
 Henry gloomy; till at last she looked up and dis- 
 covered that there was no Henry walking ahead of 
 her at all I 
 
 299
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 The fact was that as their argument got hotter 
 and hotter, so the Professor and his friend had 
 walked quicker and quicker, and Molly, since wool- 
 gathering is always a slow business, was soon left 
 far behind. Now she ran forward hastily, thinking 
 that they could not be very far ahead. But the 
 path was treacherous and devious, and before very 
 long the Duchess was a great deal farther away from 
 her companions than she had been at the moment 
 when she had discovered their absence. 
 
 She wandered on and on, expecting every minute 
 to come upon them round some corner or beyond 
 the next clump of trees, until at last, looking up, 
 and seeing that the patches of light that filtered 
 down through the roof of foliage were already 
 failing, she realized that she was lost, and stood 
 still with a vague terror beginning to clutch at 
 her, as if she were descending inch by inch into icy 
 water. 
 
 She called out for Henry, and was answered by 
 such a, tremendous silence that she was somehow 
 afraid to call again. She knew now that she had 
 not been following them, after all, and, knowing 
 that she must have covered several miles, she real- 
 ized that they were far away from her. She sat 
 down suddenly on the ground and tried to reason out 
 what was the best thing for her to do. But all she 
 found herself able to realize was the vast silence of 
 the wilderness of woods that surrounded her. It 
 seemed to crush all attempts at escape. 
 
 And as she sat, there crossed her line of vision, 
 progressing with ungainly flops across the little patch 
 
 300
 
 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 of rank weed and grass, a large toad with an irregu- 
 lar line of pure gold down the centre of his glistening 
 back; an aristocratic old gentleman whose paunch 
 alone entitled him to a place in the most dignified 
 circles. 
 
 Molly watched him tumble his way across the 
 little space until he was almost out of sight behind 
 the cool shelter of some enormous leaves, before 
 she realized that he was the Golden Toad in person. 
 It was in search of him that the expedition had been 
 made she must capture him, at all costs. 
 
 She went quickly to the spot where she had seen 
 him disappear, and began delicately to poke about 
 with a twig among the leaves. She had never been 
 on intimate terms with a toad, and she was shy. 
 Near by was a great stone with a long ragged crevice 
 creeping up into its centre from the ground. Molly 
 realized from the rich moss which clung to the little 
 rock how damp her surroundings were going to be 
 as soon as the sun went off duty. Into this crevice 
 she fancied that the toad must have gone, and she 
 tentatively poked her stick into the opening. But 
 as nothing happened, and as she conceived it her 
 duty to capture the monster for Henry, however un- 
 pleasant the operation, she gave a little shudder and 
 plunged her hand into the aperture. 
 
 There was a sharp wrench, and Molly felt an in- 
 tolerable pain in her wrist. She had caught it in the 
 crevice, as in a vise, and in the instantaneous effort 
 to withdraw her hand had sprained the wrist badly. 
 She felt momentarily faint, and leaned against the 
 
 301
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 little rock for some seconds, holding the injured 
 hand to her heart. 
 
 Yet, for a few minutes, the Duchess still refused 
 to give up the search for Henry's toad. It was only 
 when she suddenly discovered that she could no 
 longer use her wrist at all, that it was already almost 
 twice its right size, and that her whole forearm was 
 on fire, that she gave up the quest and returned into 
 the little clearing. The sun was already down, and 
 the whole air was filled with the buzz of a million 
 flies and mosquitoes. She sat down with her back 
 against a tree and tried with her one hand to ward 
 off the attack of these harpies. But her soft white 
 skin and her inadequate defenses were too great a 
 temptation, and in a few minutes she was suffering 
 the torments of the damned. 
 
 She rose and paced to and fro, a cloud of satel- 
 lites screaming round her head. The pain in her 
 wrist, too, was growing intolerable, and the tears 
 were soon running down her cheeks from suffering 
 and despair 
 
 But one cannot cry forever, and one cannot walk 
 forever, and at last, quite exhausted, the unfortunate 
 Duchess literally fell in her tracks and lay on the soft 
 damp ground, her face buried in her arms. And when 
 the pain in her wrist grew worse and the whole world 
 seemed dancing and buzzing and biting, as if every 
 spiteful creature thereon had found her defenseless 
 and was determined to add his mite to her suffering, 
 she became delirious and called again and again for 
 Henry and Samuel Shine (who was comfortably 
 drunk at the moment in a tavern in the Vauxhall 
 
 302
 
 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 Bridge Road) , and even for Mary, whom she remem- 
 bered vaguely as one of the figures in her Romance 
 who had been kindly disposed toward her. . . . 
 But at last she called no more, and lay quite still. . . . 
 
 Half a mile away, though by the twisting path 
 the distance was three times as great, Henry and the 
 Professor halted and looked round for Molly. They 
 shouted several times with their combined lung- 
 power, but as only the vibrant note of hungry 
 mosquitoes answered them, they turned and stared 
 at each other in dismay. 
 
 "I thought," said the Duke weakly, "that she was 
 only just behind us." 
 
 "So did I," answered the Professor, mopping 
 his brow. "Damn these mosquitoes 1" he added. 
 "Why didn't we bring the nets?" 
 
 "I had no idea," said Henry, "we should come 
 so far or be out so late; perhaps she has gone 
 back." 
 
 He turned quickly and retraced his steps ; a grow- 
 ing fear that Molly had met with some disaster was 
 beginning to master him. He stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Peter," he said, "supposing she has lost her- 
 self." 
 
 "We shall find her," returned the old man. 
 "There is no reason why she should come to any 
 harm." But he spoke without conviction. 
 
 They shouted again, without response. 
 
 "We were fools to let her come," said Henry. 
 
 They shouted again, without response. 
 
 "There are no wild beasts on the island," mur- 
 mured the Professor. 
 
 303
 
 "She will be frightened out of her life," said his 
 companion. He bit his lip as he thought of her 
 spending the. night in the woods. 
 
 Peter flicked violently at the mosquitoes with his 
 silk handkerchief. 
 
 "We had better go back to the camp," he said, 
 "and form a search-party." 
 
 After this they walked on for some time in silence 
 save for an occasional "Damn !" from the Professor 
 as some insect more nimble than his fellows evaded 
 the old gentleman's defenses. But they had not gone 
 very far before Henry stopped again. 
 
 "Peter," he said, "I can't wait. You must go 
 back and get the search-party; I am going to look 
 for her myself." 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous," grunted the Professor. 
 "You will only lose yourself. What is the use of 
 that?" 
 
 "I tell you I'm going," snapped the Duke, a great 
 deal more peremptorily than Peter's mild expostula- 
 tion had warranted, and the older man, who had 
 been consulting his watch, suddenly forgot to put 
 it back into his pocket and stared at Henry in sur- 
 prise. But as his eyes met those of his friend his 
 surprise gave way to utter astonishment, for Henry, 
 though he returned the Professor's stare quite 
 frankly, was blushing like a boy at his first party. 
 
 Peter, after his first astonishment, was wise enough 
 to say nothing, and continued on his way back to the 
 camp, where he remarked, dryly enough, that the 
 Duke and his wife were lost, and that it was the un- 
 comfortable fate of everybody to turn out and look 
 
 304
 
 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 for them, which, in a silence far too vivid to stand 
 the test of description in print, they did. 
 
 But what had happened to Henry, and why should 
 a man of mature age, who had never blushed in his 
 life, suddenly develop the uncomfortable embarrass- 
 ments of an ingenue? All I can tell you is that 
 pity (as Henry himself would have put it) is often 
 the amoeba of love, and the Duke, making the sud- 
 den discovery that in his case the process of evolution 
 was complete, had been altogether overwhelmed and 
 covered with confusion. 
 
 As he crashed through the undergrowth, frighten- 
 ing away in his violence even the hungriest of mos- 
 quitoes, he threw off the whole of his creed, which 
 had suddenly appeared to him so trivial, and deter- 
 mined to become the perfect lover. What is a for- 
 mula to do when it is confronted by a passion? Flee 
 precipitately, of course, and never lift its head again, 
 till old age or disappointment or dyspepsia lets down 
 the drawbridge and opens the gates to it once more. 
 
 Henry's conversion had not, in reality, been so 
 quick as it sounds. Ever since the sudden vision of 
 his own egotism had torn from him the tragic cry, 
 "I have promised everything, and I have nothing 
 to give," he had, in his slow, deliberate way, been 
 working back through the events of his short married 
 life and right through his bachelor existence to the 
 foundations of his precious and momentous creed. 
 Year after year, day after day, hour after hour of 
 useless and lonely selfishness, rose before his brain 
 as the picture of his life. That, at least, was how 
 he saw it, for your reformed egoist becomes the 
 
 305
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 most violent of reactionaries. He did not remember 
 that he had always been kind, seldom intolerant, 
 never vicious. He only saw himself as a hard and 
 silent figure in a large, inhuman house, and, what is 
 worse, he felt that he was still hardening. And thus, 
 while he distorted to himself his faults and dismissed 
 from the audience altogether his poor little virtues, 
 he found himself stealing glances at Molly in the 
 radiance of her happiness during the voyage, and 
 longing for a little of her vitality and humanity and 
 sympathy. So that it was not long before he was 
 wondering whether he was worthy of her society. 
 And that, as all lovers know, is the beginning of the 
 end. Yet he had not approached her. Indeed, now 
 that she appeared his superior, Henry was shy of his 
 wife. This was his state of mind when the landing 
 had been made, and the imminence of the climax of 
 the expedition had temporarily driven it out of his 
 head, in the new enthusiasm for the Golden Toad. 
 It was only when the disaster narrated in this chap- 
 ter occurred that the Duke discovered that he was 
 hopelessly and utterly in love. So now you may pic- 
 ture him, crashing through the woods, calling her 
 name at intervals, listening for a moment and then 
 pressing on, leaving the last remnants of his theories 
 and philosophies behind him at every step, and every 
 moment becoming, more and more, that primitive 
 and delightful creation a man In love with a maid. 
 
 And of course Providence, which, it is our duty to 
 believe, had really been looking after Molly all the 
 time, arranged that he should find her. 
 
 She was lying where we last left her; her head 
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 TREASURE ISLAND 
 
 lay on her uninjured arm, and her face was the face 
 of one who had not a trouble in the world. For 
 someone who looks after these things had noticed 
 her distress, and had bade Morpheus go and attend 
 to her case. 
 
 She woke in Henry's arms and dreamed that there 
 were tears in his eyes. Unmanly fellow! What 
 has a Peer at thirty-eight to do with weeping? Yet 
 Molly saw in his tears the hidden treasure she had 
 been looking for behind those kind gray eyes. Well, 
 well, she may have been right. If laughter is a gift, 
 why not tears ? 
 
 But Henry's wife had something of the spirit of 
 the sentinel of Pompeii, so that her first words were 
 of the absurd Toad, which, she thought, lay nearest 
 to Henry's heart. 
 
 "The Toad!" she whispered. "I saw it!" 
 
 "Damn the Toad!" returned Henry, and she was 
 well pleased to leave it at that and to receive the 
 little oath on her lips. 
 
 "Oh, my little one my little one !" he said, and 
 the Duchess knew that her cottage was no longer in 
 the air. 
 
 Pah ! The sentiment of it I 
 
 "My darling!" she began, and her arms stole 
 round his neck. "My darling . . ." 
 
 No. I will not write it. We have all played the 
 scene, every one of us, and we know just how it 
 goes. It is hard to believe that old Uncle George, 
 who sits such an unconscionable time behind his 
 paper at the Athenaeum, is as well able to fill in the 
 
 307
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 conversation of the Duke and Duchess as you or I ; 
 but he is, and so is poor old Aunt Ellen, who is full 
 of good works, and may leave us her four hundred 
 a year any day now. Love-making is the only genu- 
 ine antique left to us. I am not going to profane it 
 by putting it in the catalogue with the others. 
 I will be an eavesdropper at anything but that.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 AN AMATEUR LOVER 
 
 BACK to Wynninghame House and Piccadilly, with 
 an October wind hurtling down to Leicester Square 
 from Hyde Park and mouse-faced women and 
 pinched men contracting their winter chills and bad 
 tempers; with motor omnibuses, each a complete cos- 
 mos in itself, clattering and screeching their way 
 from Mayfair to the slums, completely indifferent to 
 each, as is consonant with the dignity of such colossi; 
 with ladies of virtue and ladies of vanity rubbing 
 shoulders; with gentlemen in white spats with a li- 
 brary of bills, and others in shabby coats whose 
 credit is everywhere unchallenged; artists whose 
 reputation depends upon their ugliness, and beggars 
 whose income rests on their capacity for woes rather 
 than the value of the matches they never sell; hum- 
 bug and high brow (often arm in arm) on the sunny 
 side, with impatient Merit scowling along on the 
 other how a modern Juvenal would revel in this 
 Suburr'a I What a wonderful six-shillings' worth 
 would fce the reflections on modern Piccadilly of 
 Swift, the gloomy Dean ! But though the nakedness 
 of the land was thus exposed (as, indeed, it is ex- 
 posed every day of the year for me and you to see) , 
 the Duchess of Wynninghame, who was walking up 
 toward Wynninghame House by the side of her lord 
 and master, on the sunny side, of course, and who 
 
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 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 had been the author of those sentimental reflections 
 on Desert Islands which we have just heard, under- 
 stood perfectly well why men lived in cities, and why 
 they were the most fascinating places in the world. 
 Which only shows that philosophy is entirely gov- 
 erned by environment. And if she mentioned to him 
 the discovery of the Golden Toad, she found him un- 
 interested, and dropped the subject to make room 
 for another and a more absorbing. 
 
 As for Henry, a light is thrown on his condition 
 by the remarks of Octavia, who was standing on the 
 steps of Wynninghame House, talking to the Pro- 
 fessor. 
 
 "How disgusting it is," she said, "to see a man so 
 ridiculously epris of his own wife !" 
 
 "Disgusting!" echoed the Professor, who* was 
 now deprived of an audience for the story of his 
 youth. But Octavia smiled at him so wickedly, at 
 this, that the poor old gentleman rushed to his silk 
 handkerchief in a panic. 
 
 "He behaves like a young man with his first af- 
 faire," she remarked. "Mysteries, closed taxis, 
 whisperings, and even verses, for all I know." She 
 broke off and tapped angrily with her foot on the 
 step. "Well," she said at last with a sigh, "I sup- 
 pose we have got to put up with it now. If Mary 
 had not been an impertinent little chit, and you, 
 Peter, a ridiculous old fool, we should have pre- 
 vented the catastrophe." 
 
 "You still consider it a catastrophe, then?" said 
 the Professor. 
 
 "Oh, no, Peter!" rejoined Octavia, with heavy 
 310
 
 AN AMATEUR LOVER 
 
 sarcasm. "Every woman likes to have a sister-in- 
 law half her age, who has triumphed over her 1" By 
 which the old gentleman understood that her own de- 
 feat worried Lady Blake a great deal more than 
 Henry's misalliance. 
 
 "And why why," cried that lady, throwing up 
 her hands toward heaven, in despair, "why did he 
 ever marry her?" 
 
 The Professor shook his head. 
 
 "I don't know," he answered. "Why does Henry 
 do anything?" 
 
 Lady Blake sighed and stepped into her car. 
 
 "Well," she said, "I have left my cards and my 
 capitulation in the hall; next to victory, Peter, the 
 best policy is a charming surrender. I refuse to dis- 
 turb myself." 
 
 "Aequam memento rebus in arduis 
 Servare mentem," 
 
 murmured the Professor. 
 
 "Tell him Curzon Street," answered Octavia, who 
 always fled before anything but French. She leaned 
 back in the car, and was borne away without a single 
 misgiving as to her fitness for this world or the next. 
 And if suavity is a virtue in heaven, there Lady 
 Blake will surely be found in the seats which will 
 undoubtedly be reserved for Mayfair. 
 
 Other ideas, other ways than her own had crossed 
 her path, engaged her, and beaten her. Since she 
 had no idea that she might be wrong, it must needs 
 be the world that was going to the Devil; and thus 
 having entirely missed the point of the whole busi- 
 
 3"
 
 SIMPLE SOULS 
 
 ness, she shifted the blame on to the broad shoulders 
 of Time, and, as she stood in front of the big pier- 
 glass in her bedroom, remarked to herself, "I am 
 getting old." 
 
 Yet on the first day on which you put your hair 
 up, Octavia, were you not already My Lady with 
 nothing to learn? I despise you? Certainly not. 
 You can be very amusing at times, and I shall often 
 be seen in Curzon Street on your first and third 
 Tuesdays. But I hope that when you are an old 
 woman and frightened at the dark, you will find 
 someone to sit by you and hold your hand. 
 
 The lights are out in Wynninghame House, and 
 the Duchess is asleep and dreaming. Obviously I 
 cannot go in to her, so I blow her a kiss from the 
 other side of the door and take my leave. The cir- 
 cumference of the universe is no bigger than her 
 wedding ring. For her the earth and the stars and 
 the moon and the sun are contained behind Henry's 
 black waistcoat. As for their love, there has never 
 been anything like it : it is a portent, a miracle ! But 
 why go on? The Duchess is asleep and dreaming, 
 and of course her married life is going to be just the 
 same as everybody else's. 
 
 Downstairs in the study a light is still burning, and 
 the Professor, with his spectacles crooked on the 
 bridge of his nose, and a book elaborately propped 
 up befre him, is reading about the lives of the 
 lesser carnivora. Sometimes he makes notes with a 
 silver pencil, in the margin. On the other side of 
 the table sits Henry. He also has a pencil in his 
 
 312
 
 AN AMATEUR LOVER 
 
 hand and a piece of paper before him. What is the 
 animal he is studying? Look over his shoulder and 
 see. tie has not got very far with his notes; in fact, 
 the only writing on his paper consists of the words 
 "To Molly," inscribed at the top with a neat line 
 underneath. He breathes heavily and taps his pen- 
 cil on the table, to the great annoyance of his friend. 
 
 "Peter," he says at last, "what rhymes with 
 'Molly' besides 'jolly'?" 
 
 But Peter has long since returned to his wonted 
 cynicism, and he looks up from his book with a snort. 
 "Folly," he grunts savagely. 
 
 At which Henry is angry and goes to bed a 
 
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