THREE SONS | 
 
 1 AND A MOTHER ft
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 WILLIfl! P. TOEDEN
 
 Z 
 
 /QQ
 
 THREE SONS 
 
 AND A MOTHER 
 
 BY 
 
 GILBERT CANNAN 
 
 AUTHOR oj "OLD MOLE," "BOUND THE CORNER," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 I saw a dead man in a fight 
 and I think that man was I 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
 
 Copyright, 1916, 
 BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 TR 
 
 Loos 
 
 TO MY BROTHER 
 J. F. C. 
 
 The shadow-play of which this tale is made 
 
 Is also yours. It moved before your mind 
 And mingled with the visible and stayed 
 
 Explanatory, mystic, there behind 
 All knowledge, always, powerful, a pit 
 
 Of ghosts from whom our being springs. They dwelt 
 Where you and I were born. Their lives are knit 
 
 With yours and mine, and what they did and felt 
 Dictates what you and I must feel and do 
 
 In our own shadow-play through which we move, 
 Hardly less ghosts than they. If they were true 
 
 We have our life and love that truth to prove. 
 
 634705
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. THE FOUNDATIONS OF A FAMILY 
 
 II. CHILDHOOD DAYS . 
 
 III. THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD . 
 
 IV. THE PETER LESLIES 
 
 V. SUFFERING .... 
 
 VI. WORDS 
 
 VII. AFFAIRS 
 
 VIII. TIBBY M'PHAIL . 
 
 IX. THE DESCENT UPON THRIGSBY 
 
 X. MAKING PLANS 
 
 XI. A LETTER FROM EDINBURGH 
 
 XII. JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY , 
 
 XIII. CLIBRAN HALL . 
 
 XIV. GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG . 
 XV. MARGARET DISSATISFIED 
 
 XVI. CATEATON'S BANK 
 
 XVII. SELINA LESLIE . 
 
 XVIII. JOHN'S WEDDING . 
 
 XIX. AGNES OF THE LAKE 
 
 XX. HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE . 
 
 XXI. ANDREW'S WILL . 
 
 XXII. A LETTER FROM BERLIN 
 
 7 
 
 PAGE 
 II 
 
 15 
 25 
 33 
 4 6 
 
 57 
 65 
 76 
 
 87 
 96 
 
 105 
 no 
 123 
 132 
 144 
 
 155 
 170 
 
 i85 
 196 
 
 210 
 224 
 249
 
 8 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXIII. THE EMPTY HOUSE 255 
 
 XXIV. FANNY SHAW . . . . . . . 271 
 
 XXV. TOM AND AGNES 279 
 
 XXVI. THE STRUGGLE WITH VANITY .... 289 
 
 XXVII. AMBITION 299 
 
 XXVIII. TOM'S MARRIAGE 308 
 
 XXIX. NEWS FROM JOHN 326 
 
 XXX. MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED . . . 341 
 
 XXXI. SANCHO WILCOX 358 
 
 XXXII. MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS .... 372 
 
 XXXIII. ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 385 
 
 XXXIV. JOHN'S RETURN 414 
 
 XXXV. A LETTER FROM ROME 431 
 
 XXXVL MRS. ELIAS BROADBENT 436 
 
 XXXVII. CATHERINE 451 
 
 XXXVIII. MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION . 470 
 
 XXXIX. BELL, LAWRIE & Co 488 
 
 XL. DISASTER 503 
 
 XLI. A LETTER FROM LONDON .... 524 
 
 XLII. MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 
 
 HER 532
 
 THREE SONS AND A 
 MOTHER 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE FOUNDATIONS OF A FAMILY 
 
 THE history of a family commences at the point 
 where it begins to be ashamed of its origin. The 
 Lawries therefore look no farther back than Margaret 
 Keith, the laird's daughter who married the pale, large- 
 eyed minister, Thomas Nicol Lawrie, son of a butcher, 
 but A.M. of Edinburgh. When he died she brought up 
 his five children on ninety pounds a year. She need not 
 have done this, for her brothers were thriving men, but 
 as they had never forgotten the butcher behind Thomas' 
 degree they were unable to offer help without condescen- 
 sion. Neither without condescension could Margaret ac- 
 cept so much as good-day from man, woman or child. 
 As minister's wife she had ruled firmly in the wide parish 
 and had clothed herself in a dignity of which she was not 
 going to allow the death of her husband to strip her. 
 
 She had a grim struggle with Death, fought so stren- 
 uously and with so fierce a spirit that the gentle Thomas, 
 who had no intention of dying, could not bear up against 
 it, saw his condition as he had seen so much else, through 
 
 n
 
 12 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 her eyes, and gave up his soul with the sweet smile which 
 had been almost his only gift and more than any other 
 quality had brought him out of the slaying of animals 
 into the cure of souls. At first Margaret took his smile 
 for a sign that she was winning, but almost at once she 
 knew that, as always at crucial moments, he was evading! 
 her, going over in his heart to the side of her adversary, 
 going, moreover, maddeningly, out of amiability and what 
 she called "that foolish weakness of yours, Tom." Also, 
 when he smiled like that, she never could resist giving him 
 what he wanted, and now as he smiled she could not re- 
 sist, and, desiring death, he was taken. She watched the 
 smile die out of his face as it turned to a mask of a spirit- 
 ual beauty and strength that shocked and offended his 
 wife, so little had she suspected it in his life. Yet she 
 could not but realise it: there was the shock of truth 
 upon her mind, and as a widow she was vowed to him as 
 she never had been as a wife, and with all the obstinacy 
 of her nature, she was more firmly in revolt against the 
 vulgarity of the butcher and the shop. She cut them 
 right out of her life and, now that he was dead, set the 
 Rev. T. Lawrie, A.M., above all the Keiths with their 
 lands, and their ancestors, knights and courtiers though 
 some of them had been. And when the Keiths conde- 
 scended to the children of the Rev. T. Lawrie she routed 
 them, applied to the Widows' Pension Fund, put on her 
 jack boots and rode into the nearest town where there 
 was a good academy. There she took a wee house, gasp- 
 ing at the thought of the rent before she knew whether 
 she was going to have an income or no. 
 
 However, there came the assurance that she would have 
 ninety pounds a year and she vacated the manse without 
 telling her brother or anyone in the parish except Doctor 
 M'Phail, who in the kindness of his heart made her an
 
 THE FOUNDATIONS OF A FAMILY 13 
 
 offer of forty pounds a year if she would take charge of 
 a natural child of his, a girl of seven, and bring her up 
 with her own family. The offer was rejected without 
 indignation, but Margaret promised that she would, as 
 far as possible, keep an eye on the child, who, otherwise, 
 would be left to the mercies of her mother, a feckless 
 trollop though a beauty. The Doctor had been the best 
 friend of the minister and his talk had been the widow's 
 greatest comfort: 
 
 "We'll not have another minister like him. Strong at 
 the praying, he was, without being terrible. His preach- 
 ing could turn the whole congregation of wicked sinners 
 like myself into little children. Aye, he was a poet, and 
 had he lived we should have had a new paraphrase of the 
 Psalms. When I look at his sons I wonder if any of 'em 
 will beat him, will there be one that has the gift was in 
 him, though he but half knew it himself. There's Tom the 
 spit of yourself, and John's a flesher blood and bone. I 
 would say Jamie had most of his father's sweetness but 
 for the awful rages he will get into. A good lad that, but 
 there's his mark on every one of his brothers and sisters 
 as you know." 
 
 Until her widowhood Margaret had taken her children 
 in the lump, Jamie, Tom, John, Margaret and Mary, as 
 good Keiths. As she watched them now, she decided that 
 the two girls were Keiths, Jamie with his terrible temper 
 unaccountable, and Tom pure Lawrie in spirit, with John 
 mere Lawrie in flesh. In feature Tom was the most like 
 his father, but he had his mother's expression, who there- 
 fore, loved him with more than maternal love. It was 
 Tom who would be the good boy to uphold the family, 
 Tom who would win the fame denied his father by his 
 early death, Tom whose destiny his brothers and sisters
 
 i 4 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 must serve if they and the world were to meet on good 
 terms. 
 
 There was something of revenge in Margaret's spirit. 
 If the world would only allow her ninety pounds a year 
 with which to prepare her children to make a figure in it, 
 it must not in the future complain if when the time came 
 they demanded their due to the uttermost farthing. Eng- 
 land was a rich country. There were Keiths in England 
 getting riches out of her and making themselves fine men, 
 and there were poor lads from St. John's Town and 
 Motherwell who had gone over into England and were 
 richer even than any of the Keiths. The Macleans had 
 already a Baronet in the family and his son a clerk in 
 the House of Lords. 
 
 Margaret was a passionate widow. She hated being 
 one of many widows receiving charity and she used to 
 say to Tom: 
 
 "We'll pay them back, won't we, Tommy ? Ten years 
 at most will be nine hundred pounds. We'll pay that 
 back easy when we're rich and you're a fine man." 
 
 And Tom used to say : 
 
 "It's Jamie'll be the grand man. He's the one at the 
 academy, except in the arithmetic, where he's a born fool. 
 I can beat him at the arithmetic and John would if he 
 weren't a lazy gowk. Besides Jamie'll be the first to go."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS 
 
 THE wee house in which the Lawries were brought 
 up was in a small grey town on the sea looking over 
 to the hills of Cumberland. These were their Blue Moun- 
 tains beyond which lay adventure and five kingdoms each 
 waiting for its prince or princess. Four kingdoms and a 
 half would be more accurate, for, when John thought of 
 his, he decided that he would have to sell half of it in 
 order to have some money by him. He had already begun 
 to put by his bawbees, whereas Tom used to lend his upon 
 interest to Jamie, who would squander all he laid hands 
 on in buying fishing tackle or kites he was a great one 
 for kite-flying or goodies and ribbons for the lassies, his 
 sisters and others. He crippled himself for weeks once 
 in order to buy his sister Mary, the only student of the 
 family, a copy of Lempriere's Classical Dictionary in 
 which to verify her references in the verses she was 
 always writing, though he would tease her over her pro- 
 ductions until she wept. His unkindness, however, was 
 forgotten in his generosity and she was more devoted to 
 him than he knew and often saved him from the conse- 
 quences of his escapades both at home and at the acad- 
 emy. She would help him with his arithmetic and got 
 him to teach her Greek, as he learned it, for as a girl she 
 was precluded from that study. As a result Greek was 
 
 15
 
 16 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the only subject to which he applied himself, for all the 
 others he took easily and brilliantly, digesting just enough 
 to satisfy or to hoodwink the dominie. The only two 
 prizes he ever got were for Greek and for Latin verses, 
 and both these with performances so excellent that the 
 dominie, lifted by enthusiasm above routine, had visions 
 of an education leading even unto Parnassus, or, failing 
 that, a Professor's chair. He called on Margaret and 
 praised Jamie to the skies, not only as a scholar, but also 
 as a moral influence. 
 
 "It is fine," he said, "how they look up to him. It is 
 the dream of every schoolmaster to have a boy like that 
 pass through his hands, to have at least one name rising 
 above the crowd of ministers and farmers and clerks that 
 constitute his enormous and dour family." 
 
 "Aye," said Margaret, "you'll hear of my sons." 
 
 "The lad should go to Edinburgh, not only for the 
 learning, but for his character, to be among great men, 
 in a city where he can see any day illustrious men shed- 
 ding their lustre upon the streets." 
 
 "I've good promises for my sons," replied Margaret. 
 "They're to go among the English." 
 
 "That's a pity," said the dominie. 
 
 "Pity? My brothers and cousins are there. It is a 
 great rich country." 
 
 "It is a country without character if history goes for 
 anything, though I'll not deny they have great universi- 
 ties." 
 
 "There'll be no university where my sons are going, 
 except the university of life." 
 
 "There are some characters need stiffening for that." 
 
 "Would you send my son Tom to the university ?" 
 
 "I would not. He's a good lad, Tom, but no scholar." 
 
 "He has twice the sense of his brother."
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS 
 
 "I'm not denying that. Sense isn't everything." 
 
 "It has been to me." Margaret was growing impatient 
 with the melancholy man's insistence on a project which 
 she had no intention of considering. "It has been to me. 
 Where would I be without it?" 
 
 "Well, I'll give Jamie his due. He'll find his own way 
 out." 
 
 "Aye," replied Margaret, "and Tom will find a way 
 out for all of us." 
 
 That in effect was Margaret's programme for Tom. 
 She could take charge of him as she never could of Jamie, 
 who had adopted a position separate from and annoyingly 
 above the family. There was no assertiveness about him. 
 He maintained his position rather by absence of opinions 
 than by any expression of them. Obedient and consid- 
 erate to his mother, he had, she felt, enormous reserva- 
 tions in his acceptance of her authority. He eluded her, 
 not as his father had done with a touching and inspiring 
 smile, but with a nervous blankness that was almost de- 
 fiance. In this he was entirely without support. Even 
 Mary was secret in the allegiance she owed him and was 
 openly against him in the periods of disgrace to which 
 he was by general consent damned after his "rages." 
 
 These had been frequent in him when he was a child, 
 nearly always inexplicable, coming with hardly a sign of 
 a storm, tearing out of him in his exasperation at some 
 stupidity in Tom, some slyness in John, or some slavish- 
 ness in his sisters. Only once did he turn on his mother. 
 
 He was working in the kitchen, writing an essay for a 
 prize (which he did not win). His mother was cooking 
 at the same table and, being rather happy, made a clatter 
 with her spoons and dumped down her pastry-board with 
 a careless slam. He did not mind that, but when she as- 
 sumed a kindly voice and said : "There'll be pastry bits
 
 18 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 to-night, Jamie," he growled out : "I'd liefer you'd give 
 them to the pigs." '"Pigs, indeed !" "Ay, they're better 
 than we are wi' our damned pride. Aye, I'd liefer be 
 one in a sow's litter than what I am." He said this in a 
 thin furious voice that showed all the blistering heat that 
 was in him. 
 
 Margaret stared at him, took up a spoon, put it down 
 and took it up again. 
 
 "Leave the room," she said. 
 
 Jamie took up his essay and tore it across and across, 
 crumpled the pieces up and thrust them into his trousers 
 pocket. Then with a sob he plunged out of the room, be- 
 wildered, angry, blind with shame, shaken with a despair- 
 ing mortification at his inability to understand what it 
 was in himself that could so break down his control and 
 mock his natural desire for affection, peace, good-humour. 
 He did not even know what he had said something 
 about pigs so complete was the possession under which 
 he laboured. The pain in his mother's face was clear 
 enough, but not less clear than the anger and the injured 
 pride and outraged authority, things which that power 
 in him must deny. It was not enough to avoid them. 
 That was somehow mean and revolting to him. Not to 
 give her pain would have been sweet to him if there 
 could have been any other means of escaping it. There 
 was none. The wrath had to be evaded or faced and 
 he could not but do the last. 
 
 He was fifteen when he was guilty of this explosion 
 and his mother chose to punish him by sewing up his 
 trousers pockets, saying as she did so that it would keep 
 his hands out of them and prevent him slouching. Also, 
 she refused to speak to him and addressed herself to him 
 when necessary through his brothers. He kept his mouth 
 shut for a whole fortnight and avoided the house as much
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS 19 
 
 as possible. At first it was some comfort to him that his 
 disgrace threw a shadow over the whole household, but 
 his brothers and sisters quickly recovered and he was left 
 to grizzle over the problem of his inability to be as happy 
 as they. What brought him the greatest suffering was 
 that he could not remember what he had said; not the 
 words, hardly the sense, though the feeling was plain 
 enough : only too plainly evil. Only the evil, the sins 
 denounced in the kirk by the minister had a terrifying 
 effect on him; they were disgusting in their cold malig- 
 nancy. This thing was all of whirling fire and magnifi- 
 cently strong, bearing the weight of his ordinarily de- 
 spondent personality as easily as a feather. But it was 
 unrecognised and ignored: only its strange effect upon 
 himself was seen and regarded as a nuisance, so that he 
 was denied the affection for which he hungered. 
 
 Only Mary was unable to bear his silence and to leave 
 it to him to break it. She was worried because he was 
 getting into trouble at the academy, for leaving his tasks 
 undone. One night she followed him up to the room he 
 shared with Tom and found him glaring out of the win- 
 dow into the neighbour's garden. She sat on the bed and 
 opened the Anabasis of Xenophon on which he should 
 have been working and started to construe the sixteen 
 lines he had to do for the morning, and to write down the 
 words, Greek and English, alternately. 
 
 "What are you doing, wee Mary ?" 
 
 "I'm doing our Greek, Jamie." 
 
 "To hell wi' the Greek," he said. "I'll soon be finished 
 wi' the academy and all that. A wish I could be a man 
 all at once, I do." 
 
 "For why?" 
 
 "I'd understand a thing or two, then, maybe. Ech! I 
 hate them creeping into your body inch by inch, I do."
 
 20 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "Is there wunnerful thoughts in your head, Jamie?" 
 
 "Never a one." 
 
 "Never a one? Better the Greek than nothing." 
 
 Jamie flung himself on the bed, and together they 
 plodded through the page of the wisdom of Socrates. 
 It was hard for the boy to keep his attention fixed. Sud- 
 denly he sat up and said : 
 
 "I'd feel better, wee Mary, if I didna think Tom sic a 
 terrible fule." 
 
 "Tom! Ye mustn't judge." 
 
 "I dinna judge, I know." 
 
 With that he began to whistle. Then he laughed. 
 
 "We're all planned for, to be put out, me in the Keith 
 mills to keep a place warm for Tom. You're to go out to 
 the Edinburgh Keiths, that's Mrs. Forshaw, to be a gover- 
 ness and to make footprints for Margaret to step in. I've 
 been thinking of Napoleon and wondering what he would 
 do in the like circumstances. He wasn't so unlike me, 
 with a wonderful mother and all." 
 
 "The idea! Napoleon!" 
 
 "Not so like neither. I would hate to be a soldier. 
 I'd rather die." 
 
 "D'you think you'll remember the Greek to-morrow?" 
 
 "I'll make a show. You're a good little maggot, wee 
 Mary, and I'll read your poems to-night, and I'll go down 
 and tell my mother I'm a beast and a pollution of the air 
 she and her children breathe." He drew in his breath, 
 for he had just remembered what he had said to her. "By 
 gorm !" he cried. "What a !" 
 
 "What is it?" asked Mary. 
 
 "The things in my head'll no fit into yours." 
 
 With that he went down into the kitchen and apologised 
 to his mother, who told him she was proud of him and 
 bade him never forget that he was a Keith as well as a
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS 21 
 
 Lawrie, and, to boot, a minister's son. These were then 
 three good reasons why it behoved him not to be as other 
 men. 
 
 Margaret had been and still was rather frightened and 
 was talking her way back to assurance. Jamie was much 
 too fearful of her to conceive that such could be her case 
 and she seemed to him only to be taking an unfair ad- 
 vantage of his apology. He was filled with resentment 
 and disliked being told not to be as other men when there 
 were so many whom he could admire and wish to love. - 
 Doctor M'Phail, Ben Lamont, the minister's son, who was 
 at Oxford University, the Customs officer and Farquhar- 
 son, the tailor, and his Uncle Shiel, who was a farmer in 
 the Glen Kens and with his open house gave his nephews 
 and nieces a happiness to which they could turn from the 
 ambitious future that, whether they liked it or not, 
 awaited them. As a matter of fact they never consid- 
 ered whether they liked it. They were taught that they 
 must rise above ninety pounds a year charity at that 
 and their superiority to the people who lived in houses 
 similar to their own was, outside their assumption of it, 
 real enough to make their soaring future axiomatic. The 
 success of Jamie and Mary in book-learning was fortified 
 by the physical prowess of Tom and John, who, though 
 they fought like terriers with each other, were instantly 
 combined against any onslaught upon either. As for 
 Margaret, she was a beautiful child, and everybody loved 
 her and thought her much too good for this earth, an 
 opinion which she accepted as gracefully as she did every- 
 thing and with a deprecating indifference which gave her 
 for all but John, who hated her, a potent charm. 
 
 Altogether they were a happy family in a place and a 
 country where happiness was never too common. Their 
 living was hard and their food was plain and they were
 
 22 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 given to understand that though their future would be 
 splendid it would certainly not be easy. Margaret was 
 shrewd enough and very skilful at imbuing her children 
 with a proper spirit. She did not interfere overmuch with 
 their quarrels among themselves but only when their con- 
 duct was in any detail unworthy of the family, of a father 
 who was surely an angel, of a mother who, in spite of all 
 obstacles, had kept the home together, and by force of 
 character had turned disadvantage to advantage. Tom 
 particularly was often regaled with stories of the men 
 from the countryside who, without birth and with small 
 education, had gone to the mills of Lanarkshire or Lan- 
 cashire, "got on" and become fine men. 
 
 "Oh aye," Tom used to say, "I'll get on." 
 
 "And you'll not forget your brothers and sisters." 
 
 "I'll not forget my mother." 
 
 Then Margaret would embrace him and tell him she 
 was sure he would never do that. 
 
 So intent was she on preparing her sons for success 
 that she lost sight of their moral education and assumed 
 that, as sons of a minister, their religion must be satis- 
 factory. The Sabbath was observed rigidly in her house. 
 The blinds were down all day and no book was allowed 
 to be read but the Bible, and here again Jamie got into 
 trouble, for he was found to have torn the pages out of 
 his Bible and substituted those of The Faerie Queene. 
 When he was asked why he had done this thing he said : 
 
 "I prefer't." 
 
 But his treasure was confiscated and burned for an 
 abortion, an unholy book in holy covers. 
 
 For a few Sundays after that trouble Margaret made 
 her eldest son, for his good, read aloud to her from the 
 Bible, but he would read nothing but the genealogical 
 tables, saying that begat was a good word and would
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS 23 
 
 make a fine oath. Here he discovered his mother's one 
 weakness towards him. His comical, solemn way of say- 
 ing absurdities appealed to her sense of humour and when 
 he spoke to her then she could never keep up her stern 
 front. But because he made her laugh she distrusted him 
 only the more and would write long letters about him to 
 Doctor M'Phail or her cousin, Shiel. The Doctor had 
 Jamie to stay with him a few months before he was to 
 go on his adventure into the world, observed the boy 
 carefully, drew him out, stirred up his pride by laughing 
 at him, came to his own conclusions and wrote to Mar- 
 garet : 
 
 "The boy has no danger but his own innards. I've 
 warned him and recommended Turkey rhubarb. He was 
 interested and asked questions about himself. He's been 
 at my books too, the rogue. I've done for him what I 
 imagine his own blessed father would have done and now 
 we must throw him out to sink or swim." 
 
 The Doctor gave Jamie a copy of Burns's Poems and a 
 golden sovereign with King William's head on it. When 
 he got home he gave it to Tom; who, with help from 
 John, produced seventeen shillings in silver for it, recoup- 
 ing himself for a long outstanding loan, with interest, of 
 two shillings and sixpence. Four shillings were spent on 
 a feast in honour of the departure for the foundations of 
 the family fortune, three were given to Mary towards a 
 set of the Waverley Novels which she coveted, and the 
 rest disappeared in the purchase of knives and goodies 
 and fishing hooks for school friends. To disguise this 
 reckless expenditure, ten shillings had to be borrowed 
 from Tom on a promise to repay out of the first month's 
 salary.
 
 24 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Mary packed her brother's wooden chest for him and 
 moistened his shirts with her tears. Margaret painted 
 him a text, "The Greatest of These is Charity," and Tom 
 and John bought him a walking-stick. Farquharson the 
 tailor had made him what he called an English suit, and 
 for the first time in his life he wore a collar of the type 
 made popular by Lord Byron, the martyr to liberty, who 
 had died on Mary's brithday, at Missolonghi. 
 
 The whole family walked out to the carrier's to say 
 farewell and Jamie alarmed them all and disgusted Tom 
 by bursting into tears. He was thinking that he might 
 not see them or the country he had loved to roam in for 
 years, and when the carrier drove off and his kinsfolk 
 were soon out of sight he was sick with a feeling of lone- 
 liness and enraged by his inability to imagine what he was 
 going towards. He yearned after his mother and ached 
 to be with her and to stay by her side, to repair the lone- 
 liness from which she too, in his imagination, had suf- 
 fered. But he was soon seized with a natural young 
 curiosity, watching the horses, the driver, the other occu- 
 pants of the cart, the hills diminishing as they were ap- 
 proached, feeling for the whiskers which he hoped were 
 appearing on his cheeks, and every ten minutes pulling out 
 of his fob the new watch sent to him by his Uncle Shiel.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD 
 
 IT is time to give my readers a hint as to the period 
 through which they are to follow the establishment 
 of the illustrious family, over whose members they have 
 the advantage of knowing the history of the time. Such 
 an advantage is unfair and if they are to understand 
 James and his kinsfolk they must forget it and remember 
 only that Queen Victoria had lately ascended the throne, 
 that ships had recently crossed the Atlantic under steam 
 and that, though Napoleon Bonaparte was long since 
 dead, yet he was in the imaginations of all men the most 
 lively figure, the arrivist who had arrived, but, being only 
 a Frenchman, he had had to depart. Had he been an 
 Englishman, a la bonne heure! It was annoying to have 
 a chit of a girl on the throne, but Englishmen could 
 always smile at Fate and show themselves gentlemen. 
 As for the Scots, being romantic, and, thanks to John 
 Knox, educated, they could beat the English at their own 
 game, because they could regard it as a means and not 
 as an end. They were charged with destiny, the service 
 of the clan, and a shining name was of more worth to 
 them than riches, though these were necessary for secur- 
 ity's sake, a guarantee that their light would not be hid. 
 It was almost a tradition in the Keith family, for in- 
 stance, that the English were soft and slow, a blind race, 
 
 25
 
 26 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 tripping their way along, and needing a dog to guide 
 them. James Lawrie's head was full of this tradition on 
 his long, uncomfortable journey by sea and land. He 
 was very sick on the water and very cold on the land, for 
 it was early spring and dirty weather and he took his first 
 railway journey over the thirty miles from the coast to 
 Thrigsby without marvelling at it. The smell of the en- 
 gine on the Glasgow packet-boat had given him a fierce 
 hatred of machinery driven by steam, and the discomfort 
 of the open truck called a third-class carriage made him 
 incapable of anything but a longing for his journey's end. 
 When at last he reached it and was turned out with his 
 chest he sat on it shivering, with his mind a blank, so 
 utterly was he disappointed by the aspect of the city in 
 which he was to seek his fortune. It was so black, so 
 huddled, so ungenial, with its tall chimneys and slate 
 roofs, dank and wet under the rain. It looked mean and 
 poverty-stricken, disordered and uncared for. And there 
 was not a soul in the station to speak to him or even to 
 notice him. Also for many hours he had had nothing to 
 eat : his stomach was protesting and he hardly cared what 
 became of him. 
 
 He tried once to accost a stranger in his best English 
 but it was not understood, nor could he make anything of 
 the stranger's speech. Then he was overcome with shy- 
 ness and could attempt no more. For half-an-hour he 
 sat on his chest, deciding that he would leave it there and 
 walk home or run away to a war. 
 
 At last he was greeted by a woman who said he was 
 a likely lad and had a lucky face, in itself a gift sufficient 
 to put heart into a creature. Doctor M'Phail had warned 
 him against women and he was filled with dread. How- 
 ever, there was so much kindness in her face and she 
 was so persistent in her attentions that at last he loosened
 
 THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD 27 
 
 his tongue and told her he was a Scotsman come to be 
 placed in the world with his kinsman, Andrew Keith. 
 
 "Andrew Keith, is it?" said she. "Well I never! Why 
 Andrew Keith lives just round the corner from me." 
 
 At this point she was joined by a little undersized man 
 with enormous shoulders and a birth-mark over one eye. 
 
 "Eh! Mike," she said, "isn't that lucky. Here's An- 
 drew Keith's own nevvy come to Thrigsby and no one to 
 meet him. You can carry his chest home and him and 
 me'll go off and have summat t'eat and join you later." 
 
 She took Jamie by the arm and led him slowly out of 
 the station, he looking back for his chest, and not daring 
 to protest in his anxiety not to make a fool of himself in 
 his first encounter with the great world of England. 
 Mike had hoisted the chest onto his broad shoulders and 
 came lurching and staggering after them. The woman 
 talked all the time. 
 
 "We've heard tell you was coming," she said. "There's 
 always a deal o' talk about Andrew Keith and his doings. 
 The good-looking Keiths they're called in Thrigsby, and 
 it was said that the best favoured of 'em all was coming." 
 
 Mike had caught them up, passed them and disappeared 
 at a run round the corner. Realising that he had made a 
 fool of himself, Jamie started to run after him, but when 
 he turned the corner there was no sight of the man; 
 neither, on retracing his steps, could he discover trace 
 of the woman. He went cold with shame and dread of 
 the confession he would have to make to his uncle. It 
 was growing dusk and he determined to make his way 
 to Clibran Hall, where presumably he was expected, to 
 pretend that he had lost his luggage on the railway and 
 so bury the tale of his folly for ever. 
 
 Clibran Hall was a couple of miles out from the centre 
 of the town, half-way to the weaving village of Clure,
 
 28 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 which young Lawrie reached before he discovered he had 
 passed the house he was seeking. When he asked at an 
 inn how far he was from Andrew Keith's house, a man 
 sitting in the bar parlour spat on the floor, raised his pint 
 pot and threw its contents in the boy's face, growling out 
 words in the unintelligible language of the place. How- 
 ever, the landlord of the inn bade the man behave him- 
 self and told Jamie he must go back two miles until he 
 came to a great yellow house with a hornbeam by the 
 gate. Jamie remembered the house but could not imagine 
 that any relative of his could live in so huge a mansion. It 
 was three times as big as Ardross, the home of the Keiths. 
 
 He had begun now to recover from his mortification at 
 the loss of his chest, feeling quite sure that he would be 
 able to carry it off with a lie, which he had enjoyed in- 
 venting down to the smallest detail. His arrival among 
 the English had become more interesting to him and he 
 was so filled with admiration for his lie as a lie that he 
 thought of telling Andrew Keith the truth first and the 
 lie afterwards, so that he too might appreciate and ad- 
 mire. His Uncle Shiel would certainly have done so, and 
 he imagined Andrew Keith to be not unlike Uncle Shiel. 
 Great was his disappointment then, when, on his admis- 
 sion to the great yellow house, he was taken in charge 
 by a red-faced butler, who, on hearing his name, told 
 him he was to wait. 
 
 "But I'm expected," said Jamie, smelling good roast 
 mutton and getting very hungry. "Mr. Keith's my uncle, 
 and I've come all the way from Scotland." 
 
 "Mr. Keith is at dinner and is not to be disturbed." 
 
 Jamie was turned into a little den of a library that 
 reeked of stale tobacco smoke, and was crowded from 
 floor to ceiling with books. On a table was a tray with 
 glasses, a decanter of wine and a biscuit-box. Jamie took
 
 THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD 29 
 
 down Tom Jones and was soon deep in it, sitting near the 
 biscuits and nibbling at them until he realised to his dis- 
 may that he had eaten them all. "No luck to-day," he 
 thought and started out on another lie. It was not half 
 ready when the door opened and Andrew Keith entered. 
 
 "Hum, ha!" he said, bringing his lips close together 
 and blowing out his nostrils. "Hum, ha. Reading, are 
 we?" 
 
 Jamie jumped to his feet and stood blushing and anx- 
 ious. Andrew held out two fingers, which his nephew 
 seized and shook roughly. 
 
 "Manners, manners. Stand up and let me have a look 
 at you. Would we like a glass of Madeira wine after our 
 journey? A glass of wine and a biscuit." 
 
 His face was still shining with the good dinner he had 
 eaten. Jamie shook with rage as he said it and forgot 
 his lie about the biscuits. His uncle looked into the box, 
 guessed what had happened and clapped the lid on it 
 again without a word. Then he poured out half-a-glass 
 of Madeira and handed it to his nephew, sank back into 
 a big horsehair chair, and, placing spectacles on his jut- 
 ting nose, proceeded to inspection. 
 
 "A reg'lar Lawrie," he said. "Drink your wine, boy. 
 You won't be able to afford wine this many a year. And 
 now tell we what you want to do, how you left your good 
 mother, what kind of a journey you had and what you 
 saw by the way." 
 
 Andrew Keith had a large white face surrounded 
 with a thin fringe of grey whisker, a long chin that sank 
 deep into his chest as he looked up with his small keen 
 eyes under their puckered lids. He wore a white silk tie 
 filling in the aperture of his low-cut waistcoat, and seem- 
 ing to the alarmed boy an extension of his face. Jamie 
 stuttered out:
 
 30 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "I I was very sick on the boat." 
 
 "Ah, hum. No steamboats when I made the journey; 
 no railways; glad enough we were in those days of the 
 Duke's Canal. Ah ! It's all made easy for you youngsters. 
 Though there's the same rules to be observed fear God, 
 honour the King and your parents and those set in au- 
 thority over you, apply yourself to your duty, read little 
 but wisely, and when you talk, keep all your words in 
 reason. I ah, hum am going to give you a thorough 
 trial, to see what stuff you are made of, for your mother's 
 sake. You come on her side from an honourable and an 
 ancient family. Keep that in your mind in all your deal- 
 ings and do nothing which could injure its ah 'solid 
 place in the world. You will begin, as I began, as every 
 young man should begin, at the bottom. The success you 
 meet will be the result of your own endeavours and my 
 good will when you have deserved it. Now, what is 
 your first duty?" 
 
 Jamie glanced nervously round the comfortable room. 
 The Madeira wine warming up his little clamorous stom- 
 ach had made him light-headed. He hazarded : 
 
 "To get rich.*' At once he knew that was wrong and 
 replaced it with : "To be an honour to my family." 
 
 "Tut," said Andrew. "We'll be content if you're no 
 disgrace. What has your schooling been ?" 
 
 "I've a prize for Latin verses." 
 
 "Oh aye, it's good to be a scholar when you have your 
 position, but not till then. A bit of the Latin is very 
 powerful with these ignorant folk here. But that'll do. 
 Ye've got me havering. Ye can go to your bed now and, 
 when you say your prayers, thank God for it and think 
 of the many would be glad of it." 
 
 He shifted his wine-glass from his right hand and held
 
 THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD 31 
 
 out two fingers. Jamie remembered his chest, hesitated 
 and trembled out his lie. 
 
 "A've lost ma kist." 
 
 "Your chest, lad?" 
 
 "Aye, wi' a new suit, and three sarks, and a pair of 
 boots, some books, a box o' shortbread and a kite." 
 
 "Lost your chest?" 
 
 "Aye. It was the railway train." 
 
 Andrew brinked. "They screwed your head on for 
 you before they cut your apron strings." 
 
 The taunt so enraged Jamie that he burst into tears and 
 blurted out the truth how his chest had been stolen from 
 him after he had brought it safely through all his long 
 journey. His uncle became kinder then, rose from his 
 chair, patted his shoulder and told him he would see 
 the police in the morning. The bell was rung, the butler 
 appeared, received instructions to find a nightshirt and 
 led the unhappy James off to an enormous room, heavily 
 curtained, where he had a huge four-poster bed. He 
 shuffled out of his clothes and into his borrowed night- 
 shirt and lay terrifying himself with the idea that the top 
 of the four-poster was coming down slowly, slowly to 
 suffocate him. 
 
 He felt very, very small in the soft feather mattress 
 which billowed up on either side of him. The linen sheets 
 were very cold to his body and he missed Tom, without 
 whom he had not slept for years. . . . The world on 
 the other side of the mountains was distressingly large, 
 black, empty, indifferent; he had made all that uncom- 
 fortable, tedious journey to find a great, callous world 
 full of thieves and big- faced uncles, who seemed not only 
 indifferent to the great intention with which he had come 
 among them, but even hostile to it. This indifference, 
 this hostility made the world for him as big, as stuffy, as
 
 32 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 ominous as the four-poster bed in which he lay. It was 
 a cruel denial of all that he had imagined. Though he 
 had chafed against the small life at home, yet there had 
 been in it gems of liberty which were despoiled by An- 
 drew Keith and his big face, his big yellow house, and his 
 big four-poster. The Keiths of his mother's tales had 
 been such wonders that there was nothing for the young 
 Lawries to do but to emulate them, and Jamie, knowing 
 that he must, felt on that first contact with them that he 
 could not.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE PETER LESLIES 
 
 BREAKFAST was at seven, on the stroke, and this 
 meal Jamie was permitted to share with his uncle. 
 There were a pork-pie and beer for Andrew : porridge 
 and milk for the boy: and honey in the comb for both. 
 After a decent interval they set out for the counting- 
 house behind Princess Street. It was a square, plain 
 building, among other square, plain buildings, hard by a 
 canal. The street was thronged with men and boys going 
 to their work, and already there were drays and lorries 
 clattering over the cobbles. Already out of some of the 
 square buildings came the whir and thud of engines. The 
 noise and the bustle awed and excited Jamie. He began 
 to feel important, as though it was all because of himself 
 and his uncle. The men on the pathway made room for 
 them as they approached and some of them said, "Morn- 
 ing, sir." Then, watching his uncle, Jamie saw that he 
 was taking no notice, but pursed up his lips and tucked 
 down his head and walked a little quicker. So Jamie 
 pursed up his lips and tucked down his head and walked 
 a little quicker, fixing his eye on the brass plate which 
 said Keith Bros. & Stevenson. Inside himself he cried : 
 "That's me, James Keith Lawrie," and indeed, as he 
 crossed the threshold, the building seemed to grow per- 
 ceptibly smaller, only to swell out enormously at once, as 
 
 33
 
 34 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 he realised that he did not know his way about in it. He 
 shambled up behind his uncle and followed him through a 
 roomful of young men (a horrible ordeal), along a pass- 
 age and into a quiet, remote chamber with a huge desk, 
 a thick Turkey carpet, a loud-ticking clock, a shelf of 
 books, a portrait of the Duke of Bridgewater, a wooden 
 model of a steam-engine, and a miniature bust of Ark- 
 wright. Here Andrew Keith seemed to be more sure of 
 himself than in his big house; his manner changed; his 
 face grew almost animated. He took out his watch and 
 compared it with the big clock which he could see through 
 the high grimy window. It wanted two minutes to nine. 
 There were letters on the table. He fingered these, 
 pleased to have so large a pile of them. At last he 
 cleared his throat and addressed Jamie : 
 
 "This is where you will begin your career. Find your 
 way about the office and the warehouse and then we will 
 give you a spell at the mill. You will be given every 
 opportunity to learn every side of the trade because you 
 are my nephew, but while you are learning you must for- 
 get that you are my nephew." 
 
 "Yes," said Jamie. 
 
 "You may come to see me every other Sunday, but 
 here in the office we shall only meet as employer and 
 employee:" 
 
 "Yes," said Jamie. 
 
 "Much will depend on your choice of friends and in 
 that it would be well for you to remember who you are." 
 
 Jamie was suffering from a reaction and the only echo 
 this saying found in him was the question : "Who am I ?" 
 
 Andrew continued : 
 
 "It only remains to warn you against the temptations 
 of a great city, but a young man with so good a mother 
 as you have had should be able to resist them."
 
 THE PETER LESLIES 35 
 
 "Yes," said Jamie, rather pleasantly excited by the 
 warning. 
 
 "Above all, keep clear of politics until you have an 
 income and a vote to steady you." 
 
 A middle-aged man entered and wished Mr. Keith 
 good-morning. 
 
 "My kinsman, James Lawrie," said Andrew. 
 
 The middle-aged man grunted : 
 
 "In my room, sir?" 
 
 "No. He is to begin with Leslie. Tell Leslie I wish 
 to see him and come back yourself when he is gone." 
 
 The middle-aged man disappeared and was replaced by 
 a thin, gloomy man who stood glowering down at his 
 boots as Andrew presented his nephew. 
 
 "Leslie," he said, "has very kindly consented to take 
 you into his house. My nephew, Leslie, has had the mis- 
 fortune to lose his luggage on his journey here. You 
 will kindly apply to the cashier for seven pounds ten to 
 buy him the necessary clothes and boots." 
 
 "Yes," said the gloomy man, "my wife will see to it." 
 
 "I could do it myself," interjected Jamie, hating the 
 idea of being handed over to a woman. 
 
 "Mr. Leslie will see to it," said Andrew severely. "It 
 is time for you to begin your duties, but first could you 
 describe the persons who robbed you of your chest?" 
 
 "The man," replied Jamie eagerly, vividly remember- 
 ing, "was short and broad-shouldered, shabbily dressed, 
 and he wore clogs. He had a big red mark over his right 
 eye and the woman called him Mike. She was pleasant- 
 looking, with bright eyes and full lips. She was short 
 and had a very big bosom." 
 
 "That'll do," Andrew cut him short. "I'm sure Mr. 
 Leslie will be a good friend to you." 
 
 Leslie led Jamie down a long passage and up a few
 
 36 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 stairs into a bare room along all sides of which were 
 desks and tall stools. At the end of this room was a 
 little square window and next to it a desk, at which sat 
 another boy who, as they approached, buried his nose in 
 a great ledger lying open before him. 
 
 "Bell," said Leslie, "this is Lawrie. He will take over 
 your work from to-morrow, when you are to go into Mr. 
 Clulow's room. Show him what you have to do, and in 
 the dinner hour you can take him over the warehouse." 
 
 Jamie and Bell eyed each other shyly. Bell grinned as 
 Leslie turned away. Jamie took his grin for friendliness 
 and warmed to him. 
 
 "Is it very difficult ?" 
 
 "Combing your hair's a sight harder." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "You'd better begin copying letters and if anybody 
 comes to the window you can ask them what the hell they 
 want and tell me." 
 
 So Jamie began by copying letters all very much alike 
 about bales and freights and deliveries. These letters 
 only interested him when they referred to payment and 
 were offensive. Then he rather relished copying them, 
 though he was always relieved when there came a tap 
 at the window and he was told Wyman, McClure, or Tib- 
 bett's, or Clomen & Co. wished to be attended to. Then 
 he referred to Bell and Bell referred to Mr. Wilcox, 
 and Mr. Wilcox referred to Mr. Leslie, who said 
 "Damn" and went out of the room. Though he was 
 interested time went slowly and he often fell to watch- 
 ing Bell, who would stop in the middle of a sentence with 
 his pen poised above the paper and stare vacantly in front 
 of him and suck his teeth or hum to himself, or slowly 
 scratch his head. Occasionally Mr. Wilcox would say 
 in a dreamy, empty voice "Mesopotamia, Mes-o-pot-
 
 THE PETER LESLIES 37 
 
 am-i-a," ringing the changes on the syllables until Mr. 
 Leslie told him to dry up. 
 
 In the dinner hour when Jamie asked why Mr. Wilcox 
 said "Mesopotamia," Bell told him that old Cocks-and- 
 hens was a great reciter and often performed : 
 
 "Penny readings, Waterloo and that. Makes ye fair 
 laugh. I heard him once tell Mr. Leslie there was a man 
 once could say Mesopotamia so as to make thousands 
 of people cry." 
 
 Jamie tried it to himself and found that he could very 
 nearly bring tears to his eyes, and he became interested 
 in Mr. Wilcox : so much so that when Bell took him round 
 the warehouse he said very little and came away with a 
 confused memory of enormous piles of cloth with men 
 lazily moving round them. He was rather shocked by 
 the indolence and the quiet of it all, for his idea of the 
 big city had been one of fierce energy. However his in- 
 terest in Mr. Wilcox remedied his disappointment and 
 when Bell took him out into the streets he shook off the 
 sleepiness which had begun to overcome him, yet, not 
 wishing to be taken for a new-comer, he strove as much 
 as possible to conceal his interest and excitement. Bell 
 showed him the new Queen's Theatre, the Town Hall, 
 the Gentleman's Concert Hall, and the new station, but 
 Jamie merely glanced at them and said : "Ou, aye," or, 
 when he remembered that he was in England, "Oh! yes." 
 
 His clothes made him very unhappy. Farquharson had 
 made his coat very short in the back and his trousers tight 
 about his calves. He was glad, indeed, that he had lost 
 his chest and would soon be in appearance as the others. 
 
 At the coffee-house where they dined he was introduced 
 to a number of young men and youths, but he was afraid 
 of them and kept his mouth shut. They all laughed a 
 great deal and he understood none of their jokes.
 
 38 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 The afternoon was like the morning, except that a 
 traveller came in with tales of success and adventures 
 on the road and an exciting account of riots in London. 
 Mr. Wilcox said : "What we need is a great orator. 
 These men don't know how to handle an audience. Eng- 
 land is going to the dogs." "Not," replied the traveller, 
 "while trade grows the way it does." "Trade!" sniffed 
 Mr. Wilcox. "I know all about that. What's the good 
 of it if it only leads to more trade?" His scorn seemed 
 very fine to Jamie, who had begun to be bored by the 
 letters he was copying. 
 
 Work stopped early in the afternoon and conversation 
 flowed freely : Mr. Leslie moving in and out of the room 
 with his hands full of papers and ledgers. Other men 
 came in and went out and when at last activity ceased 
 Mr. Wilcox asked if he might recite The Isles of Greece, 
 which he had prepared for that evening. Mr. Leslie 
 grunted and Mr. Wilcox took up his stand by the fire- 
 place, flung back his head and declaimed Byron's lyric. 
 When he had finished he said : "By Heaven, that is as 
 good as a taste of liberty, and I'm hanged if I wait for 
 the clock to strike." With that he clapped his hat on his 
 head, and strode magnificently from the room. Bell 
 laughed and said : "You've hurt his feelings by not ask- 
 ing him to recite something else." He laughed again 
 when Jamie replied : "I wish I had." 
 
 It was nearly dark when Mr. Leslie put on his hat and 
 coat and tucked a ledger under his arm and asked Jamie 
 to come with him. They walked through the streets for 
 some miles without a word. Mr. Leslie went so fast with 
 his loping steps that Jamie had to stride his hardest to 
 keep up with him. At last the thin man said gloomily : 
 "Mind children?" "I have minded my sisters," replied 
 Jamie. '"I mean, you don't object to them?" "No."
 
 THE PETER LESLIES 39 
 
 The question surprised Jamie, to whom it had never hap- 
 pened to object coolly or on principle to anything. "No," 
 he said. "No." 
 
 They came to a row of little houses that looked out over 
 fields from which a mist was rising. "This is where I 
 live," said Mr. Leslie. "Would you rather I lent you a 
 nightgown or send you out to-night with Mrs. Leslie to 
 buy your things ?" 
 
 Jamie said he would rather borrow for that night and 
 make his purchases the next day. The long silent walk 
 had depressed him and also he was anxious not to cause 
 his host any trouble. He had been feeling that he was 
 not wanted, for he knew how in his own family the pres- 
 ence of a stranger would have been resented. Besides 
 he was anxious to do the buying of his clothes himself 
 so that he might be certain of getting what he wanted. 
 
 Mr. Leslie entered the house first, to find his wife 
 waiting for them lamp in hand. She put up her face and 
 her solemn husband stooped and kissed her and said, as 
 he took his coat off : 
 
 "Well, here is Mr. Lawrie." 
 
 "But you said he was to be a lad. Why, he is nearly 
 as tall as you are. He-he !" 
 
 And Jamie realised that he was quite as tall as Mr. 
 Leslie and he fetched up as deep a voice as he could in 
 himself to say : 
 
 "Good-evening, Mrs. Leslie, it is very good of you 
 to have me." 
 
 "He-he!" she giggled. "We are only too pleased to 
 oblige Mr. Keith." 
 
 Mr. Leslie had already proceeded to the back of the 
 house and thither they followed, Mrs. Leslie giggling and 
 Jamie saying to himself that if she didn't stop he would 
 hit her in the back of the neck. She was a very little
 
 40 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 woman, with high shoulders and a short waist, so that 
 her crinoline seemed immense, rather like a huge cushion 
 in which she was immersed. However after his day spent 
 among men Jamie was grateful to her for being a woman 
 and was not disposed to be critical. Homesickness with 
 him had taken the form of a longing for his sister Mary. 
 
 The room in which he found himself was full of little 
 Leslies all crowded round their father to watch him re- 
 move his boots. There were two boys and three girls, 
 who at once became very shy and stole glances at each 
 other as the lodger was presented to them. He shook 
 hands with them all; cold, bony hands they had; and at 
 once they became busy, preparing the supper. The eld- 
 est girl disappeared with her father's boots and returned 
 in a moment with a toasting-fork and two rounds of 
 bread which Mr. Leslie proceeded to toast. As he toasted 
 he looked round the room. Presently he gave a cry of 
 fury, threw down his toasting-fork and disappeared under 
 the table. In a moment or two he emerged with a few 
 crumbs in the palm of his hand. 
 
 "Who," he asked, "who is supposed to have brushed 
 the carpet?" 
 
 "Se-Selina," said Mrs. Leslie in a quavering voice. 
 
 "I have at least the right," cried Mr. Leslie in an in- 
 jured tone, "I have at least the right to expect that, while 
 I am at work, slaving to keep life in your bodies, my house 
 will be kept decent." 
 
 "Oh! Peter," cried his wife. "Before Mr. Lawrie too. 
 Whatever will he think of us ?" 
 
 "Selina," said Peter, "go to bed!" 
 
 Selina put out her tongue at her eldest brother and 
 went out of the room. 
 
 Then Mr. Leslie picked up his toasting-fork. 
 
 "Ruined a piece of bread too."
 
 THE PETER LESLIES 41 
 
 "We didn't do that, papa," protested the eldest boy. 
 
 "Oh, George," giggled his mother, "don't torment your 
 father. What must you think of us, Mr. Lawrie?" 
 
 "I don't think anything," replied Jamie nervously, 
 wondering if Selina, who was a rather pretty child, was 
 really to go supperless. 
 
 The eldest boy looked mischievous and said : "Does 
 your father ?" 
 
 "Mr. Lawrie's father," said Peter solemnly, "Mr. Law- 
 rie's father is dead." 
 
 That produced an oppressive silence which lasted 
 through the meal and until the children had kissed their 
 father and mother good-night. Jamie kissed the girls 
 and shook hands with the boys, who grinned at him, and 
 on his host's invitation drew up to the fire. 
 
 "He-he! Mr. Lawrie," said Mrs. Leslie. "What do 
 you think of Thrigsby?" 
 
 "He's seen nothing of it yet," said her husband. 
 
 "He-he! Mr. Lawrie, I hope you like the office." 
 
 "How can he tell yet whether he likes it or not ?" 
 
 "He-he ! Mr. Lawrie, I should have known you were 
 your uncle's nephew anywhere." 
 
 "I don't see the least likeness." 
 
 "He-he ! Mr. Lawrie, you mustn't mind my husband." 
 
 "Why should he mind me, except at the office when he 
 must do as I tell him?" 
 
 So the conversation went on until it was time for bed 
 and then Mr. Leslie sent his wife upstairs, raked out the 
 fire, shut the doors, lighted Jamie up to his room, brought 
 him a nightgown and said he hoped he would sleep well 
 and be up in time for breakfast at eight. Jamie said he 
 would, but was half resolved to get up and go out into the 
 night and sleep in the streets, anywhere where he could 
 feel free of his memory of the supperless Selina, the gig-
 
 42 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 vgling Mrs. Leslie and the cutting, precise tones of her 
 husband. "I will go," he thought, "and awaken my 
 uncle. I will bring him to the window and speak to him 
 from the garden out of the darkness and tell him that as 
 his nephew I am entitled to more consideration than he 
 has shown me. I will tell him that if I am to lodge in the 
 house of one of his clerks I would prefer it to be with Mr. 
 Wilcox." The thought of his uncle, however, subdued 
 his rebellion. He was already afraid of Andrew, and be- 
 cause of his fear he decided that he hated Peter Leslie, 
 and would never stay but would go in search of his chest, 
 disappear, make his fortune, return, provide Mary with 
 a library and his mother with a coach and six. Was this 
 the fortune he had come to seek, all the way from Scot- 
 land ? He was canny enough and did not expect success 
 immediately to crown his efforts, but he did and he had 
 the right to look for more inspiring company than a man 
 who crawled after crumbs under the table, though to be 
 sure illustrious men had picked up their first sixpence in 
 the streets. Oh! but Andrew Keith had done no such 
 thing, and Andrew Keith should have known better than 
 to condemn his nephew to lodge with the Peter Les- 
 lies. "And," added Jamie in his excited thoughts, "and 
 that nephew a Lawrie." He got impatient with these 
 thoughts of his but his bed was hard and knobbly and 
 would not let him rest. "I'd make him eat his crumbs," 
 he cried. "And I'm danged if I sit copying letters 4n the 
 room with him. Ay, I'll talk with Mr. Wilcox, and Bell 
 can answer the folks at the window. Ech ! I'm an in- 
 grate, and my thoughts are wicked." They were begin- 
 ning to be haunted with visions of maidens, so out he got 
 and dropped down on his knees and prayed a good, long 
 Scots prayer of self-denunciation at the end of which he 
 slipped in a plea for Mrs. Leslie "O Lord, put it into
 
 THE PETER LESLIES 43 
 
 her heart not to giggle when she speaks to me" and a 
 blessing upon his mother. That done, he got into bed 
 again and went to sleep almost in tears at the emotion 
 he had contrived to put into the word Mesopotamia. 
 
 Selina woke him up in the morning. "Hullo!" he 
 said. "Hungry?" 
 
 "Oh no! Why?" 
 
 "Didn't you have no supper?" 
 
 "Of course not," she said. "I had my supper in the 
 kitchen. I always do, you know. Papa is in a very good 
 temper this morning. He is talking in his whistling voice 
 to the cat." 
 
 Echoing through the house Jamie heard a shrill fal- 
 setto screaming: "Oh! she was the filthy foumart, the 
 foul and filthy, and the foetid." 
 
 However, when he came downstairs, there was no sign 
 of humour upon Mr. Leslie's countenance. Breakfast 
 was hurried through and Mrs. Leslie said she would meet 
 Jamie in the dinner hour to buy his clothes. He tried to 
 protest that he was quite capable of getting them for him- 
 self but Mr. Leslie was firm and said that he must obey 
 orders, and that Jamie must learn to obey them too. 
 "Whose orders?" asked Jamie. "Your uncle's, Mr. Law- 
 rie," replied Mrs. Leslie. "Oh! my prophetic soul!" 
 cried Jamie. "I would have saved a bit of the seven 
 pound ten." "That," interjected Mr. Leslie, "is still 
 possible. Your wages are to be paid to me and I am to 
 allow you eight shillings a week, until the seven pounds 
 ten are paid off, when I am to raise the sum to ten shil- 
 lings a week." Jamie went as red as a turkey and gob- 
 bled like one in his rage and shame. He felt that his 
 uncle was mischievous and malevolent and all-powerful 
 and his high spirit could not bow to his bidding. Resent- 
 ment had been obscure in him until tyranny touched his
 
 44 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 pocket "I'll go in rags!" he said. "Oh! Mr. Lawrie!" 
 giggled Mrs. Leslie. "You can't do that. What would 
 your mamma think if we let you go about in rags? for I 
 regard myself as more responsible to your mamma than 
 to your uncle, Mr. Lawrie." 
 
 Have his mother, have Tom know that he had lost his 
 chest ? Never ! Jamie capitulated. 
 
 The morning had produced three more little Leslies, 
 two girls and a baby boy who was tied to the leg of the 
 dining-table and allowed to sprawl as he pleased over the 
 floor. 
 
 "You see," said Mrs. Leslie, "I can't help feeling for 
 you as a mother and thinking how my own boys will be 
 when they leave me." 
 
 "My mother," said Jamie, "brought us up on ninety 
 pounds a year, and is proud of it." 
 
 "You must be very fond of her, Mr. Lawrie. I shall 
 write to her " 
 
 "What on earth can you say to her?" grumbled her 
 husband. 
 
 "Oh ! just a little friendly something." 
 
 Jamie liked her for that. She had found the phrase to 
 describe herself, and it fortified him in his dislike of her 
 unbending husband. "I think I shall be very happy 
 here," he said. "Until I find my way about. And I 
 am sure my mother will be glad to hear from you." 
 
 Mr. Leslie drew his purse from his pocket, placed some 
 silver coins on the mantelpiece, and announced that it was 
 time to go. He gave orders that the parlour was to be 
 swept and dusted by Friday night when Mr. Wilcox and 
 perhaps one or two others would be coming in for a 
 friendly evening. "Will they require refreshments?" 
 asked Mrs. Leslie. '"Of course there will be refresh- 
 ments. Cakes and gingerbread and I will buy a bottle
 
 THE PETER LESLIES 45 
 
 of sherry wine. You didn't think I would invite my 
 friends here to starve." Mr. Leslie had a most exas- 
 perating trick of emphasis. He seemed to be always vi- 
 brant with irritation. In his most empty remarks, even 
 his most insignificant gesture, he was Leslie contra mun- 
 dum, and he inspired Jamie, as he did his children and 
 the clerks at the office, with awe. 
 
 There was absolutely no deception about the Leslie 
 household. It existed by, with or from Peter, the most 
 uxorious of men, and therefore, in his own eyes, the best 
 of husbands and fathers. He had no other conviction. 
 In order to be the best of husbands and fathers he did 
 his duty by his employer and fulfilled his duty to God as 
 a churchwarden at the newly built church of S. James 
 the Less in Kennedy Street. (Half the streets in that 
 district of Thrigsby bore Scots names.) No denying 
 Peter's authority in his own home. If his children asked 
 Why, he replied : "Because I say so" ; and if they made 
 the least show of protest he would say: "Don't argue 
 with me !" 
 
 He took charge of Jamie's religious education and per- 
 suaded him to sing in the choir. This meant that two at 
 least of the young man's evenings in the week were safely 
 accounted for.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 SUFFERING 
 
 T F there was no subtlety about Peter Leslie, so that you 
 -*- had the whole man in his conceit, there were continual 
 astonishments in his wife. Her thoughts were like flies 
 on a wall, bewildering to herself and to those with whom 
 she conversed until they learned to ignore her prattle, and 
 to accept the friendly happiness that bubbled out of her. 
 Jamie learned to do this almost insensibly from her chil- 
 dren, who never paid any attention to anything she said 
 and treated her always with affectionate indulgence. She 
 had stories of fables and old songs which were an even 
 greater delight to her than they were to her family. In- 
 deed it always seemed an effort to her to remember that 
 she was older than her children and she would make that 
 effort only when her husband was in the house. Jamie 
 used to marvel at her indifference to Selina's or Layton's 
 misdeeds. She would never be angry, but would say, as 
 if to remind herself: "You know your father will be 
 quite upset!" and then she would take steps to repair or 
 conceal the damage, even sometimes going as far as to 
 pawn her clothes or her jewels to obtain money. But 
 against Peter she would never defend Selina or Layton, 
 though she would argue for the little ones who could not 
 present a case against injustice. 
 
 She admitted Jamie to her family and treated him as 
 a child, that is to say, as her equal. He responded and 
 
 46
 
 SUFFERING 47 
 
 was devoted to her, though his happiness with her aggra- 
 vated his sensibility and made the adult affairs in which 
 he had to take part outside her house repellent to him. 
 Peter became a bugbear for he was so obsequious in the 
 office, so self-assertive (not to say self- worshipful) at 
 home. And Jamie suffered, continually and obscurely, 
 suffered so acutely at moments that he was astonished 
 at his own general cheerfulness. How to make a career 
 in a world that took absolutely no notice of him, snarled 
 at him when he did ill and ignored what he did well, 
 and was not in the least interested to find out what he 
 could or could not do? The indifference of the world 
 outside Mrs. Leslie aggravated his tendency to feel that 
 he was at least as great as Napoleon, and when he 
 bungled a job at the office he would tell himself that it 
 was because the work was beneath his powers. 
 Heavens! How slowly the days would go, how the 
 weeks would drag, how the life at home slipped away 
 from him, leaving him flaccid, cut off from his original 
 source of energy! The letters that came from home 
 were a mockery: his brothers regarded him with envy, 
 his mother with pride and hope. He was out in the 
 
 world making a career! Making a ? Making a 
 
 fool of himself, falling in love with Mrs. Leslie and 
 Selina (aged 13) in turn. And that was a new source 
 of misery. Selina would tease him and Mrs. Leslie was 
 entirely impervious to his passion and would kiss and 
 fondle him innocently and maternally, until he would be 
 sick with hatred of Peter as the insuperable bar to the 
 satisfaction of his desires. He gave up singing in the 
 choir on that account. His conscience would not allow 
 him to sing the Magnificat or the Nunc dimittis while 
 his heart was full of loathing of Peter Leslie sitting there 
 so smug in the churchwarden's pew with his wife and
 
 48 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 five children behind him. Jamie gave up singing in the 
 choir and when Peter inquired into the matter said that 
 the church was too High for him and took himself off 
 to a Low one, where he became enamoured of a maiden, 
 the daughter of a saddler, forgot both Mrs. Leslie and 
 Selina and was for a few months extremely and 
 lugubriously pious. 
 
 His intentions were honourable. He was invited to 
 tea by the saddler in the best parlour above the shop, 
 and, being entirely at a loss for conversation, avowed 
 himself and was accepted as a suitor. He was horrified 
 but unable to extricate himself. The duties were ardu- 
 ous, the maiden exacting and devout. On Sundays the 
 unhappy youth was kept praying and singing from early 
 morn to late night. When he was left alone with the 
 object of his affections for an hour in the afternoon 
 she made him read aloud from the sermons of the late 
 Vicar of Thrigsby. 
 
 It was a great relief to him when his uncle was in- 
 formed of the affair and crushed it with a word. The 
 saddler was given to understand that young Lawrie was 
 not and had no chance of being his uncle's heir and 
 when Jamie next visited the parlour above the shop it 
 was to find a spotty-faced rival nursing the volume of 
 sermons. Now rivalry was odious to his temper. He 
 hated a contest and avoided this as he had avoided all 
 others in his life. Having no wish to beat or be beaten, 
 he renounced his affections and aspirations, and at- 
 tended yet another church, emphatically Broad, vowing 
 that he would not again have his religion disturbed by 
 his affections, which he had begun to distrust. They 
 had so often led him into terrible thoughts, an alarm- 
 ing perception, for instance 1 , of the shape of Mrs Leslie 
 beneath her crinoline. Another appalling discrepancy!
 
 SUFFERING 49 
 
 Why should a woman's form be so unlike that of her 
 clothes? And why for questions breed like maggots 
 in the brain why should the emotions roused by woman 
 in her clothes he so shocked and confused by the idea 
 of their removal? 'Such thoughts, such questions as 
 these had writhed even through the Vicar's sermons. 
 Even religion, therefore, was an inadequate protection. 
 However, such as it was, Jamie clung to it. He wanted 
 to show himself worthy as the son of his mother and 
 the nephew of his uncle, to prosper in his career, to 
 have his little corner of the world at his feet. But how 
 to do it ? Ah ! there was the rub. He insisted on know- 
 ing how it was to be done, and could not accept it as a 
 thing that would happen, just as at a very early age he 
 had rummaged among Doctor M'Phail's books to satisfy 
 himself as to the manner of his birth and thereafter had 
 taken the keenest interest in the serving of a sow on his 
 uncle's farm and had contrived to be present at her de- 
 livery of twelve little pigs. Hearsay was no good to 
 him and yet he clung to religion because he was almost 
 as much afraid of his thoughts as he was of his affec- 
 tions. Poor wretch! And this is to be his story, the 
 tale of his joy and suffering who could never accept 
 either except upon his own terms, and yet, through life, 
 never lost his faith in his fellow-men, nor abandoned 
 hope of satisfaction in living among them! 
 
 Uncle Andrew commanded his presence at dinner one 
 Sunday. 
 
 "Well, well, and how are we getting on? And how 
 do we like our work ?" 
 
 "I don't find it very difficult, thank you, Uncle." 
 
 "Ah! we don't find it difficult. No, no. Only the 
 brain, the controlling brain, is sensible of the difficulty 
 of making a profit. You never thought of that? Hah !"
 
 50 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "Yes. I did think of that." This was not true but 
 Jamie's mind rushed at the idea, and, as usual, pushed 
 beyond it, and made him say: 
 
 "Yes. I suppose that is why the brain takes the 
 profit." 
 
 "Eh!" Andrew regarded his nephew with dislike 
 and uneasiness, half suspecting him of impertinence be- 
 hind the innocence of his boyish face. "Eh? Eh, hem! 
 The labourer is worthy of his hire." 
 
 But Jamie was no longer interested. He had failed 
 to grasp the idea which had heated his brain. He was 
 much more interested in wondering how long he would 
 be expected to stay after dinner. 
 
 "I have good accounts of you in the office and I am 
 please^ to hear that you are regular in attending church. 
 I like regularity. Keep your Sundays regular and it 
 steadies you from Monday to Saturday. Nothing bet- 
 ter for a young man. But m-m-m saddler's daughter 
 marriage No !" 
 
 "No!" repeated Jamie emphatically. "No!" 
 
 "What the devil do you mean? I hadn't said what I 
 was going to say." 
 
 "No. I mean, if you knew Mrs. Leslie and how hard 
 put to it she is to make both ends meet, you'd think 
 twice about marrying." 
 
 "Silence, sir! I did not put you to lodge with Leslie 
 that you might spy upon their affairs." 
 
 "Good Lord," thought Jamie. "I've done it now." 
 
 Then suddenly Andrew became kind in his tone and 
 said: "You must learn to keep your tongue in your 
 head you've an old head for your years or I don't 
 know what will become of you." 
 
 Then Jamie felt very sorry for himself and answered 
 meekly :
 
 SUFFERING 
 
 "Yes, Uncle." 
 
 "You'll be sent to the mill soon and after that a taste 
 of the travelling will do you no harm. Do you know 
 French?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "Better rub up your French. We may be wanting 
 presentable young men to go to France. If you like I'll 
 pay for you to have French lessons. That will help to 
 keep you out of mischief in the evenings," 
 
 "Thank you, Uncle. (fF*// he pay?)" 
 
 That ended the meal, but not the discomfort of uncle 
 and nephew. Jamie, gazing at the big white face, was 
 awed by it and expected some wisdom, some oracular 
 guidance to come out of it. No such thing happened, 
 however, and he had to reconcile himself to being sent 
 empty away. Mischief in the evenings! What mis- 
 chief? He felt insulted. He was getting tired of the 
 assumption that he was a danger to himself, which he 
 was beginning to find on all sides in Peter Leslie, in 
 Mrs. Leslie, in his mother's letters and now in his uncle, 
 the master of his destiny. At least they might let him 
 know in what the danger consisted, instead of hinting at 
 it. They had all recommended religion as a safeguard 
 and he had no objection to religion. It had its merits 
 though in the English Church they were rather watered 
 down; there were no good hair-raising prayers from the 
 pulpit, neither were sermons so withering and scornful; 
 on the other hand there was something good-tempered 
 and satisfactory about English hymns, though the 
 rhymes in them were rather far-fetched. Also going to 
 church provided something to do and people to see on 
 Sunday, and, besides, it made him feel sly and mischiev- 
 ous as though he were lying in wait to cry Peep-bo to 
 that from which he was hiding. What was it? Ah!
 
 52 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 that danger, that mischief ! He felt very sure his uncle 
 knew what it was. Almost he was convinced that it was 
 in his uncle's power to chain it up or to loose it upon him. 
 And all that came out of his uncle was a recommenda- 
 tion to learn French, which was absurd. 
 
 It was maddening that all his visits to his uncle 
 should end thus fantastically. Old Andrew was the 
 only human being in Thrigsby to whom he owed any 
 natural affection, and his mother was constantly assur- 
 ing him that he owed a great deal. But no sooner did he 
 enter the door of the house than his natural affection 
 was laid down with his hat and overcoat and he knew 
 that he would spend the time gazing fascinated at the 
 white face like a rabbit at a snake. The white face 
 haunted him. It swung in the spaces of his universe like 
 a moon. His fear of it oozed over into the emotions 
 reserved for his religion and became one with it. But 
 as yet he had no other thought. The moon-face was 
 the only light upon his life and by it he walked, warily 
 because of the shadows, but, as yet, light-heartedly 
 enough. 
 
 "Oh ! yes, Uncle, I would be gey and pleased to go to 
 France. It is a great, rich country." 
 
 "I was never there but once, but I am told it will be 
 a good market." 
 
 Market! Jamie swallowed that word though it was 
 like a prickly burr upon the romantic notions that had 
 began to stir in his head. Old Andrew squashed them 
 further by saying: 
 
 "Now that you have taken your place in the office, I 
 think it would be well if you made the acquaintance of 
 your cousins the Greigs. They will be a very powerful 
 family and useful to your in your career." 
 
 "Yes, Uncle."
 
 SUFFERING 53 
 
 When Andrew talked like that Jamie simply did not 
 understand him. In his idea, his career was to grow 
 naturally out of his extraordinary or ordinary merits. 
 (For he had begun to see that they remained to be 
 proved.) Careers were begotten not made, and so far 
 he had no occasion to doubt that his would be conceived, 
 shaped and born complete in all its parts. The possi- 
 bility of its being mis-shapen was not worth a thought 
 and never got one. It was to grow like a leaf out of 
 Andrew's perfection, though not so did Jamie think of 
 it, but rather of Andrew producing it, pressing it into 
 his hand with his extended two fingers as he did once 
 with Tommy years ago when he tipped him. And herein 
 lay one source of our hero's discomfort. Time after 
 time did he go to his uncle's house and not even a por- 
 tion of the career was forthcoming: talk of being moved 
 to the mills, of travelling, and now of being sent to 
 France, and then these awful suggestions that he had 
 better make himself pleasant to people who would later 
 on be useful to him : never any hint from the white face 
 of acknowledging that his nephew qua nephew was re- 
 markable. That was implied, though Jamie never saw 
 it, in the mere fact of his presence at the table. The 
 implication forced him to sink his individuality, to be 
 nephew but not James; and so he suffered, he suffered 
 absurdly in all his dealings : he suffered from contact 
 with his uncle, from the dutiful correspondence he kept 
 up with his mother, before his God, and in the presence 
 of every women he ever encountered, regardless of age. 
 The ridiculous adventure with the saddler's daughter 
 was the only relief he ever had. Reading the Vicar's 
 sermons to her he could pour floods of emotion into the 
 sluggish periods, and though the maiden never suspected 
 them, they were as great a relief to him as the word
 
 54 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Mesopotamia was to Mr. Wilcox. But there again he 
 suffered because he was left ashamed of himself. Shame 
 aggravated his excitement and he was every moment 
 conscious of himself, hot and molten and overrunning 
 a world which was far too small to hold him. Even 
 God was rather diminished since it was some reflection 
 upon His powers that he had failed to design a world 
 large enough for a man. 
 
 In vain did he practise that self-abasement for which, 
 as a Scotsman, he had a native talent and an enormous 
 appetite. It turned his suffering into torment and gave 
 him the horrid pleasure of martyrdom. Not daring 
 yet to tell himself that he was suffering for the sins 
 of the world, he was soon persuaded that he was bear- 
 ing so much for his mother and his brothers. In this 
 he was aided by his mother, from whom he had been 
 unable to conceal his distress. She took it for a sign 
 that he was coming to heel and was being licked by the 
 world into appreciation of his duty towards herself. 
 At great length she told him how the pain of parting 
 with him was being healed by the knowledge of his in- 
 dustry, the nobility with which he bore his solitude, and 
 his kindness and consideration to his hostess. For Mrs. 
 Leslie sent in a monthly report. He took all this appro- 
 bation with a proper modesty, but, fundamentally, with 
 indifference. It did not allay his suffering: that en- 
 dured until he had a letter from his mother when he 
 had been nearly ten months from home. As usual Mar- 
 garet exhorted him to go in fear of the Lord, and of 
 his Uncle Andrew, and respectful humility before her- 
 self and his dead father, and wound up with the tale 
 of a domestic tragedy. His sister Margaret had washed 
 her head one Saturday night and as she dried her hair 
 before the fire, a spark had flown out ; her hair, her
 
 SUFFERING 55 
 
 beautiful soft hair had all been burned away, down to 
 the scalp. The poor child was extremely ill. Her hair 
 would never grow again and she would have to wear a 
 wig, but, of course, could not possibly wear a wig until 
 she was of an age to put her hair up in a net. Till 
 then she would have to conceal her misfortune with a 
 mutch. 
 
 This story was to Jamie enormously funny. He 
 could see Margaret in a wig or in an old woman's mutch 
 and he laughed over the thought of it. He would have 
 welcomed a calamity in his own life, but, as none was 
 forthcoming, he was glad of this of his sister's and it 
 was as absurd to him as any of his own would have 
 been. In some mysterious way he thought of it as a slap 
 for old Moon-face. "How's that for a proof that there's 
 a stir in the world? A wee lassie wi' a wig! Have ye 
 ever thought o' anything finer than that in your office 
 or your big house? But that's the droll thing has hap- 
 pened in a wee house in Scotland." Then began in 
 Jamie the first stirrings of defiance. He was so alarmed 
 by them that he went to every possible service on the 
 next Sunday: in the evening with the Leslies, and, sit- 
 ting behind Selina, so that he could not but see her plump 
 little legs as she knelt, he vowed that he loved her and 
 her alone and would wed her so soon as she was a 
 woman, before she had encountered the cruel, the vile 
 world, and devote his life to the protection of her inno- 
 cence. This idea crept into him as his suffering left him 
 and he was shocked by the violence with which it gripped 
 him. It was an ideal! She should never suffer, she 
 should never wear a wig, she should be white and stain- 
 less while the bestiality of the world daubed its slime 
 upon his heroic soul. He was filled with courage and 
 exaltation marred only by a doubt as to whether he
 
 56 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 ought not there and then to inform Mrs. Leslie of his 
 intentions. Courage failed him, but that night, when 
 Selina came to curtsey to him, as her mother insisted 
 she should, he astonished her, himself and the assembled 
 family by imprinting a chaste and paternal kiss upon 
 her brow. Ah! but he suffered no more, and thought 
 he would never suffer again, for the world had grown 
 large once more, an enormous shrine for his ideal which 
 took shape dimly as a statue of the Virgin Mary bear- 
 ing a very remote resemblance to Selina. He called it 
 Selina and was content even to go on waiting in the 
 room at the office with Peter Leslie and Mr. Wilcox 
 until the word came for him to go to the mills or on 
 the road.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WORDS 
 
 MAGGIE'S tragic loss of her hair had the important 
 consequence of driving Mary out into the world 
 before her time. It was the common resolve of the 
 family that Maggie should have the best wig that money 
 could buy in a couple of years when she should be old 
 enough to wear it. Mary wrote to Jamie to tell him 
 he must subscribe while she herself would begin to earn 
 money at once. Come what might Maggie should not 
 go out bald into the world. The threat of this catas- 
 trophe roused Jamie as his own discontent had never 
 done. He asked to be removed from the office and was 
 placed in the warehouse, given the work of a clerk who 
 was dying of a consumption, and half that clerk's salary, 
 his board and lodging with the Leslies being paid by 
 his uncle. <He needed very little money and did not 
 yet resent his state of dependence and supervision. He 
 was earning very near the amount which had sufficed 
 for his whole family and more than twice the sum paid 
 to his sister for her teaching in Edinburgh. Measuring 
 his conditions by that standard he thought he had every 
 reason to be satisfied. When he was no longer with 
 Peter Leslie during the day he began almost to like him, 
 and to appreciate his simplicity, his contentment, his 
 freedom from doubt or qualm. Also as the father of 
 
 57
 
 58 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Selina there was something to be said for him. Selina 
 was adorable, growing every day in grace as every day 
 she put on beauty and wore it as though she were afraid 
 of it, afraid of herself. Big eyes she had, too big for 
 her face, which was framed in gold ringlets on either 
 side. And as she grew she put on more and more clothes 
 which stiffened her, made her more unreal, more apt 
 to Jamie's idealism. When she went into her crinoline, 
 as she did on Sundays, she was altogether removed from 
 her devoted and secret lover, who for that felt only the 
 more worshipfully that she was Woman. He thanked 
 Heaven for guiding his heart to a pure love in the 
 years of peril. How good Selina was on Sundays ! She 
 would sing and pray in church with a demure concen- 
 tration that moved Jamie to a choking love and at the 
 same time reproached him for being moved and urged 
 his attention to follow hers straight up the aisle to the 
 chancel rails. And as they walked home to the dinner 
 of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and pastry she would 
 allow Jamie to carry her prayer-book, precious burden! 
 and ask him if he did not think her papa was the best 
 man in the world. Jamie, to please her, would agree 
 and forget the bullying she had had from her parent 
 before the woman in her began so astonishingly to 
 emerge from the child. Her papa was the best of men 
 and her mamma was already "poor dear." 
 
 The arrival of Selina in the adult world startled Mrs. 
 Leslie into an attempt to be old. She bought a cap and 
 tried it for a week but then discarded it. Also she en- 
 trusted Selina with certain of her duties but soon re- 
 claimed them. There was something of a tussle between 
 mother and daughter. Mrs. Leslie won and reduced 
 Selina to the position of her pupil to learn the mystery 
 of keeping house, baking bread, sewing and mending.
 
 WORDS 59 
 
 As she mastered these accomplishments Selina paraded 
 them before Jamie, who marvelled, and before her fa- 
 ther, who began to dote on her, and to allow her to a 
 certain extent to replace her mother in his thoughts. 
 The household for a time became happier because of the 
 miracle which had taken place in it. Finding a young 
 creature whose charm was accessible to him saved Jamie 
 from much tormented egoism and little by little he found 
 the courage to be lyrical. Much of his life outside the 
 warehouse seemed to him to be pure song, and, because 
 he had this outlet, his work was less baleful to him, nor 
 was he oppressed by the tyranny of those above him. 
 He began to write long, warm and happy letters to his 
 mother, who dashed him rather by urging him to take 
 life more seriously and to remember his responsibility 
 to those he had left behind him. "Remember," she said : 
 "The glory of a woman is her hair" (poor Maggie!), 
 "but the glory of a man is his strength. Your Uncle 
 Andrew is very pleased with you. Never forget his gen- 
 erosity and remember that slow and sure are bound to 
 succeed. Brilliancy was always your danger, but bril- 
 liancy is a glittering snare. Oh ! I do pray that you may 
 be kept safe in the terrible city until I can come with Tom 
 and feel sure of you. I am a little anxious about Mary. 
 It seems that she is mixing with philosophers. They 
 will turn her head. It is so fortunate that she is not 
 beautiful." "The glory of a woman," cried Jamie to 
 himself, "is her tenderness, her purity, all that makes 
 her woman, so delicate and soft, the spirit of the dove 
 amid harshness and despair." He said this because 
 Selina's hair was not one of her strong points and also 
 because he was not aware of being particularly strong. 
 Hair and strength therefore were not words which he 
 could charge with his lyrical impulse, and that was the
 
 60 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 great discovery on which he was living now so happily. 
 
 After her arrival in Edinburgh his sister Mary took 
 to sending him her poems Odes to the East Wind, to 
 the Castle, to High Street and the Wynds, to Mr. H. 
 and to Professor B.'s plaid. He was roused to emulation 
 and found that he could do much better himself, though, 
 perhaps, not quite so well as Robert Burns. However, 
 he had his moments and leaped from one to another 
 towards maturity, and with each leap he adored the 
 idea of Selina more and was less amorously conscious 
 of her. At last, when he woke to the fact that Selina 
 had a number of other admirers, and in spite of her 
 youth, was extremely adroit in playing them off one 
 against the other, he was astonished to find that he did 
 not mind in the least. He wrote innumerable poems to 
 her name and never showed her one. The only person 
 who was allowed to read a few of the more impersonal 
 effusions was Mr. Wilcox, who, finding them unsuitable 
 for recitation, was discouraging. 
 
 The miracle of Selina had its effect also on Mr. Wil- 
 cox, whom Jamie had always thought of as a person 
 beyond redemption old. He became, suddenly, in the 
 course of one afternoon, a companion, almost an equal. 
 He sought Jamie out one day in the warehouse to ask him 
 if he would mind, just for once, playing the part of a boy 
 in a little farce he was getting up nothing very great ^ 
 just something to amuse at a Ladies' Night at the Gen- 
 tlemen's Concerts. As Jamie hesitated, Mr. Wilcox 
 proceeded to say that he knew Church people did not 
 altogether approve of the theatre 'he knew that but 
 this was for a charity. So grateful was Jamie to Mr. 
 Wilcox for his sudden accession to the ranks of ac- 
 knowledgeable and not awful persons that he consented. 
 He would have given him the clothes off his back in that
 
 WORDS 61 
 
 moment ! It was an easy matter to give the scruples of 
 the religion to which he was attached by the image of 
 Selina. So he gave them and promised and was at once 
 attacked by conscience. He dared say nothing to the 
 Leslies, whose most reckless gaiety was a Spelling Bee. 
 He had to invent excuses to be able to attend rehearsals 
 and he felt so guilty as he made them that Peter at 
 once began to suspect him and became sarcastic: "Has 
 our young friend begun to take lessons in Chinese or 
 Choctaw? ... I will not allow Mrs. Leslie to sit up 
 for you. I will sit up myself." "Oh ! I don't want you 
 to do that, sir. I am not likely to be late, but I could 
 take the key," replied Jamie. The key! Not for one 
 moment would Peter part with that. Not even his wife 
 was entrusted with it; never. To avoid letting it out 
 of his hands Peter would go to the farthest limits of in- 
 genuity, exhibit in the matter of sitting up at night the 
 most heroic endurance. "No, sir," he cried. "This is 
 not an apartment house, nor is Mrs. Leslie a landlady. 
 We do not take lodgers. We are only too happy to 
 oblige your uncle and to admit you to our family. Ad- 
 mitted to it, you must acknowledge me as the head of 
 it." "As I have done, and do." "Then where," said 
 Peter, suddenly flattered into self -betrayal, "where are 
 you going?" "About my business," almost shouted 
 Jamie, and Peter countered with: "You are not old 
 enough to have any." 
 
 Off went Jamie fuming. Peter had gone too far that 
 time. His curiosity was getting beyond a joke. It 
 was time he learned that he had to deal with a Lawrie. 
 He might pry and spy as he did upon his own family, 
 insisting on reading all letters that came to the house 
 and most of those that went out of it, but when it 
 came to a Lawrie hands off ! In his indignation Jamie
 
 62 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 knocked Peter down from the pedestal on which as 
 Selina's father he had set him and put Mr. Wilcox on 
 it in his stead. 
 
 That worthy gave his young friend a drink when he 
 arrived, rum-toddy hot. His rooms were cosy, and, 
 Jamie felt, excitingly disreputable, though in the detail 
 of its furniture it was not unlike the Leslies' dining-room. 
 Perhaps it was the play bills on the wall Theatre Royal, 
 Drury Lane, Sadler's Wells, and the prints of the great 
 Kemble, Sarah Siddons and the Little Theatres in the 
 Haymarket. 
 
 "Extraordinary," said Mr. Wilcox, "how like you are 
 to Kemble ; something between him and Henry Fielding. 
 Ah! What would I not have given to have had your 
 nose. A tragic nose: no mistake about it; a nose like 
 that gives you the air, the tragic air, the dignity. Now 
 with your nose and my talent, do you know where I 
 should be?" 
 
 "I do not," replied Jamie. 
 
 "At the top of the tree. Where was Kean when they 
 discovered him? But a face like mine is a calamity. 
 Can you express a tragic fire in a suet dumpling? You 
 just watch my face when it should be showing horror." 
 He recited the last few lines of Clarence's speech from 
 Richard III. with such vigour and intensity that Jamie 
 shivered all up his spine and paid no heed to the amaz- 
 ing contortions going on on Mr. Wilcox's round pale 
 face. It took longer for the auditor than for the reciter 
 to recover. 
 
 "Well?" asked Mr. Wilcox. 
 
 "That was very good," replied Jamie. "I've never 
 seen a play." 
 
 "Good ! I should think so. It's the Swan, but it wants
 
 WORDS 63 
 
 dignity : it wants Kemble, it wants Kean, it wants a face 
 like yours. Try, do try." 
 
 So Jamie repeated the words until he had them nearly 
 by heart. Then he let fly. "Oh! oh! oh!" cried Mr. 
 Wilcox in ecstasy. "It's a mask, it's a tragic mask, your 
 face; but don't lose yourself, never, never lose yourself. 
 Keep in the last inch and a bit, so that you know that 
 it is- yourself being not yourself. Ah! that's better. 
 Ah! that's acting, that is. Remember, it's a dream. 
 'Some lay in dead men's skulls.' Come, I'll read you the 
 play." 
 
 So saying, Mr. Wilcox stood up by the mantelpiece 
 and read aloud for a couple of hours, at the end of 
 which, closing the book, he said : '"Ah ! that's literature, 
 that is! That's what you should be up to with those 
 verses of yours; get them so that they fill your voice." 
 
 "I wrote one the other day which I said over to my- 
 self. I had a bath and I said it out loud." 
 
 "Let's have it then! Let's have it?" 
 
 "But what about the rehearsal?" 
 
 "Oh, we can't rehearse after the Bard. We can do 
 without rehearsal. You don't have anything to say. 
 You're just a boy in the street. I'm a blind beggar. You 
 steal my dog. A real dog on the stage. That's what 
 keeps Punch and Judy alive dog Toby. But let's have 
 it the poem, I mean." 
 
 Jamie gulped down a nausea which was creeping over 
 him and in a huge voice, as near a copy as he could get 
 to Mr. Wilcox's, he roared: 
 
 "I am thy daunted lover and I gx) 
 Abashed, ashamed and fearful of thy 'No!' 
 Ah! could I say what hopes within me swell 
 I'd change the world with my heart's miracle."
 
 64 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "Too thin! Too thin!" cried Mr. Wilcox. "But gifted, 
 gifted. . . . Come, what follows?" 
 
 Tears rushed to Jamie's eyes: "That's all!" he con- 
 fessed. "It didn't seem to me to need any more. At 
 least I didn't feel any more." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox tried to console him by saying that he 
 might use it for an encore piece, but the unhappy youth 
 was beyond consolation. It was torn out of his fancies. 
 Mr. Wilcox, Shakespeare, King Richard had provided 
 him with a reality by the test of which all his life since 
 he had come to Thrigsby withered away. What words! 
 Like the tail of a comet. He caught hold of it and was 
 whirled away. He had another rum-toddy and sat with 
 Mr. Wilcox talking, talking, of the theatre, of life, of 
 love, of the abominations of commerce, of the remorse- 
 less tyranny of Keith Bros. & Stevenson. '"Can you 
 conceive,' said Mr. Wilcox, shining rummily, "Lord 
 Byron in our office? He would dash himself to death 
 against the bars of his cage. Ledgers and books do not 
 a dungeon make, nor office walls a prison. I am free as 
 
 my talent, my art " "Free! Free!" echoed Jamie. 
 
 "And you, a poet, handsome as a god, brilliant as a 
 Bacchus, will never be a slave." '"Never!" sobbed Jamie, 
 "never!" He caught sight of the misty face of the 
 clock. It said half -past eleven. He rose unsteadily to 
 his feet and lurched away. Half way home he was 
 seized with a poetic impulse and stood in the middle of 
 the road until he had found a rhyme for wig. At last 
 he found himself back at the Leslies'. Peter was waiting 
 up for him. Jamie burst into tears and rushed away up- 
 stairs to hear, as he reached the landing, Peter's deep 
 voice saying: "Pah! Degraded beast !"
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AFFAIRS 
 
 I WAS fou," said Jamie as he woke up and it was as 
 though someone else had spoken the words in a tone 
 of loud reproach, and as he went down the stairs they 
 creaked "Fou! Fou!" at every step. No one looked at 
 him, no one spoke to him at breakfast, after which 
 Peter astonished him by saying a long grace, ending: 
 "Lord, make us fit to eat our food this day." Jamie 
 caught Selina's eye. It made him blush. "Does she 
 know?" he thought. "I am unworthy. I am sullied." 
 But as soon as he was out of the house his condition 
 vanished. He squared himself and felt that he was a 
 man and had asserted himself. Old Peter had not dared 
 to say anything. "Oh aye," he said to himself, "I'm 
 sullied and the deil's the better for it." And he began 
 to take a keen pleasure in the morning air, in the fields 
 along which he had to skirt, with the black river flowing 
 through them; in the girls with their shawls over their 
 heads going to the mills; in the children trotting along 
 with their fathers; in the tall smoking chimneys that 
 grew more and more closely together as he approached 
 the warehouse. And suddenly he found his rhyme to 
 wig: 
 
 "Wee Maggie need not scratch her wig 
 When flies upon it dance a jig." 
 65
 
 66 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 He laughed merrily and his heart was filled with affec- 
 tion for Maggie and the sense of home possessed him 
 so that he became almost defiant of the town wherein he 
 was a foreigner. Thrigsby on the Irk. What a name 
 for a river! But the Thrigsbeians were pleased with it. 
 They were pleased with everything. Always, they said, 
 they were a day ahead of the rest of England. "I'm 
 pleased with myself too," said Jamie, and for a moment 
 or two he felt so. Then he thought with shame of Mr. 
 Wilcox praising his face, his nose; and yet, coming 
 from Mr. Wilcox there was no cause for shame. The 
 man was carried away. Fou? Nay, drunk with words. 
 "I must go canny," thought Jamie. "I wouldna be 
 like Mr. Wilcox for the world. But all the same I'd 
 rather be he than Mr. Leslie." 
 
 There was a very pleasant savour in thus weighing up 
 this strange world, his ideas of which were beginning 
 to take shape. 
 
 He found Mr. Wilcox pacing up and down outside 
 the office door waiting for him. "Ah! ah!" he cried. 
 "I was afraid you were not coming. I was afraid you 
 were perhaps ah the worse. I was oppressed by a 
 feeling that I had been inconsiderate. I find it hard to 
 remember that you are so young. And from the way 
 Mr. Leslie looked at me when he came in I was 
 afraid " 
 
 "If I murdered my mother," replied Jamie, "I would 
 not tell Mr. Leslie." And he was hurt and puzzled be- 
 cause Mr. Wilcox laughed, for he was unaware of the 
 grotesqueness of his words. Mr. Wilcox whistled 
 "Scots Wha Hae," and brought his hand down on his 
 young friend's shoulder and said: "Oh! he's a good 
 sort is old Leslie and I've seen him liquored too."- 
 "Mr. Leslie?" -Mr. Wilcox winked: "A fine sight,"
 
 AFFAIRS 67 
 
 he said, "but I'm bound to say that I think it was an 
 accident, as indeed it is with most of us." 
 
 Jamie was grateful to him for that. It removed the 
 sting from Peter's words, and gave him absolution. He 
 had fallen, yes, but as he might fall in the street from 
 treading on the peel of an orange. How wonderfully 
 Mr. Wilcox smoothed out the difficult path ! Mr. Wilcox 
 appeared, and lo ! there were no difficulties ; only pleas- 
 ures and proud accomplishments. He made a man feel 
 that he was a man, with a place in the world, and a big 
 voice inside him wherewith to make himself heard. Feel- 
 ing altogether a man, Jamie held out his hand and Mr. 
 Wilcox took it and clasped it warmly, genially, com- 
 radely. 
 
 "Good!" said Mr. Wilcox; "we'll have other even- 
 ings." 
 
 "Aye!" replied Jamie, "but I'll no be fou again. It's 
 in my head still and my tongue is parched." 
 
 "Tut !" said Mr. Wilcox. "You know what it is and 
 if you do no worse than that you'll come to no great 
 harm." 
 
 "Harm?" replied Jamie. "It's good I'm to come to. 
 I'm the eldest of my family and my youngest sister 
 has had a great misfortune." 
 
 "You'll do," said Mr. Wilcox, "you'll do, but devil 
 take me if I know what you're to do in Keith's." 
 
 Jamie set his jaw, squared his shoulders and with 
 the one word: "Work!" plunged in at the warehouse 
 door. 
 
 Just before the midday interval he was sent for to his 
 uncle's room. Moon-face sat there with his finger-tips 
 pressed together, crooning through his shut lips. The 
 little eyes under the puckered lids shot a curt greeting. 
 Fear and exasperation ran through Jamie, but he pulled
 
 68 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 himself together and, glaring at the heavy figure sitting 
 at the table, he said to himself : "He's a man, and I'm 
 a man. Figs to him." And there shot into his mind 
 what he had lately heard in the office, how Andrew 
 Keith's wife had run away from him, with a Turk. A 
 Turk, bigod! Almost a nigger! And how on the day 
 she did it Andrew came down to the office as though noth- 
 ing had happened, and that very day scooped in one of 
 the biggest deals he had ever handled. And she was a 
 very beautiful woman, was Mrs. Andrew. "Yes, sir," 
 said Jamie. "Sit down." Jamie sat down wondering if 
 Peter Leslie had told. But there was no meance in An- 
 drew's face; only the usual stony indifference. What a 
 monument of a man ! Perhaps in his icy way his view of 
 his nephew's downfall was as generous as Mr. Wilcox's. 
 To Jamie's relief Andrew's first words were almost 
 kindly. There was a thaw in the frozen air. 
 
 "Let me see," said Andrew. 
 
 "Yes, Uncle." 
 
 "You are now in the warehouse." 
 
 "Yes, Uncle." 
 
 "And liking it, I hope?" 
 
 "Yes, Uncle. I like some of the men very much." 
 
 "That is not what I asked. The work, I meant. I 
 want to know how much you have learned since you 
 have been with us. Can you describe for me the 
 processes of the business? 'Where does the cotton come 
 from, what do we do with it, where do we send it?" 
 
 "It comes from America. We spin it and weave it 
 and ship it to all parts of the world, but especially to the 
 East." 
 
 "Good, but it is not quite so simple as all that." 
 
 "No, Uncle." 
 
 "And why is it not so simple?"
 
 AFFAIRS 69 
 
 "I suppose because there are so many other people 
 doing it" 
 
 Andrew swung round and glared at his nephew. 
 
 "Have you learnt nothing of the reputation of the 
 firm?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Uncle. It is one of the biggest firms. But 
 you see I have only had to do with the order-books 
 and the stock-books." 
 
 "Ever heard of a place called the Exchange? There 
 are people called brokers, there are people called agents ! 
 You may have heard of them?" 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "Then what do you imagine they are all doing ?" 
 
 "Buying and selling." 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 Jamie was by now completely bewildered. 
 
 "You may not be aware that I have written books on 
 the subject." 
 
 "No, Uncle." 
 
 "Did you come into my firm to learn the business, or 
 did you not?" 
 
 "Yes, Uncle/ You told me to learn French and I 
 have been doing so. I thought perhaps I was to go to 
 Lille with Mr. Mackintosh." 
 
 "You must know something of the business before you 
 can represent the firm." 
 
 "Indeed, sir, I did learn what I could from the stock- 
 books and the order-books." 
 
 "You could have learnt that in a week and then come 
 and asked to be transferred." 
 
 Jamie was humiliated and enraged. He had been 
 hurt at being so thoroughly ignored and now to find 
 that the ignoring had been deliberate was too much. 
 Andrew had said, "Employer and employee." Em-
 
 70 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 ployees never" were allowed near Andrew. Why was no 
 one ever straightforward with him except poor silly Wil- 
 cox, old Cocks-and-hens ? 
 
 "I confess," said Andrew, "that I am disappointed, 
 grieved and disappointed. I gave you an opening for 
 which many young men would give their eyes and you 
 behave as though the firm existed merely to provide you 
 with an occupation. I am used to that from my clerks, 
 but from my own nephew " 
 
 "But you said I was to forget here you said it in 
 this room you said that I was to forget that I was your 
 nephew." 
 
 "Well, well," said Andrew, "You're frank, that's 
 something, that's something. But I want you to get on. 
 You'll never get on unless you take an interest and find 
 things out for yourself. I have been in correspondence 
 with your mother. Your brother Thomas is a little 
 young to make a start, but she is anxious to be with you, 
 though I have assured her that your conduct has been 
 altogether satisfactory." 
 
 Jamie blushed. 
 
 "We have arranged therefore that after your holiday, 
 which you are to take in August, she and your brothers 
 and sisters shall return with you and set up in some 
 small house. I shall start you then with a substantial 
 addition to your present nominal salary. Until your 
 holiday you must make up for lost time." 
 
 "Yes, Uncle." 
 
 "That will do." 
 
 "I'm sorry I have disappointed you. I really was 
 interested. The men ' 
 
 "Men," said Andrew, "are not interesting." 
 
 "But Mr. Leslie " 
 
 "Is Mr. Leslie to be your model or am I?"
 
 AFFAIRS 71 
 
 Involuntarily Jamie groaned : 
 
 "Neither, God help me !" 
 
 "What did you say?" asked Andrew, and Jamie on a 
 sudden flux of emotion cried: 
 
 "Please, Uncle Andrew, let me go. I want to please 
 you and my mother. I have no other ambition. I don't 
 want to say anything which will distress you, but I'm 
 afraid we do not understand each other very well. You 
 must give me time. To-day I am afraid I am not very 
 well. I don't altogether know what I am saying." 
 
 "Tut, tut," rejoined Andrew, and he rose and planted 
 himself in front of the fire, tucked down his head and 
 swung his hands behind his back. "You must," he said, 
 "you must learn to take a serious view of things. Here 
 in Thrigsby we are creating the future of England. 
 Look at the Peels! It was their determination that the 
 great business houses should be represented in the Gov- 
 ernment. What they aimed at they achieved. Let that 
 be your motto. What is the motto of the Keiths? 
 Surge! I don't forget it. We're plain men in Thrigsby. 
 No fal-lals about us, but we hit the mark every time. 
 Think of the Peels and cultivate the civic virtues." 
 Andrew opened his mouth a little wider for a flow of 
 eloquence, but Jamie cut him short with "Yes, Uncle," 
 and bolted from the room. He could bear it no more, 
 but no sooner was he out in the passage than he was 
 filled -with alarm. This time surely he had done it! 
 His uncle would never forgive him. He must go back at 
 once and apologise, for he had his mother to think of 
 and Tom and wee Maggie. So he crept back and tapped 
 nervously at the door. "Come in !" He sidled in. Old 
 Andrew was at his table sitting with his finger-tips 
 pressed together. He looked up. -"Well?" 
 
 "I I" said Jamie, "I thought I heard you call."
 
 72 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "I ? No, oh, no !" The moon- face was blank and for- 
 bidding. '"I was afraid," said Jamie, "I had interrupted 
 you." "No, no. I had said all I wished to say." '"I'm 
 sorry if I " 
 
 There was a long pause. At last Andrew exclaimed : 
 "Get out." 
 
 Jamie with one bound was through the door. He 
 closed it and leaned against the wall shaking with merri- 
 ment. His fears had been so absurd. Already Moon- 
 face had forgotten him. All that he had said had been 
 just talk. With painful suddenness Jamie realised that 
 he ought to have been flattering the old man. The idea 
 was horrible to him and he shook it away and sought 
 relief in mockery: "O Uncle, teach me to walk in thy 
 footsteps, that I may be terrible to my nephews when 
 I have any, and they may respect me and wonder what 
 the devil's going on behind my big white face !" 
 
 He sought out Mr. Wilcox then and asked him : "Do 
 you think I'll ever make a Parliament man?" "Well," 
 rejoined Wilcox, "your face would look well on a statue 
 when you're dead." "I've been talking to my uncle, and 
 I'm to be like the Peels." "I don't think you're hard 
 enough and I don't think you'll ever be rich enough. 
 These cotton-spinners think it's their merits makes Lon- 
 don look at them, but it isn't; it's their money." '"I 
 think I could spend money all right." "I've no doubt of 
 that, but you'd never make it except you married a rich 
 wench." Jamie's thoughts flew to Selina. "I'll never do 
 that," he said and then broke away : "Tell me, Mr. Wil- 
 cox, how much do you know about the business ?"- 
 "Why, it goes on. It turns over a mint of money. I get 
 my little bit out of it and that's all I care about. Why 
 should I? As long as I don't make mistakes, no one 
 has anything to say. But then I am a fool and do not
 
 AFFAIRS 73 
 
 matter." "I shouldn't have thought you were a fool, 
 Mr. Wilcox." "Oh! yes, but not a damned fool. We 
 must get in that rehearsal before next Saturday. I was 
 a fool last night and I can't be too sorry about it. I 
 ought to have remembered who you are and that I am 
 so much older than you." "But I don't mind a bit," 
 protested Jamie, "truly I don't. I'm not going to shout 
 it from the house-tops of course. And as for you being 
 a fool, Mr. Wilcox, well you shine when I compare 
 you with my uncle. Indeed I think you have something 
 like genius." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox brought his fist down on his desk and 
 tilted back his stool. "Well, I'm hanged," he cried, "if 
 you haven't hit what I've been thinking these last ten 
 years. But if he's the fool and I'm the genius why is 
 he where he is and why am I the quill-driver?" 
 
 "Indeed, Mr. Wilcox," replied Jamie, "I don't know, 
 but I should like to know." 
 
 "For one thing" Mr. Wilcox let his stool fall back 
 '"for one thing he's impressive and I'm not. But you 
 mustn't call me Mr. Wilcox. Call me Sammy." 
 
 "I would be glad if you would call me Jamie." 
 
 "We must have a drink on this," said Mr. Wilcox, 
 "and you shall write an Ode to Friendship." 
 
 They shook hands and on that Peter Leslie came in 
 with an open ledger in his arms. He looked his most 
 primly severe at the two. Mr. Wilcox had reached out 
 for his hat. 
 
 "Going out, Mr. Wilcox?" 
 
 "Call of nature, Mr. Leslie, call of nature." 
 
 "There is a slight mistake somewhere. I can't trace 
 a reply of ours. We must stay until it is put straight." 
 
 "Is it my mistake ?" 
 
 "It is a mistake for which the room is responsible."
 
 74 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "O cursed spite, that ever I was born to put it right. 
 I'll be back soon." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox hurried Jamie away to the Blue Boar 
 where in good ale, hurriedly, they pledged their friend- 
 ship. "After the holidays," said Jamie, "I shall be able 
 to ask you to come and see me. I am leaving the Leslies 
 and my mother is coming to live with me." "Don't you 
 make no mistake, young feller my lad, I'm not the sort 
 of friend you ask to see your Ma. Is she old Andrew's 
 sister?" "Yes." "Ah! that accounts for a good deal, 
 that does. No. You must understand that. I'm no 
 good at Ma's. I am a man's man-friend, I am. I must 
 get back to Peterkin. He's a Ma if you like. Every 
 year or so he used to come down to the office and say: 
 'Another boy,' or 'A girl this time,' and I used to chip 
 him and say: 'But you haven't been away.' He never 
 saw the joke. Hu! hu." Jamie did not see it either 
 and stood trying to puzzle it out while Mr. Wilcox paid 
 for the drink, reminded him that he must come for re- 
 hearsal before the Saturday and hurried away. Very 
 slowly Jamie walked out into the street: "You haven't 
 been away. Why should he have been away, unless Mrs. 
 Leslie were very ill ? Even so she would have had some- 
 one looking after her, a nurse or a doctor." Then he 
 fell to puzzling out the implied resemblance between 
 Peter Leslie and his mother. 'He was distressed. The 
 humour of Mr. Wilcox had estranged him, almost car- 
 ried him over to the army of alien persons headed by 
 Moon-face. By way of reclaiming him Jamie began to 
 revolve in his mind the composition of the suggested 
 Ode to Friendship. He got as far as "Bond of souls de- 
 sirous of " Of what? Truth ? Youth Ruth- 
 Sooth Love ? Above Dove 'Prove Cove Knowl- 
 edge? College. And what led back to the image of
 
 AFFAIRS 75 
 
 Mary sitting by the window in the little house in Kirk- 
 cudbright drumming out syllables with her fingers. He 
 became desperately home-sick, was frightened of the 
 streets and the noise, the huge buildings. In desperation 
 he ran back to the warehouse and plunged into work, say- 
 ing to himself: "I do understand it, I do, I do. It is 
 very wonderful and I like it." Yet behind this despera- 
 tion were words : "He that hath no friend is not, One 
 half a man, I'd rather be a friendly sot, Than mar the 
 plan, Great Nature made in giving hearts, To be endued 
 with human arts." He would not admit the verse-form, 
 but stuck to it that in checking figures relating to bales 
 of cloth, he was learning the business and assisting his 
 uncle to create the future of England.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 TIBBY M'PHAIL 
 
 THE young Leslies always said that their mother 
 could see through walls and hear a pin drop in 
 the next street, and Jamie often felt that she knew more 
 about him than he knew himself. He was not altogether 
 surprised therefore when she warned him against Mr. 
 Wilcox, in spite of the care he had taken to conceal the 
 evenings spent with that worthy, and the performance 
 at the Gentlemen's Concert Hall, Mr. Wilcox had taught 
 him to smoke and introduced him to his own brand of 
 tobacco. 
 
 "He, he, Mr. Lawrie," said Mrs. Leslie one night when 
 Peter was late at the office. "I'm sorry you've taken to 
 smoking. I have made my own boys promise me that 
 they will not touch tobacco until they are twenty-one." 
 
 Jamie blushed. "I just thought I'd try it," he replied. 
 Against Mrs. Leslie he could never keep up his manly 
 dignity for long. She did not mince matters. "It's a 
 nasty dirty habit," she said, "and it runs away with a 
 terrible lot of money, which reminds me that you want a 
 pair of new boots. I couldn't let you go back to your 
 mamma with your feet worn out as they will be if you 
 wear those boots much longer." And she pursued the 
 subject until she had forced Jamie into the confession 
 that he had no money put by whatever and could not 
 
 76
 
 TIBBY M'PHAIL 77 
 
 afford a new pair of boots for at least a month. 
 "Money does fly," said Mrs. Leslie, "but it oughtn't to, 
 you know, when you have no one else to spend it on. It 
 isn't my place to say anything, I know, but Mr. Leslie 
 is Scotch too and he really has been very worried over 
 your seeing so much of Mr. Wilcox." "I like Mr. Wil- 
 cox." "Oh, yes, so do I, but he is such a bachelor, now 
 isn't he? And Mr. Leslie was quite proud of being 
 chosen to have you in his house, Mr. Lawrie, and you 
 know you haven't been to church for weeks and weeks." 
 '"But really, Mrs. Leslie, when I say I like Mr. Wilcox 
 it doesn't mean that I like everything he does and says. 
 Believe me, Mr. Wilcox does not set himself up as a 
 model." "Oh, you dear boy!" Mrs. Leslie flung her 
 arms round his neck and kissed him. "Of course I know 
 you would never come to any harm, but Mr. Leslie has 
 been worried and I thought I had better say something. 
 I haven't been very horrid, have I?" That was how 
 she always ended with her children when she had to give 
 them the winnowing words made necessary by the grow- 
 ing menace in her husband. "It's always better to have 
 it out, don't you think?" she added. And Jamie, hold- 
 ing her hand and marvelling how young she looked, re- 
 plied : "I would hate to have anything in my life which 
 I would have to keep back from you." "I must kiss 
 you again for that. Oh, I do hope my own boys will feel 
 the same about me. I shall be truly sorry when your 
 mamma comes and takes you away from me, though I 
 am dying to meet her, for she must be a wonderful 
 woman." "She is that." "I hope you will live near." 
 "I would like it. I prefer this part of Thrigsby to 
 any other." i"So do I. It is really quite genteel if it 
 weren't so near the synagogue and the prison." 
 
 So they rattled on, Jamie delighted to have done with
 
 78 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 concealment and deception, Mrs. Leslie rejoicing to have 
 her sinner, if not repentant, at least frank. He promised 
 her he would have a pair of new boots before he went 
 home for his holidays, and, by seeing Mr. Wilcox only 
 once or twice a week, he contrived it. 
 
 He applied himself more diligently to his work and 
 went on 'Change with Mr. Clulow and marvelled at the 
 crowds of men standing for hours apparently only to 
 discuss politics or racing, with business somehow being 
 done among them. Mr. Clulow was very kind and ex- 
 plained something of the mystery of prices and futures 
 and Jamie began to feel that somehow the office also 
 was romantic and interesting and he found Mr. Wilcox's 
 contempt of it all rather irritating. With Bell he went 
 over to Liverpool one day and saw the ships loading 
 and unloading. He loved that. It made him feel that 
 the world was wide and yet that his place in it was 
 important. It was all very well for Mr. Wilcox to talk 
 of liberty. What dearer liberty was there than the feel- 
 ing he had then as he stood watching the ships in the 
 wide river, the ships by the wharfs, the ships coming and 
 going, not for a mere childish joy, but with a purpose? 
 He almost forgot that he was a Scotsman and came near 
 to admitting that there was something in England, some- 
 thing in Thrigsby after all. And so there is; the noble 
 effort in the conquest of mankind by man. Ships were 
 ever after that the symbol of liberty, the emblem of the 
 free toiling spirit. He was lifted out of himself, and 
 knew that his feeling was genuine, because when he 
 sought for words to describe it he was shamed into si- 
 lence. 
 
 However, his habit of fishing words out of his emo- 
 tions had its revenge and drove him on to the composi- 
 tion of a new cycle of Selina poems. These she found.
 
 TIBBY M'PHAIL 79 
 
 They pleased her and she set herself to please him. 
 With the result that he went to church, took a walk with 
 her after evening service, declared his love for her and 
 kissed her. '"Shall I speak to your mamma about it?" 
 "Don't be silly," said Selina. So the affair was clan- 
 destine and for a few weeks its folly provided a pleas- 
 urable warmth. When Jamie left on his holidays they 
 had a magnificent parting. "Every night," said Jamie, 
 "I shall think of you and compose a poem." '"Every 
 night," said Selina, "I shall think of you and keep a 
 rose under my pillow." "When I am rich," said Jamie, 
 "I will retire and we will live in Scotland." So saying, 
 he handed her a copy of the poems of Robert Burns. 
 She opened it at "The Lass That Made the Bed to Me" 
 and slapped the pages to with a blush and a stifled 
 giggle. The colour in her pale cheeks made her en- 
 chanting. "Poor Burns!" sighed Jamie. "Poor Robin! 
 He would have loved you." Selina could not contain 
 herself and her giggle broke into laughter. "Oh, Jamie," 
 she said, "you would be such a darling if you were an 
 English boy, but when you are so Scotch you remind me 
 so terribly of papa." 
 
 They could keep it up no longer, and though they 
 kissed, their kisses were frank and friendly, those of a 
 healthy young man and woman happy to find that they 
 no longer need persuade themselves that they love each 
 other. Selina was already so like her mother and never 
 could she be a figure of romance. However, Jamie's 
 obstinate curiosity would not let her fade away. "I did 
 love her," he insisted. "Ah! but when I kissed her, I 
 loved her no longer. I loved the budding woman in her ; 
 the wild rose. Ech! but how soon she turned to a hip 
 or a haw! She'll never read my Burns. How would 
 she know what hirpling is, or a byke, or a dowie ? She
 
 8o THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 might ask her dud of a father but he's no Scot. He's 
 more English than the English." But he was sad to 
 let her go, sad as he sailed from Liverpool and watched 
 the lights of the town go down into the sea. "I'll no' be 
 young again," he thought. "I've my mother to think 
 on and I must be wary or Tom will beat me. I wouldna 
 like it if Tom were to be the first to buy my mother a 
 jewel, and poor wee Maggie her wig, and, fine, if I'm 
 to live among the English I must do as the English do." 
 It was grand to be in Scotland again, to talk his own 
 language and clearly and easily to hear what others were 
 saying. It was good to be away from the streets and 
 the houses and to come back to the hills, to be driving 
 over the moors, to recognise the shapes of the earth 
 and the places, the very trees among which he had been 
 born. Tom had walked out five miles to meet his 
 brother. Jamie gave a halloo as he recognised Tom 
 plodding up the road. Down he jumped from the car- 
 rier's cart and would have hugged his brother but that 
 Tom stiffly held out his hand. Jamie wrung it; "Dod, 
 lad!" he cried, "good man, Tom! Why you're near as 
 tall as I!" "I'll be taller yet," said Tom. "But I'm 
 not going to walk back. Have you the money to pay 
 John Carrier the fare?" "I have that," says Jamie, 
 and up they got. "How's mother?" says Jamie. "She's 
 well," says Tom. "And Maggie?" '"She's well," says 
 Tom and not another word could Jamie get out of him. 
 "You'll do fine for Thrigsby," said Jamie after a long 
 silence. "Will I ?" "Aye. They're that fond o' silence 
 ye can go for a month and never speak to a soul, if 
 you've a mind to." "Aye. You've got fine clothes, 
 Jamie." "Dod, you should see the clothes that Uncle 
 Andrew wears. The big pin in his tie and the great 
 gold chain like a ship's cable across his belly. Liver-
 
 TIBBY MTHAIL 81 
 
 pool's a fine place and I'd liefer be there than Thrigsby." 
 -"Would you so?" "I would." 
 
 Tom was infernally discouraging. More difficult 
 than ever. He was shy and gawky; a boy still; and 
 Jamie felt such a man, coming home, the first to have 
 ventured forth, like a pioneer, to spy out the land. Tom 
 was taking him too much for granted ; Jamie admitted 
 and was surprised at the change in him and he expected 
 surprise, even admiration, in return. However, he was 
 so happy and felt so big that he did not entertain his 
 disappointment long, but, to fend off his brother's dour- 
 ness, began to sing, songs he had learned from Mr. Wil- 
 cox, coarse humorous parodies of the ditties of the mo- 
 ment. Tom pulled a longer and longer face and was 
 not amused. At last he said : "I'm thinking there must 
 be a deal of wickedness in Thrigsby." '"Aye," said 
 Jamie, exasperated. "There's never a week but the 
 Mayor and Corporation go home rolling, and there are 
 halls where they have French women dancing nightly." 
 -"Is that so?" asked Tom. "Aye, and the Town Clerk 
 has a mistress from the Malays as brown as Uncle Shiel's 
 mare, Blayberry." "Good laud!" Tom looked fright- 
 ened. "What like o' man is Uncle Andrew?" "Why, 
 Tom, when I think of it, he's the spit of you." "Is 
 that so?" Tom drew himself up and looked down his 
 nose and seemed very pleased with himself. Jamie 
 laughed and said : "It's blethers I was telling you. 
 They're as quiet and God-fearing in Thrigsby as in Kirk- 
 cudbright and not near so drucken. And it was not 
 often I saw Uncle Andrew and I'm glad to be home 
 again." 
 
 They were within sight of the Solway now, chopping 
 down the long road. A clear day, blue shone the water, 
 blue the Cumberland hills beyond, yellow and grey the
 
 82 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 houses and towers of the town. "I would like Thrigsby 
 better," said Jamie, "if you could see yon hills from 
 it." "Romantical nonsense," growled Tom. "What do 
 you want with hills if you're making a position for your- 
 self ?" "At least," protested Jamie, "at least let me be 
 glad to see them again." "What like," asked Tom, 
 "are the men in the office? Are they clever men?" 
 "Oh, damn the office!" 
 
 The carrier's cart stopped with a creak and a jolt at 
 the inn and down the brothers got. Jamie felt bigger 
 than ever. The town had shrunk so: the streets were 
 so short and from nearly all either the sea or the green 
 country could be seen. And there was hardly a face 
 he did not know, hardly a face that did not light up with 
 interest to see him, so fine in his English clothes. "You 
 go on, Tom, and tell them I'm coming." "For why?" 
 "I've a mind to make an entrance." "Like a damned 
 play-actor?" "I thought it would be fine and exciting 
 for mother." -"Blethers," cried Tom. "She'd despise 
 you for it." Jamie winced and was humbled and became 
 almost afraid of the meeting with his mother. 
 
 She was sitting in her best black silk and her finest 
 mutch, and had only just composed herself in her chair 
 with her hands in her lap. The curtains of the window 
 were disturbed : "Gorm," thought Jamie, "it's she who's 
 play-acting." And he went up to her and embraced her. 
 She accepted his caress with dignity but did not return it 
 and his thoughts flew to Mrs. Leslie and her almost child- 
 ish impulsiveness. But the smell of the peat fire was so 
 good, there was such a splendid display of Scots dainties 
 on the table; it was the home he had been longing for; 
 the furniture he had known all his life; his father's 
 portrait hanging above the chimney-piece; the family 
 Bible in the window; nothing in all his time away had
 
 TIBBY M'PHAIL 83 
 
 been one half so pleasant. They might be swelling trade 
 in England, but had they such homes? Could there be 
 such honest poverty? He looked round with such pride 
 and happiness that his mother took his hand and patted 
 it: "They've not spoiled you for us, Jamie." "Spoil?" 
 he cried. "It's we'll spoil them. They're an ignorant 
 lot, and sinful." "Aye," said Tom. "Jamie says they're 
 all fools in the office." "Ye should not be puffed up 
 with the weakness of others," said Margaret gently. 
 "I'm not puffed," protested Jamie, "but when I look 
 round here I see what I have not seen this long time and 
 I thank God for John Knox. And what's the news?" 
 
 "We have a new doctor, an Edinburgh man, who 
 knows some of these professors and philosophers Mary 
 is so full of. Farquharson the tailor has written a book, 
 printed and published in London no less. There's been 
 small-pox in the town and Dr. M'Phail, who came in to 
 help with it, took it and died, poor soul. But God has 
 taken him for his good works. I made a promise that 
 I would take his poor nameless child and care for her." 
 
 "Which?" asked Tom. 
 
 "Who should it be but Tibby? The rest have good 
 mothers. I would not have her before, but Maggie's old 
 enough now and we needed help in the house." 
 
 "And will she come with us to Thrigsby?" asked 
 Jamie. 
 
 "She will. And that's all my news." 
 
 "Tell me, has Maggie got her wig yet?" 
 
 "She has not, but it is making." 
 
 There came into the room a thin shy little figure, a 
 girl of seventeen with a strange ugly face. She had a 
 nose so jutting and so rugged that, though it was of no 
 great size, it seemed too large for her face, and yet 
 her chin, long and pointed, was almost as self-assertive.
 
 84 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Yet the length of it told for nothing, so long was her 
 face surmounted with a round and also assertive fore- 
 head. And behind these remarkable features glimmered 
 pale shy eyes, full of the most timid and beautiful ten- 
 derness. Jamie rose to his feet and stood staring down 
 at her. She fixed her eyes on Margaret. She was 
 dressed in a plain cotton frock that clung about her and 
 showed the young, strong figure of her. Her hair was 
 cut short at the neck, and being very thick, stuck out 
 rebelliously, assertively, in protest. 
 
 "Was it four red herrings and six fresh I had to buy 
 or four fresh and six red?" she asked. 
 
 "It was four fresh and six red," said Margaret with- 
 out looking at her. 
 
 "Thank you." As she turned her eyes shyly took in 
 Jamie's tall figure. Her eyes met his and she seemed 
 to shrink away into herself and Jamie felt something go 
 click inside him so that he was alarmed, and jerked his 
 head up, partly in surprise, partly by way of asserting 
 himself. He had come to think he was familiar with all 
 his symptoms in the presence of woman. 
 
 "Was that Tibby?" he asked. 
 
 "Aye," said Tom, "that's Tibby. D'ye think she 
 tokens the Doctor?" 
 
 "I don't know,' replied Jamie. "I don't know whether 
 to laugh or to cry." 
 
 "She's no beauty," said Tom, "that's certain." 
 
 "There's no telling," asserted Jamie loftily, "what a 
 girl will be." And he felt that he was defending Tibby 
 and was pleased to feel so. 
 
 Maggie and John came in on that. Maggie meek and 
 shy, John lumpish and boisterous. Poor Maggie with 
 her bonnet over the kind of mutch she had to wear!
 
 TIBBY M'PHAIL 85 
 
 She flung her arms round her brother's neck and said 
 he must promise never, never to look at her. "And 
 why not?" asked Jamie. "It would never be your ap- 
 pearance I would see, but the little Lawrie soul in you." 
 
 And John chanted: "Oh! ain't we a wonderful 
 familee ?" 
 
 Then they made Jamie tell of his life in Thrigsby 
 and the riches and power of it, and he described An- 
 drew Keith's great mansion, and the great mansion the 
 Greigs had, and the carriages and servants, and what 
 the Mayor looked like, and how enormous the warehouse 
 was; and he made them roar with laughter with tales 
 of Mr. Leslie diving under the table after crumbs and 
 of Mr. Wilcox reciting in the office, and the clerks 
 running and scurrying when Andrew Keith sent for 
 them or came through the rooms. 
 
 "And d'ye have to be just one with them?" asked 
 Tom. 
 
 "Aye," said Jamie. "It takes a bit to laugh at their 
 jokes, but you get used to that." 
 
 "I would never laugh if I were not amused," said 
 Tom. 
 
 And at last the subject of Maggie's wig cropped up. 
 Jamie wished to know if it was to be very costly. "Not," 
 said his mother, "so costly as we thought it was going 
 to be." Maggie looked nervous and ashamed, and Tom 
 stole a glance round to the door. "Ye know," he said, 
 "Tibby had a magnificent head of hair and near Maggie's 
 colour." Maggie burst into tears: Mrs. Lawrie cried: 
 "Tom!" and Jamie thrust his hands into his pockets 
 and set his chin as he always did when his emotions 
 baffled him. He could not restrain himself. "I'm 
 danged!" he roared: "I'm danged if you aren't the
 
 86 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 meanest lot!" '"Jamie!" cried his mother, and Maggie 
 wept and through her sobs stammered out : "Oh, 
 Jamie! and Tibby said you were such a fine figure of a 
 man!"
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE DESCENT UPON THRIGSBY 
 
 41 
 
 HALF the holiday was spent in living down that ex- 
 plosion: the other half in preparing for the jour- 
 ney of family and possessions by road and rail. For 
 three days the old policy of silence was adopted. Tibby 
 had her meals with the family and Jamie, ignored by the 
 rest, would address his few remarks to her, receiving 
 only "Yes" and "No" for answer. No one else spoke 
 to Tibby, who would keep her eyes fixed on Margaret's 
 face in the pathetic effort to anticipate her desires. It 
 was easy to see that she was frightened, and she was 
 very uneasy when at last the silence was broken and 
 Tom took to levelling heavy sarcasms at his brother, 
 whom he called "the philosopher." "Isn't it called 
 ethics, the philosophy of conduct ?" "It is." "There'll 
 be more talk of that in Edinburgh than in Thrigsby, I'm 
 thinking." "No doubt." "Ye'll like us better when 
 we've all been dipped in Thrigsby." "Dipped," retorted 
 Jamie, "is the word, for ye're all sheep." '"So!" cried 
 Tom in a white fury, "it's sheep now ! It was pigs lang 
 syne." Then Margaret asserted her authority: "Tom, 
 be silent." And Jamie slipped away. 
 
 He would spend his days with the dominie or going 
 from house to house, and shop to office, hunting up old 
 acquaintances and schoolmates, or he would walk out 
 
 87
 
 88 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 into the country or along the shore with the happy com- 
 pany of his budding thoughts. One day he walked out to 
 the kirk which had been his father's and brooded among 
 the graves of the Keiths; and he saw Doctor MThail's 
 house standing empty and the death of that man 
 seemed to bring home to him his responsibility for him- 
 self, for his own life. He visited his Uncle Shiel and they 
 talked about the Doctor, what a man he had been, what a 
 rich character, filling the whole countryside with his 
 strong generosity. "No wonder," said Uncle Shiel, "the 
 women loved him, for he could make the heart in me as 
 soft as the heart of a woman, and I'm tough. And how 
 did you find Andrew?" "That," said Jamie, "is what I 
 didn't find. There was the outside of the man, his 
 
 great house and his business, but the man himself " 
 
 Uncle Shiel chuckled: "He was the eldest of us and 
 mysterious and secret. Losh! I used to go in greater 
 awe of him than of my father, and your mother was 
 just his slave. I'm only surprised he has not done bet- 
 ter, for he could make almost any man take him for a 
 wonder. But perhaps the English are not so easily de- 
 ceived." -"The English," replied Jamie, "seem to like 
 a man who can laugh." "Deed then," said Uncle Shiel, 
 " 'tis a pity it was not me went among them and not An- 
 drew. Remember, laddie, that when you're weary of 
 riches and all that ye can come to your Uncle Shiel and 
 snare a rabbit and tickle trout as you used to do." "I 
 might do worse," mused Jamie, "than come to live on 
 the farm." "That would not suit your mother. She's 
 ay girding at me for being and staying a humble man." 
 It was growing late and Jamie had to put his best leg 
 formost to reach home before dark. There was a mist 
 and the sun set red over the hills. A mile or so out of 
 the town by a bridge over a burn he met Tibby. She
 
 THE DESCENT UPON THRIGSBY 89 
 
 had seen him coming, turned and walked swiftly away. 
 He caught up with her crying : 
 
 "Tibby! Tibby M'Phail!" 
 
 She turned on him and said: 
 
 "My name's Tibby. I have no other." 
 
 "I've been seeing the Doctor's house to-day." 
 
 "He was the best man that ever lived." 
 
 "So my Uncle Shiel was saying. Have you been walk- 
 ing, Tibby?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "Do you always walk this way?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "I can guess why." 
 
 She made no answer, only walked a little quicker. 
 
 "I hope you'll be happy with us, Tibby. Eh! But 
 you're a grand walker!" 
 
 "I hope I know my duty, Mr. James, wherever I go." 
 
 "But I meant really happy." 
 
 She stopped and said: "Will you walk on, Mr. 
 James ?" 
 
 He stood still and tried in vain to catch her glance. 
 
 "If I've said anything to hurt you, I'm sorry. I've 
 been sorry ever since " 
 
 "Let me be, Mr. James, and walk on, please. 
 They " 
 
 "Ah! What have they done to you now?" 
 
 "Please, please I'll run I'll run away if you will not 
 leave me be." And tears began to flow down her cheeks. 
 
 "You poor child !" cried Jamie and he took her in his 
 arms and kissed her, tenderly, pityingly on the lips. She 
 was passive, accepted the caress, the tenderness, the pity, 
 and when he loosed her stood with the tears still flowing. 
 She would neither move nor speak. He could say noth- 
 ing and at last he swept his hat from his head, bowed
 
 90 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 low and walked away, beginning to understand why 
 she must be left alone and to feel ashamed of his strained 
 relations with his family. She must be left alone with 
 her grief and nothing must break in upon it. "If my 
 father had lived!" thought Jamie. "The Doctor loved 
 him, and mother too. He was friends with mother." 
 And he found that all his rancour had vanished. He 
 walked briskly home. In the street at the entrance to 
 the town he found a horseshoe. Dandling this in his 
 hand, he burst in on his mother crying: "Here's luck, 
 mother. We'll hang it over the door at the new house." 
 "Over the door?" said she. "Why, Thrigsby'll think 
 us daft." "They're not such gossips as they are here. 
 Thrigsby's not a place where everybody knows every- 
 body. However, if you'd not have it over the door 
 I'll give it to Maggie and she shall hang it over her bed, 
 to bring a handsome husband and great. riches." "Poor 
 Maggie!" sighed Margaret. "She won't have much 
 thought of husbands with that head of hers." "I'm 
 sorry I was hasty about that." "Ah! Jamie, that temper 
 of yours will be your ruin. I was hoping it would be 
 gone by you're a grown man." He protested : "But it 
 wasn't the same, mother. It was only that I cannot thole 
 injustice." "And that makes you unjust," said she. 
 Her logic startled and shocked him: "Dod, mother," 
 he said. "You are a one to turn a man back on him- 
 self. "Aye," said Margaret calmly, pulling back the 
 widow's bands at her wrists, "and why for not?" Her 
 face, her whole manner was pugnacious and Jamie, smil- 
 ing down at her, muttered : "You'd make a bonny 
 fighter, mother." "The Lord be thanked," said Mar- 
 garet, "I have held my own." 
 
 Indeed she looked indomitable with her wide thin- 
 lipped mouth, her almost startled-looking alert eyes, her
 
 THE DESCENT UPON THRIGSBY 91 
 
 blunt nose wide at the nostrils, her iron-grey hair parted 
 and neatly smoothed down under her mutch. Jamie 
 could remember her riding miles in the rain to fetch 
 a remote shepherd, who had become lax, to the kirk, and 
 he thought: "She'll be lost in Thrigsby." He said 
 aloud : "Well, I hope you'll be pleased with us, mother." 
 "Indeed," she said, "I will," and that seemed to settle 
 it. There were to be no two ways about it. Jamie felt 
 constrained to prepare her for any possible disappoint- 
 ment and, after giving her time to roll her resolution 
 round her tongue, he said: "You'll be surprised how 
 quietly things are in Thrigsby. You'll think the English 
 lazy, as I did." "All the more reasons for my sons to 
 work. It was work raised the Keiths up. The first 
 that went worked often with their own hands. My 
 Aunt Ann did, at the weaving, with her own hands, 
 though she would never have stooped to such a thing 
 here in Scotland where she was known." "It's got be- 
 yond hands now," said Jamie. "Aye," returned she. 
 "It's got to brains now, and brains you have." -" As to 
 that," interrupted Jamie, "I'm not so certain. I often 
 feel as if my brains had holes in them like a cullender." 
 "Aye," said Margaret, "it's a pity that Mary has the 
 best brains of the family, but she has small sense." 
 "Oh, well," said Jamie. "We are what we are and we 
 must hold together." 
 
 So the peace was made. Tom discarded his heavy 
 sarcasms and at meals even Tibby was drawn into the 
 conversation and partook of the general excitement, 
 which even in herself Margaret could not altogether sub- 
 due, though every night, by way of reminding her chil- 
 dren that they were in the Lord's hands, she read whole 
 chapters from the Old Testament and improvised elo-
 
 92 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 quent prayers for her children in turn, with a little one 
 thrown in at the end for Tibby. 
 
 The wee house was slowly dismantled and the fur- 
 niture packed up, all except the beds and the kitchen 
 table sent away, and then into its emptiness the minister 
 was brought to call down a blessing upon its departing 
 inmates. In Thrigsby Jamie had never felt so near God 
 as he did in Scotland and the minister's miserable in- 
 timacy was at first rather a shock to him, but he quickly 
 slid back into the condition of his youth when at every 
 fervent mention of the wrath of the Deity he shivered 
 and quailed internally and felt that the divine Eye, 
 Cyclopean, was upon him: and when the minister lifted 
 up his voice and brayed of the perils and snares and dan- 
 gers lying in wait for the voyagers then he felt that it 
 was indeed a sin to break up the wee house and he 
 thought that perhaps they would have done better to 
 hold by their honest poverty in their native land than 
 to pursue the success of their kinsfolk amongst foreign- 
 ers. He sighed when the last Amen went ringing 
 through the house and almost laughed when Tom, with 
 his eye on the minister, got in another Amen as the rest 
 were rising from their knees. "Give the minister a drop 
 of whisky, Tom," said Margaret. "Nae, thank you! 
 Nae, thank you," said the minister. "Just to drink our 
 healths," protested Margaret. "A weel!" He took his 
 drop. "God's blessing on the house and on the new 
 house and may ye be appreciated as ye have been here, 
 Mrs. Lawrie." "I have been only too aware of my 
 shortcomings," said Margaret. "Might we all be that," 
 responded the minister, reaching out for his hat. He 
 shook hands all round : "Ye'll be good God-fearing lads 
 and a credit to your mother and Scotland." "God bless 
 Scotland," thought Jamie, and "That I will," said Tom.
 
 THE DESCENT UPON THRIGSBY 93 
 
 Thus the journey was consecrated and on the mor- 
 row they all drove in the carrier's cart across the border 
 over to Carlisle. It was a sweet, sad September day with 
 a soft light on the Cumberland hills as they drove to- 
 wards them. "Helvellyn, Scawfell and Skiddaw," said 
 Jamie, "one for Tom and one for John and one for me. 
 The three highest points in England." "That's right, 
 Jamie," said his mother. "Aim at the highest." "Aye," 
 thought he, "a sight higher than she knows." He turned 
 to Tibby: '"This is England, Tibby. How do you like 
 it?" "I see no difference yet," she replied and at that 
 they all laughed and she, thinking they were laughing at 
 her, withdrew into herself and could not be induced to 
 say another word. 
 
 John had marked out a little hog-backed hill. "I'm 
 thinking," he said, "that yon'll be high enough for me, 
 yet awhile." "It was in yon hills," said Tom, "that 
 Mary used to say she would one day have her house. It 
 was reading Wordsworth made her say that. Her head's 
 turned with Goethe now, so maybe it's Germany." 
 "Good laud !" cried Jamie, exasperated with the sneer in 
 his brother's voice. "What's poetry to do .with where 
 you live or how? 'Tis the living breath of a man and as 
 free as air." "Don't wrangle, boys," said Margaret, 
 "and, Jamie, the Bible is poetry enough for any maa es- 
 pecially a minister's son." Jamie treasured that saying. 
 It marked for him the point at which some queer essence 
 in himself left her and would not be subdued in his affec- 
 tion for her. 
 
 At Carlisle they had some hours to wait for the train. 
 They visited the castle and the cathedral and then waited 
 in the station sitting by their furniture which had arrived 
 safely and was piled up on the platform. They sat for 
 nearly an hour until the train came in. None but Jamie
 
 94 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 had seen such a thing before though all had seen pictures 
 of locomotives. They gaped and Maggie screamed 
 through the roar and clatter of the engine : "Oh ! Jamie ! 
 I've left the horseshoe with John Carrier. Oh ! I'm that 
 sorry ! Oh ! our luck will be out !" "Havers !" said Tom. 
 "Speak for yourself. My luck's in and I'll not be losing 
 it with any bit of old iron." 'But Tibby was discovered 
 to have a parcel in her lap and in it was the horseshoe. 
 Maggie clutched it from her and never again relin- 
 quished it. 
 
 Jamie and Tom waited to see every piece of furniture 
 and every box put on the train and then they climbed up 
 into the bare hutch which was a third-class compartment. 
 They had oatcake, scones, cheese, cold porridge and 
 whisky with them and had several meals to while away 
 the long hours during which they jogged on through the 
 closing day. They were excited to see the tall chimneys 
 and the gear of the collieries and when they stopped at 
 Wigan Margaret said : "It was near here that the Keiths 
 had their first mill." "I wish," said Tom, "I had been 
 the first. I would by now be the richest man in Lan- 
 cashire." 'And Jamie saw Tibby smile. 
 
 It was dark when they reached Thrigsby, near mid- 
 night when they entered 21 Murray Street, which Andrew 
 had ordered Mr. Leslie to take for them. Maggie had 
 been saying during the last stages of the journey : "Will 
 Uncle Andrew send his carriage for us?" "I've no doubt 
 he will," was Margaret's reply. But there was no car- 
 riage and no one to meet them. Only at the new house 
 there were fires lit and the beds were put to air and in 
 Margaret's room were dahlias in a glass jar. Jamie 
 guessed that Mrs. Leslie had put them there, but he said 
 nothing when his mother said how nice it was of Andrew 
 to send them. She was put out when she discovered
 
 THE DESCENT UPON THRIGSBY 95 
 
 that the house was one of a row of eight and was over- 
 looked back and front. "I hope," she said, "I hope we 
 shall have nice neighbours. But your uncle is sure to 
 have inquired into that." "You need not know them," 
 said Jamie, sitting on her bed after she had slipped into 
 it. "But I would like," she said, "at least to know all 
 about them." He remembered then that though he had 
 lived above a year with the Leslies he knew almost noth- 
 ing about the people who lived on either side of them. 
 The family adventure seemed to him then rather forlorn, 
 but he put a brave face on it and said : "Trust the Law- 
 ries to make their mark, mother." She replied, turning 
 her face to the wall, "I put my trust in the Lord." Jamie 
 realised that she was childishly disappointed and suddenly 
 he felt immeasurably older than she, and more responsible 
 for her even than for poor Maggie.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 MAKING PLANS 
 
 IT was some days before Andrew gave any sign and 
 then he wrote a stiff little note of welcome saying 
 that he would give himself the pleasure of calling on the 
 following Saturday afternoon. Tom and John were hard 
 at it making the house ready against his coming and in 
 the evenings Jamie took his coat off and walked about 
 with a hammer in his hand and nails between his teeth. 
 The house was roomy, large enough to provide a separate 
 bedroom for each member of the family and an attic for 
 Tibby. She had no possessions and was very proud and 
 pleased when Jamie gave her two pictures to hang on her 
 walls; more than that he hung them for her himself. As 
 in Scotland they had had only one living-room there 
 was hardly any furniture for the parlour. In the dining- 
 room the furniture was arranged exactly as it had been 
 in the old house. The portrait of the Reverend T. Law- 
 rie was hung above the mantelpiece and the family Bible 
 was placed in the window. In this room also the books 
 of the family were shelved, except for Tom's which he 
 insisted on having in his bedroom. 
 
 On the Saturday Andrew arrived in his carriage and 
 pair, and the neighbours' windows were crowded with 
 faces to look at him. Jamie received him and presented 
 "my brother, Tom" and "my brother, John." Maggie 
 
 96
 
 MAKING PLANS 97 
 
 was overcome with shyness and refused to appear. She 
 was afraid of disgracing the family with her head, though 
 her wig was almost a masterpiece and only the closest 
 scrutiny could detect it. Margaret was upstairs com- 
 posing her nerves and her thoughts, for she meant to 
 have it out with Andrew and had given her sons a hint 
 that they must disappear. She sailed in presently just 
 when Andrew's grunts and snorts had reduced even Tom, 
 who in his desire to make an impression had maintained 
 conversation with an ingenuity and resource that to Jamie 
 seemed nothing short of miraculous. Planting herself in 
 front of her brother, she forced him to rise and kiss her. 
 He did so awkwardly and grunted as he sank into his 
 chair again: '"Well, Maggie," he said, "you're lucky 
 with your three fine sons." "Aye," she said, "they're 
 Keiths as well as Lawries." Andrew pointed to Tom: 
 "That's the Keith," he said and Tom gave a feeble 
 little grunt in imitation of his uncle. "You like your 
 house?" asked Andrew. "It's a bigger house than I had 
 when I first started housekeeping." "But you had no 
 family, Andrew," said Margaret." "I have no family 
 now," replied Andrew, "and yet I have a bigger house 
 than the Greigs." "Ah!" said Jamie, "but that is for 
 your position." 'Andrew quelled him with a look: "It 
 is because I like a big house," he said. And Jamie almost 
 pointedly left the room. 
 
 John followed him in a moment. Andrew called Tom 
 as he moved and said to him : 
 
 "So you're to come to my office?" 
 
 "Yes indeed, Uncle." 
 
 "Well, we'll see what room can be made for you, and 
 then you must make room for yourself, eh ?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, Uncle. Is there any book on the trade I 
 could read?"
 
 98 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "There is my own book." 
 
 "Could I read that?" 
 
 "I'll send you a copy with my autograph." 
 
 "Oh, thank you, Uncle!" 
 
 Tom thought it time to retire on that and went for 
 a walk to ease his jubilation. When he had gone, Andrew 
 said : "You've done well, Margaret, though you would 
 have no help from us." "It has been hard," said she, 
 "but I would do the same again. I'm not asking help 
 now. I've brought up my sons and I'm offering them 
 to the family." Andrew gave something that sounded 
 like a chuckle, a cluck in his throat : "There's two sides 
 to a bargain. They've got to prove themselves. We can 
 get clerks here as plentiful as blackberries." "They'll 
 make their way with or without you," chimed Margaret, 
 settling her hands in her lap. "But I would prefer it to 
 be with you to keep them in the family though their name 
 is Lawrie." "They shall have their start," said Andrew. 
 "Jamie shall go now to the mills. He might make a good 
 manager. Tom shall begin under my own confidential 
 clerk. And for the boy he'll be the better of another 
 year's schooling. There's a good Grammar School here, 
 good and cheap. His brothers will easily be able to af- 
 ford his fees." '"I'm much obliged to you, Andrew." 
 "Oh, I'm brotherly, brotherly." So saying, he rose, 
 kissed her and walked out, she calling to John to take his 
 uncle to his carriage. John did so. Andrew extended 
 his fingers. John did likewise and their fingers crossed 
 like swords. "Gee," said John as he walked up the path 
 after the carriage had driven off: "I've done for my- 
 sel'." He had, and was glad of it. 
 
 He returned to Jamie and said : "Well, he's a disap- 
 pointment." "What did you expect?" asked Jamie. 
 "Something grand and lordly. You were grand and
 
 MAKING PLANS 99 
 
 lordly when you came back and I thought you must hae 
 got it from him." "Oh ! Johnny, Johnny, a lordly man 
 must have a soul." "I could see he made you miserable 
 as soon as he arrived. But didn't our Tom make up to 
 him fine ? Our Tom'll have the best of him yet." 
 
 When Tom returned Margaret informed her sons of 
 the destinies marked out for them, and John only ex- 
 pressed rebellion: "School!" he cried. "Have I come 
 all these miles to go to school again?" "You're young 
 yet," answered Margaret, "and it's a good school. "- 
 "But I'll be living on you and my brothers!" cried John, 
 unable to express or indeed to understand his real griev- 
 ance, which was that he had expected to walk out of the 
 railway station into manhood. "You must not be un- 
 grateful. It is your uncle's wish, and after all you have 
 me to thank that you are not now in an English charity 
 school with yellow legs and a round blue bonnet like 
 Edward VI." "Very well, mother, but I will not learn 
 the Greek and if they try to put me to the mathematics 
 I'll turn on my doll-face. They won't do much with 
 that." "Don't be a young fool," chimed in Tom heavily. 
 "You'll have to learn what the others learn." But John 
 was not to be squashed : "Jamie's eldest. If I do what 
 anybody tells me it'll be Jamie shall tell it." "It's school 
 for a while, anyhow," said Jamie and John bowed to 
 his decision. 
 
 Both Margaret and Tom kept silent as to Tom's future. 
 Margaret told Jamie how his uncle had said he would 
 one day be a manager. Jamie was not elated at the pro- 
 posal. "The mills are at Hyde Bridge. If I was a man- 
 ager I would have to live there. It's a dark hole. I 
 won't relish going out there by train every morning 
 neither. I'll have to be up early and back late." "But 
 you'll have a good practical knowledge," said Tom. "You
 
 ioo THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 might even invent some new bit of machinery or a new 
 process would make your fortune or at least put the firm 
 under an obligation to you. That's how partners are 
 made. It's easy to see that Uncle knows how quick you 
 are, the way he moves you about." Jamie smiled : 
 "That's one way of looking at it and I suppose we can't 
 have things altogether to our liking." But he was dis- 
 appointed and hurt. He had been buoying himself up 
 with the hope that on his return his uncle would send 
 for him and, after his long probation, open up some defi- 
 nite prospect before him. He could not away with the 
 feeling that in being sent to Hyde Bridge he was shelved. 
 He had once or twice been to the mills and was left with 
 the strong impression that the work there was on a dif- 
 ferent plane. The men in that little office were of a dif- 
 ferent class. The brains of the concern were in Thrigsby. 
 The mill was only a machine. The idea of monotonous 
 day by day production repelled him. "The manager of 
 a mill," said Tom, "would get a fine salary."- "There's 
 more than salaries to be thought of," replied Jamie. "At 
 least that's how it seems to me. If I'm Andrew Keith's 
 nephew I'm not going to be his employee. My blood's 
 his and I back my blood wi' my brains for to help him 
 in his work." "Ou aye," retorted Tom, "but the busi- 
 ness is his and he has a say in that. Till you're as rich 
 as he is you're not as good, and fine airs are out of place." 
 "I measure no man by his purse, least of all my kins- 
 man," cried Jamie. "It's early days," said Tom, "to 
 talk of measuring men. You wait until they let ye. 
 That'll be your job when you're a manager." "At Hyde 
 Bridge," said Jamie relapsing into gloom. 
 
 Margaret laughed at them both. "It's soon to be 
 putting old heads on your young shoulders. Who's to 
 tell what will happen? It is all in the Lord's hands.
 
 MAKING PLANS 101 
 
 And by the way what church did you attend? Presby- 
 terian, I hope." '"There's not a Presbyterian church 
 within three miles, but I went to the English church. 
 S. James the Less I liked the best; but S. John's is the 
 nearest. Mr. Leslie is churchwarden at S. James." 
 "Very well then, we will try S. James. Have they free 
 seats?" "A few." "I'll stick to the Scots Kirk," said 
 Tom, "if I have to walk ten miles." 
 
 On the Sunday morning accordingly he walked three 
 miles there and three miles back, with a good stiff dose 
 of his native religion in the interval. Margaret, James, 
 John and Maggie went to S. James the Less and there 
 met the Leslies. Mrs. Leslie fluttered round Margaret 
 and told her how happy she had been to have her big 
 handsome son with her, and Peter, turning himself for 
 the moment into the spokesman of the Anglo- Scots com- 
 munity, delivered a little speech of welcome. Selina 
 meanwhile made herself very pleasant to Maggie and 
 tried in vain to draw her out of her shyness. Poor Mag- 
 gie had been very upset by the Anglican service, which 
 had seemed to her trivial and perfunctory. Her great- 
 est pleasure in life had been the Sabbath when she could 
 quake before the Lord and imagine that at any moment 
 the earth might open and swallow her up for her exceed- 
 ing wickedness. The English performance had to her 
 been hardly more exciting than an afternoon call. And 
 she was more than a little inclined to regard Selina as 
 frivolous, if not improper, because she was so gaily 
 dressed. Selina knew that Jamie had returned and had 
 got herself up in her best and brightest, but, with her 
 eye on Margaret, hardly permitted herself to smile at 
 him. John stared at her and Tom, who had come to 
 meet them, stood dourly looking on at the group of Les- 
 lies and Lawries blocking the pathway for the crowd of
 
 102 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 stovepipe-hatted gentlemen and full-skirted ladies as they 
 came streaming out of church "for all the world," 
 thought Tom, who possessed an inward wit of his own, 
 "like the animals coming out of the Ark." Not such a 
 bad simile either, for it was one of those genuine Thrigs- 
 by days when air and earth seem to be saturated with 
 water, dirty water at that, and its pale inhabitants have 
 the wan vacant stare of fish in an aquarium, with some- 
 thing also of their odd alacrity. Mr. Leslie knew almost 
 everybody and had continually to be taking off his hat. 
 "He's like a pump," thought Tom. Very stiff and 
 straight was Peter Leslie in his Sunday broadcloth and 
 he had the air of saying to all the congregation : "I am 
 talking to these people. They are to be known." And 
 indeed when at last the Lawries and the Leslies parted 
 Mrs. Lawrie was the object of a friendly interest. Tom, 
 lagging, heard whispers: "Scotch! Yes. Related to 
 Keith Bros. & Stevenson." '"Really?" "Those boys are 
 lucky, but the Scotch do always fall on their feet." 
 "The girl would be pretty if it weren't for something 
 rigid about her." "Proud? Oh, well, / should be proud 
 if I had three sons like that. The eldest has such dignity, 
 hasn't he?" "They don't look at me," thought Tom, and 
 his eyes followed Jamie's tall figure. "Oh, the moudie- 
 warps ! I don't wonder Uncle Andrew's rich." 
 
 Outside the church gate Selina managed to catch Jamie 
 and with her prettiest smile she asked Mrs. Lawrie if he 
 might accompany her home. She gave Jamie her Prayer 
 Book to hold. It contained a note which he extracted and 
 thrust into his waistcoat pocket. That also did not escape 
 Tom and his thoughts coincided with his brother's:- 
 "Aye, she'll do for a manager's wife." The thought 
 pleased Tom but not Jamie who was set in revolt by it, 
 both against Selina and his apparent destiny. "I'm
 
 MAKING PLANS 103 
 
 hanged if I'll be a manager," he said to himself. "And 
 have done with this feckless philandering. I am not 
 nor will I be in love." This resolution made him all the 
 more polite to Selina who found him more attractive 
 than ever since she had seen how in church he had drawn 
 attention to himself. '"Did you have a pleasant holi- 
 day, Mr. Lawrie?" she asked. "It was excited and dis- 
 turbing," replied Jamie, "but I was glad to see Scotland 
 again." '"Is it very beautibul?" "So beautiful that no 
 one can describe it." She smiled: "Did you did you 
 keep your promise ?" Jamie turned cold with fear. She 
 was dragging him back into the foolish past. "I I did 
 not," he stammered. There were two girls walking up the 
 street in front of them. He was overcome by the absurdity 
 of their outline : little stiff bodies rising out of a semicircle 
 of draperies. Love and that? He became suddenly 
 self-conscious and aware of his own incongruity, of the 
 wild free impulse in his own heart, here in the wet, dull, 
 greasy street. He could not bear it. He plucked the 
 note out of his waistcoat, slipped it back into the Prayer 
 Book, thrust that into Selina's hands, raised his hat and 
 bolted. When he was out of sight he stopped. "Losh !" 
 he said, "what must she think of me !" 
 
 He was crest-fallen and ashamed when he reached 
 home. He had a miserable afternoon, for a number of 
 ladies called and he was enraged to see their eyes taking 
 in the furniture of the dining-room and his mother's rai- 
 ment and Maggie's wig. ''"'Stare on! Stare on!" he 
 raged. "We're like any other folk. Aye, that's my father 
 over the chimney-piece and he was a good man though 
 he was never in any city but Edinburgh." "Yes," he 
 heard his mother's voice saying, "yes, I think we are 
 going to like Thrigsby, though we are hardly strangers 
 to it for we have had relations here for generations now."
 
 104 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Or Tom booming: "A man's place is in the city now. 
 Only a clod would till the soil." (O ! Uncle Shiel ! Uncle 
 Shiel!) And the women's tongues were as busy as their 
 eyes. They told Margaret where to get the best cakes, 
 the best clothes, the best coffee, the best wine, the best 
 shoes. They recommended butchers, bakers and milk- 
 men. Why should they not ? Perhaps even Jamie would 
 not have minded if he had not made such a fool of him- 
 self with Selina. Margaret was happy and contented. 
 She was led on to talk of her husband and her long 
 widowhood, though not of her poverty, that was for 
 ever interred. And Tom induced the ladies to talk of 
 their husbands so that he might gauge what manner of 
 society they had come among clerks, managers, munic- 
 ipal servants. '"They'll do for a while," he thought. 
 
 Jamie was increasingly miserable until the ladies had 
 gone. He hated himself for his reserve and his inability 
 to break it down. All that evening he spent writing to 
 his sister Mary with whom he had begun a regular corre- 
 spondence.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A LETTER FROM EDINBURGH 
 
 MARY was a born letter-writer. She could be frank, 
 intimate and charming on paper as she could not 
 be in actual relations in which she always acquiesced too 
 much in her disadvantages of short stature and plain 
 looks. She had two styles, both good, one official and 
 literary: this she used for her general family epistles: 
 the other easy, light and mocking which she used for her 
 letters to Jamie. They came not regularly but as the 
 spirit moved her, generally when she had got some new 
 light on the world as it shaped itself before her. Her big 
 brother, she knew, had need of her, and she was not 
 going to let distance deprive her of the happiness of 
 supplying it. His first weeks at the mill were desperate. 
 He thought he would never be able to go on with it, but 
 not a soul was allowed so much as a glimmer of the fury 
 that blew in him like a hot wind. He was parched and 
 cracked with it when there came a letter to say that she 
 too was a little, ever so little, unhappy. 
 
 "It was grand at first" (she wrote) "to be in the 
 streets where Sir Walter walked, to go past the house 
 where he used to visit Marjorie Fleming. It was fine 
 to meet people who had seen Sir Walter and some other 
 (old) people who remembered poor Burns. But now Sir 
 
 105
 
 106 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Walter is a shadow and the little pride of the world fades 
 before its great unhappiness. Who can walk through 
 the streets of this great city unmoved by the hopeless 
 misery and the drunkenness caused by the misery? You 
 would think that the great rock standing there above the 
 city would make for strength, but I think sometimes that 
 no idea, no symbol, has any power against the effect 
 human beings have on each other. That alarms and sad- 
 dens me. If we could only realise it and know some- 
 thing about it. But, dearie me, I'm being encouraging! 
 I should rather talk of my pleasure and I would but that 
 it lies all among thinking men, and is therefore just a little 
 rarefied. You would be surprised at the amount of 
 thinking that goes on in this town, the better parts of 
 it, that is. It is as common as drunkennees in the lower 
 quarters! O! a deal o' thinking! Uncle Andrew, no 
 not the Queen of England couldn't buy it. It is a 
 natural force like a current of air or a whirlpool and I, 
 your wee sister, am caught up in it. There's a thing, 
 though you may not know it, called the chemistry of the 
 mind. It is going to do a deal for the world without 
 interfering with religion. Scotland, little though we sus- 
 pected it in the Glen Kens, is the centre of the world's 
 thought. O ! but we have great men here. There have 
 not been greater since the Frenchmen of Paris and we too 
 are to have our Encyclopaedia. England must and shall 
 be educated. Cheap too! I say we because I am to be 
 in it. Just as Diderot made his Encyclopaedia out of an 
 English book so we are to make ours out of a German 
 one. And I am learning German. Why not? There 
 are Germans on the throne. It is a thoroughly respect- 
 able language and, they tell me, has a great literature. 
 There are other poets beside our Shelley and our Words- 
 worth and our little Keats. But poetry they tell me
 
 A LETTER FROM EDINBURGH 107 
 
 is mere intuition. All the building is done by philoso- 
 phers. I don't profess to understand this yet and when 
 I complain, as I do sometimes, B. laughs at me and asks 
 how many people understand Newton and if I know 
 where the world would be without him. Then I learn 
 that it is something terribly Mathematical and, as you 
 know, the Lawries never were any good at arithmetic. 
 It is very exhilarating but it makes the ordinary world 
 almost intolerable and, after all, as millions of people 
 live in the ordinary world it can't be so very bad, can 
 it? Shall we call it so-so? Between the two I find 
 and it is such a comfort my own dear brother. I like to 
 think of him in the ordinary world though he is not and 
 never could be so-so. Indeed, who can ? And yet so-so 
 describes the sum of it all. England seems very remote. 
 There are thinking minds there too but all separate and 
 isolated. Here there is a school, another Athens. Alas ! 
 I know now that I shall never be a poetess. Scotland 
 is not to have, this time, her Sappho. But you, I think, 
 could write. Your descriptions of Thrigsby are sombre 
 but not depressing. I suppose, as you say, that civilisa- 
 tion is marching through its streets, though I think you 
 are a little hard when you say you wish it would knock 
 some of them down. Surely the poor people regard 
 themselves as better off in them or they would not go 
 there. You know our philosophers will not hear of 
 anything that goes against common-sense unless it can 
 be mathematically proved like the earth going round 
 the sun, which is philosophy's one great smack in the 
 eye for the So-soishness of things. Short of proof, how- 
 ever, we have no right to interfere, however indignant 
 we may be. You will have had all my eloquent descrip- 
 tions of the beauties of Edinburgh in my family letters. 
 In my letters to you I like to describe only the Inside of
 
 io8 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Me, and I want in your letters the Inside of You at least 
 more than just peeps in your account of things generally 
 I am glad Mother is so happy and so settled with 
 plenty of people to make a fuss of her. She would get 
 that anywhere. Tom never writes to me. John's letters 
 are amusing, but yours are You and I feel you growing 
 into a wonderful beautiful MAN which I and the world 
 would far rather have than all the philosophers that ever 
 was. Rare ! Only the world and women know how rare, 
 and perhaps only the plain women really know. Write 
 soon." 
 
 She had the effect of bracing Jamie up so that he could 
 more easily bear the weight of circumstance and look 
 about him with more kindliness. He was incapable of 
 understanding many of the ideas with which she played 
 and was left oddly jealous of philosophers in general and 
 the shadowy figure which he divined behind her letters, 
 though whether it was Professor B. or R. W. or K. L. 
 he did not know. He inclined to think it must be Profes- 
 sor B. and Mary's growing insistence on her plainness 
 made him furious with him for a conceited dolt. Mary, 
 of all of them, ought not to be unhappy. She must not 
 be. His eagerness to help her, if she should need help, 
 set him working with keenness and vigour so that he 
 was able almost to conquer his detestation of the mills. 
 He told himself that it was absurd and unreasonable, 
 that without the mills there would be no business, but he 
 hated the long rooms with the machines clattering and 
 the threads dancing, the shuttles bobbing, and the rows 
 of women standing there for hours at a stretch, to gain 
 so little. He was glad to escape in the evening and to 
 read or write to Mary or, if it was his turn, to play 
 backgammon with his mother. (He and Tom took it
 
 A LETTER FROM EDINBURGH 109 
 
 in turn week by week.) For many months after their 
 arrival their existence was quiet, monotonous, unevent- 
 ful, happy and solid. Jamie's imaginative and emotional 
 life was away with Mary in Edinburgh.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY 
 
 SO absorbed was Jamie in his effortless acquiescence 
 in this regular existence that he became rather absent- 
 minded and hardly noticed what was happening around 
 him. John was there and his mother was there and Tom 
 was there and of their goings out and comings in he 
 knew nothing at all. Tibby woke him up in the morn- 
 ing and had his breakfast ready. This he gulped down 
 and then rushed off to catch the train before the others 
 were stirring. John had home work to do in the eve- 
 nings and Tom would often bring a ledger back with 
 him and sit at work on it. Margaret had the tale of the 
 day's doings but she was never able to make it interest- 
 ing. It was almost as though the world outside Keith 
 and Lawrie could not justify its existence and because 
 it made no apparent effort to do so she bore a grudge 
 against it. She was aggressive in talking even of her 
 friends. 
 
 So little did Jamie notice what was happening that 
 it was a week or so after the event before he noticed that 
 Tibby no longer had her meals with them. He did not 
 comment on her absence but one night, having occasion 
 to go into the kitchen, he said : "Why do you take your 
 meals alone, Tibby?" "It was my wish. It was not 
 . . ." "But I don't wish you to be a servant." "I 
 
 no
 
 JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY 111 
 
 am a servant, Jamie. Who does the work of the house 
 but me?" "But it doesn't seem right." "It is right. 
 I asked for wages." "I'm sorry you did that. You 
 had only to ask for any money you need." "Indeed I 
 would not ask. And it is not the same here as it was at 
 home." "How is it different?" "It is different. I'm 
 older for one thing and you are getting on so nicely, you 
 and Mr. Tom. You'll take your position in the world 
 and you can't have a half-and-half in the house." "Your 
 father and my father were friends." "Aye," she said 
 with her queer wistful humour, "but your mother and 
 my mother were not." That finished the argument. 
 "For your father's sake," said Jamie, "I can't altogether 
 acquiesce in that. You shall be a servant if you insist on 
 it, but you shall be a friend to me." "I will that." 
 "Then why do you call me Jamie and my brother Mr. 
 Tom?" 'Tibby smiled : "He is Mr. Tom." "How much 
 are they paying you?" "Six shillings a week." " 'Tis 
 little." "It's enough. I've no face to be vain of or to 
 spend money on. I can save." "Indeed," said Jamie. 
 "I think you in Thrigsby are the most extraordinary of 
 all." "Watch out for yourself, Jamie," said she with 
 a strange oracular gesture, so that her words seemed 
 almost a warning or a prophecy. 
 
 She had shaken Jamie out of his musing so that he 
 was prepared for the disturbance which soon came upon 
 the household. One night he came home from Hyde 
 Bridge, like Tom, with a ledger. He was not altogether 
 satisfied with the way the books were kept and he dis- 
 liked the manager whose chief assistant he had become, 
 mainly, as he knew, through the man's obsequiousness and 
 desire to flatter him as a nephew of the head of the firm. 
 "How you two boys do work!" sighed Margaret, 
 thinking she was not going to have her game of back-
 
 112 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 gammon. '"We'll have to work a deal harder before 
 we've done, the way competition is springing up on all 
 sides. I'm thinking Uncle Andrew must have had an 
 easy time of it," said Tom. "Oh, no," protested Mar- 
 garet. "He had his hard work too." 
 
 John had come home without books. "No work to- 
 night?" said his mother. "You must learn to work too. 
 Look at your brothers." 
 
 "I'll work all right," said John. "I've left school." 
 He was very nervous and in his effort to put a bold 
 front on it became rather impudent in tone. 
 
 "Left school?" cried Tom. 
 
 "Leastways I'm no' going back. I've found a post 
 and I begin on Monday." 
 
 "The devil you do," said Tom. "And where? Has 
 Uncle Andrew made you a buyer?" 
 
 "Uncle Andrew's not the only door- 1 can knock on. 
 I'm going to Murdoch's the ironmongery for ten shillings 
 a week. Two of us is enough for Uncle Andrew's maw 
 and I'm not going to make a third." 
 
 "Maybe," sneered Tom, "you are thinking of getting 
 married." 
 
 "I am not," snapped John. "When I do go with a 
 lassie 'twill be wi' a lady." Tom winced and John showed 
 pleasure at the hit, though neither Jamie nor Margaret 
 understood it. 
 
 Jamie took the matter in hand : "But there's no rea- 
 son," he said, "why you should work yet awhile. You 
 should wait till Tom or I can help you." "That's the 
 reason," replied John, "that I want to, and if I can live 
 without help I will, so help me God." He was not at 
 all sure of his ground and, knowing his Jamie, trusted to 
 bluster. Tom, he saw, had retired hurt from the fray. 
 "I don't want to annoy Uncle Andrew," he said, "but he
 
 JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY 113 
 
 doesn't like me." "How can you say such a thing?" 
 protested Margaret. John was nettled and plunged : "If 
 you want it straight out," he said, "there is not room for 
 me and Tom in the same business. So it's Murdoch's 
 or America. I told you in the beginning that I would 
 not go to school, but I had not the courage then to look 
 out for myself. Now I've done it and if you don't like it 
 I can find somewhere else to live." "But you don't know 
 anything about Murdoch's, whether they are solvent, or 
 whether they are on the up or the down," suggested 
 Jamie. "Murdoch's is all right," said Tom. "John's 
 no fool." "I should think not," cried Margaret, out- 
 raged at the mere suggestion of such a thing in her family. 
 
 So John had his way, and Jamie, at heart rather pleased 
 with him, gave him a sovereign, and took him out to buy 
 him a new suit of clothes. 
 
 These declarations of independence excited him, and 
 made him envious that Tibby and John should both have 
 so clear an idea of their positions. His own seemed mud- 
 dled. When John said "I" he had a very definite notion 
 of what he meant, with none of the aggressiveness that 
 was often so distasteful in Tom. He was enraged at 
 his young brother's coolness and his already extensive 
 knowledge of Thrigsby and its ways. "I'm glad we came 
 here," said John. "There can't be another place in the 
 world like it, for getting on, I mean. Look at the way 
 it's growing." "In a way," replied his brother, "that 
 seems to me to make it more difficult if you haven't a 
 solid position in the beginning. That is what makes me 
 anxious about you." "Oh ! I'll be all right," said John. 
 "Never fear. I wouldn't be stopped from getting on not 
 by fifty uncles." "Queer you should have that dislike 
 of Uncle Andrew." '"Dod, I hated him at sight. He's 
 so like mother." That really shocked Jamie. "John!"
 
 114 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "And Tom." "Hush!" "He's not a bit like you. 
 Tom was always telling me what I should do and I won't 
 take it from him. Thrigsby isn't all Keith Bros. & Ste- 
 venson and Thrigsby 's a big place. I'll go my own way 
 even if it's only to sell matches in the street." "You 
 won't need to do that while we've a roof over our heads." 
 "No, but I tell you what, as soon as I can I shall live 
 in lodgings." "Mother won't like that." "Mother won't 
 like what I'm doing now." "Oh! she'll get over it." 
 "I'll be surprised if she does." "What's come over 
 you?" "I dunno: a sort of fright I think." "It seems 
 unnatural in a lad like you." "It's taken me weeks and 
 weeks to get over it." 'I'm glad to have had this talk 
 with you, Johnny. I feel I know you better." John took 
 his brother's arm and said : "You're a good old sort ; 
 and if it was going to the mill I think I wouldn't mind 
 being in the business." "Indeed? What is it you mind?" 
 "Well, it isn't Uncle Andrew and it isn't Tom. It's 
 the two together. I'd hate it worse'n school. Ooh ! I'm 
 glad I haven't got a father or I'd never have dared to 
 leave." "I believe I'm in loco parentis." "You're not a 
 bit like a father anyway." 
 
 Now Jamie began to feel uncomfortable, knowing that 
 his affections were running away with him, making him 
 take his colour from this young brother of his and see 
 things very nearly from his point of view. That was 
 pleasant but very much against his training which had 
 instilled into him that if he was to allow any point of 
 view but his own, it must be the Lord's and no other. 
 This had frequently landed him in awkward places and 
 aggravated in him that conflict between self-knowledge 
 and self-conceit in which so many Scotsmen spend their 
 miserable days. Feeling this conflict now strong in him, 
 Jamie took it to be an essential part of his character and
 
 JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY 115 
 
 not, as it was, a condition of the phase of development 
 through which, without disturbance from outside, he 
 was passing. Alarmed at himself, therefore, he fell back 
 on the Lord's point of view. From that John was seen 
 to be behaving abominably, flouting his duty and treat- 
 ing the respectable with disrespect. Though this aspect 
 was distressing it was easy and made Jamie feel that 
 if he chose to exert it, there was authority on his side. 
 However, John, innocently chattering on, plunged his 
 brother in even greater perturbation. "You should," he 
 said, "have a crack with Tibby. She's sized us all up. 
 You're to be a great man, Tom's to be a rich man, and 
 I'm to be a wanderer on the face of the earth." "Tibby 
 in the character of a wise woman is new to me," said 
 Jamie. John replied: "She is wise, at least, she is 
 queer, and I wouldn't be in Murdoch's now but for her." 
 "Did you talk it over with her?" "I did not, but it 
 was what she said." 
 
 Jamie's thoughts swung back to Tibby in her kitchen 
 insisting on the definition of her position by wages and 
 he felt vaguely envious of her and yet angry to be en- 
 vious. It was what he wanted himself, definition, and 
 he had but the most confused notion of his position with 
 regard to the persons immediately surrounding him, un- 
 less he fell back on the support of the Lord, when they 
 became clear but also reduced and remote. His affec- 
 tions would not have that and yet, without renouncing 
 the Lord, he could not have it otherwise. O! this was 
 too involved. He encouraged John in his chatter, and 
 in the funny little swagger which he was every moment 
 more patently assuming, and visited his resentment on 
 Tibby. If John came to grief through going into Mur- 
 doch's, it would be Tibby's fault. But of course John 
 would not come to grief. That fate was not for any
 
 ii6 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Lawrie, or any Keith. They were out for the conquest 
 of England, though England might not know it, even 
 when conquered. That was the cleverness and the joke 
 of it. "I don't think you'll wander far, Johnny." 
 "Not if I can get my way, without/' '"What is your 
 way?" "I don't know yet, but I can imagine just get- 
 ting it and feeling fine." Jamie laughed: "I'm think- 
 ing there'll be some shocks in store for us." John gave 
 a whoop : "Doesn't this great city make you feel strong 
 and whirling?" They were passing down a street in 
 the centre of Thrigsby where there were still a few of 
 the old black and white timbered houses, some with pro- 
 jecting upper stories, and an old inn that must once have 
 stood in its own yard but now fronted a new wide street 
 and was overshadowed with a huge warehouse. "The 
 world must have been very charming in the old days, but 
 there were fewer people then," said Jamie. 
 
 Out of the inn came Mr. Wilcox who rushed up to 
 Jamie crying : "Hoo, my lad ! Good lad ! I haven't 
 seen you this many a long day. They could not grind 
 down your genius in the office so they sent you to the 
 mill, eh? The office is a sad place without you. I saw 
 you from the window : back view. I know that back, I 
 said to myself. Such a back had John Kemble. And 
 how are you?" "I'm very well," replied Jamie. ' "I 
 have my brothers living with me now. This is my brother 
 John." Mr. Wilcox held out his hand : "Welcome to 
 Thrigsby," he said. "I'm not Mayor, but I don't mind 
 speaking for the rest. Stick to your brother; he's a 
 tower of strength. Fortune could never resist a face 
 like that, not if she is the female of her usual portrait. 
 But I've news for you, James, my lad. Come and 
 have a drink on it." Jamie hesitated on account of John, 
 who said : "Oh, I've been in public-houses before." So
 
 JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY 117 
 
 they returned with Mr. Wilcox to the little low bar- 
 parlour where they sat on old trestles with their feet 
 fouling the sanded floors and Mr. Wilcox ordered ale 
 for three from the stout lady behind the counter, whom 
 he called Aunty. "Well," said Jamie, "what's your 
 news?" Mr. Wilcox burst out in a torrent of words, 
 speaking so fast that at first his hearers could make 
 nothing of his story: They gathered however that he 
 had left the firm. "For ever!" he said. "Not one spot 
 of dust from its unswept floors remains upon my boots. 
 A mistake was made. Thousands lost! Thousands of 
 golden sovereigns. It was traced, so they said, to our 
 room. I asked for proof. None was forthcoming. 'Seek 
 the responsibility elsewhere!' said I. But would they? 
 Not a bit of it. When there's trouble in the office, you 
 may have observed that it is always Peter Leslie who 
 is made to pay. He's got a white face, and a white liver, 
 and a pure white soul. He's a broken man. Child- 
 bearing's the cause of it. Now old Andrew knows what 
 men in the office he can't break, and he lets them alone. 
 He knows who's broken too, but he's getting old and is 
 losing his nose for the breakable. So this time, to run 
 no risks, it must be Peter. Poor old Peter! There he 
 stood, stiff as a poker, with a choke in his throat staring 
 hard at the wall in front of him. He would not, he could 
 not break down. He was too hard hit. Well: he's a 
 family man, and you know his wife, a high-stepper if 
 ever there was one, and I say it is the duty of the bachelor 
 to stand by the family man, who is always the one to be 
 trodden on if there is any treading to be done, and, let 
 me tell you, there is a damned sight too much of it in 
 Thrigsby. Well, that went on for a couple of days. 
 Not a word did Peter say: not a word passed my lips, 
 and you know what I am. We were in that office night
 
 u8 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 after night looking for that mistake an old one, mark 
 you, the effects of which had only just come home to the 
 firm. The general feeling after a bit was that whether 
 it was found out or not Peter was done for. I couldn't 
 stand that. I've been in the same room with him for 
 twelve years, and, damn it, the man's middle-aged and 
 has no thought outside the firm." "He's a very religious 
 man," put in Jamie. "Yes. And that makes it all the 
 worse for him. He'd hardly dare put his nose inside his 
 church if he lost his job. I could not stand it. If they 
 want their mistake, I said, they shall have it. It took 
 me two days and two nights to think out that mistake 
 and there it was, very difficult to trace, in one of my 
 ledgers. Then, I thought, if I find it myself they'll per- 
 haps be suspicious, because they all know I'm a fool at 
 the business. So I fetched in Nosey Tom and said I'd 
 been over and over the books until I couldn't tell my 
 nose from the figure nine and let him take them home 
 with him. Back he came in the morning as pleased as 
 Punch and walked straight into the old man's room. An 
 hour later I am sent for, told I am next door to a thief 
 and wholly an imbecile and unworthy of the trust which 
 the firm had imposed on me from the moment of my en- 
 tering their service as a lad. As a favour as a favour! 
 I was given one month's salary. Thank you for noth- 
 ing, I said, I have my savings and the mistake, if re- 
 corded in my books, did not have its origin there. Old 
 Andrew roared like a consumptive cow; you know what 
 a silly voice he has: and Nosey Tom muttered some- 
 thing about impudence. And then then I did the best 
 
 piece of acting in my life. I crawled back like this " 
 
 In his fiery enthusiasm Mr. Wilcox rose, crept hang-dog 
 to the door, went out, came in again pushing the door 
 slowly open. He had contrived to expel all the blood
 
 JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY 119 
 
 from his face and looked thin and shrunken. His hands 
 trembled and the handle of the door rattled and in a 
 dry whisper he croaked: "Peter ! Peter! Mr. Leslie. 
 It is finished. My character is gone. I am a broken 
 man. This room will know me no more. And I tell you 
 it knocked Peter all of a heap. He could not get out a 
 word. He was shaking and his hands were icy cold and 
 he clutched mine. 'God bless you! God bless you!' he 
 cried, and he could say nothing else but 'God bless you.' ' 
 "God bless you, indeed," cried Jamie who had been 
 carried away with the story and the power of Mr. Wil- 
 cox's acting. "Oh ! stow it !" replied Mr. Wilcox. "It's 
 what I'd been wanting for the last five years." "But 
 who," asked John, "was Nosey Tom?" Mr. Wilcox 
 dropped his jaw: "I'm blowed," he answered, "blowed 
 if it isn't your brother." And John gave a dry little 
 chuckle, but Jamie, still seeing the thing as a great and 
 poignant drama, with Nosey Tom as the villain, almost 
 groaned: "God forbid!" 
 
 Mr. Wilcox took a long drink at his ale and continued : 
 "But that isn't my real news. I've joined the profession, 
 and we must have another drink on that." "Not for 
 John," said Jamie. "Havers !" cried John. "I'll drink 
 you under the table." "That's right," said Mr. Wilcox. 
 "Don't you be put upon. Three more, Aunty. There's 
 a Mr. and Mrs. Beeton from the best London theatres 
 coming down. She's a Terry on her father's side. 
 They're to have a stock company at the Theatre Royal 
 and I'm to be one of their comedians. Good health! 
 We start in a fortnight's time, and I was wondering if 
 you would like to write a prologue." "Surely," said 
 Jamie, "there are writers in Thrigsby better known than 
 I. At least, I mean that I am not at all known, and be- 
 sides, the theatre!" "If you have never been inside a
 
 120 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 theatre," said Mr. Wilcox, with some heat, "you have 
 no right to condemn it. That is what you pious folk 
 are always doing." "I wasn't condemning. I was only 
 conscious of my own ignorance." "About the only man 
 in the world who is," said Mr. Wilcox. "However, 
 think it over. I'm at the same old address. By the way, 
 I'm Clarence now, Mr. Clarence Wilcox. I couldn't act 
 under the name of Sam, could I? ... I'm off to re- 
 hearsal now. Richelieu: not a laugh in it. Good-bye, 
 sir. Good-bye, young sir ; you stick to your brother and 
 you won't go far wrong." He raised his hat very high 
 above his head, set it on again at an angle, drew on a pair 
 of light yellow gloves and strode out. 
 
 "Well," said Jamie, "what did you make of Mr. Wil- 
 cox?" "I don't know," answered John after a pause. 
 "There was a boy at school had a father like him and 
 they're as poor as church mice." He made a face. 
 "He's a noble character," said Jamie. "Aye, I daresay. 
 But he'll die poor." "What difference does it make 
 how you die?" "Eh! Jamie!" said John, "you wouldn't 
 die poor and leave a widow as Mother was left." But 
 Jamie was already off on thoughts of his prologue, play- 
 ing with the forbidden fruit. It would be a fine thing 
 to have words of his spoken, as Mr. Wilcox could speak 
 them, before an immense concourse of people. What a 
 power words might exert! They would go echoing 
 through the hearts of every man and woman there. They 
 would be treasured, and bring up warm grateful thoughts 
 of the man who had written them. And perhaps one 
 day, after the prologue, he would write a play a play 
 by a Thrigsby author before a Thrigsby audience. Wil- 
 cox would act in it. There should be a door in it: the 
 door should slowly open, upon an empty room, and a 
 man with a ghastly white face should open the door
 
 JOHN ASTONISHES THE FAMILY 121 
 
 and come in trembling, trembling, afraid of what he 
 would see there, and his fear would grow into terror as 
 he realised the emptiness, and the emptiness of his own 
 soul. Jamie gripped his stick tight and he walked very 
 fast so that John could hardly keep up with him. His 
 thoughts raced. "Dod, Jamie," said John. "Think of 
 them calling our Tom Nosey !" '"Didn't you think Mr. 
 Wilcox a very fine actor, John?" "Pooh! what's play- 
 acting?" And Jamie's thoughts collapsed: "Indeed," 
 he said to himself, "what is it?" "I wonder," said John, 
 "what they call Uncle Andrew." "I can tell you that," 
 replied Jamie savagely, flying back to the story of Peter 
 Leslie. "They call him the Scotch turd, and you can 
 thank your lucky stars you've thrown your bonnet over 
 the windmills and gone into Murdoch's." 
 
 At home they found Margaret waiting for them : her 
 old fighting self, roused from the lethargy and shyness 
 which had settled on her since their coming to Thrigsby. 
 She had on her bonnet and cloak all shining with jet 
 beads which rattled as she spoke. "John," she said, "you 
 have defied my authority. I am going to take you to your 
 Uncle Andrew to see what you have to say to him." "I 
 have nothing to say to him." "We shall see that." 
 "And if I will not go." "Then I and your brothers will 
 make you go." "Not I, Mother," said Jamie. "Jamie!" 
 
 -"My father, Dr. M'Phail used to say, was a gentle 
 soul. He would not have forced any of us against our 
 wills. I have been talking to John. He is set against 
 the office." "Why?" "He has his reasons." "What 
 are they?" "I imagine," said Jamie, "they are deep- 
 rooted in his character." "Character! A child like 
 that." "Indeed, mother, in many ways he is older than 
 I am. He is certainly less easily deceived, and he has 
 made up his mind." Margaret made a show of surren-
 
 122 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 der but her lips shut tighter than ever. "At least/' she 
 said, "he owes it to your uncle to give him an explanation 
 and to ask him for a recommendation." "There's no 
 harm in that," replied Jamie, jumping at the chance of 
 relieving the strain and thanking Heaven that Tom was 
 out. >"No," said John, "I see no harm in that." So 
 Margaret sent him up to don his new clothes and brush 
 his hair and wash his neck. While he was gone she said 
 to Jamie : "It is natural that he should have an admira- 
 tion for you as his eldest brother, but you ought not to 
 take advantage of that to subvert my authority." Jamie 
 was so entirely unaware of having done any such thing 
 that he could find nothing to say, nor indeed did Mar- 
 garet seem to expect any rejoinder. She added : "It is 
 the first grief my sons have caused me. Please God, it 
 may be the last." And Jamie, prickly with distress, found 
 uppermost in his mind the fantastic but somehow attrac- 
 tive idea that Tibby was responsible for it all. He was 
 dimly aware of strange influences in the house driving 
 them on to the ways they must go, and it was extremely 
 pleasant to gather all these influences up into one thread 
 and to accuse Tibby, mentally, of witchcraft. It gave 
 her a characteristic personality and also prepared his 
 mind and spirit for any astonishments that might come.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 CLIBRAN HALL 
 
 IT was a long journey from Murray Street to Clibran 
 Hall; a three-stage journey by omnibus with three 
 horses. The day was cold with that damp irresistible 
 chill of which Thrigsby possesses the peculiar secret. 
 There was straw to warm the feet of the passengers 
 and John, thrusting his feet in it, tucked his arms well 
 up his sleeves and composed himself for warmth against 
 a fat man who occupied the corner under the lamp. 
 Margaret disdained the straw and sat stiff and upright 
 under her beaded cape. The omnibus swung and creaked 
 and the flickering light cast strange shadows on the 
 faces of the travellers. "Stiring times these," said the 
 fat man to John. "Are they?" replied the boy. "I've 
 only just left school." '"Lucky to be you," said the 
 fat man. "You'll reap the fruits of it all." "Will 
 I?" asked John politely, not knowing in the least what 
 the man was talking about. '"Never heard John Bright 
 speak? Ah! Better than a play, that is. Temperance, 
 reform, but a sound Englishman." Margaret nudged 
 John, and whispered: "You should not talk to stran- 
 gers." "It's he's doing the talking," whispered John, and 
 the fat man pursued his argument: "With men like 
 that," he said, "we've no need of the violence and devas- 
 tation they have in France. If what they tell me is true, 
 
 123
 
 124 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 France must be a terrible country where no honest man 
 is safe. Now John Bright he's a sensible man, and one 
 sensible man is better than ten re volutions. "--The word 
 revolution frightened Margaret and she said: "Don't 
 listen to him, John." "How can I help it," muttered he, 
 "with him talking so near my ear?" "London," contin- 
 ued the fat man, "has got to heed what we say in the 
 North. We're the backbone of the country and entitled 
 to a voice. We're the brains of the country and Lon- 
 don's the belly. Look at the map if it isn't so. England's 
 narrow at the top and broad at the bottom, the bum I 
 might say, to put it bluntly. Where are the brains ? At 
 the top. But you should hear John Bright. He's speak- 
 ing to-morrow." "Where?" asked John. "At the Coal 
 Exchange. I can give you a ticket." He unbuttoned his 
 enormous overcoat and produced a bulging pocket-book 
 from which he took a ticket. This he pressed into John's 
 hand. "Like a ticket, ma'am ? Better than a play." But 
 Margaret stared frigidly out of the window. "He's a 
 God-fearing man, and none of your atheists." "Then," 
 said Margaret, "if he fears God, why does he not put 
 his trust in Him and not go disturbing the people ?"- 
 With considerable emotion the fat man replied : "To save 
 them from the Godless, madam, and to save them from 
 themselves." As he uttered this fervent sentiment the 
 omnibus drew up. They had reached the first stage and 
 were to change. In the second omnibus the fat man 
 again took up the corner under the lamp, but Margaret 
 kept John by the doorway though it was bitterly cold 
 there. Two other men entered and were presently drawn 
 into conversation by the fat man who recommended them 
 to hear John Bright and gave them tickets. John listened 
 intently to their conversation and was kindled to a glow 
 to hear of riots and fighting on the Continent, and dis-
 
 CLIBRAN HALL 125 
 
 turbances in London. '"There'll be none of that," said 
 the fat man, "when John Bright gets his way. Quaker 
 stock, he is, the good English breed, that showed King 
 George in America what they were made of. No Ger- 
 man nonsense for them. Good, honest, North country 
 manufacturing stock he is, and that's the stock the coun- 
 try's got to look to." "Cobden's my man," said one of 
 the others and they fell to a furious discussion of the 
 merits of the two men. "The way I look at it is this," 
 said one of the controversialists. "We're making all this 
 trade. Government won't help us, that's certain." "We 
 don't want Government help," said the fat man. "No, 
 all we want is not to be hampered by the Government. 
 If these men won't see reason, we must have our own 
 men in." John began to think: "I'll be a Parliament 
 man before I've done. I'll go to hear John Bright." 
 
 Margaret had ceased to pay any attention to these 
 trivial political matters and was conning her address to 
 Andrew, plotting how she could get him alone without 
 her obstinate errant son. Meanwhile John pursued his 
 ambitions : in ten years a partner in Murdoch's ; in fifteen 
 married to a wife, with money, perhaps Miss Murdoch: 
 in twenty a Parliament man, and later Lord Carsphairn. 
 "Don't forget," said the fat man, "John Bright speaks 
 in the Coal Exchange." "I'll not forget," said John. 
 "My name's John too." "John what?" asked the fat 
 man. "John Lawrie." "That's a good name. Make it 
 Honest John." -"John Lawrie, M.P.," thought John, 
 catching sight of his face in the window of the omnibus. 
 As mirrored there it was rather interesting: a large 
 white brow, great melancholy eyes and a little sensitive 
 mouth and chin. "Has John Bright got a beard?" 
 thought John, and, unknown to himself, he thought aloud. 
 "Put those wicked thoughts from your head," said
 
 126 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Margaret. "John Bright is an agitator and a disturber 
 of the Queen's peace." "I don't suppose," said John 
 with a thrilling flash of wit and insight, "I don't suppose 
 the Queen has ever heard of him." "The Queen," re- 
 plied Margaret, "is the best of women and hears of 
 everything." "She eats chicken-bones with her fingers," 
 said John, "and her real name is Mrs. Guelph." Mar- 
 garet would have protested against such light disloyalty 
 but that they had come to the second stage and must de- 
 scend. The fat man got out also, once more reminded 
 John of his undertaking, touched the brim of his hat, 
 and walked swiftly away with a lightness of foot aston- 
 ishing in a man of his bulk. 
 
 No third omnibus appeared. They waited nearly half- 
 an-hour for it but at last decided that they must walk. 
 "Perhaps," said Margaret, "your uncle will send us back 
 in his carriage." "Pigs might fly," thought John, but he 
 said nothing and walked on just a little ahead of his 
 mother. When they were near Clibran Hall but not yet 
 within sight of it they began to hear a roar of voices, 
 that might be shouting or singing, and growing louder 
 and louder. Men, women and boys hurried past them 
 and soon behind them they heard the clatter of horses' 
 hoofs and a company of soldiers went swiftly by, turned 
 down a side road and disappeared in the darkness. "We 
 must hurry," said Margaret, "and take refuge in your 
 uncle's house or we'd best turn back." >"If there's any- 
 thing in the wind," replied John, "I'll see what it is. I'll 
 see you safe to Uncle Andrew's." As they turned the 
 corner they came in sight of an immense crowd of people 
 gathered round an omnibus from which the horses were 
 taken. On the top of this were three men who were 
 haranguing the crowd, with much waving of arms and 
 swaying of their bodies. A strange light was thrown on
 
 CLIBRAN HALL 127 
 
 the scene by torches and the crowd swelled and heaved 
 as new members came to it. It was impossible to hear 
 what was said. John and his mother were in the crowd 
 before they realised that it was outside Clibran Hall and 
 then it was impossible for them to turn back. They kept 
 to the wall of the garden, Margaret gazing with disgust 
 and scorn at the crowd, John tingling with excitement 
 and straining to hear, but he could make nothing out. 
 And suddenly the crowd broke as though it had burst 
 and went surging up the garden to the door of Clibran 
 Hall. John caught his mother in his arms and held her 
 in front of him so that he carried her weight and pro- 
 tected her. They were borne along by the wall, through 
 the awful press in the gateway and half-way up the drive 
 when they managed to slip out into the garden. Stones 
 began to fly and windows crashed. The noise of that 
 seemed to satisfy the crowd more than their own for 
 they were almost silent, except for the grunting and 
 swearing of those still being thrust through the gate. 
 "Let us go by the back way," whispered Margaret, trem- 
 bling in her son's arms. "In a while," answered John. 
 "I want to see this out. I wonder will they fire the 
 house." "Oh! John! John!" "Deed," said he, "it would 
 be a grand sight." The crowd began to cry : "Cat Lane ! 
 Cat Lane! Right of way! Right of way!" Another 
 window went crash, but by the sound of it the shutters 
 were closed. One of the leaders went up to the front 
 door and banged upon it with the knocker. "What do 
 they want?" cried Margaret, the beads on her bonnet rat- 
 tling. '"I can't tell," replied John, "but they're not doing 
 all this for fun." The hammering at the door went on, 
 until at last it was opened. The crowd was hushed and 
 John, caught up in the excitement, shivered and then 
 gasped as Tom came out and stood very white and
 
 128 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 determined-looking under the flickering- light in the 
 porch. "Who's yon?" cried a voice. "Where's t'owd 
 badger?" 
 
 One of the leaders ran up into the porch (for the 
 crowd had fallen back as the door opened), and he and 
 Tom talked together. Tom's remarks seemed to give 
 satisfaction, for words were passed down into the crowd, 
 which began at once to disperse. John heard a man say : 
 "We've won. He'll build." And another asked : "Aye, 
 but what'll he build?" There was some singing and 
 cheering which became wild hooting as the clatter of 
 hoofs was heard out in the road and the soldiers went 
 by at a trot, exchanging chaff and banter with the rioters. 
 Soon the garden was empty. John was disappointed. 
 "I'd thought," he said, "it was going to be like the taking 
 of the Bastille." "Your uncle," observed Margaret, 
 "would be just." "I wonder why he sent Tom and 
 what Tom was doing there and what it was all about. 
 I'd have made a speech if I'd been he." For John's 
 thoughts were still running on John Bright. 
 
 Margaret insisted that she would not go without see- 
 ing Andrew, though John tried to point, out that he 
 would not want to see them after such an evening's ex- 
 citement. "He'll be feeling a strong man," said she. 
 "Dod!" cried John, "he'll be shivering in his cellar." 
 
 They were ushered into the library where they found 
 Andrew, in his dressing-gown, drinking a strong whisky 
 toddy, and Tom, very excited, though subduing his feel- 
 ings, still telling what had happened. Margaret com- 
 miserated her brother and abused the rabble. '"Obsti- 
 nacy!" said Andrew, "stupid obstinacy! Where would 
 they be without me, I should like to know ? Who knows 
 best what is good for them ? All that fuss and my win- 
 dows smashed because of a row of filthy cottages and
 
 CLIBRAN HALL 129 
 
 a dirty alley leading from an ash-pit to a slag-heap." 
 "Of course !" said Margaret, "y u know best. You have 
 the brains to see what they do not see." "So I say," 
 said her brother. "So I say again and again. Is the 
 town to have a future or is it not? And if I and men 
 like me do not look after its future, who will ? The poli- 
 ticians I suppose and the Town Council who think of 
 nothing but votes. They think because they've lived 
 in a place for twenty years they must live there for ever, 
 regardless of the expansion of the town's industries. 
 What does it matter where they live, so long as they have 
 factories to work in? Hum! Hum!" Very savagely 
 he bobbed his head down into his glass. "Drunken, 
 lecherous topers! Look at the birth-rate. There'll be 
 no food for them to eat soon." "We were caught in 
 the crowd," said Margaret. "Indeed," grunted Andrew, 
 "and what brought you here at this time of night?" '"It 
 is my boy John. He has insisted on leaving school and 
 has, against my will, taken a post at Murdoch's." An- 
 drew swung round and fixed John with his eye: "Mur- 
 doch's ? Why Murdoch's?" "They they wanted some- 
 one," stuttered John. "Did you tell them you were my 
 -er connection?" "I did not." "Hum!" "I want 
 you to forbid it, Andrew," said Margaret. Andrew drew 
 himself up: "If a young man dares to think that he 
 knows best what is good for him, let him. Let him find 
 out his mistake." And that was all he would say in the 
 matter. He ignored his sister's remarks and would not 
 even look at John, who felt ashamed, miserable and con- 
 trite. It was his fault that his mother was so humiliated 
 and he wanted to withdraw his resolution, but Andrew 
 silenced him when he gasped and gurgled inarticulately, 
 by tapping with his foot on the floor. Tom meanwhile 
 stood by the fireplace staring over their heads at the
 
 130 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 print of The Industrious Apprentice which hung on the 
 wall opposite to him. John hated him. Margaret was 
 silenced at last. Not a word was spoken for twenty-three 
 minutes by the clock. John glared at Tom and said 
 under his breath : "The fish ! The clammy glue-blooded 
 fish !" Ostentatiously every five minutes Tom drew from 
 his waistcoat pocket a new gold watch, which when he 
 left Murray Street that morning he had not possessed. 
 "I'll have a gold watch by I'm twenty-one," said John 
 to himself. "I am tired, Margaret," said Andrew at 
 last. "May I keep Tom here to-night ?" ''Yes, An- 
 drew," replied she sadly and with all the spirit let out of 
 her. "Yes, Andrew, you may. He was brave with the 
 crowd, wasn't he?" Tom smiled. "They've spoiled my 
 evening for me," growled Andrew and still not a word 
 did he speak to John. Tom nodded good-night to him. 
 Oh! he was pleased with himself, was Tom! 
 
 As she rose to go Margaret murmured that perhaps the 
 omnibus would not be running. Andrew growled out 
 that she could hire a fly at his expense as far as the 
 Town Hall, and he asked Tom to tell John to go and 
 fetch one. "I'll bring it to the gate, mother, if you'll 
 walk down there," said John, for he was resolved never 
 to enter his uncle's house again. 
 
 The omnibus was standing derelict in the road as he 
 ran out. Every pane of glass in it was shattered and 
 the shafts were broken. John said to himself: ''They 
 should have brought down the house about his ears. I 
 would : indeed I would." His mortification got the bet- 
 ter of him and his eyes filled with tears, and later on he 
 was clattering back in the fly over the cobbles and his 
 mother said to him : "See ! what trouble you have caused 
 and how good your uncle is to Tom. He has given him 
 a gold watch/' He could not keep back his tears and
 
 CLIBRAN HALL 131 
 
 his mother consoling him stroked his hands and told him 
 that all would come right in the end when he was a man 
 and understood the world better. She said: "Tom 
 will put things right with your uncle and explain to him 
 that you did not mean to hurt his feelings, but were only 
 anxious to do your share in advancing the family." The 
 last half of her observation touched John to the quick, 
 explained to him what he had not properly understood 
 himself, but his gratitude for such sympathy was at once 
 wiped out by her insistence on Andrew's feelings and 
 ignorance of his own. He gulped down his tears and his 
 little chin stiffened and he stoked up his personal ambi- 
 tion so that it burned away his desire to serve the family. 
 At the Town Hall they discharged the fly and drove 
 home in silence to Murray Street. Neither said a word 
 to Jamie of what had happened. Jamie looked in as John 
 was getting into bed. "Is it Murdoch's?" he asked. 
 "Murdoch's it is," replied John.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG 
 
 MAGGIE was a marvel with her needle. At the age 
 of twelve she had astonished Kirkcudbright with 
 her sampler done in single stitch on silk canvas, birds, 
 dogs, flowers, lettering all done amazingly: a work of 
 art. She could darn linen so that it almost needed a 
 magnify ing-glass to detect the repair: she could em- 
 broider: she could make lace: she would work shawls 
 for her mother which it was hard to tell from the best 
 Indian work : she would knit socks and singlets for her 
 brothers. She could draw too and earned thirty shillings 
 by doing fifteen pictures of Jerusalem from different 
 aspects to illustrate a lecture given by a missionary home 
 for his holidays from Madras. She could also carve in 
 wood, and she was continually adding to her accomplish- 
 ments : illuminated lettering : painting on china : crysto- 
 leum painting: and, although she could hardly tell one 
 note from another, she taught herself to play hymn tunes 
 on the harmonium. Her misfortune had left her so shy 
 that she was almost inarticulate and only Tom was able 
 to get more than four consecutive words out of her. For 
 all that she had many friends, possessing, like her mother, 
 the Scots talent for making the English take her at her 
 own valuation. 
 
 The Greigs were Scotch but they had been so easily 
 
 132
 
 GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG 133 
 
 successful and had married so well that they had never 
 needed to employ this talent. From being left in abey- 
 ance it had withered away and they had become Eng- 
 lish. One Angus Greig had invented a standard pattern 
 for printed calico and also a kind of thin cotton stuff of 
 which India demanded millions of bales yearly. So suc- 
 cessful was this family that they did not live in Thrigsby 
 but far north among the fells and lakes of Westmoreland. 
 However, they were Scotch enough to be aware of all 
 their relations and curious about them. They admitted 
 Andrew's authority as head of the English branch of 
 the Clan Keith, though they were not altogether in fa- 
 vour with him because they continued to know the 
 Allison-Greigs after Hubert of that family had run 
 away with his (Andrew's) wife. 
 
 When in town Mrs. Donald Greig called on Mrs. Nicol 
 Lawrie and subsequently Maggie was invited to stay at 
 Lowrigg. The invitation was accepted. Maggie went 
 and never returned except for an occasional visit. The 
 change was never officially acknowledged. Murray Street 
 was home to Maggie, though she was not there above six 
 weeks in the year. She had seen her chance and taken 
 it, and was governess, housekeeper, confidante, religious 
 adviser, moral sweetener, and buffer against her husband 
 to Mrs. Donald. 
 
 In Murray Street her absence was hardly noticed. She 
 was always referred to in the family as though she were 
 on the point of returning or indeed in the house. Only 
 Margaret fidgeted if a week passed without a letter from 
 her, as she never did if Mary omitted to write. And 
 Maggie served the family by opening up the Greig man- 
 sions as a holiday ground for her brothers, who were 
 glad enough to escape from their offices to the company 
 of these people who were rich enough to bear their
 
 134 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 wealth easily and cultured enough to have charming peo- 
 ple and even, occasionally, distinguished people staying in 
 their houses. A week among them would help Jamie to 
 hold his head up. He could forget his mill and sit drink- 
 ing in the talk to which he dared never contribute, so 
 busy was he turning over in his mind the ideas thrown 
 out. He was so happy in it that his happiness seemed to 
 him contribution enough. The women were so sweet, 
 so elegant, so graceful that he felt unworthy to speak 
 to them and when they spoke to him, as they must, be- 
 cause he was so handsome, he would blush and stam- 
 mer. In vain did Maggie convey to him the compli- 
 mentary remarks they made about him. These did but 
 increase his ecstasy and his bashfulness. A cluster of 
 beauties were these ladies, married and maiden, to him. 
 They did not exist for him but rather hovered in the 
 enchanted world which was his holiday. And slowly 
 one of them became, for him, disengaged from the group, 
 Agnes Allison-Greig, though he was hardly sensible of 
 her name. She took shape for him and he had for her 
 an adoration so tyrannical over his emotions that had 
 she ever become aware of it he must have died. He did 
 not even want her to know of it; it was his ecstasy, a 
 swooning bliss of which he dared hardly become aware 
 himself. Had he become aware of it, had he admitted 
 it, the idea must have been ridiculous for him, for this 
 was the quality of his mind that an idea in becoming 
 clear had but its moment of beauty and then faded into 
 absurdity. Therefore Miss Agnes remained shadowy 
 to him and excepted from the thoughts and emotions 
 of his everyday life. She was a part of the scene, as 
 essential to it as the light of the sun. When she was 
 away the lake, the beck, the fall, the green and grey 
 fells lost half their beauty, though not their enchant-
 
 GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG 135 
 
 inent. He would spend hours sitting at the window and 
 resented the activities of the rest of the company who 
 were always forcing him to go riding or walking or 
 sailing on the lake or to take part in a game of croquet 
 or Badminton. He could enjoy those too, but not with 
 the sweet torment of his contemplation. 
 
 After a week of such happiness he could return to 
 Thrigsby and the mill without resentment. The squalor, 
 the blind fury of work, even the human misery that 
 hemmed him in there seemed to be almost a necessary 
 complement of the severe dignity of the fells. His 
 humour which in the northern beauty vanished, came 
 rushing back upon him as soon as he set foot in the 
 streets of the dirty town. He was never at the Greigs' 
 with his brothers. The place where they lived became 
 his sanctuary, the image of his most secret activity, 
 which, faintly though he was aware of it, he regarded 
 as peculiar to himself. He wrote many verses, some of 
 which were published in The Thrigsby Post over the 
 signature, Quintus Flumen. 
 
 He began to discover beauty in Thrigsby, more es- 
 pecially on windy wet days when clouds were blown 
 through the rising smoke and the pale sunlight would 
 gleam down upon the tall chimneys, and the men and 
 women in the streets would look pinched and shrunken 
 and the sprawling mass of the town had only an obscure 
 and menacing significance. Thrigsby only hurt and of- 
 fended him when the light was clear and it stood out 
 harsh, confident and blatant. This did not often hap- 
 pen, and it was for the most part covered in the ob- 
 scurity of its own creation, an obscurity which, it seemed 
 to Jamie, crept into and darkened the minds of all who 
 lived in it. He had gusts of an aimless passion which 
 set him aching and throbbing and left him with a fine
 
 136 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 poetic melancholy, which would so disturb his mother 
 that she would secretly give him Epsom salts in the 
 morning and she would talk him over with Tibby who 
 would say: "He's no ordinary man." Margaret's chief 
 concern was that, whereas Tom and John were always 
 talking of their success in business and bringing home 
 tales of commendation passed by their superiors, Jamie 
 never breathed a word of what passed at the mill. She 
 was horrified and scared when she heard from Mrs. 
 Leslie, her most devoted admirer, that Jamie was often 
 to be seen in the company of the "wicked" Hubert Alli- 
 son-Greig, who had had the effrontery several years 
 before, after the death of Andrew Keith's wife, to re- 
 turn to Thrigsby and start a weekly paper in which he 
 criticised the city fathers, the church, the political 
 parties, the architecture, the local school of painters, 
 everything in the town from its music to its scavenging. 
 "He! He! Mrs. Lawrie," said Mrs. Leslie. "You 
 can't always tell a man by the company he keeps, can 
 you? Birds that flock together aren't always of the 
 same feather, are they? Yet I couldn't be fonder of 
 James, not if he were my own son." "My sons," said 
 Margaret, "would never do anything of which they 
 were ashamed to tell me." "And yet he was seen with 
 that Allison-Greig." "I don't believe it," said Margaret. 
 Yet she did believe it, and locked it up in her breast, 
 and used it to account for Jamie's reticence. She said 
 nothing to him but told herself that the scoundrel Hu- 
 bert was preying on her son's innocence in a base at- 
 tempt to worm his way back into the family. In time 
 Jamie would see through this transparent villainy and 
 would discard the schemer. Her dread, however, was 
 lest Andrew should hear of it. 
 
 Jamie had no such thought. He liked Hubert be-
 
 GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG 137 
 
 cause he was a nice man and amusing and Jamie was 
 as incapable of suspecting others of intrigue as of deal- 
 ing in it himself. Mrs. Andrew was dead, her story was, 
 for him, dead with her. Hubert had a portrait of her 
 in his rooms. Very beautiful she was, but he never 
 spoke of her, though in speaking of women generally 
 he was chivalrous and tender, caustic and vitriolic in 
 his references to the virtuous and oppressive husbands 
 of Thrigsby. Besides, he knew amusing men, good 
 talkers and good livers, who liked their Thrigsby for 
 the entertainment it provided and the strange characters 
 it harboured, and never took it seriously. They had 
 admired the verses of Quintus Flumen and accepted 
 Jamie on the strength of them though they could never 
 get a word out of him. He was much too frightened 
 of them. 
 
 Hubert's view was that a man must oblige the world 
 to get his living, but that, having got it, it was his own 
 affair. This suited Jamie's feelings until he found that 
 Hubert was an atheist. Then he was alarmed. God 
 had made Scotland, the lakes and fells of Westmore- 
 land, and Agnes. To doubt or to deny God was offen- 
 sively ungrateful. Everything that was not Scotland, 
 Westmoreland or Agnes was to be endured. Hubert, 
 however, said it was to be enjoyed and would not hear 
 of any cleavages between the human and the divine. 
 He made his young cousin read a book called The Ves- 
 tiges of Creation. It merely had the effect of freezing 
 his idealism and made him so uncomfortable that to 
 save himself he denied science altogether, and, to his 
 mother's delight, had a violent religious phase, in which 
 she imagined him to be praying for strength to resist 
 temptation. The result of this was that Jamie, in his 
 agony, begot a clear idea of the God of the Anglican
 
 138 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Church, which met the usual fate of his ideas, when 
 clarified. He was not and could not be an atheist, that 
 is, a sceptic, but he was now able to appreciate Hubert's 
 criticisms of things Thrigsbeian, and to understand that 
 things as they appear are not always things as they are, 
 which again are not necessarily what they should be. 
 He took this revelation much to heart, was very uncom- 
 fortable about it and puzzled to find Hubert taking it 
 so good-humouredly. How could a man believe The 
 Vestiges of Creation and live? Hubert squeezed him 
 into an utterance of this sentiment and countered with : 
 "How can a man believe in the Bible and live? No, 
 my dear James, what people believe is what they do. 
 Which comes first? Believing or doing? Ah! There 
 you have me. And why, if people must do what they 
 believe, should I waste energy in criticising them? Be- 
 cause I can tolerate everything except hypocrisy. And 
 why not hypocrisy? People believe in that too." Jamie 
 was aware of the circuitous ways of other people's 
 minds, but had not connected them with hypocrisy. He 
 was generally benevolent in his use of words, and hypo- 
 crite meant to him something so detestable that he could 
 never apply it to anyone he knew. On the other hand, 
 he knew very little of those with whom he associated. 
 Those he loved he never dreamed of criticising or ana- 
 lysing and he loved anyone who was amiable to him. 
 Those whom he did not love were only the furniture of 
 his world, necessary but uninteresting. No one had ever 
 occupied his thoughts so much as Hubert did now and 
 from Hubert, with his lively wit, his deep experience, 
 his genial mockery, there came a current of feeling, 
 pure and cold, which braced Jamie's emotions and made 
 him begin to realise that life was not going to be the 
 simple affair he had imagined. And why not? It was
 
 GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG 139 
 
 simple enough for Tom and John : or it seemed so : they 
 got what they wanted or they wanted what they got. 
 Both were doing well in their respective firms. Tom 
 was already a buyer ; John was travelling for Murdoch's ; 
 while he remained at the mill. To be sure he was mak- 
 ing as much money as either, but why did he stay while 
 they moved on, and went from one kind of work to 
 another? He propounded the problem to Hubert who 
 said : "Either you are later in maturing' than they are, 
 or you are fundamentally not interested." "But I am" 
 cried Jamie, "I am interested. I came here to make a 
 career for myself and I mean to succeed. It would 
 break my mother's heart if any of us were to fail. I've 
 done well at the mill. I found the manager who was 
 there when I went out in a fraud. There was a fore- 
 man and a buyer in it too. I expected to be promoted 
 for it, but I was not. Another manager was appointed 
 and I stayed on." "Did you ask to be promoted?" said 
 Hubert. "I did not. I expected it." "Then you don't 
 know either your Thrigsby or your Andrew. You can't 
 expect the world to see your extraordinary merit with- 
 out its being pointed out and Andrew certainly won't 
 perceive your virtues unless you make it plain to him 
 that you are fully aware of his." "But I don't lick his 
 or any other man's boots." '"That," said Hubert, "is 
 not what your Andrew requires. What he wants is an 
 admission that he is in the strong position, a position to 
 have his boots licked by anyone who is mean enough 
 to do it. Acknowledge his position, my dear James, 
 make it clear to him that you have too much respect 
 for yourself to lick his boots and he will regard you as 
 worthy of consideration." "I never thought for a mo- 
 ment of his position. He is my mother's brother." 
 "He is a rich Englishman," said Hubert, "at a time when
 
 140 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 it is generally believed that a rich Englishman is the 
 noblest work of God." "That," replied Jamie, "is not 
 my belief. My belief is that the noblest work of God 
 is a good woman." "God save us!" cried Hubert. 
 "You're a pilgrim, a-looking for the phoenix. And if 
 you act on your belief you will be left in the wilderness. 
 It is a faith entirely unsuited to these islands, where the 
 pirates of all nations come to settle. You'll walk the 
 plank, my James." Jamie felt extremely miserable, as 
 though he were damned from the beginning. "God help 
 me," he thought, "perhaps I'm only a fool." He looked 
 so woebegone that Hubert took pity on him and com- 
 forted him, saying: "No, no, you know better than 
 the rest, that is all, even if you don't do better or as 
 well, and you are worth fifty Andrews, for you have 
 something of the artist in you and good can come of 
 your harm, whereas from Andrew's good only harm 
 can come. He is a trader, a skilful trader, but because 
 he claims authority for his trade all his works are mis- 
 chievous." Jamie's emotions got the better of him and 
 he said: "You must have hated him. ; ' "Once upon a 
 time," said Hubert. "Yes, But that's all done. I found 
 the marks he had left on a good woman: the mark of 
 the beast." He laughed. "By their women ye may 
 know them. It all comes down to flesh and blood at 
 last, though they have their Gods, and their money, and 
 their ideas." "Ideas!" says Jamie. "Do you scoff at 
 ideas?" He had imagined Hubert to be a philosopher. 
 "I'll scoff at anything that feeds the conceit of a 
 man," said Hubert. "Aye, even at youth and chivalry 
 if they be so debased." 'Jamie winced. Hubert was 
 not being encouraging. If a man was to have no God, 
 no ideas, no money to speak of, how was he to com- 
 municate with his fellow-men who believed in all these
 
 GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG 141 
 
 things ? And yet Hubert was amazingly nice, so human, 
 so quick to respond, quicker than anyone else. And 
 surely if that were so, it did not matter much if his 
 words were bewildering. Jamie tried to say so. He was 
 deeply moved. Hubert said : "Have you no nice vulgar 
 friends you can go with? Religion is really very bad 
 for a young man. God is for people who are fit for 
 Him, like Spinoza." "Who?" asked Jamie. "An old 
 Dutch Jew who polished lenses and really did under- 
 stand the God of his tribe. But then he took some 
 trouble about it. I should try human beings if I were 
 you, even if you are Scotch. That is not always in- 
 curable. The Greigs were cured by marrying decent 
 Englishwomen, and learning how to be lovers and hus- 
 bands. To be sure they had a genius in the family 
 which the Keiths never had, though they all think a 
 successful man must be a genius. That's young of 
 course. A young man mistakes the conceit with which 
 he is bursting, for genius, or, at any rate, overpowering 
 talent. It takes an honest man to acknowledge the mis- 
 take." Jamie felt his bowels turn to water. He had 
 been touched on the raw. Suppose he had made that 
 mistake, and suppose he should not be honest enough 
 to admit it ! To make sure he admitted it then and there 
 and mentally recorded the fact that he was not a genius. 
 Of course he made a reservation in favour of over- 
 powering talent, which might or might not show itself 
 in the future, if t>ut he was modest about this it had 
 not already done so. He was not at all sure that he 
 liked Hubert setting the Greigs above the Keiths. After 
 all, the Keiths had come first. It was they who had 
 opened up the way for the Greigs: and genius was an 
 accident for which no family was entitled to take credit 
 to itself as it surely might for adherence to virtue, in-
 
 142 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 dustry and right-living. No: there was stuff in the 
 Keiths, and then, Hubert knew nothing at all about 
 the Lawries, who had yet to prove themselves, and 
 would! It was to this loyalty that Jamie always re- 
 turned from his perplexities and with the hope it gave 
 him he went on at his mill confident that he would one 
 day emerge to astonish both the Keiths and the Greigs. 
 By force of habit he became rather attached to the mill ; 
 "Cat Oil," as the hands called it because it had a hole 
 in the door by which the night watchman's cat went in 
 and out. He was quite fond of the hands too, perpetu- 
 ally astonished at their good humour, their easy ways 
 with each other, their stubborn assertive independence. 
 There were rich men at Hyde Bridge who had been mill 
 hands in their youth. Their brothers, their nephews 
 were still mill hands, but they all met at chapel on Sun- 
 days and that equality was not forgotten during the 
 week. As he penetrated more deeply into their lives 
 Jamie sometimes felt obscurely ashamed of the feeling 
 of superiority which he could not bring himself to relin- 
 quish. And he could not help contrasting some of the 
 mill-owners with his uncle. They took their profits 
 even as he did, but they did not do it with the air of be- 
 ing divinely inspired so to do. They thanked God for 
 it on Sundays even as Andrew did, but they were humble 
 about it, and not so sure of being heard. When he 
 thought so Jamie found the figure of Hubert looming 
 large in his mind, and thinking it over, he would come 
 to envy of his young brother John who had defied An- 
 drew and made the first assertion of the Lawriean prin- 
 ciple of the universe, denying both the egoism of the 
 Keiths and the luck of the Greigs. Attempting to de- 
 fine the Lawriean principle he fumbled about with the 
 words good sense intelligence honesty human for-
 
 GREIG AND ALLISON-GREIG 143 
 
 bearance; but none of them satisfied his desire. He sat 
 at his desk in the mill looking down into the dirty yard 
 where the lorries were loaded and unloaded. The light 
 he loved was over the rectangular buildings and the tall 
 chimneys, the pale light coming and going through the 
 heavy torn clouds and the pall of smoke. These words 
 might do very well in business but beyond that lay so 
 much 'life love warmth order. That last was the 
 word. It implied something created and to his imagina- 
 tion there appeared two shadowy women : Agnes of the 
 lake, and Elizabeth who had married Andrew Keith and 
 loved Hubert Allison-Greig. Through women, he 
 thought, or rather dreamed, for he was beyond thought, 
 would the Lawriean principle be asserted. When he re- 
 turned to his sober senses he felt that he had got the 
 better of Tom and John, of Hubert and Andrew and was 
 his own man again. As for the mill the mill could 
 go to the devil for all he cared, if it should prove to be 
 not the way to his desire. He worked no more that day 
 but wrote a letter of eight pages to his sister Mary, tell- 
 ing her of the revelation that had come upon him. 
 When he had written it he tore it up, thinking that 
 Mary was living among clever men and would despise 
 his thoughts. Before he went home he had written a 
 poem to Agnes, but it was rather fleshly, so he altered 
 it and addressed it to Elizabeth.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 MARGARET DISSATISFIED 
 
 AFTER her defeat at the hands of her youngest son 
 and her humiliation by her brother Margaret be- 
 gan to have a contempt for Thrigsby and showed it by 
 taking a keener interest in Mary than in any other mem- 
 ber of her family. She began to talk of "My daughter 
 in Edinburgh Christopher North she lodges in the 
 same house as that occupied by De Quincey, and all her 
 friends are literary men and so intellectual, though not 
 above having their joke, if my daughter writes truly." 
 She was disappointed and keenly anxious about Jamie. 
 Tom she knew was saving money and John still gave 
 her every week a fourth of his earnings, a few shillings 
 of which were regularly put by towards that fund which 
 should enable her one day to do without her pension and 
 pay back every penny she had ever had. Jamie paid 
 the bills but kept secret as to what he did with the rest. 
 It was very little, but Margaret could not know that. 
 So she was unhappy, poor woman, though not so 
 very poor either, because she liked it. She wanted 
 not only the assertion but also the immediate admission 
 by Thrigsby at large of the Lawriean principle, but, 
 unlike her son, she had never defined it. Definition 
 is the first stage in thought and like most of the human 
 race she never reached it. She had homage in plenty. 
 
 144
 
 MARGARET DISSATISFIED 145 
 
 Mrs. Leslie called twice a week to assure her that she 
 was the most wonderful of women. And on all the 
 other days of the week there were other women to do 
 the same. There were also male admirers who might 
 or might not have designs upon her widowhood. She 
 never encouraged them to declare themselves. They 
 were of Brighton Brightonians and she regarded herself 
 as a temporary sojourner in that district until the fine 
 house was made for her by her sons, for she made no 
 allowance in their lives for marriage, not for many a 
 long year. They must have their positions and then 
 look round for wives worthy to stand by their side. A 
 wit called her the Roman Matron of Murray Street, 
 and though the neighbours looked most carefully for 
 weaknesses in her they could find none. She was ex- 
 tremely able and organised the only thing which she 
 could lay her hands on outside her household, namely 
 the parish in which she lived, to the astounded admira- 
 tion of the rector and the annoyance of his wife. She 
 suffered because she could not organise the careers of 
 her sons, whom she used frequently to visit at their 
 work, even making the train journey out to Hyde Bridge 
 once a month to see how Jamie and the mill were get-. 
 ting on. One day she said : "To think that one day, 
 perhaps, you will control all this." Jamie was in a 
 despondent mood and replied: "Not while Uncle An- 
 drew is alive. He doesn't like me." "But you must 
 make him like you." "It is a little late for that." 
 "He never sees you, what a fine man you have grown 
 into. He has no opportunity of knowing what your 
 work is like." "He'd misjudge it if he had." '"I think 
 you should ask to be moved to the offices. Tom has 
 done so well there and made such useful friends. You 
 have no chance of making friends here." "That's
 
 146 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 true," sighed Jamie regretfully. He had just come to 
 the conclusion that the mill hands were far too good 
 for him. Margaret pounced on her chance. "Do you 
 think it wise to see so much of Hubert Greig?" "He is 
 the best friend I have." "But you cannot be a friend 
 to him, considering the injury and disgrace he has 
 brought on your family." "Good men know him." 
 "They would not but for the fact that he is a rich man." 
 That was tactless of Margaret; the cynicism roused 
 Jamie's obstinacy. "He's the kindest man," he said, 
 and she replied tartly : "A man who has lost his repu- 
 tation would need to be." '"Is kindness nothing?" 
 cried he. "Oh! Jamie! Is honour nothing?" "And 
 which," cried Jamie, "is the honest man? He who made 
 the woman suffer or he who suffered for the woman?" 
 >"As to that," replied his mother, "there are no two 
 opinions and it is not a fit subject for discussion."- -"I'll 
 stay here," said Jamie, "and keep my friend. Out of 
 sight is out of mind, and my uncle will give as little 
 thought to me in the future as he has done in the past." 
 "That is not the way to get on." "Then I'll not get 
 on." "Jamie!" 
 
 A day or two later Margaret took matters in hand and 
 went herself to beard Andrew in his lair at the office. 
 He kept her waiting for three-quarters of an hour after 
 her name had been brought to him;. not from any desire 
 to incommode her but because that was his habit with 
 visitors, partly from a wish to make them feel his im- 
 portance, partly to support his belief that from nine 
 o'clock to half-past six every day neither he nor his 
 managers nor his clerks nor his warehousemen nor any 
 one within his doors ceased for a moment from their 
 labours. So while Margaret sat in the waiting-room 
 below he sat by his writing-table and twiddled a white
 
 MARGARET DISSATISFIED 147 
 
 paper-knife. At last he rose and touched the bell-pull 
 and she was shown up. He was not pleased to see her 
 and made no attempt to pretend that he was. He had 
 heard that she came to the office to see Tom and had 
 been to the mill and he felt very strongly that a woman's 
 place is her home, and that, as a man makes no attempt 
 to understand her work there, so she should not spy 
 upon him in his sphere. Andrew's mind was as full 
 of pigeon-holes as his desk, and once filed he never 
 doubted that he had its contents rightly placed. He 
 waved his hand to a chair which Margaret took. Then 
 he waited for her to speak. She was rather breathless 4 
 and for the moment possessed by an indignation which 
 she thought she had, like a good Christian, subdued, at 
 the humiliation he had put upon her at Clibran Hall. 
 
 At last she managed to gasp out : "My son " He 
 
 thought she was referring to John, and answered : "He 
 had his choice. Let him abide by it." "John," said 
 she, "is doing very well, very well indeed." "I would 
 like to know," observed Andrew, "where the building 
 trade would be without us to give employment." But 
 Margaret was not to be put off by generalisation. "It 
 is Jamie," she said. "I am anxious about him." "Ah!" 
 observed Andrew, "I thought that would come. He's a 
 Lawrie, and soft." "My husband," replied Margaret, 
 "had something like genius." "That," rejoined Andrew, 
 "is an affliction which we could well be spared. There is 
 genius, which is to say madness, in the Greigs." "I 
 want to talk to you about Jamie." "What has he been 
 doing?" "It is what he is not doing. I hope you are 
 satisfied with his work at the mill." "The mill is work- 
 ing quite satisfactorily. He is doing no harm." "But 
 he is not making any friends or establishing any connec- 
 tions." -"That is his own affair. You cannot blame me
 
 148 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 if he will not use his advantages. He is making, for his 
 age, a handsome income."- -''Oh, yes." "Then what is 
 your complaint?" "He has not the opportunities he 
 ought to have." "He will have the opportunities he 
 makes. Really, Margaret, I expected more reason from 
 you. I cannot alter the organisation of my business 
 even to accommodate my nephews. Tom is useful here, 
 Jamie is useful there." "It is a question of experience.'* 
 "Pooh! he is out of harm's way." I wish you would 
 think it over." "I have thought it over." 
 
 That was final. And once again Margaret had to 
 accept defeat. She took it rather well on the whole, 
 expressed a wish that Andrew should come and see her 
 more often. "My life is a busy one," he said. "You 
 have every reason to be satisfied. Tom at any rate will 
 make a position for himself. He is the one I know best. 
 He is, I assure you, a credit to the family." "But I 
 want you to be fair to the others too." "I am, I hope," 
 said Andrew, throwing up his head and blowing out his 
 chest, "a just man. Jamie wanted steadying. A woman, 
 a mother can understand very little of a young man's 
 needs. You can take my word for it, he wanted steady- 
 ing. When he is steadied I will do what I can for him ; 
 indeed I will do all in my power, and I hope he will be 
 grateful." "Oh! I am grateful, Andrew," said Mar- 
 garet. "You must not think me ungrateful, but I am 
 naturally anxious." "Of course, of course," said An- 
 drew and he fell back on generalisations and talked her 
 out of the room, down the passage and into the hands of 
 Mr. Clulow who showed her to the door. 
 
 Margaret was surprised at her own feelings. They 
 were as near disloyalty to the Keiths as she could get. 
 She was extremely uncomfortable and to relieve herself 
 visited her exasperation upon Hubert Allison-Greig.
 
 MARGARET DISSATISFIED 149 
 
 She told herself that Andrew was aware of Jamie's ac- 
 quaintance with that scoundrel and was therefore quite 
 properly antagonistic. For some days she brooded over 
 this idea until she had persuaded herself that Hubert 
 was deliberately and satanically plotting to ruin her 
 son in order yet further to injure and despoil Andrew. 
 All she knew of the story was that Andrew had re- 
 fused to divorce his wife and had made Hubert's exist- 
 ence in commercial circles in Thrigsby impossible. 
 Hubert had then gone with "that woman" to London 
 where she had been punished for her sin by death in 
 the birth of the child which she in her wickedness had 
 not borne for Andrew. Every one of the prejudices 
 of Margaret's religion and morality stood on end and 
 roused her almost to terror of Hubert. He had come 
 back to Thrigsby on purpose to contaminate the younger 
 generation. Hearing that Andrew had three nephews 
 come to make their start in life he had descended like 
 a wolf upon the fold. Andrew's wife was not enough 
 for him; Andrew had a sister, a God-fearing, upright, 
 steadfast woman; she too must be injured. So, having 
 directed Hubert's advances upon herself as standing for 
 all that in his alliance with the devil he must adhere to, 
 she scented battle. At last she had something to fight. 
 Poverty had been subdued by her own unaided effort. 
 Here was lewdness come to the assault of the citadel: 
 and of her sons, who should defend her to the last gasp, 
 Jamie was all but conquered. Margaret was almost her 
 old self again. She was never subtle in her campaigns, 
 but believed in a direct assault upon the enemy. She 
 got Tibby to turn out Jamie's pockets for she scorned 
 to do such a thing herself and in turning over the pa- 
 pers that were produced saw verses, a letter or two and 
 could not help in this way becoming possessed of Hu-
 
 150 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 bert's address. She had not read Jamie's letters. No: 
 her eye had fallen on one of them, and that one happened 
 to provide her with the information she required. 
 
 Hubert lived in St. Peter's Fields; an open space 
 which had been fields in the time of his grandfather, but 
 was now bare of all vegetation. One side of it was oc- 
 cupied with offices in a terrace which had once been 
 houses, built in an attempt to make a square in the days 
 when Thrigsby's rich men still lived near their work 
 and sometimes over their warehouses. Hubert was a 
 child-like being and regarded his tastes as existing to be 
 gratified, and when he had not a fully developed taste 
 to deal with he was quite content to do his best with 
 a whim as substitute. He was mischievous but bore 
 no ill will, and he loved contrasts. That was why he 
 lived in Thrigsby which took itself so seriously, while 
 his own dearest employment was blowing bubbles with 
 his thoughts. That, in his view, was what thoughts 
 were for; they had nothing to do with the serious busi- 
 ness of life which was tragic and only to be dealt with 
 by drawing on a man's last emotional reserves. If he 
 had been loose and spendthrift and therefore bankrupt, 
 when it came to that serious business ah, well, so much 
 the worse for him. He would never know the tragedy 
 of his own life. As for taking the obvious and super- 
 ficial appearances of life seriously, that was a mere waste 
 of energy and under no circumstances to be approved. 
 Rather it was to be actively discouraged, and he did all 
 he could to discourage it. He found journalism a good 
 and amusing means of furthering his aims and of meet- 
 ing young men. A definite theory of life he had not: 
 that seemed to him to be taking things altogether too 
 seriously, to expect them to fit in with any idea he might 
 have ; but he was firmly on the side of the young against
 
 MARGARET DISSATISFIED 151 
 
 the old. He was a dandy, very proud of his whiskers 
 and careful of his dress, but, for contrast, he had a farm 
 twenty miles out of Thrigsby and plumed himself on his 
 knowledge of Berkshire pigs and his skill and cunning 
 in the buying or selling of a horse. On this evening 
 he had arranged a dinner for the bailiff of his farm, 
 Mr. Home, and the editor of his paper, Currie Bigge, a 
 clever young man from Glasgow who had come to him 
 from the staff of a local Wesleyan journal. They had 
 dined and wined well. "Ech !" said Mr. Home, "I mun 
 let out me belt!" and Hubert was brewing a milk 
 punch, when his man brought in word that a lady was 
 downstairs and wished to speak to him. Bigge and 
 Home had only this in common that women meant the 
 same to them. Mr. Home winked at Bigge, and Bigge 
 tapped his large nose, and wagged his head towards the 
 inner door. Together they rose and tiptoed out of the 
 room. -"A lady?" asked Hubert. "Not a young lady," 
 replied the man. "I should hope not," said Hubert, "at 
 this time of night. A lady in distress perhaps?" "She 
 is heavily veiled, sir, and she said her business was 
 most urgent." "Take away the glasses for the punch 
 in to the gentlemen in the inner room and I will see the 
 lady." Margaret was introduced. She smelled the 
 liquor and tobacco at once. She saw the charming pic- 
 tures on the wall, the elegance of the furniture; she 
 saw the grace and ease of Hubert's carriage and it 
 seemed to her insolent: and she was afraid. She raised 
 her veil. "We have not met before," she said ; "I hope 
 we shall not meet again." She trembled and whipped up 
 her indignation. "I am Margaret Keith." '"Cousin 
 Margaret," said Hubert. "I am glad to see you. I 
 
 ought to have called ages ago, only " "I should not 
 
 have received you," she said. "The Keiths have that
 
 152 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 feeling," rejoined Hubert, "and I can understand it. 
 But please sit down. You are not interrupting me and 
 I can give you the whole evening if necessary." He 
 seemed to her more than even insolent. "I am a 
 widow," she said. "If you are in any difficulty," he 
 observed, thinking to help her out and put her at her 
 ease, "I shall be only too glad to assist you in any way 
 I can." "I would not come to you for help, Mr. Greig." 
 He remembered then that she was Andrew's sister; 
 very like Andrew too in face: Andrew liked being un- 
 comfortable: perhaps she did too. She plunged: 
 "James Lawrie is my son." "You should be proud of 
 him. He has the true grace in him." "My whole de- 
 sire is to be proud of him, and therefore I have come 
 to ask you not to see him." "I like him." "I do not 
 judge you, Mr. Greig. I am the judge of no man. But 
 he has received favours at his uncle's hands." Hubert 
 turned on her almost in anger: "That story is dead," 
 he said. "It should not carry its bitterness over the 
 generations." "We have our pride," snapped Margaret. 
 "Aye, you have that," cried Hubert, almost forgetting 
 himself, for she looked so like Andrew as she said those 
 words. "Come, come. We know what feelings there 
 are. What is it you want?" "I want you to refuse to 
 see my son." "And if he will not be refused? He 
 is not a child." "He is a child to me and always will 
 be." ^"Ah! I like you for that. But he is not a child 
 to himself. You must remember that. . . . Have I in- 
 jured him in any way? He has talked to me freely and 
 frankly." "Has he? Has he?" Margaret could not 
 place herself under any obligation to the wicked Hubert, 
 even for light upon her son's thoughts and character. 
 She checked herself and went on to point out that though 
 her two younger sons were rapidly making positions for
 
 MARGARET DISSATISFIED 153 
 
 themselves, Jamie was confined to his mill, where he 
 saw no one but his inferiors and had no one to perceive 
 how he must shine amongst them. She did not even 
 hint at grudge on Andrew's part but Hubert tumbled 
 to her meaning. "I am grateful to you for coming," 
 he said. "But be sure I have no influence good or bad 
 over Jamie. If anything it is he who has influenced me 
 for good. What would you say if he were to leave his 
 uncle's firm?" "I should forbid it." "And condemn 
 him to the mill!" "He would not be if he gave up ' " 
 "Me? I don't think so. He has known me only 
 since last summer when I found him in Westmoreland 
 dreaming of a world in which there were no factories, 
 no trains, no commerce, no uncles, no England Andrew 
 must have formed his opinion of him before that." 
 "He would change." "Not Andrew. Not for you, nor 
 for anyone in the world." 'Margaret remembered her 
 recent unhappy experience and was silent, and having 
 come to silence, her native habit, she could not break it. 
 Hubert took it to be the end of the interview. He rose 
 and walked uneasily about the room. He had begun 
 to feel sorry for her: so grim and stiff she was, so 
 unyielding. Only his chivalry could make him serious 
 for any length of time. '"I will promise you," he said, 
 "that the boy shall come to no harm through me, I will 
 promise you that. In all my life I have harmed no man 
 but one and that was not altogether harm, nor alto- 
 gether of my doing. Indeed, I think it true that a man 
 can harm none but himself " He could not keep it 
 up and flashed: "Short of murder, that is, and then I 
 am not so sure but the victim is a partner in the crime." 
 "Shame on you," cried Margaret, "to speak so 
 lightly." It was too much for her and she stalked out of 
 the room. "Lord!" thought Hubert, "what a fellow I
 
 154 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 am to be my age" he was forty-six "and to be the vic- 
 tim of my feelings." 
 
 He called to Home and Bigge who returned with the 
 punch-bowl nearly empty. '"Ever hear," asked Hubert 
 of Bigge, "ever hear of or see the work of Quintus 
 Flumen?" "Aye." "Is he a poet?" "As near as 
 Thrigsby is ever likely to get. The lace does not stand 
 for poetry." "Shall we have him for The Critic?" "li 
 he could do light verse." Hubert nodded. He was 
 more interested in Jamie than ever and had already for- 
 gotten his promise to Margaret. In any case he would 
 not leave it to her to define what was and was not 
 "harm." 
 
 He made a note in his diary to see his brother Donald. 
 Already he was beginning to think of ways of rescuing 
 the unhappy James from Andrew's clutches. '"What a 
 shame!" he said to himself. "What a shame!" And 
 as he thought of Jamie's fate, as he thought of him 
 struggling to become a successful Thrigsbeian, so ter- 
 rible a gloom came over him that to throw it off he be- 
 gan to talk to Mr. Home of his pigs and poultry and 
 the price of wheat, reducing Mr. Bigge to so horrible a 
 pitch of boredom that that clever young man drank 
 himself to sleep, rolled under the sofa, could not be 
 waked, and stayed there until morning.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 CATEATON'S BANK 
 
 T T was not long after this that Jamie received a letter 
 * which astonished him. He turned it over and over, 
 read and re-read it. Mr. J. K. Lawrie it was addressed 
 to : but what had he to do with Cateaton's Bank ? Tom, 
 he knew, had an account there : but J. K. could not be 
 taken to mean Thomas, and Mr. J. K. Lawrie was re- 
 quested to visit the manager at five-thirty on the fol- 
 lowing Wednesday. His first impulse was to take the 
 letter to Tom and ask him if he knew anything about 
 it, but the brothers were secret with each other and kept 
 their affairs to themselves, their mother being the clear- 
 ing-house for such information as concerned the family. 
 Then he thought that perhaps Cateaton's Bank wished 
 to have his account which he had just placed with the 
 Thrigsby and District, but banks do not go out of their 
 way to capture insignificant little private accounts. 
 Banks were very alarming institutions, and Cateaton's 
 was the bank of Thrigsby, exclusive as the Portico Club, 
 transacting its business in one of the finest mansions in 
 Morley Street, that noble thoroughfare which had at 
 one time been Thrigsby's Park Lane. Old Elias Ca- 
 teaton was dead, worth two hundred thousand pounds, 
 and his family died with him. The Keiths and the Greigs 
 had banked with him: they said they had made him, 
 though Elias used to declare that he had made them. 
 "They had brains," he used to say, "but I had brains
 
 156 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 and brass." It was with awe then that Jamie on that 
 Wednesday walked down Morley Street, which is a dig- 
 nified street, one of those streets that nobody who is 
 not somebody can walk down without unease. The 
 windows of the houses were so big: such portly gentle- 
 men were to be seen through them, such handsome apart- 
 ments. No shadow of poverty could fall upon Morley 
 Street. Poverty? In the richest town in the North of 
 England ? With a street like Morley Street if there are 
 poor people in the place it must be their own fault. Jamie 
 found Morley Street convincing. Morley Street he knew 
 had justified itself : Morley Street had fought the battle 
 of the people's bread. After that victory there was no 
 excuse for poverty. The rich men had grown so rich 
 that they no longer lived in Morley Street, but they had 
 their clubs there and their mansions were now their of- 
 fices and their warehouses were removed to lower places. 
 Cateaton's Bank had a forbidding appearance. Its 
 entrance was as awful as that of a club, and it had a 
 porter as dreadful. Jamie dared -not pass him. "He 
 must know a rich man when he sees one," he thought. 
 "He'll know me from my hat to my boots for a poor 
 man's son." However, the bells of a church striking half- 
 past five drove him through the doors past the porter and 
 he asked to see the manager. The clerks had gone home 
 and it was the manager himself whom he addressed, Mr. 
 Rigby Blair, who in his letter giving the appointment 
 had written his name thus
 
 CATEATON'S BANK 157 
 
 so that Jamie was unaware of his name. "Mr. Lawrie?" 
 he said. "My name is Lawrie." "Mr. J. K. Lawrie?" 
 They went into the manager's parlour, a most gentle- 
 manly place, and there in a fat voice, such a voice as 
 Peter might use in welcoming a saint into Heaven, Mr. 
 Rigby Blair, who by the light of his lamp was revealed 
 as a pink, plump, white-haired little cherub, offered Mr. 
 J. K. Lawrie a position in the bank as a senior clerk at 
 a salary half as much again as that given him by his 
 uncle for his services at the mill. "It I must think it 
 over," said Jamie, and the cherub's feelings were ob- 
 viously hurt. Think over an offer of a stool in Ca- 
 teaton's! Think! A man was made for life who got 
 into Cateaton's. Think! Why, fifty young men would 
 offer themselves to fill one vacancy. No one ever got 
 there without influence. "I mean," said Jamie, "I had 
 not thought of it." "I thought your friends would 
 have prepared you," said the cherub. "My friends?" 
 "Mr. Donald Greig," breathed the cherub, and again he 
 was like Peter referring to the Greater One inside, "Mr. 
 Donald Greig gave me to understand that he would pro- 
 pose the matter to you." Jamie began to understand 
 that there was nothing supernatural in the experience he 
 was going through. "You must let me show you the 
 bank," said the cherub, taking up a bunch of keys, and 
 off he trotted with Jamie striding behind, with his hand 
 thrust into the breast of his waistcoat, a trick he had 
 caught from Hubert, and used whenever his shyness 
 forced him to stand on his dignity. He was shown the 
 shining counter; the stool where he would sit in the 
 clerks' office. "Most interesting work, most interest- 
 ing," chattered the cherub. "Money makes the world 
 go round, you know. Nothing done without money." 
 They visited the strong-room and the vault. "Half the
 
 158 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 family plate in Thrigsby lies here." "Very impressive," 
 remarked Jamie. "There," said Mr. Blair, letting the 
 heavy iron door slam to. "There! You have been in 
 business, I understand." >"The last few years," replied 
 Jamie. "Cotton." "Ah! the fortunes I have seen made 
 in cotton : but terribly insecure, terrible, terrible." 
 "Banks fail too, don't they?" asked Jamie. "We don't 
 fail. I hope you'll come to us, Mr. Lawrie, and who 
 knows? perhaps you will some day slip into my shoes, 
 though ha! ha! they would be a trifle small for you." 
 Jamie liked the little man so much, and he liked the 
 quiet gentlemanly atmosphere of the bank. For once 
 in a way he had felt sure of himself. He knew that the 
 matter did not really need thinking over. He would 
 be free of the mill : delivered from the daily double 
 train journey, from the mill-hands, of whom he could 
 never decide whether they were better or worse than 
 himself. He would have more money, more leisure, and 
 need not rise so early in the morning. Tibby need not 
 rise so early either. (She always said it took a good 
 half-hour to wake him up.) That thought settled it. 
 He told Mr. Blair he would have great pleasure in ac- 
 cepting the position, but must give notice to his present 
 firm. "Of course, of course. The stool shall be kept 
 ready until you come to put a shine on it and your 
 breeches. Ha! Ha!" "I sit like a rock," said Jamie, 
 rolling his "r" at his most Scots, for he had begun to 
 be excited. He felt as though all his problems were 
 settled. There was an end of his exile. It was won- 
 derful, splendid. He shook hands with Mr. Blair three 
 times. Outside the porter was waiting to shut the big 
 outer door. Jamie shook hands with him too. "I'm 
 coming to work here," he said. "Yes, sir," said the 
 porter. "I'm very pleased, sir." "Pleased? I am
 
 CATEATON'S BANK 159 
 
 that," cried Jamie, and "Losh!" he said to himself, 
 "there'll be no stopping me now." 
 
 Then he remembered the mention of Donald Greig, 
 and how easy and full life had become since his meet- 
 ing with Hubert. O! Hubert was the kindest man. It 
 must have been Hubert, to think of such a thing; dull, 
 heavy Donald could not have thought of it by himself. 
 It was amazing how Hubert illuminated everything he 
 touched so that it became comprehensible and ceased to 
 be oppressive. Hubert's rooms were only just round the 
 corner. Jamie rushed up, burst in on his cousin, roaring, 
 
 "I'm a banker. I'm a banker, I'm " "You'll turn 
 
 into a parrot if you don't calm down," said Hubert. "A 
 banker is one who borrows or lends money for a con- 
 sideration. I'm not sure that it isn't a disgraceful trade 
 which would much better have been left to the Jews." 
 "Well," said Jamie, "I'm in a bank, and my immortal 
 soul is saved : a bank, in Morley Street, and I have you 
 to thank for it." "Not at all," said Hubert. "If you 
 have anybody to thank, it is your mother." "My 
 mother?" "Yes. Are you always going to let her fight 
 your battles for you?" "My mother? Do you mean 
 she went to Donald?" "I only mean what I say." 
 Hubert had begun to enjoy the mistake and Jamie's con- 
 fusion. He said : "My only suggestion to you is one 
 that she would not approve. How would you like to 
 write on The Critic?" 'Truly the heavens had burst 
 upon the earth that day. "We don't want love poems,* 
 said Hubert. "No-o-o." "Nor epic poems, nor dra- 
 matic poems, nor descriptive poems. 'Bosky' and 'lush' 
 are barred. Nor religious poems, nor poems about your 
 emotions in your more solitary moments. Solitary mo- 
 ments are a man's own fault, his private particular hell, 
 and the less said about them the better. If you can't
 
 160 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 write anything but those different kinds of poems, try 
 prose." "I'd write myself to death," cried Jamie, "if I 
 thought I could do a thing would please you." "O! 
 I'm easily pleased," said Hubert. "I'm only an amateur. 
 It's the professional Currie Bigge you have to please, 
 not me. I'm busy now. Run home with your news. 
 Don't say you've seen me. I have an idea your mother 
 has the usual Keith view of my character." "But I'll 
 tell her what you are." "She knows what I am ; at least 
 she knows how I look in the world according to her, 
 and she is not going to alter that." "I say she shall. I 
 say the world that condemns you must be brought to its 
 senses." Hubert smiled : "My dear James," he said, 
 "if you can bring yourself to your senses it will be as 
 much as you can accomplish." And at once the stream 
 of ecstasy in Jamie rushed through him, with his mind 
 labouring after it, seeing the dim promise of blinding 
 visions and crying to his soul : "There, there lies the 
 summit of thy well-being!" Hubert bundled him out 
 and was sorry in a moment when he heard the young 
 man leaping down the stairs. He should have let him 
 stay until he had found some emotional satisfaction. It 
 was too late now, though. Jamie must be let go with 
 his dangerous exaltation, which, on the whole, though 
 he admired it, Hubert disliked. It was too delicate a 
 thing for him to find amusement in it. If only Jamie 
 had been a woman! He roused his cousin's chivalry, 
 only to have it done to death with mockery. "It only 
 needed that," mused Hubert, "to put the cap on the 
 comedy of our invasion of England. I am tired of it all, 
 an' 'twere not for Jamie Lawrie, I would lay me doon 
 an' die." 
 
 On his way home Jamie had to pass the theatre. He 
 stopped outside it and studied the bills. The play that
 
 CATEATON'S BANK 161 
 
 night was to be Richard II., with Mr. Gaylor from a 
 London theatre in the principal part. Another bill set 
 forth Mr. Gaylor's achievements, and various printed 
 opinions on them. "I'll take Tibby," thought Jamie. 
 "I'll go to see a play. I'll see Mr. Wilcox." He looked 
 to see if Mr. Wilcox was in the bill. Yes. '"I'll cele- 
 brate the occasion. I must celebrate it; and I'll take 
 Tibby." He walked in and bought two seats in the 
 stalls, and as he came out again looked to right and left 
 to make sure he had not been seen. Then he thought 
 he had made a fool of himself, but he was getting used 
 to that and was no longer inclined to despair over it. 
 He was worried when he thought that Tibby might not 
 be able to come out, and he would have wasted all those 
 shillings. At a furious pace he walked home, working 
 off his excitement, half sorry to let it go, half dreading 
 lest it should still be apparent when he got home. It 
 would never do to be excited in front of Tom, who 
 would be ready with one of his sneers, though, he 
 thought, it would be pleasant if he could let his mother 
 see how glad he was about it. He felt so tender towards 
 them all, even to Tom, who was, after all, reliable. You 
 could always depend on Tom, as, of course, old Andrew 
 had found. That brought Andrew into Jamie's mood 
 and him he did not regret. He certainly had made 
 himself a big man, and his pride must have suffered 
 terribly when his wife left him. And Hubert! Jamie 
 was astonished to find that there was room for both 
 Andrew and Hubert in the same mental circle. He had 
 always kept them rigidly apart. Now thinking of them 
 together, he found that each had gained something, while 
 his own excitement was eased and he felt that he had 
 made a discovery, though what the exact nature of it 
 was he did not know. He was suddenly pleased with
 
 162 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 everything he saw and with everyone. He smiled on an 
 old woman coming out of a gin-shop with a bottle under 
 her apron, and she said a fine young man like him ought 
 not to be without a sweetheart. "Will you find me 
 one ?" he asked. "Open your mouth and shut your eyes 
 and see what God'll send you." She gave him a leer 
 and an ogle and said that sweethearts did not want 
 finding, not for a fine young man like him. That en- 
 counter made Jamie feel still more pleased with him- 
 self and he began to look for sweethearts and was 
 amazed at the number available, all ready and willing. 
 "Dear me," he thought, "and I have always been so 
 terribly afraid of them." Bright eyes of girls and 
 women made him very happy, and he remembered Green 
 grow the rashes, O! and for the first time perceived the 
 full-throated chuckle that comes up through the verses: 
 
 "The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, 
 Were spent among the lasses, O!" 
 
 When he reached home there was no one in the 
 house but Tibby. Her ugliness resisted his delight in 
 bright eyes and he felt immensely sorry for her. He 
 remembered how he had kissed her on the road outside 
 Kirkcudbright. The years had not been kind to her. 
 Her face was more rugged for its thinness and pallor. 
 Her body was thin too, though strong: but a bad man 
 or a boy would laugh at her. Her hair at the back 
 would rouse interest: a man might hurry to catch her 
 up in the street: when he saw her face he would walk 
 faster than ever. She had the air as she stood there in 
 her kitchen of being huddled over herself, of withdraw- 
 ing, of taking advantage of her repellent face to live 
 within herself, to live and watch and pray. Bird-like
 
 CATEATON'S BANK 163 
 
 she was, like a strong wild bird. She made Jamie feel 
 weak and almost ashamed of his pleasure in bright eyes. 
 She made him feel for a moment that his Self was un- 
 important and not a thing to be pleased with or despond- 
 ent about. Then into her strange rugged face, as though 
 she had seen into him and divined his young folly, there 
 crept a little tender pitying smile. Jamie said : "I'm 
 glad you're alone, Tibby." "I'm used to it," said she. 
 "I've news for you. I've got an appointment in a bank." 
 "That's news indeed, and good." "I'll no have to 
 rise from my bed s6 early." "You'll relish that. You 
 love your bed." "I do that. Tibby, do you ever go 
 out?" "For the marketing, and a breath of air some- 
 times, not that there's much air in this place." '"Aye, 
 it is not like home." "It is not." "Will you will 
 you come out with me to-night, to the play?" "To the 
 play?" Tibby's eyes sparkled. "Have you never seen 
 a play?" "Never. My father would tell me of plays 
 he saw in Edinburgh, with murders and ghosts, and poor 
 women nearly rattled out of their wits with the wicked- 
 ness of men." '"Men aren't so wicked, Tibby." 
 "They're a conceited lot." "But, Tibby, will you?" 
 "And leave the house empty?" "John will be in soon." 
 She turned and faced him. "It will be deceiving 
 Mrs. Lawrie." "Aye," said Jamie, "for a little pleas- 
 ure." '"Then you'll deceive her for the big ones." 
 "Not I." Tibby thought of Margaret having Jamie's 
 pockets turned out, and, as she really wanted to go, 
 and would not for the world miss an opportunity of 
 being with Jamie, she satisfied her conscience with that 
 tit-for-tat. They had tea together in the kitchen, washed 
 up after it, and stole out by the back door as John came 
 in by the front. 
 
 It was a great adventure for both of them. Jamie
 
 164 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 had a shock. As they walked he began to explain the 
 play to Tibby, only to find that she had read it. Then 
 he discovered that she had read most of his books, tak- 
 ing them up as he laid them down and only reading 
 those which, by the marks, he had finished. "She ought 
 not to be a servant," he thought, and Tibby at the same 
 time was thinking "He's too good for a bank."- -"It's 
 a shame," said he, "that you should be so much alone." 
 "Mrs. Lawrie is vera good to me and lets me talk 
 when I want to talk. She's no talker herself and is 
 glad to hear a word now and then when you're all away 
 and the house is so still." That came home to Jamie 
 too. He had never before thought what the house must 
 be like with himself and his brothers out of it all day 
 long. He imagined an impossible desolation. '"When 
 I'm at the bank," he said, "I'll be home by five." 
 "You'll have time then to be your own man awhile."- 
 "Yes, I'm going to write." "I knew that," said she, 
 and he became rather afraid of her. What was there 
 that she didn't know ? He sounded her as to her knowl- 
 edge of the family and she had it all pat, even the rami- 
 fications of Greig and Allison-Greig. He tried another 
 tack : "Tibby, sometimes this place gives me a sense 
 of appalling disaster. I feel as though God must visit 
 it with an earthquake as He did Lisbon." -"No," re- 
 plied she, "if He were going to do that He would have 
 given it more blessings." She seemed almost wonderful 
 to Jamie then, but as she worked in the kitchen of his 
 house, and, according to the faith of his upbringing, had 
 no right to be alive at all, being a bastard, he could not 
 admit her wonder and regarded her, instead, with 
 amused indulgence, and unconsciously borrowed from 
 Hubert the attitude which that kindly tease had for him- 
 self.
 
 CATEATON'S BANK 165 
 
 They entered the play-house and took their seats. 
 
 In those days star-actors from London visited the 
 provinces for a day or two at a time and gave the 
 familiar performances to which the stock company had 
 with very few rehearsals to adapt themselves as best 
 they could. Mr. Gaylor was a bad actor but a fine elo- 
 cutionist; however, for Jamie and Tibby, it being their 
 first visit to a play-house, all was wonderful. They 
 gazed into another brilliant world, where superhuman, 
 brilliant figures moved, and spoke from their hearts the 
 grief, the sorrow, the anger, the pride, the despair, the 
 baseness, and the rare, wise tenderness that were in 
 them. Mr. Wilcox was the gardener, but it was only 
 towards the end of his scene with the Queen that Jamie 
 recognised him and then he was distressed by this in- 
 trusion of an ordinary human being whom he had known 
 at a desk in an office, eating and drinking, even drunk. 
 But soon he was flattered too. It gave him a human, 
 sentimental share in that marvellous world, but his 
 pleasure in it was not so keen as when it had been a 
 miraculous, living and changing creation, remote from 
 himself, as remote as a true poem, like Endymion, or a 
 beautiful woman, like Agnes of the lake. He was dis- 
 appointed and began to criticise, to notice defects in the 
 scenery, which was shabby, and in the dresses, which 
 were tawdry. The face of a girl in attendance on the 
 Queen was familiar though he could not recognise it. 
 In the interval before the fifth act, its association came 
 back to him. It was Selina Leslie. Selina on the stage ! 
 He had heard nothing of it. Did Tibby know ? "That's 
 two months ago, now. It has been a sore grief to Mrs. 
 Leslie, who is a good body." "That she is," said Jamie. 
 "It was Miss Selina's good looks. There was this 
 man and that man telling her how pretty she was and
 
 i66 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 then nothing was good enough for her at home : though 
 I must say a family as large as that is a trial. One fine 
 morning she was gone. They found her, but nothing 
 would induce her to come back. She'd been taken to 
 the theatre a good deal and it turned her head. There 
 were queans on the stage more beautiful than herself." 
 "She was more beautiful than that Queen," said 
 Jamie. "And is Mrs. Leslie ? She can't be unfor- 
 giving." "Oh! no. I think Mrs. Leslie sees her, but 
 Mr. Leslie will not have her name spoken in his pres- 
 ence." "I knew Mrs. Leslie would not be hard," said 
 Jamie. The curtain went up and a man in front of them 
 who had a book in his hand turned and said testily: 
 "Will you be silent, sir?" 
 
 Mr. Wilcox had seen Jamie in the auditorium and 
 had dressed quickly and was waiting outside for him. 
 "You've come at last, my boy," he said. "Yes," said 
 Jamie, "at last, and I am sorry it was not sooner."- -"It 
 is all prejudice," said Mr. Wilcox, "about the theatre 
 being wicked, isn't it? It's a lovely part, the gardener." 
 "And you did it very well, didn't he, Tibby?"- -"Very 
 well indeed," said Tibby shyly. Mr. Wilcox 'had glanced 
 at her .but had taken no further interest. "You must 
 come again, my boy," he said, "and we'll have that pro- 
 logue out of you yet." "I don't know about that," 
 replied Jamie, "but I'll come again, and I'd like to see 
 you in your lodgings." "Oh! I'm moved from there. 
 The flesh-pots ran dry and a poor player must live 
 where he may." He gave his address, sighted another 
 friend in the thin stream of people coming from the 
 house and was off. "That's one of the best friends I 
 ever had," said Jamie. Tibby replied rather spitefully : 
 "It is nice of you to own to him. There's not many
 
 CATEATON'S BANK 167 
 
 who would." "Why not?" he asked and she would 
 not give any answer. 
 
 She had enjoyed the play, though it had not con- 
 tained enough murders for her and she thought that 
 John o' Gaunt had talked a deal too much for a dying 
 man. It had been to her nothing but mummery and 
 Jamie, to whom it had been an experience, was rather 
 annoyed with her. He relapsed into silence and harked 
 back to the amazing pleasure the first acts had been to 
 him before he had recognised Mr. Wilcox and been 
 brought down to earth. "Would you like to go again?" 
 he asked. "In six months' time," said she. And that 
 annoyed him too for he would have liked her to want 
 it all over again at once. "It was not so good," said 
 Tibby, "as my father's telling of plays." "Do you 
 measure everything by your father?" asked Jamie. 
 "Aye, everything." 
 
 They had reached Murray Street and arranged that 
 Tibby should go in at once by the back door while he 
 should wait for a quarter of an hour and then go in 
 by the front door. The stratagem succeeded. Margaret 
 swallowed Tibby's fiction and did not question her son, 
 for she had been schooled by Tom into not inquiring 
 into his ways of spending the evenings when he was out. 
 Jamie said: "I've news for you, Mother." "News? 
 What news? Good, I hope." "The best I've had yet. 
 Will you guess?" "I will not. It's late." "Then 
 I've been offered a post in Cateaton's Bank, and I've ac- 
 cepted it" "Leave the mill?" "Aye." "After all 
 your uncle has done for you?" "There's thousands 
 could do my work at the mill." "And thousands could 
 do what you'll have to do at the bank." "You're not 
 displeased, Mother? Why, I thought " He was
 
 168 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 puzzled. He had thought she had waited up to be alone 
 with him, to see how glad he was of what she had done 
 for him. "I thought you knew," he said. '"How 
 should I know?" "It was Donald Greig got me in." 
 "I think you should have consulted me before you ac- 
 cepted." "It's a better salary and it's safe. I can give 
 you ten pounds at once for the fund." Margaret was 
 mollified. It was the first time Jamie had acknowledged 
 her ambition to pay back all she had had in charity. 
 Truth to tell he could neither understand nor sympathise 
 with her desire. He was free with his money and knew 
 nothing of borrowing or lending. When there was 
 need he would give and had he been in need himself 
 would have accepted. And having made his offer, he re- 
 gretted it, for it seemed to him almost like buying her 
 approval. "I do not think," she said, "the Greigs will 
 be able to do "more for you than the Keiths. After all, 
 you are a Keith and owe some loyalty to the family."- 
 "I'm a Lawrie first," said he, "and that I'll never for- 
 get." "Your uncle will be very hurt." -"Not he. He 
 has his Tom, and I think John was right when he said 
 there was only room for Tom. There are times when 
 I think there's only room for Tom in the whole wide 
 world. And I'm sure he thinks so." Margaret said 
 tartly: "Tom is the only good Keith among you." 
 And with that she went to her bed where she lay awake 
 shaken with hatred of a world which would not be 
 shaped to her ends or her liking. 
 
 When Tom heard the news in the morning from his 
 mother's lips he said: "Dang me. I'll have to move 
 my account. I won't have it made up by my own 
 brother." "Is it really a good position?" "To be in a 
 bank," said Tom, "is to be near money, and if a man
 
 CATEATON'S BANK 169 
 
 can't turn it in his own direction he's a fool." He 
 gulped down his breakfast of porridge and honey and 
 rushed away to the office. That very afternoon he trans- 
 ferred his account to the Thrigsby and District.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SELINA LESLIE 
 
 NCE installed at the bank, Jamie felt, as Tibby had 
 foretold, his own man. Banking was a gentle- 
 manly and a cloistered business. Its hours of work 
 were regular and short; once a month there was a late 
 night and twice a year there was "balancing," which 
 meant working into the small hours, but there were no 
 sudden inflations or depressions. Thrigsby might be and 
 generally was feverish and excited, but the bank was 
 calm and dignified. It could and did break quite impor- 
 tant people with the remorselessness of a machine; a 
 man without credit did not exist for it. Like a church it 
 had powers of excommunication. It was very like a 
 church and men like Mr. Rigby Blair came to it in a 
 religious spirit, and this had its effect upon Jamie, who 
 began to regard Sunday as a day of rest and relaxation 
 rather than as a day of worship, though he still accom- 
 panied his mother to church and regularly placed a 
 shilling in the bag passed round by Peter Leslie. Yet 
 the ceremony of offering the money so collected to God 
 seemed to him inappropriate. The God of that church 
 was not the God of the bank. This was the beginning 
 of his perception that there are Gods and Gods and that 
 men make them in their image as they go. He was 
 made rather unhappy at first and was left rather sadly 
 
 170
 
 SELINA LESLIE 171 
 
 envious of his mother, whose God was perfectly definite 
 and was able to provide for every contingency except 
 free, spontaneous human desire, for which no provision 
 whatever was made. It was easy enough for Margaret, 
 who had no life except in her sons and no traffic with 
 the world outside, but while the God of her church was 
 served with righteous conduct and the support of mar- 
 riage and the family thieving and murder being out of 
 the question for respectable people the God of the bank 
 was served with lies. In business Jamie never met a 
 man who did not begin by lying and then allowing him- 
 self reluctantly to be brought back to such truth as was 
 necessary for the transaction in hand, so that though 
 there was always an air of importance, there was, in 
 fact, very little done. Indeed all the responsible persons 
 he knew worked as long and as little as possible, while 
 the rest had punctuality both in coming and in leaving 
 for almost their only virtue. However, Jamie supposed 
 it was all right and did not look closely into the matter, 
 but, being 1 forced to admit his own discomfort, he sought 
 the means of relieving it in literary and mental activity 
 and in the company of people who really were interested 
 in what they were doing, with no consideration for what 
 they might get out of it. Pressure at home had much 
 to do with this desire of his. Tom and his mother were 
 magnificently virtuous. They were Keiths ; they had re- 
 mained true to the family; they were rewarded; they 
 had kept the family intact ; James and John had strayed 
 from the fold, they had sold themselves into bondage 
 and were the servants of strangers; in short, Tom's 
 salary was doubled and he was in charge of a depart- 
 ment, he had put down a hundred pounds for the fund, 
 when he heard that Jamie had contributed ten ; Thrigsby 
 had begun to hear of Tom, who was a member of two
 
 172 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 clubs. Jamie joined the Literary and Philosophical 
 Society, through Hubert, and discovered that there were 
 brains also in Thrigsby ; an illustrious chemist, a famous 
 musician, and a queer little man who had measured the 
 velocity of a particle of hydrogen. Through this asso- 
 ciation he discovered that Newton had other claims to 
 fame and the gratitude of mankind than the possession 
 of a dog called Diamond. But the philosophers were too 
 disinterested for Jamie; they were an intolerant and 
 inconsiderate set and they might as well have lived on 
 a mountain as in Thrigsby for all they cared about it; 
 and Thrigsby had become fascinating and absorbing to 
 him in the security and freedom he found in his new 
 gentlemanly occupation. However, from contact with 
 these great minds he learned that problems and questions 
 which teased and tickled his mind were realities to them. 
 He also learned that nothing was settled, that very little 
 was known, that there might be other more plausible 
 theories concerning the origin of the world than that set 
 forth with such beautiful simplicity in Genesis. Jamie 
 could not accept the fact of human ignorance from Hu- 
 bert, but when he was confronted with the austere 
 probity of these men he could not rid his mind of it and 
 was obsessed by it, for he argued that if men really 
 had divinely inspired knowledge they had made singu- 
 larly little use of it if they could not rise above the 
 brutality of Thrigsby. Life in Thrigsby was brutal; 
 there was no getting away from that. Machines were 
 carefully and lovingly tended, but no one looked after 
 the men and women, who came pouring into the place 
 from the country, and, apparently, from all parts of 
 the world, for in the streets could be heard almost every 
 European language, and there were churches, syna- 
 gogues, basilicas, mosques, chapels, English, Welsh and
 
 SELINA LESLIE 173 
 
 Scotch, and everywhere there were houses being built, 
 on marshes, on slap-heaps, and on filled-in brooks and 
 little rivers, over graveyards and places that for gen- 
 erations had been avoided as containing plague-pits. 
 Thrigsby absorbed them all ; grew immense factories for 
 them to work in and little houses for them to live in, 
 blotting out gardens, fields, woods, spinneys, leaving 
 nowhere any open space, not even in the centre of the 
 town, until Thrigsby in its municipal pride decided that 
 it needed a new town hall and discovered that it had 
 nowhere to put it. Andrew Keith had a say in that 
 matter and won a brief and unpleasant notoriety by in- 
 triguing for the selection of a plot of land which meant 
 pulling down one of his warehouses for which he was 
 most generously compensated. "We will have," said 
 Thrigsby, "the biggest Town Hall in the North of 
 England." And in the course of a year or two Thrigsby 
 had its desire in a vast Gothic structure with an im- 
 mense tower, with a four-faced clock, a bell which would 
 be heard on the wind for at least five miles, and a spiked 
 golden ball on top. The Town Hall was opened by a 
 Great Personage: the mayor was knighted. A day or 
 two later a sea-gull spiked itself on the golden ball and 
 created through the town a sensation greater than had 
 been known since a woman killed her baby and hid its 
 body under the kitchen hearth. Thousands of Thrigs- 
 beians who had never moved out of their ordinary path 
 to see the Town Hall itself, thronged the new square 
 day after day to see the dead bird hanging there. And 
 out of that dead bird grew modern Thrigsby, a city 
 aware of itself. It and Jamie became aware of them- 
 selves about the same time and he realised that he was 
 definitely antagonistic to it. At first he was acutely 
 miserable and thought that he must fly, but very soon he
 
 174 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 was good-humoured about it, wrestled with himself, de- 
 cided that Thrigsby was by force of circumstance 
 since he could not leave his mother the scene of the 
 adventure of his life and that he must see it through. 
 He was not going to surrender his mother altogether 
 to Tom. He could make her laugh and Tom would 
 never even try to do that. He wrote a satirical little 
 poem on the sea-gull for The Critic, but it was rather 
 obscure in its hint of the soul of the place being impaled 
 Uipon its pretensions, so that it was neither understood 
 nor gave offence. Hubert liked it, however, but told 
 the author that he was too young yet to be thinking of 
 dead souls and appointed him to do dramatic criticism. 
 Here was work that Jamie loved. He measured all that 
 he saw by that first delirious impression when delight 
 had run through his veins, and though he was drastic, 
 he was witty and charming. Quintus Flumen became a 
 name that stood for something in Thrigsby. There was 
 a battle royal over it with Margaret, who was pleased 
 that her son should be talked about but horrified by his 
 being connected with the theatre, an abode of the Devil, 
 who was an even more real personage to her than God. 
 "It is the straight road to Hell," she said. "It is the 
 glittering gate thereof." "But I am trying to persuade 
 my readers," said Jamie, "to regard it as a glimpse of 
 Heaven." "Nothing," replied she, "can make wrong 
 right, good of a painted mummery." "It is only a kind 
 of picture," he argued, "a picture in which you see liv- 
 ing men and women and hear the spoken living word." 
 "Men and women," cried Margaret, "making an in- 
 decent exhibition of themselves. Say that and you have 
 said all you need to say." "Read what I have said, 
 mother." '"In that scoundrel's paper?" She went fur- 
 ther. She said : "How can you ever offer yourself to
 
 SELINA LESLIE 175 
 
 a good woman, coming as you do from that sink of 
 iniquity? How can you come to me, your mother?" > 
 Jamie smiled at her extravagance. "Indeed, mother, I 
 do come to you with more love in my heart for what 
 my eyes have seen and my ears heard." "Bah! You 
 talk as though it were a church." "So it is indeed, a 
 place where the heart can be glad." "Lewd!" she 
 snapped. "You are too free, Jamie, free in your talk 
 and in your doings. You are changed altogether since 
 you left the mill and I knew how it would be." She 
 took refuge in tears. "Oh ! Lord," he said to himself. 
 "What does she think a man is made of? Stone? 
 Putty? Clay? Why won't she see that her church is 
 only a kind of play-house; mummery without paint, a 
 mummery that deadens life and not quickens it." "Oh ! 
 mother, mother, mother," he cried. "Why can't you let 
 me be? I am what I am and you are no longer respon- 
 sible for me." "I am responsible for you," she said, 
 "for ever and ever; responsible to the sainted dead and 
 before God." "By whom all things are forgiven," he 
 said gently. "Not deliberate wickedness, not a wanton 
 breach between a mother and a son." "All things," 
 cried he. "What authority have you for thinking less?" 
 "I feel it," said she and not another word could he 
 get out of her, and she spent the evening hunting through 
 the Bible for texts to fortify her position. She was in- 
 exhaustibly ingenious in that pursuit and Jamie, know- 
 ing that he would be routed as he had no hope of finding 
 a text in support of dramatic criticism, left her to it. 
 
 All the same these disputes with his mother were the 
 profoundest emotional experiences of that stage of his 
 life and they were precious to her too and she had far 
 more satisfaction in them than in all her approbation of 
 Tom, who never by any chance did anything unexpected
 
 176 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 or irregular, or, if he did, kept it hidden, even from 
 himself. 
 
 Jamie sought out Selina Leslie at the theatre. He 
 was admitted to her dressing-room, for the management 
 courted him and always forgave his unfavourable com- 
 ments in the hope of praise. He had made an approving 
 remark of Selina's work in a farce and she had been 
 promoted. She welcomed him warmly : "Been in front 
 to-night, Quint?" '"No, I have been at home." 
 "Home ?" She made a face. "No place like it, is there ?" 
 "Oh! Are you wanting to go back ?" '"Not I! I've 
 my mother to come and see me and that's all I care for, 
 though I don't like my father treating me as though I'd 
 gone on the streets." "He doesn't think that really." 
 "No. He'd die if he did. No, he wouldn't. He'd wash 
 his hands of me and be holier than ever. I do wish 
 you'd shave those whiskers off, Quint. They don't suit 
 you a bit." "I like them. I like to sit and hear them 
 growing." She laughed: "Don't grow a moustache 
 then. I wouldn't have you hide your beautiful mouth 
 for worlds. You are a treat for sore eyes, really, and I 
 do want to know what you've done to yourself because 
 I used not to be able to talk to you at all." '"We were 
 both so young and both afraid. Besides we thought we 
 were in love with each other when we weren't a bit."- 
 "How do you know that ?" Selina had fine eyes and knew 
 how to use them. Jamie met them full and his blood 
 throbbed in his heart. "It's true," he said. Selina 
 was satisfied with the effect she had produced and did 
 not press the matter further. "Shall I ever be an ac- 
 tress, Quint?" "Yes, for comedy. Broaden out a bit." 
 "I'll keep my figure as long as I can." "That isn't 
 what I meant: coarsen your methods and you would be 
 first-rate in farce or burlesque. I think burlesque is what
 
 SELINA LESLIE 177 
 
 our stage is best in. We've lost the tragic note." 
 "How do you mean, lost it?" "That comes clean out 
 of the human heart at its bravest," he said. "We aren't 
 brave any more. We have lost confidence." "It isn't 
 such a rotten world as all that," said Selina. "Much 
 you know about it, my child." "Child? I'm a wicked 
 woman. What's more, I'm going to be wickeder." And 
 she gave a little dance, that was indescribably voluptu- 
 ous, so swift and subtle was the flicker of defiance and 
 desire in it. "You wait," she said, "until I get to Lon- 
 don. I shall set my cap at the Prince of Wales, poor 
 lamb." "Why poor lamb?" asked Jamie, delighted by 
 this audacious flight. "The Prince Consort is so like fa- 
 ther," said Selina. "Can't you see him creeping under 
 the royal table picking up crumbs? I think father must 
 be a German and no Scotchman." "The Scotch," said 
 Jamie, "are the only Continental inhabitants of these 
 islands. That is why the English cannot get on without 
 them." "I'm English," said Selina, and Jamie, wanting 
 to rouse the devil in her again, said: "And you can't 
 get on without me?" "Well," said Selina, "it would 
 be nice if I took you to London with me." "And what 
 would I do there?" "Come here," said Selina. He 
 obeyed and she made him stand in front of the mirror 
 with his face next to hers. '"There," she said, "London 
 doesn't often see a couple like that." "Your face looks 
 crooked to me." "So does yours to me. Ha! Ha! 
 Ha!" "And I'd be a dull dog for you to drag about 
 with you." She put her arm round his neck: "You 
 are rather a dull old darling," she said, and kissed him, 
 and in a moment he had her in his arms : "Selina ! Se- 
 lina!" But she had no thought of surrender: "Quiet! 
 Quiet !" she whispered. "There! There!" She soothed 
 him. He was enraged and appalled by the convulsion
 
 178 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 in his feelings, and broke from her. At the door he 
 turned and saw her smile at herself in her mirror. O! 
 the brightness of her eyes! As he left the theatre he 
 said to himself : "Felt Alexander so ? Was it so that 
 Antony was enchained by Cleopatra?" It was no re- 
 lease of his emotions, but rather a confinement of them, 
 and he in whom emotions had always been so free, so 
 pure, suffered. It was torture. What his mother had 
 said of the theatre seemed to him now not a whit too 
 extravagant. It had magnified Selina's attraction a thou- 
 sand times. She was now, for him, what she had never 
 been in his life, a definite and dangerous actuality. He 
 blamed himself, not her. It was he who had admitted 
 her, encouraged her. The danger was so immense that 
 he could not ignore it. Danger to her too, he thought, 
 in his ignorance of women and their knowledge of their 
 own power and peril, and he must save her. The obvious 
 way of doing it, by not seeing her again, never crossed 
 his mind. Saving her, whether she liked it or not, was 
 a positive task to which he felt himself committed. He 
 even prayed to the God of the church for assistance 
 and strength, never dreaming that the God of the bank 
 was much more to Selina's liking. She was paid very 
 little and had discovered that the male sex had deep and 
 well-lined pockets into which it seemed to give them 
 pleasure for her to dip, and she had no doubt but that 
 Jamie, being a Keith and a friend of Hubert Greig's, had 
 pockets as accommodating as any. Also he was better- 
 looking than the most of her friends. As for his being 
 in love with her, that was incidental. She could hardly 
 remember a time when she had not had some man more 
 or less in love with her and she regarded it as the normal 
 condition of a young woman's existence. Sometimes she 
 let them kiss her; sometimes she kissed them; such flir-
 
 SELINA LESLIE 179 
 
 tation kept a flickering zest in her life. She had only 
 one determination not to marry a man like her father 
 and not to have a large family. She did not imagine 
 that other people's lives were very different from her 
 own or that the men she met would desire other than 
 to stroll into and out of her gay existence; for she was 
 extremely happy and only wished to avoid trouble. As 
 for Jamie, he was still something of the hero he had been 
 to her as a child. He had grown very big and strong 
 and pleasing to her eyes. He had left bruises on her 
 arms and she surveyed them with satisfaction and pressed 
 them until they hurt her for the pleasure of pain com- 
 ing from him, and she was sorry when they had disap- 
 peared. . . . Some months before Jamie's visit, a star 
 actor, who had been engaged for three weeks with the 
 company, had seduced her with a promise that she should 
 go back to London with him. He did not keep his 
 promise and she regretted the loss of the opportunity 
 more than that of her virginity, which put an end to her 
 curiosity about men and made her think that she knew 
 all about them. 
 
 Jamie took some weeks to think out the problem 
 she had introduced into his life and did not go near her. 
 Though she preferred him above all other men she did 
 not allow him to be without a rival and encouraged the 
 attentions of a new addition to the company, a strange 
 pale young man, named Henry Acomb, who was the 
 butt of all the actors because of his mannerisms, and 
 used to come to her almost in tears and tell her what a 
 genius he had and how they would one day be on their 
 knees to him when he had all London at his feet. He 
 was not peculiar in his convictions but only in his frank- 
 ness in avowing them, and though he was often ex- 
 tremely tiresome Selina believed in him and was sorry
 
 i8o THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 for him. He used to inveigh against the rest of the 
 actors for accepting the disreputable position assigned 
 to them: "Is not a man an actor by virtue of the fiery 
 soul within him? Is not he in himself a living vision, 
 noble in speech, grand in gesture?" Jamie had written 
 words of warm appreciation of Acomb's strange per- 
 formances, and the actor carried them about with him 
 and declared that Quintus Flumen was the only man in 
 Thrigsby, and that before he left the filthy town he 
 would like to shake hands with him. He had quarrelled 
 with Mr. Wilcox, but when he learned that Mr. Wilcox 
 knew Quintus he made it up with him and begged for 
 a meeting to be arranged. Mr. Wilcox however thought 
 Acomb an intolerable bore and a dangerous innovator- 
 had he not spoken slightingly of Kemble? and would 
 not inflict him on his friend. 
 
 However, Acomb had his desire and met Jamie in Se- 
 lina's rooms where she lived under the wing of Mrs. 
 Bulloch who played Shakespearean old women to the 
 life because she was a Shakespearean old woman in her- 
 self, though a most respectable party and a most excellent 
 grandmother. "My dear," she used to say to Selina, 
 "if I wasn't thinking of your success I would say to 
 you, Don't marry in the profession. It isn't marriage. 
 It is a perpetual wondering whose bed he has come from. 
 But if you marry outside the profession then it is all 
 U.P. and you won't know the prompt from the O.P. 
 side of your life. But a good-looking beau like that Mr. 
 Lawrie is a temptation to any girl, if only to keep him 
 safe from the married women." -"Oh! cheese it, 
 Aunty," said Selina. "He's a good young man with a 
 mother that you'd need a heart of brass to make your 
 in-law." "Then he's a parable," said Mrs. Bulloch, "if 
 he is good-looking and good." She had only seen him
 
 SELINA LESLIE 181 
 
 at the theatre and now, glancing out of the window, she 
 saw him coming up the steps and gave a little scream: 
 "And if he isn't there before my very eyes, and barmy 
 Henry coming to tea and all." '"My mother is coming 
 too." "My stars and little fishes if it ain't a party! I 
 must squeeze into my bombazine though it does burst 
 open at my bosom." And the old lady trotted upstairs. 
 Selina composed herself and sat with her hands in 
 her lap with her eyes gazing down at them. Jamie en- 
 tered. He was tragical and solemn. "Selina," he said, 
 "I ought not to have come, I know, but I felt that at 
 least I must ask your pardon." '"Pardon?" said she, 
 looking up at him and causing him to shake in his reso- 
 lution, which was to denounce himself and never see her 
 again. "Pardon ? Why ?""! I kissed you." "So you 
 did years ago. But you never asked my pardon then." 
 "That was different, and you know it." "No. I don't 
 think I do." "Then you then you ' He strug- 
 gled hard against the realisation being forced upon him 
 that she had liked it. O ! he must save her ! On an im- 
 pulse he said : "I want to ask you to give up the theatre 
 and then I will m-marry you." Selina rose from her 
 chair and laid her arm on the mantelpiece, drooped in a 
 dignified attitude and asked him if he knew what he 
 was saying. As he hardly did he could make no answer. 
 He had been giving himself a terrible time, which was 
 more credit to his morals than to his good sense, and, 
 as usual, he had complicated his condition with general 
 ideas and had borrowed from Hubert's rooms a book 
 by Mary Wollstonecraft which had fired his idealism 
 but had not eased his real difficulty, namely, that Scotch- 
 men who come to England to make careers do not marry 
 actresses. He had evaded it by putting marriage out 
 of the question, and here it had asserted itself when it
 
 182 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 became a matter of making an honest woman of Selina 
 or leaving her to her fate stained with his own embrace. 
 It was all very serious to him and he could not but 
 believe it was equally serious to Selina. He wanted an 
 answer and she was not prepared to give one. Love to 
 her was a matter of action, of active enjoyment, not 
 of words, and so far as she had considered Jamie's ab- 
 stention at all, she had put it down to his liking some- 
 one else better. She had a respect for him and his pres- 
 ent proposals had impaired that. He on his part had 
 recoiled. Marriage was a thing that required careful 
 consideration and here he had rushed at it without a 
 thought. In spite of Mary Wollstonecraft he could not 
 get rid of this notion that women from fifteen to forty- 
 five think of nothing whatever but marriage. He had 
 proposed marriage and Selina had been almost shocked 
 at the suggestion. Perhaps he had been too abrupt, or 
 lacking in chivalry. Women, he thought, must be sen- 
 sitive in these matters. But then he had kissed Selina. 
 He floundered into worse confusion. "Damn it all," he 
 cried at length, "you might give me an answer." And 
 Selina, refreshed and relieved by this vigorous outburst, 
 replied sweetly: "I'm damned if I do." Jamie dropped 
 down into a chair as though she had pushed him. He 
 gasped in his astonishment but was saved more by the 
 entrance of Mrs. Leslie, who, seeing him, raised her 
 hands in delight, darted to him, kissed him on both 
 cheeks and, with a more than usually shrill giggle, cried : 
 "He! He! Jamie! You have come to see my poor 
 girl! How good of you! How kind of you! She has 
 shown me the nice things you have written about her, 
 but I never thought you would come to see her, now that 
 you are so rich and famous, and everybody talking 
 about you and saying how rich you are and how clever.
 
 SELINA LESLIE 183 
 
 People do forget old friends, you know, and it is no 
 good pretending they don't. Not that I would blame 
 anybody about poor Selina. When her own father 
 won't let her name pass his lips." "Oh! do leave the 
 poor man alone, mother," said Selina. '"I am sorry to 
 hear that of Mr. Leslie," said Jamie. "There are ex- 
 ceptions even among women." "He! He! Jamie, that 
 is just what I have said time and time again. If you 
 have a lot of children one of them is sure to be a little 
 mad." '"Oh! mother, do stop talking. Father thinks 
 if a person goes on the stage she gets off the earth. You 
 don't think that. Jamie doesn't think that. I don't think 
 that." "I brought you some shrimps for tea," said Mrs. 
 Leslie. So they sat down to the table. Mrs. Bulloch 
 joined them and the three w r omen talked Jamie out of 
 his confusion into a rattling gaiety. They talked of dress 
 and the price of food, of disease and child-birth and 
 abortions, and Mrs. Bulloch cheerfully told the most 
 gruesome tales. Selina's mamma was a different per- 
 son: she seemed to be taking a holiday from her gen- 
 tility and she forced her mood on the rest. Mrs. Bul- 
 loch rejoiced in the little woman and said: "It is easy 
 to see where Selina gets her talent from, and her spirits. 
 I haven't seen such spirits since my brother Joe went 
 off to the German wars and came back with a broken 
 jaw and no pension, and that was when they put pota- 
 toes in the bread and the poor Irish had nothing to eat." 
 Jamie began to regret that he had been so solemn, and 
 was afraid that he had for ever suppressed Selina's in- 
 terest in him. She never once looked at him but kept 
 her eyes fixed on her mother, whom presently she took 
 upstairs to see a new bonnet she had bought. Mrs. Bul- 
 loch ogled Jamie, and he grinned at her. "Always," 
 she said, "look at the mother when you are thinking
 
 184 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 of the daughter." "Mrs. Leslie is an old friend of 
 mine," said Jamie. "A fine young gentleman like you," 
 said Mrs. Bulloch, "doesn't want to marry into the pro- 
 fession, though if you're not looking at it in the mar- 
 rying way I'd be a dragoon, I would." Jamie laughed 
 and said he did not think Mrs. Bulloch could ever be 
 very terrifying. "One of my husbands was a very little 
 man and scared out of his wits. He thought I should 
 overlay him one of these fine nights. A warm little 
 feller he was and I never knew him go to bed with cold 
 feet, which is rare among men. But he knew what the 
 profession was, having been born, like Moses, in a buck- 
 basket, on the road. And he used to say, the profession 
 has its ways and other folks have their ways and they'll 
 no more mix than oil and water. A beautiful girl like 
 Selina must have her beaux, but for anything serious, or, 
 which is more important, satisfactory, she must look to 
 the profession." 
 
 It was then that Henry Acomb came in bearing a 
 large bouquet. When he knew that he was in the pres- 
 ence of Quintus Flumen he was so touching, so profuse, 
 so eloquent in his gratitude that he drove Jamie from 
 the house before Selina and her mother had returned. 
 He said : "Your writings have been a revelation to me. 
 It was my own soul speaking. I have often thanked 
 God for Quintus Flumen." "Yes, yes," replied Jamie 
 reaching out for his hat. "We must meet again," said 
 Henry Acomb. "Often, I hope," replied Jamie, and he 
 shook Mrs. Bulloch's hands. She followed him to the 
 door and said: "You mustn't mind him. He's a fine 
 actor but touched, and he is very much gone on Selina 
 who won't have a word to say to him."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 JOHN'S WEDDING 
 
 THE fat man who had urged John to hear John 
 Bright was none other than the manager of Mur- 
 doch's a regrettable coincidence which no true novelist 
 would acknowledge, but as it had its influence on John's 
 career it cannot be avoided. It helped him to a 
 firm belief in minding his own business, and this led 
 him to the discovery that his business must be clear 
 and definite or there was no minding it. What was his 
 business? To make money, marry, produce sons and 
 put them in the way of making themselves distinguished. 
 He flung himself into this undertaking with a cold and 
 irresistible energy, acclaiming and supporting John 
 Bright because the reforms advocated by that great 
 man would make it easier for him and men like him to 
 turn their abilities into gold. When he was twenty-two 
 he chose his wife, and at twenty-six he married her. She 
 had a fortune of six thousand pounds, was not ill-look- 
 ing and shared his opinion of himself. Other qualities 
 she had but John was not aware of them. Her father 
 lived near the Allison-Greigs and was a connection of 
 theirs and had made his small fortune out of selling 
 pictures by J. M. W. Turner, William Etty and Madox 
 Brown to Angus Greig, who, though he understood noth- 
 ing about art, thought it proper in a merchant prince 
 
 185
 
 i86 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 to encourage artists financially, if not socially. Mr. 
 Sykes had advised the corporation of Thrigsby in the 
 institution of its art gallery and he had a reputation. 
 Wisely he retired before the local painters, whom he 
 had slighted, began to assail him, persuaded Angus to 
 build a museum in Westmoreland, stocked it for him and 
 with the proceeds established himself. His daughter's 
 name was Sophia; she had been brought up to believe 
 in great men. Angus was to her the great man, her 
 father was a great man and John had no difficulty in 
 persuading her that the younger generation could do 
 even better in that line. He had become rhetorical, had 
 John, and would tell her of his ambitions, and as she lived 
 with old men whose ambitions were fulfilled or with 
 young men who had none for. the energy of the Allison- 
 Greigs seems to have been exhausted in Angus she 
 needed no other witchcraft. Truth to tell life in West- 
 moreland all the year round, with a month in Thrigsby, 
 was more than a little dull. John used to say : "I shall 
 use my money." "How?" Sophia would ask. "When 
 I have made it I shall develop certain ideas, political 
 probably. I shall leave them to my sons with enough 
 money to help them to propagate them. I'm not going 
 to leave my sons just money and nothing else. Look at 
 the Allison-Greigs." Sophia considered the Allison- 
 Greigs, who were indeed amiable but aimless. "Yes, 
 John," said Sophia. "I see you are different." "I am 
 that," said John, "and I hold that your Keiths and your 
 Greigs are on the wrong track altogether. After all a 
 man owes something to the world more than to get all he 
 can out of it. Get all you can out of it certainly, but 
 give something back, something better." "Yes, indeed, 
 John." "He owes it to himself to win honour as well 
 as fortune. There's no monument to Angus Greig, and
 
 JOHN'S WEDDING 187 
 
 there'll be no monument to Andrew Keith. I mean, 
 a rich man must be a benefactor." "Oh! John, you 
 do have beautiful ideas, but cannot a poor man be a 
 benefactor?" "Not unless he is a genius, and I would 
 not go so far as to call myself that." "No, John." 
 
 His courtship was one long conversation like that, 
 carried on over years. He did not need to propose, but 
 slipped into the position of future son-in-law in Mr. 
 Sykes' house and was free to go there whenever he liked. 
 He got on very well with Mr. Sykes, who used to amuse 
 himself with inventing railway couplings and devices 
 connected with steam-engines for which John used to 
 procure the iron and steel cheap. With this friendship 
 John was able to conceal the real object of his visits so 
 that it came as a surprise to his brothers when he an- 
 nounced his approaching marriage; his mother knew 
 because Maggie knew, and had told Sophia a thing or 
 two about John which would have incensed him had he 
 known. "God bless my soul," said Tom when the news 
 was announced, "I don't see how you can afford it. No 
 man worthy of the name would live on his wife's money. 
 Look at the Prince-Consort." "I don't see why he 
 should not," interrupted Jamie, looking up from his 
 book, "if he loves her." "You're a romantic fool, Jamie. 
 A man would not be master in his own home if he were 
 under an obligation to the woman." "Is not every man 
 under an obligation to a woman for his birth?" asked 
 Jamie. "Abominable coarseness," muttered Tom who 
 hated arguing because he was a poor hand at it. "I 
 am very pleased," said Margaret, "though I think you 
 are young yet, John, and might have waited until you 
 had a real position." "Oh ! I'll have that, mother, don't 
 you be afraid. I've got my foot well in at Murdoch's." 
 "Personally," said Tom, "I made up my mind never
 
 i88 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 to marry until the three of us had been able to establish 
 mother in a house with an income of her own. I sup- 
 pose you'll be the next, Jamie." '"Indeed, no," said 
 Jamie with a blush and a tremor for he was passing 
 through an evil time and Selina was having her way 
 with him. "Indeed, no. I think I shall never marry, 
 but I hope John will be happy and not despise his bache- 
 lor brothers." "He's more likely to envy them," growled 
 Tom. "I should have thought Uncle Andrew was warn- 
 ing enough." "Sophia," said Margaret, "is almost a 
 member of the family," as though that were a guaran- 
 tee against the fate of Elizabeth. "Oh ! well," said Tom, 
 "when trade's good people marry." "And when it's 
 bad?" asked Jamie with a chuckle, for Tom had begun 
 to amuse him immensely. "When it's bad," replied 
 Tom, "they get into trouble." Jamie buried his head 
 in his book. Tibby came in to lay the supper. "John's 
 going to be married," said Margaret. "On Sophia?" 
 asked Tibby. "It is Sophia," said John, "but how did you 
 know?" >"He was always staying with those Sykes," 
 said Tibby and her eyes moved round anxiously to Jamie. 
 "You look anxious," he said. "Do you think it means 
 the break-up of the family?" "Marrying," said Tibby, 
 "is catching." "Then Tom had better look out." 
 
 Tom snorted and took his stand by the fireplace: "I 
 am not," he said, "an adherent of the doctrines of laissez- 
 faire, thank God. If I were head of the family I should 
 strongly express my disapproval of this marriage; at 
 least until John had produced evidence of his ability to 
 support a wife in a position worthy of the family."- 
 "As you are not head of the family," retorted John with 
 some heat, "you can only express a personal opinion and 
 for that I do not care a brass farthing. Mr. Sykes is 
 satisfied; mother is satisfied; I am satisfied." Jamie was
 
 JOHN'S WEDDING 189 
 
 roused : "I would like it better," said he, "if you showed 
 Tom that you did not care a rap for the family." "But 
 I do care," said John, "and I should be as sorry to lose 
 your approval as I would be if I were ever to lose my 
 own of you." "Fine words butter no parsnips," said 
 Tom. "Are you or are you not in a position to support 
 a wife independent of her means?" '"I am," replied 
 John, "or I would not be getting married." "Then," 
 said Tom, "I should like to know how you have done it, 
 for / could not have married at twenty-five. I think 
 you should insist, Jamie, on having some evidence. 
 / for one will not support his children." "They will be 
 Sophia's children too," said Margaret. "She will surely 
 always have plenty of money." "Is old Sykes making 
 a settlement? And who are to be the trustees?" "Oh! 
 Let it be, Tom," said Jamie, "that's Sykes' affair." "It 
 is a family affair and should be on a business footing. 
 And again, will John or will he not contribute to the fund 
 after he is married? I had been hoping that in another 
 two years we should be able to pay that off." "I'll con- 
 tinue my contributions of course," said John, and with 
 that Tom was appeased. He had got what he wanted. 
 Jamie was uneasy. John had always a way of mak- 
 ing him feel unduly adolescent and rather absurd. It 
 was just like John to be the first to marry ; to take things 
 into his own hands and to build up his separate life. John 
 seemed able to assert a principle, even though on close 
 scrutiny it should not appear as that noble Lawriean prin- 
 ciple of his dreams. But he himself? What was he 
 asserting? How vague and indefinite he seemed. He 
 had, it is true, passionate hours with Selina which made 
 him feel magnificently superior to his brothers whose 
 souls were dry and meagre, but to them almost every 
 day was an achievement, bringing them nearer to the
 
 190 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 prosperous existence of which they approved. He was 
 himself, to all appearances, as prosperous as they, but 
 he had, as he was certain they had not, moments of 
 doubt, moments of feeling closely confined and fierce 
 impulses to break out and proclaim loudly the principle 
 of his being for which in his prosperity there seemed 
 no room. >He had done well at the bank, which at the 
 moment of his entering it had been threatened by the 
 Thrigsby and District which, far from despising small 
 and unrecommended accounts, had opened branch after 
 'branch to catch the savings of humble and small people. 
 He had drawn up a report on the doings of the Thrigsby 
 and District, that upstart, and had urged Mr. Rigby Blair 
 to enter into competition. Success had attended his 
 efforts and promotion had followed them. It was under- 
 stood that he would one day step into Mr. Blair's shoes. 
 This was gratifying and his better position gave him a 
 wide outlook for his researches into the anatomy of 
 Thrigsby which he found both more repulsive and more 
 fascinating. His mother was pleased with him, as she 
 was with all her sons. Her adventure had led to triumph 
 and a security which she imagined nothing could shake. 
 It was precisely that security that Jamie dreaded. It 
 depended, he knew, entirely on money, and in money the 
 Lawriean principle could not find expression. John was 
 much nearer to it in marrying. Then came the teasing 
 thought of Selina. O! there the principle could have 
 been expressed had there been no bank, no family, no 
 Uncle Andrew, no Thrigsby, no need to eat, drink and 
 be fed and housed. Selina was a figure of carnival, of 
 gay clothes and masks, of throbbing violins and merry 
 songs, and all the rest of life was heavy and Lenten. 
 Even John's marriage was Lenten and at once Jamie 
 was against it. Women, he thought, had no place in
 
 JOHN'S WEDDING 191 
 
 that drab world, and no shadow from it should fall 
 upon their lives: the shadow of death and the torment 
 of child-birth for them but not the smoked ruins of 
 dull care. Women were to his idealism splendid beings 
 who could look after themselves, for they seemed to 
 him to have a mysterious sure knowledge of life. His 
 mother, for instance, was never far out in her estimate 
 of things and people ; Selina held the key to a world of 
 enchantment ; and Tibby was, as is known, a witch. But 
 the disturbing influence in his life, the source of his dis- 
 satisfaction, was Mrs. Bulloch with whom on Sunday 
 afternoons he, used to go to play cribbage. She loved 
 her game of cribbage, and so did he, but most he loved 
 the old woman's rude wit and wisdom. Though he 
 did not know it, Selina was no more than a by-product 
 of this enjoyment and a seasoning in it. And it was 
 Mrs. Bulloch's wisdom in him that made him disapprove 
 of John's project. It seemed to him cold-blooded and 
 calculating. 
 
 However, when the time came for the wedding he 
 and Tom got out their top-hats and Prayer Books, donned 
 their best broadcloth frock-coats, bought their mother 
 a new black silk, and a bonnet with white flowers in it, 
 the first headgear she had worn for years that did not 
 proclaim her widowhood. Mary came from Edinburgh 
 and Tibby was only present in John's mind, for she had 
 visited him a day or two before and stood for a long 
 time silent and mysterious. Then she had said : "Are 
 you pleased to be married, John?" "I am," said he. 
 "You don't look it." He said nothing, for, like the 
 rest, he was rather afraid of Tibby and used to the 
 strange inquisition she used every now and then to sub- 
 mit them to. "Is she a bonny girl Sophia?" John 
 produced a daguerreotype of his betrothed. "Aye, she's
 
 192 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 bonny and a tender young thing. She'll need lovering, 
 John." "Why would I be marrying her else, Tibby?" 
 "It was Andrew Keith I had in mind, John. Love's 
 an easy word to say but a hard thing to practise." "Oh ! 
 Ho! Are you in love, Tibby?" "I? With my face? 
 Love's for the pretty ones." ''I'm not pretty, Tibby." 
 "No. It isn't only faces that are pretty. Have a 
 care to it, John, or I'll haunt you, ugly as I am." And 
 John felt unpleasantly like a child being chidden by its 
 nurse. That was Tibby's way. There was no hoaxing 
 her, or making her take you at your own value. She 
 could put her finger on your emotional centre so that your 
 mind for one brief horrid moment would become a chart 
 of your mental and spiritual condition. For a flash John 
 felt ashamed of himself, but immediately he persuaded 
 himself that his shame was decent humility and natural 
 fear before the sacrament of marriage. Like many an- 
 other he was persuaded that because it was he who was 
 going to be married, therefore his marriage was par- 
 ticularly holy and would receive especial attention from 
 the Deity. This idea became a conviction in Westmore- 
 land when he saw the elaborate preparations that had 
 been made and the formidable assembly of Keiths and 
 Greigs and Allison-Greigs. If only Tibby had not said 
 what she had, though exactly what she had said he could 
 not remember! But during the service when he was 
 nervous and wrought up Tibby was very much more 
 real a figure to him than the little white figure by his 
 side. In a dream he signed the register, in a dream he 
 walked out of the church with Sophia on his arm, and 
 in a waking nightmare he drove with her over to Keswick 
 where they were to spend their honeymoon. He was 
 not alas! that it has to be recorded in a work written 
 in English a stranger to woman, but his wife was not
 
 JOHN'S WEDDING 193 
 
 in his ordinary sense a woman and he was afraid of 
 her. He disguised his fear. Clasping Sophia's hand, 
 he told her that he was especially fond of kidneys for 
 breakfast and that Murdoch's had raised his salary in 
 consideration of his marriage. From that he returned 
 to his ambitions, and, at last, as they reached Keswick, 
 he told Sophia that she looked very pretty and that he 
 was proud to call her his wife. So much tenderness she 
 had not had from him before and she turned her face 
 to him and they kissed. His fear of her died and he 
 felt that he had done well. 
 
 Meanwhile at the Donald Greigs', where the guests 
 had foregathered, Mary was delighting in Jamie. They 
 escaped together and went for a long walk over the fells. 
 It was March. A blustering north-west wind was blow- 
 ing, gusty blizzards came every now and then, the snow 
 lying on the cold sodden ground. "By God," said Jamie, 
 "I am glad to see you." "It was a comic wedding," said 
 Mary. "All weddings are either comic or tragic. Yours 
 would be tragic." '"Why?" '"Because you are a tragic 
 man. I was shocked when I saw your face at first, but 
 I love it now. A man's face should show the life behind 
 it. Are you happy?" "Dod, that's a funny question. 
 I'd never ask it of myself." "Perhaps it is foolish. 
 What I really meant was, I think, are you you?" That 
 beat Jamie and he did not know what she meant though 
 he had no doubt of the affection behind her words. He 
 said : "I hope you're getting the life you ought to have." 
 "I ? Oh, yes. I have my friends and I work very 
 hard." "What friends?" -"Men mostly. I'm glad not 
 to have left Scotland. I couldn't have found such friends 
 in England. That has made me afraid for you." "I 
 have my friends too." "Mostly women?" "No. Why 
 should you think that? Men: all sorts. The best of
 
 194 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 them are slightly disreputable. Why is that, do you 
 think?" Said Mary: "Because they are not so self- 
 satisfied." "That's it!" said Jamie "And mother ?"- 
 "She's satisfied enough. Didn't you see her treating the 
 Allison-Greigs as though they were dirt?"- -"Is Tom 
 going to marry Agnes?" Jamie's heart leaped on that, 
 then turned to stone. "Tom?" he said. Mary did not 
 catch the incredulous gasp in his tone and went on com- 
 placently : "I saw it at once." 
 
 Tom ? Tom and Agnes. The thought melted Jamie's 
 bowels. Agnes had always been to him a figure of un- 
 earthly loveliness. Deep in his heart there had lain the 
 hope that some day he might unearth in life some beauty 
 that he might lay before her, and with an immense pa- 
 tience he had been watching and waiting for the miracu- 
 lous growth in himself which should make him of a 
 stature and a strength, if necessary, to wrest that beauty 
 from life. All else had been insignificant; all other hap- 
 penings had been superficial : he had been pregnant in 
 soul with the idea of Agnes and nothing else he had 
 known in life could aid him or deliver him of it. Tears 
 blinded his eyes. The keen wind came rushing across 
 the hills and slapped his face. His blood raced in an 
 agony. He was torn out of his brooding, the long brood- 
 ing of years upon that sweet possession of his soul, and 
 the whole world in its violent energy called him fool. 
 He would not have Agnes to be woman: not such a 
 woman as Tom might know. "O, Mary, Mary! You 
 to deal me such a hurt !" That was his inward cry and 
 at once it turned to the most bitter and rending laughter. 
 It seemed to him then that his life had begun and ended 
 in one moment. Its one flower had been trampled under- 
 foot in the cold sodden ground, in the snow. 'Followed 
 a melancholy sensation of understanding everything, the
 
 JOHN'S WEDDING 195 
 
 delicious absurdity, the tragic unending 1 futility of the 
 world that has its being in the birth and death of its 
 desires, ecstasy and ruin. Mary said: "I'm going to 
 Berlin, soon, in a month or two." "For long?" "It 
 might be for years." Jamie understood her. He found 
 comfort in that. The world may be futile but human 
 beings have comradeship to defend themselves against 
 its futility. He understood her. She too had her sorrow. 
 "I'm sorry he will not have ye, wee Mary." 'She 
 smiled awry: "It's not for want of asking," she said. 
 "I'm clever enough for him but he would like a big 
 woman, that would just keep him warm and settle his 
 nerves." "Is he a great man?" "He's more than that," 
 said Mary. 'He's a teacher and a seer." Jamie laughed : 
 "It's queer," he said, "to think of me in a bank counting 
 money and you living with the salt of the earth." 
 "There's not much Napoleon about you now, Jamie." 
 "Deed, no. I think Napoleon must have been a boy 
 always. They do a deal of harm those men who keep 
 the genius of a child through the affairs and doings of 
 a man." i"I wish you were not in a bank, Jamie. You 
 ought to be writing." "In Thrigsby? You don't know 
 Thrigsby." "Then leave it?" "And mother? I could 
 not do that. I'm the head of the family." "There's 
 Tom." "I will not leave that or anything to Tom. And' 
 change the subject, please." 
 
 He kept her walking for hours. The snow lay thick. 
 They lost their way. He was afraid to go back, would 
 not go until Agnes and her family would have left the 
 Donald Greigs'.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 
 
 JAMES and Mary walked above ten miles over 
 rough ground but when they returned Agnes had 
 not gone. She had set herself to please Margaret who 
 was on her first visit to the mansions of the clan Greig, 
 having always refused to go before until her sons were 
 on an equality with their rich kinsmen. She had thought 
 that John's marriage would mark their arrival at that 
 desired point and she was disappointed. John after 
 all had only married the daughter of a dependent of the 
 Greigs, and so, it seemed to her, had "done for him- 
 self" as completely as when he had crossed fingers with 
 his Uncle Andrew. It was not the wedding a Greig 
 young woman would have had : there were subtle and 
 stealthy economies; there were few guests outside the 
 family; the wedding feast was second-rate only three 
 kinds of wine. So Margaret was affronted and stiffened 
 herself, finding her only comfort in the thought that she 
 had refused the assistance of the Greigs in the time of 
 her first difficulties. She had not for years looked so 
 inexorable a widow, and she alarmed and distressed the 
 Greigs who tried one after another to talk to her and to 
 charm her. Only Agnes was persistent. Tom had pro- 
 posed to her that day for the third time, and though she 
 had refused him she was interested in him and appreciated 
 
 196
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 197 
 
 his force of character. She was alarmed by him and 
 her life had always been so secure that she liked being 
 alarmed. She was adored. It was the tradition in the 
 family to adore Agnes. Old Angus had worshipped her 
 when she was a child. She had been his "wee wifie," 
 and he used in his last years to write to her every morn- 
 ing and visit her every afternoon. Easily and gracefully 
 she had accepted the almost divine position accorded her 
 by the Greigs and suffered for it in finding herself near 
 completely inaccessible to strangers. It was difficult for 
 her to deal with people who did not approach her with 
 homage. But for Tom she could not have attempted to 
 engage the stern Margaret. Tom was rough in his woo- 
 ing: direct and business-like. He wanted a Greig for 
 his wife and tried to bring down the highest flier. Agnes' 
 refusal had at first shocked him. He had not imagined 
 that men, successful men, were refused. When he tried 
 again with no better luck the excitement of sport entered 
 into the affair. He would stalk his quarry. Agnes had 
 never been stalked before. Her usual refusal was taken 
 by her wooers as gently as it was given. They were 
 left so immensely and deliciously sorry for themselves 
 as almost to thank God they had not been accepted. One 
 or two, to be sure, said that Agnes was cold, but only 
 as poets call the moon so in their thankfulness that there 
 is some relief from the heat of the sun. Tom on the 
 other hand did not think about Agnes at all, except that 
 he wanted her and meant to have her to reach the next 
 stage in his career. He was inclined to agree with his 
 mother that John had lowered himself and the family, 
 but then John always had shown Radical tendencies. 
 Indeed Tom had begun to feel that the future depended 
 upon him; John seemed to have no pride, while Jamie 
 with his soft shilly-shallying and his literary fal-lals
 
 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 might be an ornament but was almost certainly a dead 
 weight. Agnes turned Lawrie would ensure the future ; 
 nothing could then impinge upon it. This lack of per- 
 sonal interest though Agnes had some beauty and was 
 from the lower and merely human point of view satis- 
 factory gave Tom a terrible energy, against which 
 Agnes protected herself with aloofness and by putting 
 on an extra layer .of clothes, as though the more effec- 
 tively to hide from her suitor the woman beneath them. 
 She was almost as heavily and stiffly draped as Mar- 
 garet, so that Tom hardly noticed any difference 
 between her and his mother. She was to be his wife; 
 that was beyond doubt. Wife and mother were respect- 
 able terms, almost awful, having nothing at all to do 
 with womanhood. Like the word lady they could lift 
 a woman out of the morass in which otherwise she would 
 be lost, and gave her a position in society. These three 
 words marked stages; to be a lady was to be discernible 
 and calculable; however attached to wifehood, mother- 
 hood provided justification; a man could recognise the 
 mother of his sons: he could let her feel that -he was 
 pleased with her; spontaneously and not in response to 
 her charms of cajolery. How far Agnes was aware of 
 this philosophic system which governed Tom's wooing 
 of her it is impossible to say. She would smile most 
 sweetly when she thought of him, but if she had any 
 feeling she did not betray herself. There is a letter 
 of hers written to her dearest friend to whom she says : 
 "It is not such an honour as he thinks it is," but she 
 may not have been referring to Tom. She was certainly 
 a lady, but was as certainly romantic, chivalrous and 
 charitable and she liked a quick mind in a man. Tom 
 had vigour, but he lacked agility. If only she could 
 have roused him she would have found him more satis-
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 199 
 
 fying. She wanted to find out what his mother thought 
 of him, but not even to serve her son would Margaret 
 give herself away. Agnes kept her in the hall, the great 
 ugly hall filled with the pictures and bric-a-bracs pur- 
 chased by Sophia's father for Angus, and submitted her 
 for three hours to a gentle cross-examination. Was she 
 not proud to have three such fine sons? "Not a sinful 
 pride," said Margaret. "Surely a . mother may have 
 pride without being sinful." "As to that," replied Mar- 
 garet, "I have my disappointments. It was a sad blow 
 to me when John went out of the family. I had been 
 wanting them all to be partners together. The Greigs 
 did it, but John was always headstrong and impatient. 
 
 His haste to be married was almost Er, hum." 
 
 "You are so like dear Cousin Andrew," said Agnes. "I 
 see it in Tom too." "I hope," said Margaret, "John has 
 arranged a satisfactory settlement with his father-in- 
 law, but, of course, he has said nothing about it to me." 
 That was another grudge of Margaret's ; having made 
 an almost runaway match with her Thomas there had 
 been no question of settlements in her case, and since 
 John's announcement of his betrothal, her thoughts had 
 been running on the subject. Her case, she thought, 
 was singular; she could carry off a marriage without 
 settlements, but it was not a thing to have repeated in a 
 younger and weaker generation. "And when," she said, 
 "are we to have the pleasure of hearing of your wedding, 
 my dear?" "The Greigs," answered Agnes, "do not 
 marry easily." "Some young London gentleman, I sup- 
 pose," said Margaret, for the Greigs spent two months 
 of the year in London. "I find it so hard," sighed Agnes, 
 
 "to forget my grandfather. All other men He had 
 
 thoughts, you see, and such deep feelings." "Scotch," 
 said Margaret. "We have feelings, but they are sacred.
 
 200 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 We do not talk of them." So their conversation ran 
 on, neither being able to pin the other down, until they 
 had chafed each other into an irritation, and Margaret 
 decided in her own mind that Agnes was a prig and 
 purse-proud, and Agnes had concluded that her dear 
 cousin was stupid and arrogant. 
 
 Tom joined them presently and was overjoyed to see 
 his mother and his future bride so much interested in 
 each other that nothing could separate them. He said 
 as much. He drew himself up in an Andrewish attitude 
 by the fireplace under the snarling head of an otter which 
 had been killed in the back at the bottom of the garden. 
 He hum'd and ha'd and picked his words saying: "I 
 hope I don't intrude, but it is such a pleasure to me to see 
 you two together. I can almost imagine we were at home 
 in Murray Street, my mother sitting by the fire, and 
 you, Agnes, come to visit us, as I hope you will, one day." 
 "Agnes smiled : "I might," she said. "I would like to. 
 I often feel it is a shame that we should have left 
 Thrigsby which, after all, keeps us alive." '"That's what 
 I say," said Tom. "If you make money out of a place 
 you owe something to it. Look at Uncle Andrew. Never 
 budged from Clibran Hall, though the district is fast 
 going down-hill and there will soon be factories all round 
 his garden. Yes, Agnes, you must come back to the 
 workers. We are no longer feudal. We do not live by 
 service. We are free Britons. Every man for himself 
 is the law now." "Tom," said his mother, "don't make 
 a fool of yourself. That is not the law and nothing like 
 it. The Ten Commandments are the law." Tom went 
 white with rage. He had been pleased with himself. 
 Not knowing the irritation from which Margaret was 
 suffering, she seemed to him an unaccountable and inso- 
 lent old woman. "It is at any rate the law in business,"
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 201 
 
 he smiled. He looked very like the otter and Agnes 
 began to be afraid of him, and was surprised to find her- 
 self saying: "Of course, commerce has made a differ- 
 ence." "That," said Tom, "is what I have never been 
 able to make my mother understand." Margaret was 
 not going to lose her victory and she added as she rose 
 with a swish of her skirts : "It does not take you, Tom, 
 to teach me how many beans make five, and success in 
 business does not absolve a man from his duty to his 
 parents." Tom was very angry. He was cutting a poor 
 figure in front of Agnes, with whom he had thought his 
 mother would help him. Talk of saving the family! 
 She was as dense as Jamie and as incapable of seeing 
 which side of her bread was buttered. He remembered 
 with a cold shiver his mother's trick of talking of them 
 as though they were still children. What might she not 
 have told Agnes? How he was very proud of his long 
 aristocratic feet and kept his toe-nails very carefully, 
 perhaps! She was quite capable of it. "Aren't you 
 going to lie down before supper, mother? You must 
 be tired." "I am not tired, and I cannot sleep in a 
 strange bed." '"Would you like me to read to you?" 
 asked Agnes, relieved at the passing of the strain. "She 
 hates being read to," jerked Tom. "I think," said Mar- 
 garet, "I prefer my own company." And she sailed 
 away to Mrs. Donald's boudoir which had been placed 
 at her disposal. 
 
 Tom was left speechless. How to explain? How to re- 
 cover the lost ground? He did not know how much 
 ground he had lost. He swung his right leg and stroked 
 his chin, but not a word could he say. Agnes smiled, 
 smoothed out her skirts and waited. Tom had always 
 been so confident ; his present furious anxiety was a wel- 
 come change. At last to help him out she said: "She
 
 202 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 is such a character, such a fine character." Tom mut- 
 tered : "She is simply incomprehensible. I have been a 
 good son to her, and she behaved like that, almost rudely, 
 to you." "Perhaps," replied Agnes, "perhaps she is shy, 
 or perhaps she is feeling the loss of your brother." "She 
 is disappointed, I know. It is not the marriage any of 
 us would have chosen for him." "But Sophia is the 
 dearest child." "We Lawries," cried Tom, "are ambi- 
 tious. We aim always at the highest." '"Perhaps," said 
 Agnes, "your brother could see no higher." "Ah!" said 
 Tom gallantly, "but I do. I see myself I see myself 
 
 er " He caught Agnes' eye and became tongue-tied 
 
 again. "I see myself " "Yes?" asked she sweetly. 
 
 "That's enough," he snarled, his fury returning. "I 
 will put up with things from my mother that I will not 
 stand from you. I asked you this morning if you would 
 marry me. You said 'No.' I ask you now. Will you 
 marry me, and your answer shall be " 
 
 He was not allowed to finish for Mary entered the 
 room and sat by Agnes taking her hand in hers. She 
 looked up at her brother and said: "Go on, Tom."- 
 Agnes clutched Mary's hand tight and squeezed it. She 
 had nearly been frightened into giving Tom the answer 
 he desired. "Go on, Tom. Were you making a speech ?" 
 ""I was saying," said he, "that the Lawries are ambi- 
 tious." "They are always convinced that they are in 
 the right." "Oh ! dear," said Agnes, "so are the Greigs." 
 >"We generally are right," observed Tom, "but our 
 women-folk will never listen to us." "Perhaps," said 
 Mary, "they like to be wrong for a change." "You may 
 laugh," replied Tom. "You may regard me as a fool, 
 if you like, but I know what I am doing and I mean to 
 do it." 
 
 He was fascinated by the sight of Agnes' white hand
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 203 
 
 in Mary's. It looked as though they would never be 
 separated. He was going back in the morning. He might 
 not have another opportunity. He decided to lie. 
 "Mother was asking for you, Mary." '"Was she? I 
 expect she has found Maggie by now." "Maggie is out 
 dining with Mrs. Donald." "Jamie came in with me. 
 He has gone to look for her." "I was having a most 
 interesting conversation with Agnes." He saw Agnes 
 press Mary's hand and draw it towards her. Those 
 women! These abominable women! Was a man noth- 
 ing but a joke to them? Had they no feeling? No 
 sense of proportion? Could they not see that a man's 
 schemes for his future were of vital importance ? Little 
 plain Mary made Agnes look superb and beautiful. Tom 
 drew himself up to his full height and felt that he was 
 a man of whom she was worthy. He had, he believed, 
 a strong face, but these women seemed able to baffle 
 strength. Let them wait. They should see. Once mar- 
 ried to him, Agnes should feel his strength. Mary said : 
 "I shall not see Agnes again for years. You are never 
 so far away. Was he being so very interesting, Agnes?" 
 "I was not," said Tom. "I keep my brains for my 
 business. Are you staying to supper, Agnes?" "No. 
 I promised I would be at home." '"Then perhaps I may 
 walk with you." "If Mary will come too." "I have 
 walked so far," said Mary, "but I will ask Jamie." 
 "Jamie!" cried Tom. "I admire your brother so much," 
 murmured Agnes. And at that moment Jamie came in 
 to say that Margaret was asking for Tom. "She seems 
 to be unhappy about you. I don't know what you have 
 been doing." Tom took out his watch, put it back again, 
 twiddled the chain, pulled down his waistcoat, swung his 
 right leg, stroked his chin. "I was blunt with her," he 
 said at length. "And she's been blunt with me, so you'd
 
 204 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 better go and be kind to her," said Jamie, "or the Greigs 
 will think us the most quarrelsome family in the world." 
 He stole a shy glance at Agnes and she was very beau- 
 tiful to him. "I shall not be long," said Tom and with 
 absurd conscious dignity he strode from the room. Mary 
 pounced on her opportunity and bade Jamie take Agnes 
 home. She bundled them out of the house and Jamie 
 walked miserably by the side of the woman he loved 
 best in the world two paces away from her. He had a 
 stick in his hand and he kept changing it from one arm 
 to the other, carrying it across the small of his back, 
 with his arms crooked round it, or across his shoulder, 
 and every now and then he dropped it. At last, very 
 timidly, he managed to say: "My sister, Mary, likes 
 you very much." "I like Mary, too. I think she is a 
 dear." "She has more brains than the rest of us put 
 together." "My grandfather used to say: 'Character, 
 passionate character is what counts.' " "He must have 
 been a grand man." '"He was." "Hubert talks about 
 him." Within himself Jamie said: "I don't want to 
 talk about Hubert. I don't want to talk at all. O! 
 Agnes, Agnes, it is an agony to be with you." But Agnes 
 was happy with Hubert for a subject. He was so entirely 
 different from all she disliked in the Greigs. Jamie said 
 at length: "It must be grand to live among all this love- 
 liness." "But I feel sometimes," said Agnes, "that I 
 have not earned it, that I have not seen ugliness enough 
 to be able to love its beauty." "God forbid," said Jamie, 
 "that you should ever see an ugly thing or suffer any 
 hurt." "Sometimes," answered Agnes, "I long to suf- 
 fer. It is almost suffering in itself." She had begun to 
 feel suddenly happy with this handsome and romantic 
 cousin of hers. He was difficult and shy. If she could 
 only make him open out to her, he might a little satisfy
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 205 
 
 her longing. She felt almost pity for him, though she 
 had no reason to think he needed it. Mary had described 
 him as wonderful. They walked on through a long si- 
 lence which he broke at last with a laugh: "Cousin 
 Agnes," he said, "I take you from one comfortable 
 house to another. Would it surprise you if I told you 
 that from the bottom of my heart I hate comfortable 
 houses?" "No," she said, "not altogether. I would not 
 be surprised at anything you told me." "And yet you 
 must have everything of the best, and I would not have 
 you have less. What I hate about you I cannot hate in 
 you." Agnes was pained. She did not know why. She 
 said: "But you yourself will one day be rich and im- 
 portant." "I! Never. I have no thought in my head 
 that will fit into such houses as these, and indeed I know 
 of no place where my thoughts will fit." He was quite 
 cheerful about it, taking refuge from the fierce emotions 
 with which he was beset in intellectual probing, in a new 
 irony which he had lately discovered in his mind. "I 
 am glad you have told me so much," said she. "I hope 
 one day you will tell me more." "Why! I have told 
 you nothing. But I'd give my ears to see you in love." 
 Agnes' thoughts flew guiltily to Tom. He added : "Then 
 I could tell you something." "What?" "My whole 
 abominable soul." He felt that he had alarmed her. He 
 was astonished to find himself talking so to her. Never 
 had he been so free with anyone. He was so much in 
 love with her that he could not but be disinterested. He 
 could not assert any claim to her. If she could not feel 
 what he felt for her, so much the worse for him. Words 
 would spoil it, drag it down, make what he had to give 
 unworthy of the giving. Complications on complications 
 delightful to his irony. He was sorry for her, vastly 
 sorry for her, as he often was for his mother, because
 
 206 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 she was a woman and emotionally confined. But in his 
 heart there was an agony because he could not think of 
 her apart from his brother. His shyness was his master. 
 It was one thing to sound her for interest in himself ; an- 
 other to follow up that interest when discovered. Tom 
 and she ! The combination was so fantastic as to be only 
 too probable. Life had been made so easy and smooth 
 for her: she would always look for the easy and the 
 obvious. O well! There would be no subtility about 
 iTom, while she set himself winding through the most in- 
 tricate complications in the effort to arrive at the burn- 
 ing emotion she roused in him. He would never do it. 
 She would never help him. It was horrible how clearly 
 he saw all that. She would have her comfortable home, 
 the comfortable adorations with which she was sur- 
 rounded and the tenderness, the passion in her would 
 never be roused. He was, he saw, just interesting to 
 her. It was grimly comical to be walking through the 
 rough March evening with her, the splendid captive 
 woman, untouched, unmoved, child-like. These child- 
 ish English! Would life always be a pretty game to 
 them? Would they never suffer, never be crushed into 
 humility; would they always shut themselves in against 
 life and never go out upon adventure, never seek adven- 
 tures within themselves ? Agnes seemed to Jamie then to 
 be the true figure of that England which he had set out 
 to conquer, so beautiful, so unapproachable, so isolated. 
 And her isolation was not that of thought or feeling but 
 that of a sweet unfailing discretion. What she was not 
 seemed to him so much more moving than what she was. 
 With a man she would be more submissive than re- 
 sponsive. Jamie could appreciate the irony of this love 
 of his which had brought him none of love's blindness. 
 He said: "The Lawries won't be Englished yet awhile/'
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 207 
 
 And she answered : "That sounds like a warning. Is 
 it?" '"You can take it so, if you've a mind to. We've 
 fared hard, and everything we have in our lives must be 
 hard or we will have none of it." "Even love?" asked 
 Agnes timidly. '"It would be a rare woman would find 
 and keep the tenderness in a Lawrie," said he, and she 
 felt that she was getting out of her depth and jerked back 
 to her placid conventional mode of thinking. "You are 
 a strange man, Cousin Jamie," she said. "Not so 
 strange," said he, "if you should come to know me, but 
 that is none too easy, with me or any man." 
 
 Her father's house was nearer the lake, and the path 
 they had taken led by its shores, where the water lapped 
 upon the pebbles and sucked among the reeds. There 
 was a wild sky, with torn hurrying clouds and behind the 
 fells the light of a little new-risen moon. They stood 
 and gazed over the water: "You'd never know," he 
 said, "the feeling that English is a foreign language to* 
 you and that you have no true speech of your own." 
 "No-o," said Agnes, mystified. "Dod," he said, "what 
 a fool I am, and a haverer. I've been talking to you as 
 I might to wee Mary and what I've wished to say I 
 could not say." '"I wish you had tried," said Agnes 
 feeling dissatisfied with herself and anxious to do better. 
 "Then," said Jamie, "I wish you were a wild thing. I 
 wish you could be a kind of pixie dwelling in the lake and 
 that I could be a wizard to call you forth and make you 
 human." "Oh! yes," said Agnes, half comprehending 
 and trembling upon the threshold of his mood. "Love 
 is like that to me," he added, "wizardry." "Wizardry," 
 echoed Agnes and her eyes began to see the familiar 
 scene as they had never seen it before, as a thing com- 
 posed, designed, vibrant, calling to her and waking a 
 call in her heart. It fluttered her heart, and she was in
 
 208 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the most delicious pain. More and more beautiful to 
 her was the lake under the moving sky. Jamie as yet 
 had no share in it. He was a dark figure standing by 
 the lake, mysterious and wizard-like, almost intolerably 
 inhuman. The pain grew in poor Agnes. She was in- 
 articulate and helpless. She turned to him for pity, for 
 comfort, and terribly she was almost aware of him as 
 a man. She wanted to cry out to him but could make no 
 sound. She was afraid. Behind them footsteps sounded, 
 and another coarser fear came to her aid. "Tom!" she 
 cried, though she could not possibly have seen him in 
 the darkness under the trees. Jamie gave a noise that 
 was between a snarl and a chuckle, for he had truly been 
 under a spell and it was hateful to him to be brought 
 out of it and by Tom. Tom and Agnes! -"Where's 
 your wizardry now?" he said to himself. "Agnes!" 
 called Tom. "You will catch your death of cold." 
 "Yes, Tom," said she, shivering. "You must be mad, 
 Jamie, to keep her out on a night like this." Jamie made 
 no reply. Tom took Agnes by the arm and walked her 
 briskly away. "Tom's the boy," said Jamie, "to play 
 with diamonds as though they were marbles, and may 
 the Lord have mercy on me. O dear, O dear, if I could 
 but have the rages that were on me when I was a boy. 
 When life becomes a joke it is hardly bearable." 
 
 He pursued this line of thought with Mary in her room 
 that night and she promised to send him some books 
 which she hoped would help him, also translations of 
 some of Goethe's poems. "It is a shame," she said. "I 
 am having the life you ought to have had." "I think 
 not," said Jamie. "I'd be using my fists on your philoso- 
 phers before I'd been with them a week. Instead of that 
 I use my brains on dear, good, foolish living men and 
 that's nigh as stupid." "Oh ! Jamie," cried Mary, sitting
 
 AGNES OF THE LAKE 209 
 
 up in her bed and looking like a lively mischievous little 
 girl, "if only I could be your wife, I'd make something 
 of you." "What would you make of me, wee Mary?" 
 "The dearest, oddest, kindest man in all the world," 
 said she. "You're a funny little sparrow," he said, 
 stooping over her and kissing her, "but the English don't 
 want dear, kind men any more. Poor Shelley's dead and 
 they have forgotten Toby Shandy." "O! O! O!" cried 
 Mary, "I wouldn't waste you on the dirty English. I'd 
 have all Edinburgh running after you like the children 
 after the Pied Piper of Hamelin." "Then," replied 
 Jamie, "you don't know me, for, if they did, then I'd 
 turn and spit in their faces. I hate a crowd."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL/S ADVOCATE 
 
 r A HE return to Thrigsby was melancholy. John's 
 * absence made a difference in the household, for he 
 was the most loquacious member of the family and 
 the rest had to loosen their tongues whether they liked 
 it or not. The result was a nightly sparring between 
 Jamie and Tom. Their hostilities made Margaret acutely 
 unhappy and she decided to counter them with a change. 
 She had been very busy preparing John's house in a 
 suburb on the other side of Thrigsby, and she chose a 
 new house in the Harporley Road, which, while it was 
 twice as big as the Murray Street house, would only cost 
 half as much again in rent. She flattered Jamie's literary 
 propensities by telling him that he could have one of 
 the upstairs rooms for himself, and Tom's self-impor- 
 tance by according him the private use of the dining- 
 room out of meal-times. They moved and the brothers 
 avoided each other. Tibby was given a servant to help 
 her, and the existence of the family was to outward 
 appearances prosperous, peaceful and monotonous. At 
 half-past eight the front door opened and Tom would 
 appear in his sober suit of black and walk off down the 
 road: at a quarter to nine James would appear, almost 
 equally sober in garb with a coloured tie and waist- 
 coat and walk off up the road. On Saturday nights 
 John and his wife would come to supper. 
 
 210
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 211 
 
 There was a social advance and they were no longer 
 dependent on the church for their status. Perhaps be- 
 cause of this, perhaps because they had other interests, 
 they went to church less regularly. 
 
 An effort was made and Margaret was able to repu- 
 diate her pension and also to pay back all the money she 
 had from the Scottish fund for the widows of ministers. 
 Jamie was made to feel that Tom was responsible for 
 nine-tenths of this triumph of domestic economy and, 
 in so doing, had postponed almost indefinitely any inten- 
 tion he might have had in marrying. Jamie was so an- 
 noyed that he said: "Is it worth it?" "Worth it?" 
 cried Tom. "Worth it, to have our mother holding her 
 head up once more?" "She could hardly hold it higher," 
 retorted Jamie, "but since you have paid, you are entitled 
 to your satisfaction." "I should like to know," said 
 Tom, "what you do with your money." "Exactly what 
 I should like to know myself." "You're a fine banker." 
 "Perhaps it is being careful with other folk's money 
 makes me careless of my own." 
 
 As a matter of fact Jamie knew perfectly well what 
 became of his money. Miss Selina, Mrs. Bulloch, Henry 
 Acomb and Mr. Wilcox all had their share in it, and, had 
 it not been for him, Tibby would have gone without 
 clothes from one year's end to the other, for she still 
 had only enough in wages to keep herself in print frocks 
 for the house. 
 
 From that visit to the Greigs Jamie returned in a tor- 
 ment of which he could make nothing. He laughed at 
 himself over that strange idealisation of Agnes which 
 made his feeling for her so impersonal, but laughter 
 could not change it and he did not wish to change it. 
 It had flicked him out of life, given him a power in him- 
 self that was quite useless in any^ other walk of his exist-
 
 212 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 ence. There was simply nothing to be done with it. There 
 was no way of getting rid of it. "Oh! well," he said, 
 "that settles it." Yet he knew not what it was that was 
 "settled." He did, however, become aware that he was 
 altered, that he now regarded everything and everybody 
 in a cool, detached, humorous fashion. It was sometimes 
 extremely painful, but more often vastly amusing. He 
 was emotionally so clear and sure, and removed from 
 any temptation to waste emotion on things and people 
 that were unworthy of it. Tom had become almost a 
 figure of farce. He would get on: nothing would stop 
 him getting on ; but he would get nowhere. Jamie's own 
 occupation had become rather ludicrous to him. It was 
 practical, ingenious, interesting, serviceable, but it was 
 fatuous to pretend that it was anything more. A man 
 should work to live; men who lived in order to work 
 were tiresome, and must be, he thought, in the long run 
 mischievous. There was no doubt that Thrigsby worked, 
 but did Thrigsby live? What did it make of birth and 
 death, of the life of the mind, of the desire of the heart? 
 Was Thrigsby justified by the rapidly growing markets 
 for its cotton fabrics in all parts of the world? As 
 these questions were not very amusing but, rather, tor- 
 menting, he did not trouble about answering them, but, 
 to shelve them, turned more and more to things theatrical, 
 collecting his articles in The Critic into a book and pleas- 
 ing himself with the idea that he was becoming something 
 of an authorty. The leading actors who came down 
 from London wished to make his acquaintance and he 
 took this as tribute to his powers rather than to his posi- 
 tion. He had become, secretly, Selina's lover. She had 
 played with him, until, opportunity presenting itself, they 
 had embarked light-heartedly upon that enterprise which 
 promises more satisfaction than, as a rule, it gives. Se-
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 213 
 
 lina's previous experience had been so unhappy that she 
 was agreeably surprised, while Jamie with his new in- 
 tuition was able to measure the relationship exactly and 
 to expect from it no more than was forthcoming. They 
 were amazingly happy. Selina had no wish but it was 
 gratified; Jamie had no dark mood but she could tease 
 and tickle him out of it. What nonsense to call the 
 theatre an outpost of damnation ! At any rate, if damna- 
 tion be one half so pleasant, then let the prigs have 
 heaven. They deserve it. So thought and so said Jamie 
 when he was well embarked upon this adventure. It had 
 rid him of one of the most deep-seated notions of his 
 upbringing that a passion to be worthy of the name must 
 be hopeless, and because he had a great respect for Selina 
 he was unable to think of her as not respectable. It was 
 his delight on a Sunday night to drive Selina out in a 
 dog-cart, with Mrs. Bulloch up behind, to Hubert's farm 
 at Chapel, half-way up a craggy hill, in country that, 
 because it contained no Greigish mansions, seemed al- 
 most more remote than Westmoreland. This country 
 was even more beautiful because it had had no poets to 
 sing its praises and turn certain corners into shows. 
 Jamie liked to think that every man in it was his own 
 poet, but this idea would not let him off thinking that 
 every man in Thrigsby also was his own poet with the 
 song of his life swelling up beneath its freakish appear- 
 ances. And so happy was he with Selina that he did not 
 reject such thoughts, but told himself that the sound of a 
 man's heart was as absurdly out of place in Thrigsby as 
 Selina was in the country, as absurdly out of place and 
 as delicious. The country meant nothing to her. She 
 would not walk a yard. But she loved the luxury of 
 Hubert's house and its rich taste and comfort. "O! O! 
 O !" she cried, "the darling little bed ! I never knew there
 
 214 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 were such houses. O ! When I'm a great actress I shall 
 have ten houses like this. You shall live in one, Quint, 
 and Ma Bulloch shall live in another, and Henry in 
 another and when my Papa is dead I shall have the 
 nicest of all for my mother." "If the girls take to keep- 
 ing separate establishments I don't know what the world 
 will come to," said Mrs. Bulloch. "And if all this mag- 
 nificence is going to turn your head, my dear, I'll be no 
 chaperon." The old woman knew perfectly well what 
 was going on and was very pleased, but she pretended 
 to know nothing and had either of them betrayed the 
 matter in her presence she would have refused any more 
 to be a party to it. "Times," she said, "are not what 
 they were in my young day, and a girl cannot be too 
 careful. But when a horse has got a blind eye, you know 
 which side to go of it. There's all the difference be- 
 tween making merry and making free." "What shall 
 we do," asked Jamie, "when Selina goes to London ?"- 
 "When Selina goes to London," replied Mrs. Bulloch, 
 "I shall go too, if it is only to be her dresser. They 
 don't write parts for me nowadays since the theatre got 
 so finicking. Broad I may be in my speech and my meth- 
 ods but old women are old women and they can't be 
 treated as if they were innocents. My own children 
 are grown-up and ungrateful and Selina is like a daugh- 
 ter to me, couldn't be more so if I'd washed her precious 
 body and told her everything she ought to know." '"O ! 
 be quiet, Ma," said Selina, "Quint wants to read my part 
 to me." That was their fiction, that Jamie took her 
 down into the country to go over her new parts with 
 her, and Mrs. Bulloch acquiesced in it delightfully with 
 roguish compliments on the quietness with which they 
 learned the words. '"Nothing like whispering," she
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 215 
 
 would say, "till you've got it pat" And on the word 
 pat she would slap the back of her fat left hand. 
 
 They had a grand Christmas party to which Henry 
 Acomb was bidden and Hubert invited himself. Hubert 
 was delighted with the affaire Selina and its effect on his 
 young relation, who had grown in grace through it and 
 was beginning to appreciate the pleasure of being charm- 
 ing for its own sake. Hubert had been afraid that Jamie 
 would succumb to the besetting sin of the Keiths and the 
 Greigs earnestness. There had been signs of his tak- 
 ing the theatre much too seriously, and, when the first 
 enthusiasm had worn off, his writing had become rather 
 heavy, and Bigge, that astute journalist, had made com- 
 plaints which however had not been brought to Jamie's 
 ears. Hubert had heard of the adoration of Agnes and 
 had been alarmed, for he knew the appalling effect of 
 the Greig women upon their lovers. He admired and 
 loved Agnes himself, but used to say that she needed 
 five years of marriage with a perfect brute. It was 
 one of his crotchets that Englishwomen need licking into 
 shape by unhappiness. It was thus that he accounted 
 whimsically for his own romantic disaster. "While Eng- 
 lishwomen are what they are," he used to say, "English- 
 men will always prefer adultery to marriage." As he 
 was a gentleman of wide experience, he probably knew 
 what he was talking about. When therefore Jamie 
 came and asked if he might have the loan of his farm 
 and with many blushes confessed the use to which he 
 meant to put it, Hubert was delighted but disguised his 
 feelings. And later, when Jamie could no longer con- 
 tain the satisfaction with which he was bursting and 
 spent hours in talking about it, Hubert said : "For heav- 
 en's sake don't talk as though you had discovered a new 
 religion." "I almost feel as if I had," said Jamie. '
 
 216 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "Nonsense. She would be bored with you in a week if 
 you were taking her as seriously as all that. She likes 
 your gaiety because she never believed you could be gay 
 and she has no desire ever to be anything else." "Oh! 
 but she has her feelings too." "Of course she has, and 
 she feels quite rightly that they are there to keep her in 
 zest for life." "I cannot bear to have her sad for a mo- 
 ment." "She won't be if you let her feel that she makes 
 you forget everything else." 
 
 This was one of Jamie's difficulties. Selina made him 
 realise everything else the more acutely. She was by 
 this time completely absorbed by the theatre and all the 
 world outside was but her audience. She loved in terms 
 of the theatre, that is to say, discreetly and artistically as 
 though there were no to-morrow and the thing must be 
 done perfectly for to-day. Her acting was much im- 
 proved, for she went through all her parts graciously, 
 shedding her love upon her audience, and archly, as 
 though she were letting them into some delightful secret. 
 And she preserved that manner when she stepped off 
 the stage into her life with her lover. He knew per- 
 fectly that there was no secret which she could dis- 
 close to him : he had the whole available woman : but 
 it was pleasant to enter into the comedy with her. 
 "We are going to be wonderful, aren't we, Quint?" she 
 would say. '"We?" he would answer. "I have my 
 doubts of myself, but you'll be just as happy fluttering 
 over another field, a lovely field gay with cornflowers 
 and poppies." "But you must come too." "O! I'll 
 come and peep over the hedge at you." Selina clapped 
 her hands. "And write nice things about me?" "I 
 shall be a dull old gentleman then, thinking of making 
 my will and spiting my relations after my death."- -"I 
 sometimes wish you were in the profession. I'm sure
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 217 
 
 you could act, Quint." "I'm too old now and my 
 mother would die of grief. It would be worse than my 
 death to her." "As it was to my poor dear poker of a 
 father." Only the thought of her father could depress 
 Selina and it always made her painfully silent. 
 
 For the Christmas party Jamie drove down as usual 
 with Selina and Mrs. Bulloch, while Hubert followed 
 with Henry Acomb and Currie Bigge, in a waggonette 
 containing a turkey, two geese, a plum pudding, two 
 dozen mince-pies, a ham, a round of beef, two jars of 
 preserved ginger, a box of dried plums, four boxes of 
 sweetmeats, three packets of Thrigsby cakes, a pork 
 pie from Cheshire's in Market Street, a pot of pate de 
 foie gras, a can of caviare, a barrel of beer, a dozen of 
 Chateau Lafitte, a dozen of port, half-a-dozen bottles 
 of rum, every kind of "Christmas cheer" as he called 
 them, which he insisted should all be consumed in the 
 two days set apart for the feast. He insisted that all 
 his guests should dress up for dinner even if it were 
 only with a towel for a turban. Selina wore a suit of 
 Hubert's; Mrs. Bulloch appeared as a cook: Hubert 
 donned Turkish trousers; Currie Bigge was disguised as 
 a newspaper, while Jamie wore a wreath of bay leaves 
 and was announced as Petronius. Only Henry Acomb 
 refused to disguise himself. "For this night only," 
 he said, "I will be a member of the public." "Ha!" 
 cried Mrs. Bulloch, "you couldn't be that if you tried." 
 "He shall," said Hubert, "for in the evening we will 
 act a play to him." 
 
 Dinner was very merry. Between the beef and the 
 turkey Bigge began to sing and when he heard that the 
 turkey was to be followed by a goose he insisted on 
 making a speech in its honour. He demonstrated that 
 it had died for its country and had attained immortal
 
 218 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 life, for Mrs. Bulloch would eat of it and Quintus would 
 make a poem in her honour, and in that poem the goose 
 would go down to posterity. There was loud applause 
 and Hubert clattered with his knife on his plate and 
 called on Jamie to produce his poem before he carved 
 the goose. Jamie stood up and with a melancholy eye 
 fixed Mrs. Bulloch, who went off into shrieks of laugh- 
 ter. By the time she had finished he had his poem 
 ready : 
 
 "See how our goose becomes a swan, 
 Its folly with its life is gone. 
 It lived to die and dies to live, 
 With all the grace our B. can give, 
 On all she is and has and knows, 
 She sheds her grace where'er she goes. 
 Becoming B. the goose finds grace 
 To scatter it upon this place. 
 To B. and all here's good digestion, 
 The boon of boons beyond all question." 
 
 "Not so bad," said Hubert, "but you couldn't quite 
 bring in the swan." Selina was annoyed by this criti- 
 cism and said: "Ma Bulloch's the swan, ain't she, 
 Quint?" And Ma Bulloch said dreamily, sleepily, and 
 happily : '"I had a white bosom when I was young. "- 
 Hubert lay back in his chair and roared with laughter. 
 He was delighted with his party. "Many's the com- 
 pliment I've had," said Mrs. Bulloch in her ecstasy, "but 
 gentlemen were more free in my young days." "Would 
 you like a poem to your bosom, Mrs. Bulloch?" asked 
 Hubert. She beamed on him and replied : "It wouldn't 
 be the first, Mr. Greig." 
 
 Everybody had to make a speech before the plum
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 219 
 
 pudding came in. Hubert said: "Ladies and gentle- 
 men, we are living in a Great Age and on an occasion 
 like this we ought not to forget it. We are citizens of 
 an Empire built up not by the brutal methods of war, 
 but by the arts of peace. We have every reason to be 
 proud of ourselves." ("Hear! Hear!" cried Bigge.) 
 "Mr. Bigge says 'Hear! Hear!' I must inform Mr. 
 Bigge that I was speaking ironically. Proud of our- 
 selves ! Outside there is snow upon the ground and it is 
 bitter cold. We have escaped from a great rich city 
 where four-fifths of the people live and die in poverty, 
 where thousands of families have no Christmas dinner. 
 Pride! I say our pride is a sin while in all the land 
 there is one child who is allowed to go to bed empty 
 on this or any other day. Pride! We come from a 
 great rich city where not only is there no food for the 
 bodies of thousands of citizens, but there is no food 
 for the mind. The noble art which you represent is 
 allowed to languish. It is left to the enterprise of 
 poor discouraged men. Pride ! We make a fancy show 
 and a great noise to cover up the emptiness of our lives. 
 Therefore let us eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow 
 we return to a living death." He sat down in a be- 
 wildered silence. Trembling with emotion Henry 
 Acomb rose to his feet. "By my living soul, sir," he 
 said, "these are noble words. What kind of city is that 
 which has no living breath of art in it? You have 
 touched me, sir, in my deepest sufferings. My days 
 are spent in filth and dirt, sir, but I have my dreams. 
 I shall live to see the day when the poor player will 
 be honoured like any other artist, like any other worker. 
 I myself, sir, shall live to lay my art on the steps of 
 the throne, and let that damned German, the Prince 
 Consort, tread on it if he dare." 'Jamie began to feel
 
 220 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 uncomfortable. Poor Acomb was saying more than he 
 knew, laying bare his inmost and dearest thoughts. He 
 stole a glance at Hubert, who was enjoying it. He 
 ought not to enjoy it: not fair to Acomb, who was be- 
 coming lyrical: "O! they shall see the beauty that I 
 shall put upon the stage. No picture ever painted shall 
 approach the visions I shall create. Superb men and 
 noble women shall live in poems. The true world of 
 Shakespeare shall be seen to shame the mean and vulgar 
 world where thoughts and loves are excrement. Laugh- 
 ter and tears shall be given them and out of laughter 
 
 and tears will grow shall grow shall grow He 
 
 lost his thread, turned very white and sat down. Not 
 another word did he utter; nor could he be induced to 
 touch another morsel of food or another drop of liquor. 
 He seemed to be hardly conscious of the rest of the 
 company. "What a shame!" whispered Jamie to Hu- 
 bert, who replied: "Do him good. The poor wretch 
 has all that bottled up in him. It is amazing to me that 
 that he does not take to drink." "Well," said Mrs. 
 Bulloch, rising from the table, "what I say every Christ- 
 mas is, 'Better belly burst than good meat lost'." Cur- 
 rie Bigge waved his glass in the air and said : "And so 
 say all of us." He clapped Acomb on the back and 
 shouted, "Cheer up, old buffalo." Acomb sprang to his 
 feet, in the agony of being shaken out of his musing, 
 which had come very near to collapse. "I'll be re- 
 venged on the whole pack of you." "Malvolio! Mal- 
 volio!" cried Selina. "Isn't he Malvolio! Come, we 
 must act a play: you and me, Quint, and Ma Bulloch 
 and Currie. That leaves Henry and Hubert for audi- 
 ence." 
 
 The party adjourned to the parlour, where in the 
 wildest spirits they acted in burlesque an impromptu
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 221 
 
 drama in which Selina was the injured heroine, Jamie 
 her base betrayer, Mrs. Bulloch her sorrowing mother, 
 and Currie Bigge her virtuous brother who gave up 
 all to save her and restore her good name. Acomb 
 glared and glowered at them. Burlesque was beyond 
 him : their fun seemed to him to be a profanation of 
 the art which he identified with himself. Indeed their 
 performance was not without offence and Hubert relished 
 the almost immodest exposure of the real relationship 
 of Jamie and Selina, of Currie's knowledge and coarse 
 approval of it, and of Mrs. Bulloch's sentimental delight 
 in it. They could not keep within their fable and in 
 the scenes between Jamie and Selina it was clear to 
 Hubert that she was the seducer, and was suffering from 
 the timorous dissatisfaction which attends upon success 
 in that activity. Jamie, though guilty in fact, was inno- 
 cent in spirit. With him it had never been a matter of 
 calculation. Of the two he was in the strong position 
 and Selina plainly resented this. Only Mrs. Bulloch 
 thoroughly enjoyed the play. The rest were glad when 
 it came to an end. There were moments of tension 
 to obtain relief from which Hubert invited Acomb to 
 recite, and the actor, delighted to be at last the dominant 
 figure, held them spellbound with Eugene Aram. He 
 was tremendous. Horror and cold fascination as he 
 brooded over the dark secret worked in him, fastened 
 upon his brain, chilled it, brought him almost to mad- 
 ness from which, on the appearance of the runners, he 
 sank into a relieved apathy. "He is amazing," said 
 Jamie, "that's true drama: real creation; human experi- 
 ence contained and directed upon the imagination so 
 that it can be apprehended and understood. He must 
 have hated our trifling with it." But here again the 
 effect of the play-acting had not disappeared : Acomb
 
 222 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 also was forced into self -revelation. As he ended, he 
 shook off Aram, sloughed him, and turned to Selina. 
 He cared for no one else in the room. He was tor- 
 tured by his love for her and accepted the imprisonment 
 of her indifference even as Aram had yielded to the 
 runners. "Very nice, Henry. You must do that at 
 Ma's benefit," said Selina. "The little fool," thought 
 Hubert, "the little fool, to play about with Jamie. 
 There's a fire there would carry her higher than she 
 can dream." He turned to watch Jamie who was argu- 
 ing with Mrs. Bulloch. Had he seen that little drama 
 of Acomb's desperate surrender? If he had seen he 
 was covering up his feelings very well. And yet Hu- 
 bert was sure that he was acting. How strange these 
 play-house people were. There was never any knowing 
 when they were themselves : or were they most them- 
 selves when they were not themselves? Hubert went 
 off into a reverie amusing himself with the problem 
 which became rather like one of those trick conundrums 
 in which words are so placed as to be more baffling 
 the more they are considered. Acomb had now dropped 
 into the sofa by Selina's side, and she was giving her- 
 self the pleasure of exciting him. He became more 
 and more gloomy and depressed and sat with folded 
 arms and pursed lips glaring at Jamie with the blackest 
 hatred. Jamie turned, and feeling the intense emotion 
 in Acomb was baffled by it and smiled to disguise his 
 discomfort. Acomb rose to his feet, and it was as 
 though another play had begun. He moved towards 
 Jamie, who rose to his feet and drew himself up to his 
 full height. He was nearly a head taller than his 
 sudden adversary and in natural dignity had the advan- 
 tage, but the other had it in passion. It looked as 
 though there were going to be a contest. "This must
 
 HUBERT AS DEVIL'S ADVOCATE 223 
 
 stop," thought Hubert, "this must stop." But he could 
 not say a word. The two men faced each other : Jamie 
 smiling, Acomb very white. Mrs. Bulloch gave a little 
 giggle and said : "I do hope we shall all get to our 
 proper beds to-night. There's many a mix-up caused 
 by a good dinner." Her voice acted strangely on Acomb. 
 He shook and trembled and said in a queer strangled 
 voice: "I have the greatest respect for Quintus Flu- 
 men. Upon James Lawrie I wipe my boots." "Good 
 gracious!" cried Mrs. Bulloch, suddenly alive to the 
 situation, "they're going to fight," and she leaned for- 
 ward, caught Jamie by the coat-tails and pulled him 
 back into his chair. Currie Bigge gave a roar of laugh- 
 ter, and then at once all were silent, for the door had 
 opened and Tom stood there, very grim and disapprov- 
 ing. In his deep sardonic voice he said : "James !" 
 Jamie turned, startled. "Tom!" he cried. "What the 
 devil are you doing here?" "Your place is at home," 
 said Tom. He ignored the rest of the company and 
 stood deliberately with his back to Hubert. "Why?" 
 asked Jamie. "Uncle Andrew is dying, and my mother 
 needs you." "Andrew!" said Hubert, his voice express- 
 ing joy and relief. Tom turned on him and said : "You 
 have done harm enough in my family." "He was dead 
 thirty years ago," said Hubert. Turning to Jamie, he 
 added: "I think you must go, Jamie. When you get 
 home will you read Shelley's preface to Alastor; or, stay, 
 I will give you my copy to read on your way home." 
 To Jamie Selina, Mrs. Bulloch and Acomb had disap- 
 peared. He followed Tom out. Hubert hurried after 
 them and offered them the use of the waggonette. "I 
 walked here, through the snow," replied Tom. "We'll 
 walk back."
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 ANDREW'S WILL 
 
 'T^HROUGH the snow trudged the two tall brothers, 
 * Jamie now nearly as grim as Tom. After a long 
 silence Jamie said: "How did you know where to find 
 me?" "Thrigsby," answered Tom, "is full of tongues, 
 as I should have thought you would have realised by 
 now." "So they talk about me?" "As about everyone, 
 but other men are proud and do not give them facts to 
 go upon." "Has the talk reached mother?" asked 
 Jamie. "It has." "And Andrew?" "I never heard 
 him speak of it." "How long has he been ill?" "Last 
 night. It is the second stroke. The first was hushed up. 
 It was the night of the riot." "I see." "He has never 
 been the same man since his wife left him." "I've heard 
 that before," said Jamie. "He was never frankly the 
 man he was until she did." "He was a fine man." "He 
 was a damned hypocrite." "Speak well of the dying," 
 said Tom. "It would be better if we did not speak at 
 all." "I should have thought you would be moved to 
 regret by the shadow of death upon your debaucheries." 
 "Have you no vices yourself, Tom? But it depends on 
 what you call vice." "This is no time for sophistries. 
 Your mother's brother is dying. He is yielding up his 
 immortal soul to God." 
 
 Their conversation was kept up with difficulty for the 
 
 224
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 225 
 
 snow fell ever more heavily. It was inches deep upon the 
 ground and here and there had drifted before the wild 
 wind. Soon they trudged along in silence again for they 
 had taken the short cut across a high hill, the top of 
 which was moorland. Jamie felt strangely that his situa- 
 tion was not altered: that he was faced with hostility, 
 the same hostility, represented now not by Acomb but 
 by his brother. He discovered then that among men he 
 nearly always felt isolated. Their interests were not 
 his: their ways of living were strange, dark and unin- 
 telligible to him. With women he was happier, but that 
 might be only because theirs was the physical interest. 
 He was filled with a rage of disgust at himself, and ad- 
 mitted that he had betrayed his family, exposed them to 
 suspicion, perhaps to ridicule. For a moment, in the 
 snowstorm, responding spiritually to the physical im- 
 potence forced upon him by the cruel wind, he thought 
 that Tom was a better man than himself. Out of the 
 corner of his eye he watched him stubbornly, obstinately, 
 almost mechanically plodding on against the wind. "No 
 sense of impotence there," he thought, and then in the 
 flash of insight which he had learned from Hubert he 
 capped the thought : "Dod, no, of course not. Impotence 
 is a habit with him and he never suspects it in himself." 
 His comic sense returned then and he began to find the 
 wind exhilarating, to feel his chest expanding to it, his 
 limbs glowing in vigour, and from the bottom of his 
 heart he thanked God that he was not as other men are. 
 His was a gleeful and innocent Pharisaism and he had 
 humour enough to imagine that Tom was thinking, as 
 indeed he was: "Thank God I am not as my brother, 
 James." 
 
 It had been extremely painful to Tom to come down to 
 Hubert's farm and discover his brother in all his shame.
 
 226 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 It robbed him of the power to regard it as a hidden 
 wickedness, rather dreadfully delicious to contemplate. 
 His distress worked in him as he walked, and his moral 
 indignation grew into a personal animosity against James 
 for having deprived him of one of his pleasures. How- 
 ever, he avoided the danger of that condition by letting 
 it congeal into contempt, and, even as Jamie was rilled 
 with a lusty defiance of the storm, Tom despised him. 
 "I'm the head of this family," he thought. "From now 
 on I'm the head. Poor Jamie! How weak he is." 
 
 In the train Jamie took out Hubert's Shelley and turn- 
 ing to Alastor, read: "Among those who attempt to 
 exist without human sympathy, the pure and tender- 
 hearted perish through the intensity and passion of their 
 search after its communities, when the vacancy of their 
 spirit suddenly makes itself felt. All else, selfish, blind 
 and torpid, are those un foreseeing multitudes, who con- 
 stitute, together with their own, the lasting misery and 
 loneliness of the world. Those who love not their fellow- 
 beings live unfruitful lives and prepare for their old age 
 a miserable grave." Looking up from his book across 
 at Tom he said to himself : "Morally dead." Did the 
 cap fit Tom ? O ! It fitted Andrew ! It fitted Andrew. 
 It was fine to have Andrew fitted after all these years. 
 It settled him. He was no more to be hated, no more to 
 be feared; no more would his name rouse resentment. 
 He was not above humanity as he had pretended, but 
 rather below it. Morally dead ! He coulcl only share in 
 humanity its dear, tragic, lovable absurdity: and that 
 Jamie had begun passionately to appreciate, as much, to 
 his credit be it said, in himself as in others. There were 
 exceptions it is true. Tom was one of them. He was so 
 rigid: his world did, to all appearances, so perfectly fit 
 in with his belief in a God who was creator, law-giver
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 227 
 
 and judge, and had made the world awry for the pleasure 
 of showing later on how easily it could be straightened 
 out. And Tom was respectable : there was something 
 dignified and distinguished about him ; he might be only 
 a cotton goods merchant but he looked and behaved like 
 a diplomatist, one whose appearance might almost make 
 a nation feel most favoured. Why must he take every- 
 thing so seriously? Perhaps ambassadors always do. 
 And Tom certainly was an ambassador. He had been 
 sent to reclaim his brother back from the world of lost 
 souls, to that of souls intent on being saved. Jamie 
 laughed. "O Tom!" he said, "you look as black as the 
 sky outside. Why should my folly, if you must call it 
 so, worrit you? I'll pay for it, never fear." "No doubt 
 of that," replied Tom, "but it is a law of nature that the 
 innocent suffer with the guilty." "Tut! It is time 
 Nature was a little improved on." "I wish," said Tom, 
 almost affectionately, for the walk through the snow had 
 done him good and jogged his sluggish liver, "I wish you 
 would give up Hubert as a mark of respect for Uncle 
 Andrew. It would make mother happy." "But, my 
 dear Tom, I had no respect for him." "He was a great 
 power in Thrigsby in his day." "I have no respect for 
 Thrigsby." "What I mean," said Tom with his heavy 
 common-sense, "is that when Uncle Andrew is dead the 
 old talk is sure to be revived and it will look bad for you, 
 who are so well known, to be seen with Hubert." "O ! 
 Tom! Tom! Be fair! Be generous if you can. When 
 Andrew is dead and his wife is dead, the story belongs 
 to Hubert and is his alone." "Exactly," answered Tom, 
 "and he alone must suffer for it. If you have anything 
 to do with him, you will suffer too and mother will 
 suffer." Jamie was by now roused to argument : "Why 
 not?" he said. "Why not? If this world is a vale of
 
 228 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 suffering, why not? Why avoid the suffering you can 
 see for another that you wot not of?" "A manager of a 
 bank," said Tom solemnly, "cannot be too careful in the 
 choice of his friends." "As it happens," retorted Jamie, 
 "Hubert is one of our best clients and he has a better un- 
 derstanding of money as money than anyone on our 
 staff." Tom was apparently a little mollified. "It beats 
 me," he said, "it beats me how any man can be so success- 
 ful in business, as Hubert undoubtedly is and I don't 
 mind telling you that, out of pure spite, he thwarted 
 Andrew again and again it beats me to know how a man 
 can be so able and yet so indifferent to reputation. Think 
 what Hubert might have been if he had not shown himself 
 a blackguard, and allowed that woman to ruin his career. 
 He can never stand for Parliament or the Town Council, 
 and you know he had to resign from the Portico."- -"He 
 founded the Arts which is ten times as amusing." "A 
 drinking-shop," said Tom. "A drinking-shop. He is 
 notorious when he might have been famous. He is a 
 
 harlequin when he might have been " "Pantaloon!" 
 
 The stream of Tom's eloquence was stopped for he was 
 rather afraid of the gleam in his brother's eye, knowing 
 that it portended what he had once called "philosophic 
 wit." "At all events," said Tom, "I hear what I hear 
 and cannot help hearing, and after to-day's lamentable 
 experience I hope you will forgive me if I say what I 
 think to be for your good." "Morally dead!" thought 
 Jamie, and he saw at once that his brother could as well 
 apply the words to him, with another meaning. There 
 was a good deal to be said from Tom's point of view, 
 but Jamie would be hanged if he would have him saying 
 it. "It seems to me," said Tom, "almost indecent to be 
 going from that man's house to the house in which 
 Andrew is lying at the point of death." "Damn it,
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 229 
 
 man," cried Jamie, "when a man's dying isn't it indecent 
 of the rest of us to be alive?" "It is certainly chasten- 
 ing," answered Tom. "I forgot to say good-bye to my 
 friends," continued Jamie, not feeling at all chastened 
 and only sorry to have been guilty of such discourtesy. 
 
 There was a long silence which Tom broke by saying : 
 "He will receive his due at the great settlement." 
 "Who?" "Andrew." "I should say he had had it here 
 below." "He would have had but for Hubert. He never 
 recovered from that blow." "Neither has Hubert." 
 "Hubert? What had he to recover from?" "The 
 malicious tongues of Thrigsby and living with a woman 
 who had lived with Andrew." "Abominable ! He's cor- 
 rupted you, James. You can't touch pitch without being 
 defiled." "You can't touch a human being without be- 
 coming more human." "I will not argue with you." 
 "No. You had better not." 
 
 Another silence. Tom finally exploded: "You seem 
 to think you have only yourself to consider. Have my 
 mother's wishes, have her feelings no weight with you? 
 Are you as cold as the snow out there? I have to fetch 
 you from the society of your pimps and harlots " 
 
 Jamie slid his Shelley into his pocket and pursed his 
 lips and scanned Tom's face, behind which was a storm 
 of indignant fury. "Have a care, Tom," he said. "I 
 value my friends and I do not choose them for the 
 advantage they may bring me. If I were as drunken 
 as poor Burns and you took it upon yourself to upbraid 
 me I would strike the words from your lips. We're 
 brothers, can we not make room for each other ? I made 
 room for you in Andrew's business, at home, and in the 
 town I have never stood in your way." He would have 
 said more but shyness overcame him. He was not used 
 to exposing his thoughts and feelings to his brother.
 
 2 3 o THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "What I mean to say is," said Tom, equally shy, "that 
 mud thrown at you clings to us." Jamie replied with 
 a chuckle: "But you'd never let me share your halo. 
 And I'll be as loyal to my Hubert as you are to your 
 Andrew." "If you can," said Tom, "remember that 
 Andrew is dying." 
 
 They had reached Thrigsby. Here the snow was al- 
 ready dirty slush, bitterly cold to the feet. It had been 
 very cold in the train ; a most dismal ending to a festive 
 Christmas; and here was old Thrigsby at its foulest. 
 The streets were empty except for an occasional drunken 
 man. Jamie appreciated the contrast and, glaring at his 
 brother, wondered if he never found anything amusing. 
 Tom had cultivated an erect carriage, stiff as Peter Leslie 
 engrossed in churchwardenship. His body hardly moved 
 as his legs swung in their long stride, as regular as a 
 pendulum. Tick-tock! Tick-tock! The Cartesian man 
 in Thrigsby! Jamie felt that his own walk was a mere 
 shamble and to assert himself he felt that he must run, 
 rather as Mrs. Leslie used to break into a trot when she 
 was out walking with her husband. "It's the same old 
 Tommy," thought Jamie, "and there'll be no stopping 
 him. Those thin legs of his would walk through any- 
 thing that got in his way. He must have shin-bones like 
 razors." "I say, Tom," said he, "when you're mayor 
 I hope you'll have the streets cleaned." "I shall see to 
 it that the whole city is clean mentally, morally and 
 physically." "God save us," thought Jamie, "the man's 
 a scavenger." 
 
 When they reached home they found Tibby awaiting 
 them. Margaret had gone off with John. "How is 
 she?" asked Jamie. "In a terrible way. She must go, 
 and would not stay, though I told her he was dead."- 
 "Dead?" cried Tom. "As the sun went down," said
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 231 
 
 Tibby. "Did they send?" asked Tom. "No. They 
 didna send." "She knew it," said Jamie, his eyes meet- 
 ing Tibby's, and he felt also that she knew where he had 
 been. What did she think of him? He knew that too. 
 She was with him, on his side. 
 
 Tom went upstairs to get his Bible. Jamie told Tibby 
 about the party. "I often look through the lighted win- 
 dows," said Tibby. "They are like a play to me." 
 "Did she want us to go after her?" asked he. Tibby 
 gave her strange grim smile: "Aye," she said, "she'll 
 want you to have a sight of his corpse." "I've never seen 
 one," said Jamie in a whisper. "I saw my father," 
 answered Tibby, "and he was noble." "If I'd loved the 
 man, I would like it better," said Jamie. 
 
 No such scruple tormented Tom. He had his Bible 
 and umbrella and marched away, Jamie following in his 
 wake, rather like a dog that is not certain of being 
 wanted. As he caught him up Tom said : "But for you 
 I should not have been too late." Tick-tock went his 
 legs and Jamie shambled along by his side, reduced to 
 silence. They made the journey by the three omnibuses 
 and came to Clibran Hall. There the butler admitted 
 them and gave them cake and Madeira wine in the din- 
 ing-room exactly as he used to do when they called; 
 only he broke his habitual silence by saying: "He was 
 a good master." "Yes, yes," said Tom, sitting with his 
 Bible open on his knee, a glass of wine in his hand and 
 his mouth full of cake. 
 
 Margaret came in. Jamie went to her and kissed her 
 cheek. "He found you then?" she said. "Christmas 
 day. I thought you would have been at home." Jamie 
 thought of the actors' Christmas, and how different and 
 unfestal the feast had been in his own boyhood. "I 
 had promised my friends," he said. With his mouth full
 
 232 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Tom said : "I found him with Hubert." Margaret drew 
 away, and cast her eyes up to the ceiling. Old Andrew 
 lay in the room above. Jamie could find nothing to 
 say. "Did Tibby tell you? She knew. I did not be- 
 lieve her but she knew. He was my eldest brother. 
 Will you go up, one at a time ?" Jamie stole away. 
 
 Outside a door he came on an old dog, a fat, stupid, 
 cantankerous beast that Andrew had alternately overfed 
 and kicked. It gazed up at Jamie forlornly and tried 
 to follow him as he went in. He saw John, to his as- 
 tonishment, kneeling by the bedside. John rose. He was 
 genuinely moved. He muttered : "Something about the 
 old fellow. Intolerable loneliness, you know. May God 
 be good to his spirit." John stole out of the room, and 
 Jamie went over to the bed. He was shocked by the 
 dignity and power that had come into the old man's 
 face. It seemed incredible to him and false; a trick, 
 one last trick. He remembered Shelley's words. "No 
 love of his kind." Aloud, yet in a whisper, Jamie said : 
 "I hated you, my friend, and now there is neither love 
 nor hate, but only a bitter memory." John had been 
 taken in: dear, honest John, taken in by the trick of 
 death, the dignity of the body reasserted when its abuse 
 was at an end. Jamie was tortured with thoughts which 
 he could not articulate. He still believed in a next world, 
 and thought of Andrew already there beginning to scheme 
 and plot and plan for the exploitation of his fellow- 
 beings on that plane. Andrew's personality was so 
 vigorously and dominantly expressed in that room, 
 though death had transformed and disguised his body. 
 More and more torturing were his thoughts, until at last 
 tears came and Jamie stumbled away, out of the room, 
 and stood fondling the dog. "Poor dog!" he said.
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 233 
 
 "Good dog! Fond of him, were you? I wish I could 
 have been." 
 
 Tom came up, went in and was out again in a moment. 
 "The greatness of the man is there," he said, "what he 
 really was, not what his unhappy life had made him." 
 Jamie choked with emotion and disgust. Was Tom 
 fool or hypocrite? Why had he not John's honesty and 
 decent discretion? 
 
 They went down together to the cake and wine, when 
 it was agreed that John should see to the funeral ar- 
 rangements while Tom saw the lawyers and sent out the 
 invitations. Jamie, it appeared, was to be punished by 
 having nothing to do. Margaret would stay with John, 
 who lived quite near, until the funeral: Tom announced 
 his intention of remaining in the house; Jamie was to 
 go home and inform Tibby of their plans. He asked, 
 Was Tibby to come to the funeral? No, she was not. 
 What was she to Andrew or Andrew to her? Already 
 it was plain to see that Tom was feeling the burden of 
 his responsibilities. "It will be," he said, "on Monday." 
 -"It's over long for a corpse to lie," muttered Jamie. 
 "Tssh! Tssh!" clicked Tom. "His will be no ordinary 
 funeral and your journalist friends will be busy even 
 now with the obituaries." The sneer touched Jamie, 
 who said that his journalist friends were but little fleas 
 upon big fleas. 
 
 He was glad to escape from Clibran Hall and from 
 Tom so joyfully placing himself at the service of the 
 dead; to walk through the Thrigsby that Andrew had 
 helped to make; to feel that the live ass, himself, was 
 better than the dead lion, and that the ass's life was 
 more secure and easier for the lion's demise. He up- 
 braided himself for the selfishness of these thoughts and 
 tried to remember only the good in his successful and
 
 234 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 distinguished kinsman. Having the privilege of Hubert's 
 view, he found that difficult and decided that it was 
 better left to the journalists. He found himself sud- 
 denly thinking quite simply of Andrew as a man, born 
 in the usual way, living in the usual structure of flesh, 
 bone and blood; endowed and troubled with the usual 
 organs, and subject to the usual emotions. And life 
 seemed large and easy and very nearly comprehensible. 
 In justice he could not but think of himself in the same 
 way: this was more difficult, but he wrestled with it. 
 It was very unpleasant because it took the charm and 
 colour away from Selina, and left him with a universe 
 in which only Hubert and Mrs. Bulloch were solid 
 figures. On the other hand there was that other universe 
 wherein his mother and Andrew were paramount. This 
 was becoming too complicated and he struggled back to 
 the theology of his youth in which only the Lord held 
 sway and human beings were as miserable vermin. He 
 floundered from one to the other and it was with a feel- 
 ing of touching solid ground once more that, when he 
 reached the house in Harporley Road, the front door 
 was opened to him and he saw Tibby's gaunt face ap- 
 parently hanging in the darkness of the passage. She 
 at any rate was real. She carried a whole mysterious 
 world with her. You had but to look into her strange 
 eyes to feel that she had a boundless knowledge. Aye, 
 she was as positive a thing as dead Andrew lying there. 
 Jamie hung up his hat on the peg assigned to his use. 
 Tibby softly shut the door and followed him into the 
 dining-room. "It's true," said Jamie. "He's dead. 
 My mother is to stay with John, and Tom is to take 
 charge at the house." "She'll be feeling it, will Mar- 
 garet," said Tibby. "Feeling what?" asked Jamie. 
 "Her own brother. He was much older than she, but
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 235 
 
 she'll be feeling it, with John married and all." "My 
 feeling is," said Jamie, "that we couldn't be more foreign 
 to this place if it were Constantinople." "You'll want 
 your supper," muttered Tibby and she went out to come 
 back in a moment with ham, bread and coffee. He ate 
 and drank to please her but he was not hungry. He 
 asked her not to leave him, and she stood by the table 
 while he picked at his food and fidgeted in his chair. 
 "Tibby," he asked at length, "what do you think I am?" 
 "A true Lawrie," said she. "And the son of your 
 father." "And what will I be?" he asked as though 
 he were appealing to an oracle. "A grand man," said 
 she. "Then why," he asked expressively, "why am I 
 treated as though I were already half in disgrace?" 
 "You didn't stand by Andrew," said she, "and and 
 there's nothing that you do but we hear of it here. It's 
 been a grief to us that you, the best and cleverest of 
 the three, should be the least respected." "To you, Tib- 
 by?" "I'm no the one to be grieved." "Do you respect 
 me less?" "No." "He was respected; Andrew was 
 respected : you can buy respect." Jamie was in a great 
 rage: he felt the house full of tongues against him. 
 "Why do you listen?" he cried. "First it's one, then 
 it's another," replied Tibby. "The deafest ears could not 
 help but hear. The folk here think they are a model 
 to all the world and any wickedness there may be in the 
 town is not of their doing. They are all for work and 
 church-going and will countenance no other." "I do 
 my work and I go to church," said Jamie, "but I'm 
 damned if I'll make a song about it." "There's the 
 trouble," said Tibby, "and you may be sure they'll make 
 a song about the rest." 
 
 They talked far into the night and Jamie at last lighted 
 Tibby up to her room. "There are times," he said,
 
 236 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "when I feel as if I had no other friend in the world but 
 you. You alone seem not to laugh at me." "I wouldn't 
 be so sure of that," said she and she smiled. Jamie 
 laughed and caught her in his arms and kissed her. "I 
 shall laugh at you, if you do that," said she, and he felt 
 angry with himself. She was so bony, so ugly, that a 
 kiss with her was out of place. 
 
 There were two steps outside her door. She stood 
 above him with her candle in her hand, casting the 
 shadow of her great nose over the right side of her 
 face. "You're a strange man, Jamie," she said, "and 
 you will make a deal of trouble." "Let them talk," he 
 answered, "I've you for my friend and it does not matter 
 what kind of fool I make of myself. The man of inde- 
 pendent mind has the laugh of them all in the end. An- 
 drew's dead and I'll see him buried and I'll know the 
 truth of him against all the fools may say. He was a 
 hypocrite and a sentimentalist and a vile husband, and 
 the kind of fool who thinks that when he sees a fault 
 in a better man than himself he has him measured."- 
 Tibby astonished him by saying: "Don't be that kind 
 of fool yourself, Jamie, and don't do what you did 
 just now again." With that she slipped inside her door 
 and locked it. Jamie felt that he had a great deal more 
 to say. He tapped on the door but could get no answer. 
 A white figure appeared on the attic stairs above him, 
 calling in a frightened voice: "'Go's there?" It was 
 the little maid who assisted Tibby in the kitchen. "Go 
 to bed!" said Jamie. "Ooh! Mr. Lawrie, 'ow you did 
 frighten me." The white figure sped upstairs and Jamie 
 went to his room. The house was full of an ominous 
 dreariness for him: full of Andrew and the cold empti- 
 ness which his death had created in the lives of those
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 237 
 
 who dwelt in it. His death? Had not his life created 
 it to be shaped and defined by death? 
 
 In the morning there came a note from Selina to chide 
 him for going away from Hubert's without saying good- 
 bye to her. At once Jamie sat down and wrote to her as 
 he had never done before, giving rein to his feelings. 
 He poured out praises of her charms, her beauty, par- 
 ticularly the dimple in her shoulder-blade, her art, her 
 subtle skill in the difficult and admirable business of 
 living, and he declared that she was his only joy and 
 comfort. Having said that much, his letter became a 
 love letter and he was hardly responsible for its further 
 composition. He posted it and received next morning 
 another note in which Selina informed him coldly that 
 Henry Acomb had invited her to go with him to London 
 and that she had promised to go. Jamie rushed out of 
 the house as Tibby was bringing in his breakfast and 
 arrived at Selina's lodgings before she was up. Mrs. 
 Bulloch appeared in a pink flannel dressing-gown with 
 her hair in curl-papers torn out of the last number of 
 The Critic. Jamie could see his nom de plume Quintus 
 Flumen waving over her right eyebrow. "Tell Selina 
 I must see her," he cried. "I could have told you what 
 would happen," said Mrs. Bulloch, standing at the bottom 
 of the stairs and blinking at Jamie as he fidgeted in the 
 doorway of the sitting-room, "leaving her like that." 
 
 "But I wrote to explain. My brother ""Not all 
 
 the brothers in Christendom are any excuse when it's a 
 question of a girl's fancy." "I want to see Selina." 
 "She's asleep, poor lamb, and has been crying these three 
 days. We were at our wits' end what to do until Henry 
 thought of London." Jamie was too much excited to 
 take that hint as to what had happened. Just as he 
 had decided in his own mind that his passion for Selina
 
 238 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 was the one bright spot in an otherwise darkened exist- 
 ence she was spirited away from him. "I must and will 
 see her," he declared, "if I have to wait until nightfall." 
 "I'll get dressed," cried Mrs. Bulloch. As she spoke 
 there was a loud rat-tat on the door, which she opened 
 to admit Henry Acomb, pale of face and wilder of eye 
 than ever. "How is she?" he asked, and drew up sharp 
 on seeing Jamie. "You have the effrontery?" he 
 snapped, "you have broken my poor girl's heart and you 
 have the effrontery!" He folded his arms and glared. 
 Mrs. Bulloch shuffled upstairs taking great care not to 
 expose her legs. "Come inside," said Jamie, "and tell 
 me what has happened." "I will not come inside," said 
 Acomb. "I will not bandy words with you. You have 
 trampled on a young and innocent, not to say ardent, 
 affection and I have charged myself with the burden of 
 your sin, though how the devil we are to get to London 
 I don't know." "Nonsense," said Jamie, "there is some 
 absurd mistake. I have come to explain." Acomb was 
 wildly excited by the part he was playing. He had been 
 up all night. He had spent the day before with the 
 weeping Selina in his arms. He had convinced himself 
 and her that they had lighted one of the great passions 
 of the world and though, to Selina, Jamie had become 
 only a stepping-stone, to Acomb he was now an impedi- 
 ment and an offence. "I have done nothing," said Jamie, 
 "for which I am not prepared to make ample reparation." 
 Acomb spat in his face and roared : "Beast ! Beast ! 
 Take your filthy lusts hence. The theatre, degraded 
 though it is, shall not be the seraglio of you and such 
 as you." "Good God!" thought Jamie, utterly bewil- 
 dered, "what have they been doing? Is the whole world 
 tumbling down upon my head?" He had no thought
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 239 
 
 of retaliation, as he wiped his face. Acomb was mad : 
 there could be no contest. 
 
 From upstairs came Selina's clear voice calling: "Is 
 that you, Henry?" Acomb bounded up three stairs at 
 a time. 
 
 Mrs. Bulloch returned half dressed. She requested 
 Jamie to fasten her up behind and he did so. "Now," 
 he said, "will you tell me what I have done?" "Lor' 
 bless your simple heart," said Mrs. Bulloch. "It ain't 
 what you've done. It had to be and when you went away 
 it only needed Henry to promise London, and the trick 
 was done." "But they can't go to London without a 
 penny in the world." "Ho! Can't they? I'm going 
 too, contracted though I am for ten more weeks. This 
 is no place for the likes of them with their ambitions." 
 Jamie could not help seeing that the old woman was 
 coupling Selina and Acomb as easily as she had coupled 
 Selina and himself. His dignity was rather outraged, 
 though he had begun faintly to see the affair from her 
 point of view and to understand that as the intruder into 
 this strange world he was naturally ejected. But there 
 remained his letter to Selina, the passion of which had 
 flooded all his relations with her. That was not so lightly 
 to be surrendered. She was, he believed she was, his 
 only comfort. It had not struck him that Selina might 
 desire to be more than that. He was filled with a sort 
 of nausea and suffered terribly. "I can explain," he 
 said. "My brother came. Terrible news. My uncle was 
 dying. I can explain, everything. It is absurd for her 
 to go to London before her talent is formed." "Henry 
 Acomb," replied Mrs. Bulloch, "says she has genius." 
 "But / said she had something like genius, years ago," 
 cried Jamie. "Do go and ask her to see me. There's a 
 dear good old Ma ! Tell her I'm in an agony of distress."
 
 240 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "My poor young man," answered Mrs. Bulloch, "can't 
 you see that it isn't the least little bit of good? It's 'Go/ 
 with Selina. If you'd said 'Go' to her she'd have gone, 
 even if it were to the Brazils. But you've left it to a 
 better man than yourself to say 'Go,' and she's going." 
 Jamie gulped, and he began to perceive stome meaning 
 in his misfortunes. He was humiliated. "Critics," said 
 Mrs. Bulloch, "are all the same. They think because 
 they write about us they know all there is to know. 
 You never made a greater mistake in your life." Jamie 
 took up his hat. He said humbly: "Will you tell her 
 that if she wishes to see me I will come at any time?" 
 "You couldn't say fairer than that," replied Mrs. Bul- 
 loch, "and I always did think well of you." "Tell her," 
 said he, "I wish her every happiness. Is he is he 
 going to marry her?" "Marry, no. There's a Mrs. 
 Acomb in Wigan eating up half his earnings though she 
 keeps a shop and makes a good thing of it." That 
 finished it for Jamie. The affair became entirely fan- 
 tastic. He was left rueful but not altogether sorry for 
 his emotional failure. He began to see how easily with 
 more bluster and theatricality he could have carried the 
 day. Acomb was so excited that he could easily have 
 been outmatched, but a Selina who could be won on such 
 terms was not worth the winning. "I have made a fool 
 of myself," said Jamie, "but I do not repent of one 
 moment of it." He shook Mrs. Bulloch warmly by the 
 hand, wished her all the luck in the world and plenty of 
 fat parts and then walked over to see his brother John. 
 He found his mother and his brothers arguing as to 
 whether the Allison-Greigs, who had remained friendly 
 with Hubert, should be invited to the funeral. As Tom 
 had already invited them the matter seemed to be beyond 
 argument, and Sophia was saying so. Being pregnant
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 241 
 
 she had come to regard herself as precious, as John's 
 behaviour had led her to think she was. It was her 
 opportunity to assert herself and she had seized it. John's 
 exaggerated attentiveness showed that he disliked the 
 change in his household, but once Sophia had taken to 
 the enormous horsehair sofa (Tom's wedding present) 
 there was no getting her off it. She engaged another 
 servant to look after her and John gave up tobacco. 
 She presided. For the first time she had the pleasure of 
 receiving her mother-in-law instead of yielding to her 
 and giving up the house to her. She revelled in it and 
 it gave her an acute pleasure to cut into their argument 
 with the question: "Have you asked them, Tom?" 
 The Lawries had to abandon their argument and that was 
 the situation when Jamie came in upon them from his 
 own perplexities. 
 
 Sophia then directed conversation towards Andrew's 
 will. How much had he left? John thought a hundred 
 thousand, but Jamie, who was in a position to know more 
 about it, doubled that figure. "He won't have forgotten 
 you, mother," said Tom. "He was very pleased with 
 your spirit in paying off all your pension money." Mar- 
 garet, who had gone back to her deepest widow's weeds, 
 sighed with satisfaction. "I'm sure," she said, "there 
 are others who need it more than I do, who have not 
 such good sons." "If I were he," said Jamie, "I 
 should leave it all to Donald Greig who is the richest of 
 his kinsmen. It could make no difference to him and 
 would save a deal of recrimination." "I suppose you 
 think," growled Tom heavily, "you are left out of it." 
 "I'm sure I am," said John cheerfully, "though he may 
 have remembered Sophia. Not that I care very much 
 for I shall soon have shaken the dust of Thrigsby from 
 my feet." "Dust of Thrigsby?" cried Jamie. "What
 
 242 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 do you mean?" "As you are all here," replied John, 
 "I may as well tell you. Murdochs have asked me to 
 go out to Australia to open up a branch there." "Aus- 
 tralia!" said Margaret. "Why, they are all gaol-birds 
 out there!" "Only in Botany Bay. I'm to go to Vic- 
 toria," answered John. "As soon as Sophia is ready we 
 shall take ship and make the voyage." Jamie's eyes 
 shone with envy. "Round the Good Hope?" he asked. 
 "Round the Good Hope," said John and he produced 
 an atlas and laid it on Sophia's sofa where they all 
 pored over it and learned the exact whereabouts of Aus- 
 tralia. "I suppose," said Margaret, "my wishes are not 
 to be consulted." John was rather annoyed with her. 
 "If you wish to have me dead," he said, "then tell me 
 to stay. It is not only for the material advantage. 
 Thrigsby is killing me. I saw the doctor the other day 
 and he tells me I have only a lung and a half."- 
 "John !" cried Margaret. Sophia looked maliciously and 
 defiantly at her mother-in-law. Jamie met Tom's eyes. 
 They were hard, hostile and inquisitive and in them 
 Jamie read his own thought: "I'm all right, but what 
 about you?" "It was a great stroke of luck," said 
 John, "the firm making that move just when they did." 
 "Luck ! Yes," said Tom. "It almost looks like direct 
 interposition. They pay you more, of course." "Twice 
 as much. So that, you see, I am not particularly inter- 
 ested in the old man's will." "Of course," said Mar- 
 garet, "I am glad to see you all getting on so well, and, 
 Heaven knows, it is not my wish to stand in your way, 
 but you are all working for other men and not doing as 
 the Keiths did in their day." "That, my dear mother," 
 said Jamie, "is because we have to undo a good deal 
 of what the Keiths did in their day." "Nonsense, 
 Jamie," said Tom, "the Keiths laid down the business
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 243 
 
 on sound lines. It is a question of development; that is 
 all, development." "After all," said Sophia, "the Keiths 
 and the Greigs did not forget art. There is that to be 
 said for them." "They forgot Thrigsby," said John, 
 "and the result is that it is unfit for a Christian or a 
 delicate man, like your husband, to live in." "You'll 
 be saying next," cried, almost moaned Margaret, "that 
 you are sorry I ever brought you here." "I, at least," 
 said Tom, "thank God that I am what I am and would 
 not be otherwise." "Dod!" cried Jamie with a flicker 
 of passion. "If you'd only grant every man the right to 
 say that." "Some men," retorted Tom, "have not 
 earned the right to say it." Jamie was sitting on So- 
 phia's sofa. She patted his shoulder and said : "I think 
 you are very nice and if I had not married John I would 
 have rather had you than any man." Jamie resented her 
 words. They brought out into the open the secret atti- 
 tude of the others towards him. He turned to his 
 mother. "Will I tell Tibby you are to be home to-morrow 
 after the funeral?" "If I am well enough," replied 
 Margaret. 
 
 So Jamie went away and spent a night and a morning 
 of complete silence upon which Tibby did not once dare 
 to break. He hoped against hope that Selina would 
 write, but no word came. He envied John and thought 
 foolishly that he would go with him and try his luck in 
 Australia: but that would be to leave his mother to 
 Tom, and to abandon Tibby to them. She, he knew, he 
 felt certain was on his side, and though he knew not at 
 all for what cause he was fighting, he recognised that 
 because of Tibby's faith he must fight on. 
 
 His mind became a little clearer at the funeral, which 
 was a function so solemn and impressive as to almost 
 convince him that Tom was right. It was not that any-
 
 244 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 body mourned, or that there was any great grief. What 
 impressed and rather crushed Jamie was the unanimous 
 opinion that Andrew Keith was a very great man with 
 whom some of the light had gone out of the world. 
 The Mayor of Thrigsby was present, officially ; the new 
 Dean of Thrigsby for the town had recently become a 
 city, with cathedral, bishop, canons, etc. read the service 
 at the graveside: the Presbyterians were represented: 
 Sir John Clowes, the printer and proprietor of The 
 Thrigsby Post, was there for the Governors of the Gram- 
 mar School, and Professor Bosca for the Council of 
 Thrigsby's College; the Chamber of Commerce, the 
 Literary and Philosophical Society, the Boggart's Wood 
 Brotherhood, all had their deputies. The relatives 
 seemed comparatively unimportant though they drove 
 in the first carriages, heavily draped, with plumed horses, 
 out to the cemetery over against the Duke's Canal. No 
 royalty could have had a more magnificent hearse, upon 
 which were silver angels and black plumes, scrolls and 
 carved draperies. And enormous though the hearse was 
 it could not contain all the flowers, real and artificial, 
 which had been sent. They filled two carriages. Hun- 
 dreds of Andrew's work-people followed on foot, to 
 watch the triumph which their laborious days had helped 
 to create. 
 
 Margaret, Tom, John and Sophia were in the first car- 
 riage, Jamie finding himself ousted. He was hurt at 
 first until he found that in the second carriage he would 
 be with Donald Greig and Agnes and his Uncle Shiel. 
 It was a cold, clear day, but sunny. Agnes, like all the 
 women, had composed herself for the occasion. She 
 looked very beautiful in black with her hands in her lap 
 and in her hands her Prayer Book. She gave Jamie a 
 swift smile that set him reeling, but at once she was like
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 245 
 
 a marble figure and not a word would she say. Donald 
 had a black-edged handkerchief with which he fidgeted. 
 Only Uncle Shiel would not be silent. He had made his 
 first long railway journey and wanted to talk about it. 
 He was sitting opposite Jamie and leaned forward to 
 say: "You've grown into such fine people, I feel shy 
 among you." "You've no need to be that, Uncle Shiel." 
 "I knew Andrew was a grand man but I had no notion 
 he was so grand as this, with the Mayor in his chain 
 and all. I had never respect enough for the family to 
 satisfy him, but I must confess it gives me great satis- 
 faction to be here and see his glory, for I never believed 
 in it before." "Do you believe in it now?" asked Jamie. 
 "That's not a question to put to your uncle," replied 
 Shiel with his sly twinkle, though he kept his face very 
 solemn and looked out of the window as Donald was 
 doing, vacantly, as though his part in the ceremony had 
 robbed him of the power to receive impressions. Just 
 before they reached the cemetery he remarked: "In 
 Edinburgh streets you can see hills and the castle. Is 
 there nothing to be seen from Thrigsby streets ?" "Only 
 streets," replied Jamie, "and chimneys. When you get 
 used to the place they are quite enough." "I would miss 
 the birds," said Shiel, "and I feel dirty. I wonder would 
 the men on my farm follow me to my grave." Donald 
 turned and glared at Shiel, whose talking had irritated 
 him almost beyond endurance. Shiel said shyly: "Sor- 
 ry," and blew his nose. Donald said: "Tb look at us 
 people would think we were going to a wedding." "Not 
 with the corpse in front," answered Shiel. "For 
 shame !" cried Donald. "Your own brother ! Have you 
 no feeling?" "Not on the surface," retorted Shiel, who 
 hated the commercial Keiths and Greigs. Donald began 
 to swell at the neck until Agnes leaned forward and
 
 246 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 laid her hand on his. "I'll haud my peace," said Shiel. 
 "I've a long memory of Andrew, which is disquieting." 
 
 Jamie was very uneasy: Donald was obviously right; 
 but his own thoughts were with Uncle Shiel who was a 
 delight to him. Uncle Shiel stood for that in him which 
 on this day of wrath and mourning was struggling to 
 find expression, and made all the pomp and show of 
 grief seem incomplete. In his mind his Uncle Shiel was 
 ranged alongside Tibby. They had dignity, and they 
 and they alone could honour the dead man because he 
 was a man and dead, and not for his supposed virtues 
 and achievements. All the same even he was shocked 
 when, as they walked slowly towards the little chapel in 
 the middle of the cemetery, Uncle Shiel said: "I can 
 never go to a funeral without thinking that the under- 
 taker men will go home playing cards in the hearse. I 
 saw them doing that once and I have never forgotten it." 
 And as they all sat in the chapel Jamie found himself 
 wondering what they were all thinking. There was a 
 certain uniformity in the expression of the people; the 
 relatives had one kind of expression ; the official mourners 
 another; while the mill-hands who filled up the pews at 
 the back gaped rather awfully. Only Tom's face was 
 intelligent. His eyes were shining, his nostrils were dis- 
 tended, there was almost a smile on his lips. "He has 
 been waiting for this day," thought Jamie and he turned 
 sick at heart as he saw Tom's eyes, cold and confident, 
 turn on Agnes. 
 
 The Dean spoke a few words which developed into a 
 sermon, for this was no ordinary funeral, and at last 
 they were released from the chapel. It was wonderful 
 to see the uniform expressions dropped for a moment 
 as all rose, but, when the coffin was lifted, they were 
 resumed and the thin line of men and women all in black
 
 ANDREW'S WILL 247 
 
 followed to the graveside. Great heavy clouds came up 
 at the moment of the lowering. The light grew dim. 
 The crowd was hushed and the Amens came out fear- 
 fully. There were sighs and tears. The Dean shuffled 
 away his book into the pocket of his cassock, shook hands 
 with the Mayor and with Donald Greig and hurried 
 away. "At any rate," thought Jamie with a sudden 
 stab of malice, "that's the end of him." And he found 
 then that he had become one with the crowd : he shared 
 their interest: to know what had been the great man's 
 last wishes. With this curiosity to relieve them the rela- 
 tives and friends threw off their gloom and Donald Greig 
 talked amiably to Uncle Shiel and asked after the price 
 of oats. As they mounted into the carriage again Jamie 
 thought he saw Hubert outside the gates of the cemetery. 
 He could not be quite sure, but it was enough to rouse 
 antagonism again. It would be like Hubert to wish 
 to see the end of his enemy, to stand by his grave and 
 think those bizarre thoughts of his. That made Jamie 
 realise how strong Andrew had been : how strong all 
 these people were in their unanimity and how dangerous 
 was his instinct to oppose them. He wondered about 
 Agnes: Was she one of them? She began to talk to 
 him, and asked him when he was coming to stay with 
 them again. She had often thought of their talk by the 
 lake, which since then had meant so much more to her. 
 She had taken up painting again. Somehow Jamie had 
 made her impatient of her idleness. Jamie was just get- 
 ting over his shyness when Shiel, to escape from Don- 
 ald's foolish questions, cut in with: "And are your 
 paintings as pretty as yourself, Agnes?" "She writes 
 verses too," said Donald heavily. He squashed the hap- 
 piness in Jamie, Shiel and Agnes. 
 
 The drive home was swift. Cake and Madeira wine
 
 248 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 were partaken of in the drawing-room. A little table 
 was set for Mr. Wilkinson, the lawyer of all the Keiths 
 and all the Greigs and Allison-Greigs, and after three 
 polite little coughs and a rap on the table in the manner 
 of an auctioneer he began to read aloud in clear, mincing 
 tones: "This is the last will and testament of me, An- 
 drew Keith." The women sat absolutely impassive : the 
 men with their heads forward and their eyes downcast, 
 each as his name was mentioned giving an involuntary 
 jerk. There were charitable bequests : a Keith scholar- 
 ship was to be founded at the Grammar School to en- 
 courage the study of modern languages : a Keith exhibi- 
 tion was to be offered to the College of Corpus Christi, 
 Oxford, to be open only to scholars of Thrigsby Gram- 
 mar School : Thrigsby College was to have its Keith Pro- 
 fessor of Political Economy: no relative was omitted 
 except the Allison-Greigs who had openly continued to 
 know Hubert: Donald Greig who had met Hubert se- 
 cretly and often taken his advice in business matters 
 was left forty thousand pounds: John came in for two 
 thousand : Margaret for two thousand upon trust for her 
 life with remainder to the residuary legatees : Tom was 
 given five thousand pounds and a fifth share in the busi- 
 ness : Mary and Maggie had one thousand between them : 
 while Jamie was bequeathed Clibran Hall, the furniture 
 and effects contained therein, and not a penny.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A LETTER FROM BERLIN 
 
 MARY wrote to her beloved brother: "What you 
 say about money seems to me true and profound. 
 People do not care for it in itself, but they have spent 
 so much energy and often so far lowered themselves to 
 get it, that, when they have it, they must set some store 
 by and even be jealous of it. All the same, I am glad 
 of my five hundred pounds, for, when I have finished my 
 work here I shall be able to go to Italy. I should go, I 
 think, even if I had to walk, to follow in the footsteps 
 of Goethe, who is, indeed, as Carlyle said, the greatest 
 genius who has lived for three centuries. I am very 
 happy here in Germany, glad to be away from common- 
 sense to which, as I think I told you, in Edinburgh every- 
 thing was reduced. Have you ever heard of Kant ? He 
 was of Scots descent and laid a solid basis for modern 
 thought. You can have no idea how alive things are 
 here : not only doing but thinking. What enthusiasm 
 for ideas, and education! I think Berlin will be one 
 of the great cities of the world. They are already begin- 
 ning to challenge the supremacy of Paris, but Berlin 
 will never be Germany as Paris is France. The German 
 idea is bigger than that. I wish you could give me the 
 idea of Thrigsby. I do not understand England at all. 
 There is the keenest interest and curiosity here about the 
 
 249
 
 250 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 English, the highest admiration too, but I cannot make 
 them understand that Scotland is not and never will be 
 England. So what is Thrigsby's idea? Democracy and 
 liberty I know, but liberty to do what? To be rich? 
 That does not seem enough. Who are the English 
 thinkers? James Mill? You cannot set him up against 
 Fichte. And why will not the English read Goethe ? Are 
 they afraid of being Europeans? Had they been better 
 Europeans there would not have been this idiotic war. 
 I see that John Bright is against it but only for insular 
 reasons. Non-intervention. Somehow, here on the 
 Continent, war is easier to understand. And Germany 
 could never go to war as lightly as we have done in the 
 Crimea. Perhaps it is because there is no likelihood of 
 its being fought out on our own territory and we have 
 not imagination enough to feel the full horror of the 
 death in battle and by sickness and through incompe- 
 tence and mistakes of thousands of fine young men. It 
 is all so far away from London, where, I suppose, the 
 daily life goes on much the same. One feels here that 
 life is more organised, and it is therefore more sensitive. 
 I do believe Berlin feels this tragic folly more than Lon- 
 don. It is a shock to the Germans. They had believed 
 England to have more sense. They regard France and 
 the French Government with suspicion. I do wish I 
 knew what Thrigsby was thinking about it. For, surely, 
 it must be bad for trade, though I am reluctant to believe 
 that opinion in the North of England is susceptible to 
 nothing but the fluctuations of trade. But you are not a 
 good correspondent as regards matters in general. Your 
 descriptions of the family are inimitable. I feel that I 
 was myself at Andrew's funeral, with Uncle Shiel and 
 Donald and Tom and John and his Sophia, whom, as 
 you know, I do not like. I get a very good idea too
 
 A LETTER FROM BERLIN 251 
 
 of your life in the bank, but also an uncomfortable feel- 
 ing that it is swallowing you up, and to a man of your 
 imagination that ought not to happen. Banking, I have 
 heard it said here by revolutionary young men, should not 
 be in private hands. Rothschild came from Frankfort 
 and to all good Germans he is still a joke. I don't like 
 to think of you being wasted on a joke. Indeed, my 
 dear, your letters make me anxious because I feel in 
 them a separate existence apart from that which you are 
 ostensibly leading. This must mean that you are un- 
 happy; not that I think individual unhappiness matters 
 much; but it does mean that you are in revolt against 
 your conditions, you in whom I know to live so many 
 fine and generous qualities, so much suppleness of mind 
 and genuine humour, qualities that in any healthy en- 
 vironment would carry a man far. They would here, 
 I am sure. They might carry him into exile as they did 
 poor Heine, but he would only gain in influence by that ; 
 and I am sure that influence is much more worth having 
 than power. That is why I prefer your Cobden to your 
 Bright, though when you compare either with Lassalle, 
 they are stiff and rather mummified. They have not the 
 magic which makes a man's work gain in vitality after 
 his death. Hardheartedness is all very well in its way, 
 but it is not the way of idealism and cannot lead to the 
 Europe of Goethe's thought. I have begun to read Dante 
 to compare him with Goethe, and I must say I think he 
 was the greater poet, and stripped of his medievalism and 
 the Church, which we will not have, his vision does very 
 well even now. I'm not expecting you to be a Goethe or 
 a Dante, though I do think it is time England repaid the 
 world for her immense privileges: but I do want you 
 to have something more than your excellent comic vision 
 of Thrigsby. It is bad enough to think that the best
 
 252 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 England can produce in literature is Charles Dickens' 
 comic vision of London. It is all so self-centred, and 
 came from bearing things which are unbearable. You 
 will turn into a spinster, and Maggie and I are quite 
 enough in one family. I suppose poor Maggie will never 
 marry. She would never take off her wig to any man : 
 and I, well I am come down now to my modest childish 
 ambition to have my house in the Cumberland Hills, 
 what we used to call our Blue Mountains, though we 
 did not know then that they were inhabited by Words- 
 worth and Coleridge and the Arnolds not that I think 
 much of the Arnolds. I had the bound volume of The 
 Critic you sent me the other day. Dramatic criticism! 
 Pooh! What is there to criticise in vain silly actors? 
 You should see what they make of Shakespeare here. 
 You should read Lessing. The Germans do understand 
 how to make fun of themselves, but since Cruikshank 
 and Rowlandson did for Napoleon I don't believe the 
 English have made fun of anything. So you see I do 
 appreciate your comic vision though I am disappointed 
 not to have a little more vision and a little less comic. 
 I am very hard at work translating and writing and keep- 
 ing H. B. in touch with all the exciting philosophical 
 events here. I eat a great deal for one so small. Saus- 
 age is a very good stand-by. But I find time to think of 
 you much and fondly, groping my way to your inner- 
 most life, from which I do obstinately hope and believe 
 something good will come, something really worth while. 
 It was wonderfully malicious of old Andrew to leave 
 you Clibran Hall, especially if, as you say, the district is 
 now quite impossible as a residential quarter. But how 
 fast Thrigsby must be growing, for I remember it as a 
 little girl, all fields round these few mansions. And now 
 mills and chimneys! Ah: well. Twenty years seem a
 
 A LETTER FROM BERLIN 253 
 
 little time when one is fairly launched as we are. They 
 fly so swiftly that one does not notice all the immense 
 changes that take place. Berlin is growing too but 
 they make it grow more or less as they wish it to. It is 
 nowhere so hopelessly muddled and sordid as Thrigsby, 
 but then the Germans are not hard-headed and do not 
 believe in any sort of rough and ready success. They 
 will take their time and do what they set out to do thor- 
 oughly. They are organised, as I said, and sensitive 
 and can feel disaster coming and make every preparation 
 for it. That is their virtue both domestically and politic- 
 ally. They have much to learn from us in manners, but 
 in living which is more important, it is we who have 
 everything to learn. All the same, I do not like German 
 women. They are emotionally greedy and they make 
 marriage a torment. I am longing to get you married. 
 You must not leave it to John to provide the next genera- 
 tion of the Lawries. Tom's children will be such that 
 I dread being their Aunt. I am even tempted to come 
 over and make a match for you: someone will have 
 to do it, for, with your shyness, you will never do it for 
 yourself not satisfactorily. She must be rich and 
 beautiful and she must realise that men are sensitive 
 and not merely conceited, but she must be strong and be 
 prepared to live on her own resources, and not expect 
 you to do all the thinking and all the emotion and all 
 the passion. And she must not be too capable. A woman 
 so easily creates her own little world of material things, 
 which, being a kind of garment for herself, no one else 
 can possibly share. Above all she must neither admire 
 nor expect to be admired. True love and admiration are 
 not housemates. I don't think any one ever understood 
 that except Shakespeare, but then he did understand 
 what men and women require of each other. Am I
 
 254 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 right? Can I worry you, torment you, exasperate you 
 into giving me a frank, full and honest answer? Go 
 on with your comic history of the progress of Thomas 
 Lawrie. I love it. But more I should love the true 
 and passionate history of James Lawrie. I would like 
 to say to my German friends: This is the kind of man 
 we are breeding in the British Isles. You call it chaos 
 but it is the confusion of creation. The French may 
 theorise, you may organise, but the English act. I may 
 be Goethe mad, but I love you much more than Goethe." 
 "I wonder," said Margaret, as Jamie folded up the 
 letter, "what Mary can find to say to you that she does 
 not say to the rest of us." "Havers !" said Jamie. "She's 
 a grand haverer, is Mary. She's read so many books."
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE. 
 
 AS Jamie said in a letter to Mary : "Tom has crystal- 
 lised." When he wrote / he knew perfectly what 
 he meant; thousands of pounds in the bank, a room of 
 his own at Keith Bros. & Stevenson, Gladstonian opin- 
 ions, membership of the Portico, the best tailor in 
 Thrigsby, a wide circle of wealthy acquaintances, half-a- 
 dozen houses where he could dine well, and excellent 
 prospects, indeed, an assured future unmenaced by un- 
 reasonable ambitions. He was a delight to his mother 
 and she aided and abetted him in his tacit assumption 
 of the headship of the family. He became dictatorial 
 and had the food and the furniture of the house exactly 
 to his liking. He condescended to offer Jamie his advice 
 in the matter of his inheritance of Clibran Hall. "I 
 should sell," he said. "I'm getting quite fond of my 
 white elephant," replied Jamie. "But it will cost you 
 an unwarrantable amount in repairs. You cannot pos- 
 sibly hope to find a good tenant. As a dwelling-house 
 your only chance would be to turn it into a brothel." 
 Tom wore his rather foolish sardonic smile. "I've no 
 desire to oblige you and your friends," replied Jamie. 
 "I was joking," said Tom. "You do it with an ill grace," 
 said Jamie. "Seriously," continued Tom standing in his 
 favourite attitude in front of the fireplace, "I should sell 
 
 255
 
 256 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the furniture and fittings, and hang on to the old place 
 for a little. Its time is not yet come. In a year or so it 
 will be wanted for a factory site and then you should be 
 able to hold out for your own terms. I should not sell 
 at once, if I were you. There's the farm to go between 
 Clibran and Jewsbury's. When that has gone you will 
 come into your own." "I'll do what I think fit," replied 
 Jamie, and he did nothing. One or two of the pictures 
 he presented to the Municipal Art Gallery a Landseer 
 and a Mulready. The books he brought home to his 
 study: Andrew must have bought the books proper to 
 a gentleman's library by the yard, for there was a won- 
 derfully complete collection, the classics, Heine, Buckle, 
 Macaulay, Berkeley, Locke, Bishop Butler, Pope, Swift, 
 Richardson, Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, Scott, Keats, 
 Byron, Martin Tupper, Tennyson, and, greatest prize of 
 all to Jamie, a noble edition of the Faerie Queene. He 
 would not have taken all Tom's thousands for that. 
 Most astonishing of all was a fine collection of engrav- 
 ings, prints and etchings, among them a Diirer and a 
 Rembrandt which Jamie had framed and sent as a pres- 
 ent to Agnes. As he sent no word with them she thought 
 they were from Tom and wrote to thank him for them, 
 and Tom no more thought of correcting the mistake 
 than he would have corrected a muddle in business which 
 turned to his advantage. 
 
 Jamie gave his mother and Mrs. Leslie and many other 
 of his friends their choice among the furniture and saw 
 Clibran Hall gradually denuded. And nothing happened. 
 Nobody wanted the huge ugly house and he used it as a 
 place of escape when his thoughts began to tease and 
 shake him, for the foolish end to the Selina affair had 
 not let him off lightly. He missed her colour and through 
 her he too had to a certain extent crystallised. The ab-
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 257 
 
 surd longings, the heady idealism of youth were no 
 longer enough for him. Something of his nature was 
 gone with Selina, and was hers for ever, though she 
 might not need it or even be aware of it. Whithersoever 
 his affections moved it must be towards romance, they 
 must be creative and take life and love as their raw 
 material and never merely be absorbed by them. He was 
 filled with vague and immense desires, which made his 
 sister Mary's easy summary of his needs and her exact- 
 ing requirements of him maddeningly cool and cold. But 
 through the eyes of no one else had he any opportunity 
 of seeing himself : admiration he had in plenty from 
 both women and men; through Hubert he was always 
 able to see himself in caricature; but Hubert as much 
 as Mary was blind to the strange and incomprehensible 
 eager element in himself by and for which, as he was 
 slowly driven to see, he lived. He was nearest to com- 
 prehension of it when he was alone in Clibran Hall. 
 There he could realise the mocking discrepancy between 
 the old dreams he had shared with his mother and the 
 realisation that was slowly taking place. England had 
 been and still was to be a place dominated by the Keiths. 
 It was to be his lot in life to share and continue that 
 domination. He was to end his days in a house like 
 Clibran Hall, to be buried as Andrew had been, to have, 
 as Andrew soon would have, his statue in the Town Hall 
 Square. He would sit in Andrew's study and enjoy 
 the humour of it. He had Clibran Hall, by Andrew's 
 last sardonic stroke, but empty, crowded in on all sides 
 by the unpleasing manifestations of industrialism, the 
 ugliness and squalor upon which it built its success. In 
 the garden grew foul docks and smoky nettles with here 
 and there an obstinate garden plant, a rose or a holly- 
 hock, that would not be denied. How swiftly wild
 
 258 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 nature asserted itself: weeds everywhere, and the neat 
 gravel overgrown with grass. And the wild nature in 
 man? Would not that too take its revenge? Jamie 
 had been reading Erasmus Darwin and the Lord of his 
 young religion had departed out of his mind for ever. 
 He had been helped out by public events. No God 
 could both bless England and allow the Crimean War. 
 Not that Jamie was unpatriotic : he had been as excited 
 as any of them, as uncritically ready to assume vile bar- 
 barism in the Russians because they wished to take 
 Constantinople from the gentle Turk in order the more 
 dreadfully to threaten India. Our James, like other 
 good and true men, was not consistent either mentally 
 or emotionally. So far as he took any interest in politics 
 he was a Disraelian ; Tom was a Gladstonian and indeed 
 there was something repulsive about English Liberalism. 
 It was so infernally complacent. Better a little vulgar 
 swagger than its super-Christian humility. So Jamie 
 joined the vulgar swagger and partly out of good nature, 
 partly out of genuine sensibility to the new excitement 
 of Imperialism, joined the Volunteers and wore a uni- 
 form on Saturdays. He trimmed his beard to be like 
 Lord Raglan's and began vaguely to feel that he was 
 making a fool of himself. This was quite pleasant: 
 hundreds of others were doing it too; and they were 
 doing it publicly. England, after all, was an Empire and 
 not what it seemed to be, a collection of ugly cities set 
 in a lovely but impoverished country. 
 
 It was generally on Saturdays after his drill or march 
 through the streets that Jamie would take refuge at 
 Clibran Hall, in his tunic and shako, generally with the 
 jeers of little boys ringing in his ears. He could not go 
 home from the jeering little boys to Tom's sarcasms. 
 In the Volunteer movement Tom had found a subject
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 259 
 
 entirely to his liking. "Playing at soldiers. Either be 
 a soldier and go and die of scrofula outside Sevastopol, 
 or leave it alone. Defend the country ? Whom against ? 
 Napoleon couldn't attack it, and, if he couldn't, who 
 could? Napoleon was quite right, England was a shop. 
 Europe's shop. Europe would never be fool enough to 
 wreck it. As for this nonsense about Empire, he had no 
 patience with it. Directly people called themselves an 
 Empire they began to decline and fall. There was no 
 help for it. When a nation called itself an Empire it 
 was a sign that it had reached its zenith : it had lost its 
 sense of proportion and would sooner or later make itself 
 such a nuisance to the world that the world would not 
 stand it any longer." "At all events," said Margaret, 
 "I think Jamie looks very handsome in his uniform." 
 "It makes me sick," said Tom, "to see him on a Saturday 
 afternoon slinking out of the house dressed up like a 
 play-actor." "It has made a great difference in your 
 health, hasn't it, Jamie?" asked Margaret. 
 
 It was to avoid such scenes as this that he escaped. 
 At first he had gone to John's where Sophia applauded 
 and admired him, and John would be much more gentle 
 and sensible. He had become very kind, had John, since 
 his lungs had begun to disappear. He would say: "I 
 don't know where it's going to end. We thrashed Boney 
 without making any to-do about it. It was a job that 
 had to be done. We took our licking in America in 
 very good part; but I don't like this new spirit at all. 
 It isn't manly. It isn't English. It is dangerous, and 
 it is going to be very expensive. We can do the other 
 nations very nicely over the counter. We don't need to 
 threaten them or shake the sword at them. We've got 
 to get rich so as to have time for culture, and as little 
 as possible should we get rich at other people's expense.
 
 260 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 I'm a Free Trade man, as you know, and I believe that 
 if we give the others a good lead they'll follow. I'm 
 not in Palmerston's confidence but this Crimean business 
 looks to me like turning our backs on our own tradition. 
 Palmerston's a fool and a high and dry old Tory and 
 doesn't see that the English tradition has passed out of 
 the hands of his class, into the hands of men with better 
 brains, more experience and a closer contact with life 
 as it is lived by the many, who ultimately, whether you 
 like them or not and I don't are the people who mat- 
 ter. He has landed us in this mess to assert his class 
 and I shouldn't be surprised if he hasn't smashed old 
 England as the leader of the world, though she'll go on 
 getting richer and richer. I know, if I were a Dutchman 
 or a Swede or an Austrian, I should find it hard to believe 
 in old England ever again. We've become just like the 
 rest of them, you see." "Still," said Jamie, "it may be 
 a mistake, but I don't like this settling down to the shop, 
 and we are Europeans and if Europe has to go through 
 the fire we have to go through it too."- -"But we've 
 done it," said John. "We went through our fire in the 
 Civil War, and we settled down to the rights of man 
 long before the Frenchies began to screech about it. 
 When the divine right of kings went out the divine rights 
 of men came in. That is how I look at it and the rest 
 of the world will slowly come into line. What is Amer- 
 ica but the creation of the few stubborn Englishmen who 
 were in too great a hurry to see the new idea take shape 
 in the old country?'* 
 
 There were many such talks, and Jamie and John 
 became good friends in the few months before the lat- 
 ter's departure with Sophia and their first-born, Angus, 
 for Australia. When they were gone Jamie had no other 
 refuge than his own solitude. He would return with
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 261 
 
 pipe and tobacco to Clibran Hall, take off his tunic and 
 shako if it were Saturday and lay them on a chair 
 on the other side of the fireplace and look at them. The 
 Queen's Uniform : and he would remember a saying 
 of Cobbett's to the effect that the Queen had every- 
 thing: her Majesty's Judges, her Majesty's Army, her 
 Majesty's Navy, her Majesty's Government, her Majes- 
 ty's Prisons, while, when it came to Debt, that was 
 National. Then he would try to account for the pleasure 
 he had in wearing her Majesty's uniform, though he was 
 sure he would never desire to kill even the vilest of her 
 Majesty's enemies. First of all there was the pleasure 
 of being one of many; it was good to walk in a row of 
 men and feel at the first glance that he had something in 
 common with them, even if it were only a matter of 
 clothes. In ordinary life, there were so many with whom 
 he had nothing in common. How little he knew even of 
 his mother and his brothers; only with Mary was there 
 any real sharing of mind or feeling. Did the others 
 mind? Were they content with their narrow piety and 
 close pursuit of their profitable duty ? Was there nothing 
 outside their Puritanism but frivolity? Escaping An- 
 drew, was there no alternative but Hubert? He was 
 dissatisfied with Hubert who had seemed to despise him 
 for suffering so much over the loss of Selina, who had 
 gone, as she said, with Henry Acomb and Mrs. Bulloch 
 and was swallowed up in the remote brilliance of Lon- 
 don. There were times when Jamie felt so desolate 
 and dissatisfied with the respectable monotony of his life 
 that he often thought almost seriously of going for a 
 soldier indeed, and when there began to come the flood 
 of war verses his martial spirit was stirred and he 
 wrote verses too and sent them up to the London papers, 
 hoping to begin a career with them. But they never
 
 262 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 appeared. The fame of Quintus Flumen was local, and 
 indeed London in those days was hardly more aware 
 of Thrigsby than of Penmaenmawr. Money and abomin- 
 able ideas came out of Thrigsby : it was vulgar because 
 of the one and obnoxious because of the other. His 
 poems rejected, his offering to Agnes despised ; Andrew's 
 will and Donald's behaviour had showed only too plainly 
 where the Lawries stood; there was nothing for it, 
 thought Jamie, but to enlist. Unhappily, however, it 
 was impossible to enlist as a General and nothing less 
 would satisfy his mother. Madame Mere! What did 
 she make of Napoleon? Was she disappointed that her 
 brilliant second son had not fulfilled some secret ambi- 
 tion for him? Perhaps she had thought her Napoleon 
 would make a nice little priest, exactly as Margaret had 
 thought her eldest-born would make a good little mer- 
 chant. 
 
 Sometimes he would write poems, not of the patriotic 
 kind ; verses beginning "Selina has my heart," but they 
 were all false and he knew them to be so and tore them 
 up. Other times he would work, writing either his 
 dramatic criticism or one of a series of articles he had 
 begun for the new Thrigsby Weekly Post on Banks and 
 Bankers. Again he would wander through the great 
 empty house, from room to room, imagining the life that 
 had been in them. Andrew had bought it, he knew, on 
 the occasion of his marriage. It must have seemed the 
 solid triumph of his life. No one, not even much richer 
 men, had such houses. No one had such huge, such 
 massive furniture as had once filled it. No one slept in 
 such beds as that leviathan four-poster which had domin- 
 ated and obscured the nuptial chamber. The mockery of 
 that bed ! A rack on which a miserable woman had been 
 tortured! And with that tragedy at the heart of its life
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 263 
 
 what splendour and ostentation, what feasts, what a 
 show of princely hospitality there must have been. And 
 suppose, thought Jamie, suppose there had been no Hu- 
 bert, no crisis, no climax : suppose Andrew's life had been 
 undisturbed, suppose he and Elisabeth had had children : 
 would the tragedy have been any less ? Would the house 
 have been less grim and empty? Andrew was still very 
 much alive : he was still in Jamie's way, though the fear 
 of him was gone. It was wonderful how its going made 
 thought easier and sweeter the contemplation of An- 
 drew's tragedy. Torment can be sweet if it be shot, how- 
 ever dimly, with the light of understanding, and here 
 there was at least the will to understand, and, finally, 
 the passionate desire. Jamie found himself living in 
 that old story. His mother had wished him to live by 
 and from Andrew Keith, to occupy that corner of the 
 world which Andrew had prepared. He had obliged 
 her more thoroughly than she could possibly imagine. 
 He must know what that world was like before he could 
 live in it. Neither Andrew nor Margaret could or would 
 give him any clue to it. He must find his own. What 
 had they done to make entrance so difficult? Was the 
 gulf between the generations impassable? Jamie often 
 thought sadly of his mother's face, how little meaning 
 its expressions could convey to him, how very little he 
 knew of the life behind it, that had made it, and how 
 easy it was to fill the void of his ignorance with charm- 
 ing fantasy. She was not such a mother as Mrs. Leslie 
 was to her children, but how delightful it would have 
 been to pretend that she was, and yet how disgusting too ! 
 For Margaret was much finer than that, stronger, 
 prouder, bolder, hugging the griefs her children brought 
 her and never acquiescing in their misdeeds. Margaret 
 was Biblical ; Mrs. Leslie Dickensian. There was a weak-
 
 264 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 ening in the attempt to make a philosophy of palliation. 
 Jamie needed the Biblical idea of his mother, her own 
 idea of herself, for his task of unravelling the Andrew 
 story. It became his dearest joy. For months together 
 he needed no other life. It came very near to Mary's 
 description of the philosophic life, but it was not disin- 
 terested. He had accepted Andrew's world and accord- 
 ing to his nature had to make the best of it. He envied 
 Tom, who was so constituted that he could take the 
 money and the success and leave the rest. He envied 
 John who could reject the whole creation. Yet he would 
 have changed with neither. This employment of his 
 was its own reward. It was as near to art, he began 
 vaguely to perceive, as he would ever go. He often 
 laughed to himself as he thought that he was passing 
 through the crisis of his life; the mental crisis coinciding 
 with the physical entrance into maturity. What luck, 
 he thought, that he was not married! All that could 
 come later, when he had emerged triumphant over the 
 secret of the world he had inherited: the moral issue 
 settled. Ah ! the money and the success would be worth 
 while then. He would know what to do with them. 
 Otherwise they were trash and he would be overwhelmed 
 by them as Andrew had been and Tom bade fair to be. 
 And, in the moments when he was sure of his triumph, 
 he would feel sorry for Tom. 
 
 One night as he returned from prowling through the 
 house to the study he sat at Andrew's desk and began 
 to work. His dramatic criticisms had lately become 
 rather intellectual and academic and he took scanty notice 
 of the actors. Currie Bigge had complained : "I don't 
 want you to be vulgar, but you must be readable." He 
 tried to make himself readable and imitated Lamb's man- 
 ner, caught from him some of his enthusiasm for acting
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 265 
 
 as acting without reference to the general effect of the 
 play. Even so it was heavy work and he was often 
 stopped for want of a word. Looking round the desk, 
 he found himself wondering whether it had not a secret 
 drawer and he spent over an hour searching. At last 
 in one of the pigeon-holes he found a crack, inserted his 
 fingernail and pressed a spring. Down fell an inlaid 
 panel to disclose an aperture full of papers and books. 
 Currie Bigge had to do without his dramatic criticism 
 that week. There were letters, notes, diaries, cuttings 
 from newspapers, reports of public utterances, all the 
 documents which could be a source of pride to old An- 
 drew. Jamie found them of no great interest until he 
 came to the diaries, a series covering a period of over 
 fifty years, though pages and pages were filled with noth- 
 ing more than entries like : "Better weather. Napoleon 
 dead and a good job too." Or, "Gave orders for new 
 boiler; engineer says two not enough. Rubbish. Must 
 see about coal supply. Prince Consort turning out bet- 
 ter than I expected," or "Afraid the railway business is 
 being overdone. After all, there is a limit and water will 
 remain best for heavy goods. Must take to hunting. 
 Kennedy is doing it and goes down to his warehouse in 
 riding-boots and breeches." The hunting led to Elisa- 
 beth, an Adlington, of an old family of squires upon 
 whose estate coal had been discovered. There was an 
 entry: "England's wealth (i) agriculture, (2) coal, (3) 
 cotton, (i) and (2) Adlington: (3) A. K. Elisabeth 
 or Agatha? Agatha is the more comely, but Elisabeth 
 is the more sensible. Agatha would give herself airs. 
 She would insist on the superiority of coal and birth 
 over cotton and brains. She is not beautiful enough to 
 justify the sacrifice. I want a wife that Thrigsby will 
 look up to, but not one who will look down on Thrigsby.
 
 266 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 I should say E. would be the better breeder." Not much 
 romance about old Andrew, and where was his wonder- 
 ful trick of self-deception? Perhaps that developed later. 
 He had a certain private humour that reminded Jamie 
 of Tom. There were many pages that Tom might have 
 written. The courtship was fully recorded: "Squire 
 Adlington not averse. Financial position quite up to the 
 mark. Proposed and honourably refused Mr. Keith, 
 I am fully aware of the honour you do me O ! but she 
 has the daintiest ankle! Shall wait six weeks and try 
 again. Good weather, good scent, good run. I can't 
 think what possesses that fellow Cobden, who has made 
 himself a good position and a fair business, to go run- 
 ning about the country. He'll ruin it as well as himself 
 if he does not take care. Fortunately the people will 
 never listen to a demagogue who has taken care to fill 
 his own pockets first. There always will be Haves and 
 Have-nots and they are as different as the sexes. I am 
 a Have, Shiel is a Have-not, and we shall never under- 
 stand each other. I am a Have, Madame Elisabeth, and 
 I mean to have you." Jamie hurried on to the next 
 proposal : "Refused, but argued. Love not out of the 
 question, as E. seems to have feared. Wives love their 
 husbands, because they are wived by them. Could not 
 of course explain this, but was as tender as it is in my 
 nature to be. Perfectly sound man, I explained, sound 
 in wind, limb and religion. Birth Scots, and therefore, 
 when not illegitimate, good enough. Keiths at Naseby. 
 Where were the Adlingtons then ? I asked and she with 
 her dearest smile replied: 'At Adlington.' I find she 
 likes to laugh. Dull life at Adlington, I fancy. Father 
 drinks. No wonder, if the family has been there two 
 hundred years and more. And to think that Thrigsby 
 is only fourteen miles away !" "She reads Jane Austen,
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 267 
 
 whom I cannot stomach. Fancy that mild babble being 
 written while all Europe was in a blaze. I suppose she 
 would wish me to be like Captain Wentworth. Have told 
 the old father and left it to him to bring her to reason." 
 "Adlington came to see me to-day to suggest Agatha. 
 I insist on Elisabeth. Let him bring her to town to see 
 what money can do there." In the end he wore down 
 Elisabeth's resistance. There were no entries in the 
 diary for some weeks until at last came: "Married. 
 Good. Liverpool, I can see, is going to be an infernal 
 nuisance. Shall give up hunting. It is expensive and 
 takes up too much time. Trouble in Ireland. There is 
 always trouble in Ireland, and we have too many Irish 
 here." After that there was no mention of Elisabeth ex- 
 cept three years later: "E. has had a miscarriage! 
 Damn it!" 
 
 For years then the diaries rambled on, an odd com- 
 mentary on the period, remarkable more for what it 
 omitted than for what it mentioned. Tremendous events 
 were only remarked on in so far as they affected the 
 buying and selling of cotton. The only indication of 
 the growing tragedy was the increasing bitterness of 
 the sardonic note in the writer's humour. He was often 
 brilliant, sometimes coarse and the jests made Jamie 
 shout with laughter as he sat in the empty house opposite 
 his tunic and shako. Suddenly almost the whole diary 
 was occupied with the entry of one day : "She came to 
 me this morning and asked me to stay as she had some- 
 thing important to say to me. I told her bed was the 
 place for that. In a very low voice she said she had 
 never admired me. She informed me that I was vulgar, 
 hard, insensitive, grasping, and that the love I had offered 
 her was an insult to a woman. I refused to listen to 
 more and left her to recover herself. I am what I am,
 
 268 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 like Dean Swift. All the same she had spoiled my appe- 
 tite either for work or for my victuals. When I returned 
 home I found a letter to say that she had gone with her 
 lover, Hubert, of all people; Hubert, the petticoat-hunter, 
 Hubert, the effeminate dandy, Hubert, whom I used to 
 tip when he went back to school ! The woman's a whore 
 and has dishonoured me. My God ! does she know what 
 she has done ? Her own family : they won't like having 
 bred a whore. I am almost afraid of my own rage. I 
 gave her everything she wanted. She had her own car- 
 riage. Fool that I am! I knew what was going on, 
 but would never admit it to myself. I shall be laughed 
 at. Laugh then! Go on, laugh! I'll laugh at myself 
 first! Now you can't hurt me. I'm laughing. D'ye 
 think I set much store by this marriage? It was barren." 
 Jamie could hardly read through his excitement. O! 
 the strong obstinate vanity of the man ! He would not 
 admit either his own fault or his own grief. The woman 
 was a whore, she had injured Hubert far more than she 
 had hurt him. Thrigsby might snigger to itself, but 
 openly it would say: "Poor Keith! He doted on that 
 wife of his." They would remember, as he was doing, 
 her faults and forget her virtues, her charm, her kind- 
 ness, the gracious hospitality they had received at her 
 hands. Her hospitality ? He paid for it. That was the 
 final argument behind which, sore and bewildered, An- 
 drew took refuge. Jamie could feel the soreness and 
 the bewilderment and respond, but what infuriated him 
 was that he was given no clue to Elisabeth's mind and 
 feelings, while Hubert was for Andrew non-existent. 
 The episode spoiled his appetite, but when he realised that 
 Thrigsby would take his view of the affair he recovered 
 himself and set about making more money and creating
 
 THE EMPTY HOUSE 269 
 
 for himself a fine official position so that Elisabeth should 
 feel what she had missed. 
 
 It amused Jamie to recollect that when Selina had 
 jilted him his first impulse had been to dismiss her 
 angrily as worthless, and he wondered if he would have 
 felt the same if he had been married to Selina. And 
 he tried to work out the tragedy of Andrew with the 
 aid of his own experience : not very successfully until 
 he began painfully to think that Selina might have left 
 him for the same reason which had led Elisabeth to aban- 
 don her husband. He could see in himself some of the 
 same blind humourless egoism, though it had not yet 
 been so fatal, but he did not believe that Selina could 
 have perceived it in him and suffered from it. No: he 
 decided she had left him for a bird of her own feather. 
 But might not that have been the case with Elisabeth? 
 It is absurd to ascribe superhuman insight to the female. 
 What kind of woman would attract and bind Hubert? 
 And where would she touch him? In his pity and 
 chivalry, thought Jamie, feeling that he was coming 
 near the heart of the mystery. Of course, passion might 
 very easily have little to do with it, and there would 
 lie its pity, there the fascination of the imbroglio to 
 Hubert. Jamie felt sick at heart: Andrew cold as ice; 
 Hubert cold as stone; the woman between them. Ah! 
 that was the sting of it, that the cause of the obsession. 
 A fine thrilling story and the end of it was Andrew 
 making money, Hubert making money, and the woman 
 dead. There was no possibility anywhere of life for 
 her. Hubert seemed as detestable as Andrew. 
 
 Jamie whistled "The Russians shall not get to Con- 
 stantinople" as he lay back and thought it over. "So 
 this," he thought, "is what lay beyond the Blue Moun- 
 tains; this is what they have made of life and it doesn't
 
 270 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 look as if we were going to make it much better. John 
 with his lungs half gone: Tom turning into one huge 
 trouser-pocket full of money: myself running after 
 coloured gas-light dreams: mother eating her heart out 
 because the Lawries aren't as important as the Keiths: 
 and Tibby oh ! well, there's always Tibby." In a shift- 
 ing, uneasy and changing world, that most inconsider- 
 ately refused to allow itself to be understood, he clung 
 to Tibby as a comprehensible reality, though he was as 
 ignorant of the detail of her life as of anyone's. "Good 
 God!" he said to himself, "I don't know what is going 
 on in my own life and if that knowledge is impossible 
 how can I expect to have any other?"
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FANNY SHAW 
 
 ' I A HE Saturday soldiers might be jeered at by little 
 boys as they marched on parade through the streets 
 with the Colonel on horseback and a band with a real 
 drum-major going before. The Colonel of the 3rd 
 V.B.T.R. was a wealthy man and liked everything well 
 done. Wealthy too were many of the rank and file and 
 if their regiment were not going to have a chance of 
 proving its mettle in the war, it should at least make a 
 show in the peaceful city of Thrigsby, and give the people 
 something for the money the war was costing and remind 
 them that the world was not subdued by Waterloo. There 
 were public functions too. The Volunteers lined the 
 streets when an august personage visited Thrigsby, and 
 was received by the Mayor, the Town Clerk, the Re- 
 corder, and the City Treasurer. The Volunteers had a 
 Sunday set apart for them in the Cathedral; a Sunday 
 in May, and then, when the greengrocers' shops were 
 gay with hyacinths and daffodils and tulips and oranges 
 and lemons, cauliflowers and turnip-tops, then the five 
 thousand volunteers blossomed like flowers and, if it did 
 not rain, had a grand parade through the streets on Sat- 
 urday, and assembled on Sunday morning outside the 
 Cathedral under the Cromwell statue, while the massed 
 bands played God Save the Queen and the Old Hun- 
 
 271
 
 272 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 drodth. In August they went into camp and learned the 
 stern art of war. 
 
 Jamie was very soon a sergeant and was offered a 
 commission which, however, he refused. He never liked 
 the rich young men of Thrigsby and preferred the society 
 of the clerks, warehousemen and artisans who filled the 
 ranks and were more serious and dutiful in their devo- 
 tion to the Empire on which the sun never sets. The 
 3rd V.B.T.R. took a pride in itself and on its field days 
 behaved as though there really were Russians hiding in 
 the ditches and behind the hedges of Claypit Fields, 
 whither they marched without their band and headed by 
 sappers armed with axes and shovels, and followed by 
 an ambulance. Then the Colonel would ride behind and 
 the Adjutant also would be on horseback and together 
 they would conduct operations, which always ended in 
 the storming either of the dismantled brick-fields or of 
 the little wood at the end of the fields beyond which lie 
 the railway and the village of Marrowfield that Thrigsby 
 had caught in its drifting net of streets. In the wood in 
 springtime were primroses, violets, sorrel and bluebells. 
 And there was a little pond wherein were Jack-sharp 
 and tadpoles and newts. 
 
 On a day in spring preparatory to the storming of the 
 wood Jamie was sent forward to reconnoitre for the 
 enemy. He crept up, taking advantage of every piece 
 of cover, crawled through not over the fence, up the hill 
 and over the brow to find two wide blue eyes staring 
 up at him out of a pale face. There was fear in them 
 until he grinned. The child looked so charming there 
 in the midst of a pool of bluebells. She had a great 
 bunch of them in her lap and had threaded a long neck- 
 lace of others which hung over her shoulders and shone 
 in her ruddy mane of hair. "How pretty they are!"
 
 FANNY SHAW 273 
 
 said Jamie, forgetting all about his regiment. "Yes. I 
 brought my little brother to catch Jack-sharps. You can 
 catch them nearer home than this but there aren't any 
 bluebells there. I thought at first you were a parkie."- 
 "No. I'm a soldier sometimes." "Are the Russians 
 going to win?" "I think not." Jamie had taken a seat 
 by her side. She went on picking the blue flowers, their 
 juice staining her thin little red fingers. "I think not," 
 he said. "They can't beat the English and the French." 
 "The English have never been beaten, have they?" 
 "They don't know it when they have been," said he, com- 
 promising. "What's your name?" "Fanny Shaw." 
 "Where do you live?" "69 Greenhill Lane, Summer- 
 heys." "That's a long way from here." "Yes. But I 
 only come once a year when the bluebells are out. There 
 aren't many know of this wood." "I didn't know it had 
 bluebells and dear little girls growing in it." She said 
 solemnly: "I do pretend sometimes that I grew in it, 
 but of course I didn't." "You should tie up your hair 
 with bluebells ; then you would really feel like it." The 
 child, still solemn, adopted the suggestion and Jamie as- 
 sisted her. He was interrupted in this employment by 
 a hullabaloo from the corner of the wood and leaping 
 to his feet he saw that the small boy, Fanny's brother, 
 had fallen into the pond and was caught in its oozy bot- 
 tom. Down he rushed, pulled the boy out, brought him 
 back to his sister and was wiping him down when he 
 heard the thud of horses' hoofs and found his Colonel 
 standing above him. He had still forgotten all about his 
 regiment, did not remember to rise to the salute, and 
 went on wiping the muddy boy and pacifying the girl's 
 fears. "Sergeant Lawrie!" roared the Colonel. "Ser- 
 geant Lawrie! Damn it, sir, we've been waiting over 
 half-an-hour for you to return and report. You've
 
 274 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 spoiled the attack, sir, betrayed us to the enemy, an- 
 nihilated the whole regiment." "On the contrary, sir," 
 said Jamie beginning to enjoy the situation, "I have 
 occupied the position single-handed." "Confound your 
 impudence," shouted the Colonel. "I sent you here as a 
 scout, not as a nursemaid." The boy began to cry and 
 Fanny taking him by the hand hurried away, trampling, 
 in her alarm, the bluebells underfoot. Jamie turned to 
 watch her go. It seemed such a shame to him to turn 
 the child out of the wood. " 'Tention !" shouted the 
 Colonel. The Adjutant and some of the soldiers came 
 up. The Colonel appealed to the Adjutant: "Can I 
 place this man under arrest? He has been infernally 
 insolent." The Adjutant scratched his chin: "I don't 
 know, sir. It isn't as if we were Regulars. I think you 
 can tell him to consider himself under arrest." The other 
 men grinned. The Colonel barked at Jamie : "Consider 
 yourself under arrest." Jamie saluted and went off to 
 find his squadron. They were in a ditch eating sand- 
 wiches. 
 
 The attack was continued and carried through success- 
 fully, and not a bluebell in the wood was left standing. 
 
 Three days later Jamie received a notice to attend a 
 court-martial at three o'clock in the afternoon. He was 
 unable to attend for he was very busy at the bank, but 
 the Colonel was not to be balked of his revenge. The 
 regiment was paraded in its drill hall, and Sergeant Law- 
 rie had the stripes removed from his arm and was de- 
 graded to the ranks. He paid the fine prescribed for 
 resignation with its breach of the oath to save the 
 Queen's Majesty and the 3rd V.B.T.R. knew him no 
 more. The Colonel of that famous regiment was Mr. 
 Enoch Moon, butter merchant, City Councillor, Justice of 
 the Peace and father of one Joseph Moon, who was in
 
 FANNY SHAW 275 
 
 Cateaton's Bank, a year or two junior to Jamie, who, 
 not liking his looks, had always ignored him and hardly 
 knew he existed until soon after the event just recorded. 
 Cateaton's had opened a new branch in Tib Street to 
 catch the coal trade, for Cateaton's, i.e., the cherubic 
 Rigby Blair, was fully alive to the change going on in 
 Thrigsby and knew that it could no longer expect its 
 prestige alone to compel extension of business but must 
 be aided with an effort to create it. The new branch 
 was opened and Jamie was offered the managership of 
 it, but he refused, partly because he was afraid of the 
 responsibility, partly because he thought it more to his 
 interest to stay in the head office. He was rather anxious 
 about the turn things were taking and thought he could 
 watch them better where he was. The position in Tib 
 Street was offered to and accepted by Mr. Joseph Moon, 
 who found when he was installed that his only approach 
 in the ordinary way of business to Mr. Blair lay through 
 Jamie. He made himself amiable, but the more polite 
 he was the more did Jamie detest him. The fellow had 
 a skin like a buffalo's and when he got married invited 
 Jamie to his wedding, where Mr. Enoch Moon fussily 
 and pompously regretted the loss to his regiment. "No 
 one," he said, "could be more sorry than I, but discipline 
 is discipline, and one can't allow a subordinate to ex- 
 plain, can one? I like discipline in my business and I 
 wish there were more of it. A hive of industry, you 
 know, Mr. Lawrie. Bees have their discipline." "Yes," 
 replied Jamie, "they teach the act of order to a peopled 
 kingdom." "Shakespeare, you know, father," said Jo- 
 seph, "Mr. Lawrie is Quintus Flumen." "Well, sir, 
 well," puffed Mr. Enoch. "You were a fine soldier, and 
 the Queen will miss you if the hour should ever come." 
 "I should like to explain," said Jamie, "now that I am
 
 276 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 no longer a subordinate, that I had saved the boy from 
 drowning. Had it been a real battle no doubt I should 
 have let him drown, but as it was I thought it better 
 to use my discretion." "Well, sir, well," replied Mr. 
 Enoch. "I wish you'd said so before. Just a note would 
 have put the whole affair straight." "I hardly thought it 
 worth mentioning. The court-martial was quite excit- 
 ing, wasn't it ?" Jamie turned to greet an acquaintance, 
 and Mr. Enoch whose skin was not so thick as Joseph's 
 was left fuming. The fellow might have spread his 
 version of the affair and then he would look a fool, by 
 Jove he would. 
 
 As a matter of fact Jamie had given no further thought 
 to the matter. He had been made happy with dreams 
 rising out of the vision of the child in the bluebell wood 
 and he had sought her out in Greenhill Lane. Her father 
 was a packer and they lived in one of fourteen stucco 
 houses which had once been genteel but were now sunk 
 to being inhabited by Mr. Shaw and his kind, whose 
 wives let rooms to lodgers, the general expedient for 
 solving the problem of having money for both drink 
 and the rent on Saturdays. Neither hill nor green were 
 in the lane which led in its windings from a brewery 
 to a public-house, or if you were walking the other way 
 from the public-house to the brewery. But when Jamie 
 walked either way with Fanny he felt that it led to 
 paradise. The child loved him and was entirely happy 
 with him ; he loved her but with her he was not altogether 
 happy, for he felt, as she did not, the misery of her 
 surroundings. Her father was a coarse jovial man who 
 had married young and worked regularly because his 
 wife bore him a child every eighteen months. Mrs. 
 Shaw was a thin pale woman, untidy, heedless, romantic, 
 absorbed like an animal in her baby. As soon as each
 
 FANNY SHAW 277 
 
 child could talk and walk and hold food in its hands she 
 had no more interest in it, for there was another one 
 coming; but frail as she looked, she did her own baking 
 and washing once a week, and she looked after the 
 lodger, because, if she did not, both ends would not meet 
 on Saturday and she would be forced to run through 
 her husband's pockets and have him, as likely as not, 
 refusing to come home on Saturdays. 
 
 Fanny was nurse, peace-maker, cook, charwoman and 
 did anything and everything except clean the steps. 
 A. There she d^ew the line. There were professional step- 
 cleaners, girls who were too independent to work in the 
 factories or had quarrelled with their parents, or got into 
 trouble, and went from house to house in the unservanted 
 region of Thrigsby and offered to clean the steps for 
 twopence. Mrs. Shaw, who recognised that her daugh- 
 ter's pride was at stake, would always have twopence to 
 spare. 
 
 The most astonishing thing about Fanny was her 
 cleanliness. She could not manage to keep the house 
 clean with the children and her mother always making a 
 litter in it, but her clothes were spotless, her red hair 
 shone, her white skin was never grimy. Her mother 
 used to tease her about it and her father used to say: 
 "It's a gift. That's what it is. It's a gift." She was a 
 great joke to both of them. "Old-fashioned" they called 
 her and when she came home with a story of how she 
 had seen a battle and one of the soldiers had been taken 
 away and shot, they told her that the war was in Russia 
 and over long ago and they said to each other that she 
 must have heard the neighbours talking. It was one of 
 her "fancies." As they never believed what she said 
 she very rarely told them the truth and had suppressed 
 the facts about her brother falling into the pond, for
 
 278 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 she was afraid that she would be forbidden ever to go 
 to the bluebell wood again. 
 
 She did not recognise Jamie out of his uniform when 
 he accosted her in the street. And when he told her who 
 he was and asked her to take him home to see her mother 
 she was frightened lest he should let the cat out of the 
 bag. However she was soon at her ease with him and 
 asked him not to say a word about the bluebell wood, 
 because "they" knew nothing of it. "They" were used 
 to Fanny's acquaintances, for she was a child who was 
 often accosted in the street and painters had asked her 
 to sit for them. Her father said he had often seen Mr. 
 Lawrie at the theatre where he had a friend who played 
 the cornet in the orchestra. Feeling that something good 
 might come of the distinguished-looking gentleman, they 
 allowed the friendship and once a week at least Jamie 
 had Fanny to himself. He taught her to read and write. 
 She could sing prettily and he got Mr. Wilcox to teach 
 her elocution and gesture, for he was anxious for her to 
 leave the life in which she had been brought up and 
 could think of no better career than the stage. At first 
 her mother would not hear of it but after a year of 
 coaxing and under the pressure of weeks of hardship 
 during an illness of her husband's she consented, and 
 Fanny made her first appearance as Mustardseed in the 
 Midsummer-Night's Dream.
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 TOM AND AGNES 
 
 THE performance of the Midsummer-Night's Dream 
 was one of the most successful in the repertory of 
 the stock company, and Jamie delighted in it, especially 
 in Mr. Wilcox as Bottom and Mr. J. Coates as Oberon. 
 Mr. Coates had a tenor voice and sang "I know a bank 
 whereon the wild thyme blows," so that the audience 
 gasped with pleasure and astonishment. Of his singing 
 Jamie wrote : "He roars like an organ. Never was the 
 theatre so full of sound. He soars so upon his voice 
 that it seems he can never come down again. Come 
 down again, however, he does, and the play goes on; 
 and what a play, and what an England it must have been 
 that produced it!" He used often to take Fanny home 
 at night and it was very grim to go from Shakespeare's 
 Warwickshire to the squalor which was fast descending 
 upon Thrigsby. He could feel it closing in upon him- 
 self : no one else seemed to mind. Tom had things all 
 his own way at Keiths' now and was satisfied : and Mar- 
 garet shared Tom's satisfaction. She could hardly be 
 got to move from Thrigsby and would not hear of visit- 
 ing Scotland. Occasionally she would stay with the 
 Greigs for the sake of seeing her daughter. She had set 
 her heart on reconciling her two sons, so that Jamie 
 could be taken back into the firm and so redeem the years 
 
 279
 
 *8o THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 he had wasted at the bank. She would often broach 
 the subject with Tom, who would say : "Now, mother, 
 mother, don't meddle in business. I cannot have my own 
 brother in my employ. It would never do. If Jamie 
 has money and cares to put it into the business that is a 
 different matter." "But he has ability." "He chooses 
 to waste it on the play-house and the writing. That is 
 his affair. There's plenty of ability in the firm. We 
 must all suffer for our mistakes and he made the mistake 
 of annoying Uncle Andrew. If he stays where he is 
 he may step into Mr. Blair's shoes. That's all the hope 
 there is for him. I hope I'm not wanting in affection 
 for my own brother but business is business. He knows 
 that as well as I do and doesn't expect anything of the 
 kind. Besides he is quite happy as he is." Said Mar- 
 garet: "I am not so sure of that and what I want to 
 see is the two of you working together, married, with 
 children, so that the Lawries may be one of the best- 
 known families in Thrigsby." Tom liked that and 
 purred to himself. "There'll be time for that presently," 
 he said. "All in good time. You'd have us the Royal 
 Family, if you could have your way, mother." "In- 
 deed," answered she, "if I had my way I would not 
 change places with the Queen." 
 
 When she sounded Jamie she found him annoyingly 
 contented with his place in the bank. He would smile at 
 her and say: "When I'm manager of Cateaton's even 
 Tom will have to take his hat off to me. He's after 
 money, like all the rest. Well I shall be the shining 
 symbol of money." "It isn't money," said Margaret 
 "What is it, then? Why else are nine-tenths of the 
 people in this place sunk in poverty?" "There is no 
 shame in poverty." "By God," said Jamie, "that is just 
 what I think there is." Then Margaret would throw
 
 TOM AND AGNES 281 
 
 up her hands in despair of ever understanding this recal- 
 citrant son of hers. "What do you want me to be?" 
 he would ask. "Like the Greigs?" She would clutch at 
 that : "Yes. Like the Greigs." "Making a religion of 
 their houses?" "Oh! Jamie, if you would not be so 
 satirical! I want you to fear God, of course, and keep 
 his commandments." "In a bank of all places!" "Then 
 leave the bank, and put your savings into Tom's busi- 
 ness." "And fear God, with Tom? No, mother. You 
 must realise that Tom's way and my way are not the 
 same." He thought, but did not say, that Tom's way 
 led as far from God as it was possible to go. "But, 
 Jamie," she said, "I don't know what you want. You 
 are so long in showing any signs of settling down. You 
 never tell me anything of yourself. I live in dread of 
 your growing into a Hubert." "To tell you the truth, 
 mother, I don't think I know myself. The only person 
 with whom I would change shoes is Mary. Meanwhile 
 I consider myself lucky to be where I am with work 
 enough and amusement enough and friends enough. If I 
 can work and have my friends I don't think I want any- 
 thing more. I'd prefer to do work of my own choosing 
 but I can't have that and I'll do that which I have to 
 do as well as I can." "I wish you could have more 
 ambition." "My ambition," said Jamie fiercely, "is to 
 destroy Thrigsby and all its works. It is a disease, a 
 foul blot on the world; its aims are mean and its deeds 
 are wicked. It is to-day what England will be to- 
 morrow. That's true and God help England." "I for- 
 bid you to talk to me like that," said Margaret; "you 
 should at least keep that for your abominable friends." 
 "I'm sorry," said he. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help 
 saying what I felt; and I do feel that very strongly. I 
 can't forget. I can't forget the beauty in which I was
 
 282 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 brought up. One wants I want so little else. Just 
 beauty, and, if it comes, love. I don't want to be richer 
 than my neighbour. I don't want him to be envious 
 of me. If he cannot be my friend, let him ignore me. 
 There is room for both of us. Oh ! there is room for 
 all of us if we would not so crowd each other in." "I 
 never thought," said Margaret, "that you could be so 
 wicked. It has been a great grief to me." "Oh ! I am 
 sorry," cried he, between laughter and tears. "I am 
 sorry, but what I say and what I do are very different 
 things the more's the pity. Dear mother, I am sorry. 
 But do do let us keep our old affection. That, at least, 
 is not altered by what I say or what I do." And Mar- 
 garet melted. She caressed him and said : "I am only 
 so afraid that you are unhappy." She was glad to have 
 him so, like a child come to her with his hurt, though 
 he could not make her understand the nature of it. None 
 of her children had ever before made her forget that 
 they were grown men and women. She was thankful, 
 deeply, for the irruption, though it did finally depose 
 Jamie from the headship of the family and in a way 
 expelled him from it. He and she were no longer mother 
 and son, but fellow human beings divided and joined 
 by their consciousness of human tragedy, in him acute 
 and near bursting through the surface, in her remote, 
 dim, only felt through her profoundest instinct. Both 
 were shaken and exhausted by the experience through 
 which they had passed : his brain began to work on it : she 
 with a wan smile sank back into her life of habit, giving 
 up hope of ever bringing him into it. "Well," she said, 
 wiping her eyes, "whatever happens, I know it will 
 be for the best." "That's right," he replied, "and let 
 well alone." 
 
 He was left reeling. He had thought his crisis over
 
 TOM AND AGNES 283 
 
 long ago, had not looked for its coming to a head so 
 suddenly, and he saw with a horrible clearness how ill 
 equipped he was to deal with the ruin of himself left by 
 it. He had thought that as he grew older, life would 
 become simpler. There would be an end of confusion; 
 the queer elements of existence would take shape and 
 order: dissatisfaction would disappear: things as they 
 were would seem justified and such as they were, he, 
 such as he was, would take his place among them. But 
 now everything was denied: the folly of his life was 
 revealed to him : all his desire was gone to dust and he 
 had no hope, nothing at all but the grim knowledge of 
 the tragedy of human life. Even that was vague, only, 
 appallingly, human life had dwindled to cognisable size, 
 and all the humming business, the hurry, the jostling 
 and the scramble of the great city seemed insignificant, 
 idiotic, absolutely without dignity. Only in Margaret, 
 in his mother, was there dignity, the quality that could 
 redeem everything, an austerity that could withstand the 
 pressure of the external world, a rock upon which the 
 waves of phenomena could break, break into beauty. It 
 was something to have known it in her. It was worth 
 any torture, any misery the world might have in store for 
 him. His own egoism was broken by it : no other egoism 
 mattered. The Lawriean principle with which he had 
 once liked to amuse himself became full of meaning 
 now. In the end he laughed. That was quite enough 
 for one day. Directly he had a clear idea he perceived 
 that he lost interest. He saw that ideas only became 
 clear after they had lost their potency for action. That 
 alone was important: action, instead of the fatuous, 
 ego-driven, restless activity which more and more was 
 becoming the rule among those with whom he lived and 
 worked.
 
 284 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 For some weeks he took refuge with the poets and 
 devoted all his spare time to reading. Poetry seemed 
 to him the noblest kind of action. If he could have been 
 a poet ! But that was ruined in him by his early shyness, 
 by the fatuous conceit in which he had taken refuge 
 from it. He saw how poetry died directly the ideas be- 
 hind it became clear and were wrested by the intelligence 
 or the heated and overwrought mind from the profound- 
 est understanding in which alone they were truly appre- 
 hended, so that they could be wrought upon and molten 
 together to give out their energy. He was comforted and 
 it amused him as he went about his daily business at 
 the bank, in the office of The Weekly Post, at the theatre, 
 giving Fanny her lessons on a Saturday it amused him 
 to wonder how many of those he met could have any 
 idea of the trials through which he was passing. He 
 even felt physically exalted. Could they see any differ- 
 ence in his carriage, in his eyes, on his lips? He had 
 a strange feeling that his lips were more sensitive and 
 he found himself speaking with greater ease, more aptly, 
 and with a keen pleasure in pronouncing words. 
 
 Tibby became very attentive to him. She took more 
 care over his food and his clothes : he would find her 
 waiting to open the door for him when he came home 
 in the evening: he would meet her on the stairs, or just 
 outside his door if he had been sitting in his room. She 
 was thinner and uglier than ever and her shadowing 
 irritated him. His mind was full of the grace and charm 
 of little Fanny, who had responded, like no one else, to 
 the change in him. She had become eager to learn, even 
 with the tasks that had once been most distasteful to her. 
 Teaching her was a joy that made every other task, every 
 other encounter delightful. In town Jamie found him- 
 self popular where before men had complained of his
 
 TOM AND AGNES 285 
 
 damned reserve. Even Tom unbent so far as to ask him 
 if he ever thought of leaving the bank and how much 
 money he had saved. He shut up like an oyster when 
 Jamie said he had only seven hundred pounds. Jamie 
 laughed and said : "I'm sorry I'm such a failure, but I 
 can't help spending my income and more." Tom an- 
 swered : "It has been and always will be my rule never 
 to spend more than a third of my income. That is why 
 I have postponed marriage. I could not allow marriage 
 to break my rule." "If I made a rule," said Jamie, "I 
 should be afraid of its breaking my marriage." "I sup- 
 pose that's witty," sneered Tom. "I'm always hearing 
 of good things you are supposed to have said. I will 
 make a note of that." 
 
 When the time came for Jamie's holidays that year 
 his mother astonished him by proposing that he should 
 spend them with her at the Greigs'. (As a rule Tom 
 took her to Whitby or Llandudno.) Now Jamie had 
 planned that he would take Fanny and her mother away 
 to the country, some remote rich valley with wide mead- 
 ows and a tranquil stream, orchards and woods, some 
 blessed place where the bounty of Nature could induce 
 drowsy contentment and a full humour. He could not 
 refuse his mother and he did not wish to disappoint 
 Fanny., Would she mind going away without him? 
 She could take her mum with her, and her mum could 
 take the baby and he would come at the end of the time. 
 Fanny wept but consented at last, and it ended in her 
 whole family, including her father, going with her, while 
 Jamie went with his mother to stay with the Donald 
 Greigs. 
 
 Maggie greeted her brother warmly: "You know," 
 she said, "mother's letters are full of you, nowadays. 
 It used to be all Tom, Tom, Tom this, that, and the
 
 286 
 
 other. But now it is Jamie this and Jamie that and Jamie 
 
 says " "She's given me up as a bad job," replied 
 
 he. "Oh, no," said Maggie, "she says you are a great 
 comfort to her and that banking is a most useful pro- 
 fession. She wrote to Mrs. Donald the other day saying 
 that they had all been most unjust to you." Jamie 
 clapped his sister on the shoulder. He felt sorry for 
 her. She looked already disappointed, a little wizened 
 and worn. Being companion to Mrs. Donald was a diffi- 
 cult position and she had no hope of anything else. He 
 said to her: "If Tom doesn't marry soon I'll take a 
 house and you shall come and keep it for me. Mother 
 can't have both of us to stay with her for ever."- -"I 
 think I must stay where I am. They're used to me now. 
 And I like being where there aren't many people. Be- 
 sides, I am happy. The vicar here is a most interesting 
 man and lends me German magazines. He has been a 
 missionary in China and has written some translations 
 of Chinese poems." Pathetic was Maggie's insistence on 
 her contentment. She seemed to her brother a broken 
 creature. 
 
 He said that to Agnes whom in the evening of the 
 second day of his visit he took out on the lake in the 
 family boat, a great heavy tub. The rest of the house- 
 party had gone for an excursion, the young people walk- 
 ing over the fells, the elders driving. He was so enjoy- 
 ing the solitude and peace of the place that he had ex- 
 cused himself: and Agnes had only that day returned 
 from a visit: "We are all so fond of her," said she, 
 "and so sorry for her. She would have been so pretty: 
 but she is so shy. She expects pity and pity seems to 
 hurt her." "I love to hear you say that," he answered, 
 "It assures me that I haven't made a fool of myself."- 
 "How?" asked she. "By setting you up on a pedestal."
 
 TOM AND AGNES 287 
 
 "You shouldn't have done that, Jamie." "In the be- 
 ginning I was afraid of you, as I used to be afraid of 
 every beautiful thing. I could never trust myself with 
 it. I could never trust myself, for instance, with the idea 
 that I loved you." It was almost dark now. Dark shone 
 the lake, reflecting far down, beyond the shadow of the 
 mountain, the yellow sky. There were no stars yet, and 
 the mist hung in wisps above the water. The boat glided 
 along, the oars dipping, rattling in the rowlocks and 
 dragging a silvery trickle over the water. Agnes hung 
 her head and folded her hands in her lap. The boat 
 glided on for many moments. At last Jamie said : "I 
 can trust myself with it now, Agnes Agnes."- -"Oh ! 
 Jamie," she said, with a new deep note of sadness in her 
 voice, and he leaned forward to catch what she would 
 say. "Oh! Jamie, you talk as though life were poetry." 
 And, sadly, she -seemed to be laughing at him. "What 
 else is it?" he asked. "In such a place as this, on such 
 a night. I tell you now that I love you, and it is almost 
 enough to tell you so." "There is more in love than 
 the telling of it," said she and that brought him out of 
 the ecstasy in which he had been floating. "By God! 
 there is," cried he, "and that's where I've been a fool, 
 where I've let it slip by me all these years." She had 
 no need to say more. He knew that this thing also had 
 escaped him, that he must enter upon the new phase of 
 his life for which he had been so eager without love. 
 "I at least do not wish you to be sorry for me," he said. 
 She made no answer. They were a couple of miles from 
 home. He dropped the oars into the water and sent the 
 boat spinning along. The stars came out and in the 
 water they shone and danced in the ripples and eddies 
 left behind the boat. "I wish," said he, "I wish I could 
 tell one note from another. I'd sing." And Agnes sang
 
 288 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the ballad of the Two Sisters of Binnoric Johnston and 
 Stirling stand on the Tay. "I like the skirl of that," said 
 Jamie. "You are very Scots," said she, "and most like 
 my grandfather of any of them. To-night and that other 
 night when you talked to me first will always be with 
 me." "It may be too late for me to love you," said 
 Jamie, "but I've had the telling of it, and that was the 
 pleasure poor Burns could never resist." He gave a 
 chuckle. "You'd never think," he added, "that a roman- 
 tical man like myself was a bank clerk." And Agnes 
 laughed too and so, in laughter, they hid the soreness in 
 their hearts. "It was a week ago," she said, "that I 
 promised to marry Tom." "Tom!" All the laughter 
 in Jamie died away, his heart ached and his throat was 
 full. Tom and Agnes ! That was laughable but grim ! 
 That beauty in Tom's hands! He was filled with rage. 
 This was to make a jack-fool of him. "You should 
 have told me that, at once," he cried. "We arranged to 
 tell no one, for a while." "Why not?" "They my 
 
 father " 
 
 They had reached the landing-stage and there, a huge, 
 looming figure, stood Tom. "I hope you are well 
 wrapped up, Agnes," said he. Jamie ran the nose of 
 the boat into the bank, leaped out and fled. Tom ! Sly. 
 persistent, obstinate Tom, and Agnes. "It's a defiance 
 of Nature," said Jamie to himself as he went floundering 
 through the shrubbery, and as he was still under the 
 delusion that Nature was extremly like Agnes he was 
 soon lost in a pretty confusion of thought. Agnes be- 
 traying Nature was betraying herself. Tom was not 
 guilty of that treachery. It was Tom's way to get what 
 he wanted, but Agnes, Agnes of the lake, ought to have 
 known better.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 THE STRUGGLE WITH VANITY 
 
 IT took Jamie three days to realise that he and not 
 Tom was the intruder, and he only arrived at that 
 result after much thought and real suffering. In the 
 first place, so vain is the male of the human species, it 
 was mortifying that he should have desired a woman 
 who could give a moment's consideration to Tom. That 
 lasted hardly any time at all: he was forced to allow 
 Agnes a point of view and then, by the illumination it 
 brought, he was forced to see that he ought to have 
 done this years ago. Only he was quite sure that Tom 
 did not allow her any such thing. To hold "his female 
 in due awe" was Tom's philosophy: to stand between 
 her and God, and dispense divine favours, as children, 
 a dress allowance and occasional pleasures. Jamie was 
 quite certain of that though he and his brother had never 
 discussed the matter or any subject germane to it. He 
 knew it was so because it had also been his own youthful 
 idea: it had been Andrew's plan: and even in Hubert 
 there had been traces of such despotism. Why not? 
 Women acquiesced in it. Oh, but it was wrong that Agnes 
 should so acquiesce. Such beauty should be served, not 
 commanded. That certainly he had done, without effect. 
 He had made no impression, had been so wonderfully 
 dull that Tom, crashing through the difficulties put in 
 
 289
 
 290 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 his way, had been by comparison, exciting. What then 
 was Agnes' point of view? Being a healthy young 
 woman, she would naturally wish to be married: but, 
 being Agnes, that was not so very certain either. To 
 be married would be for her to be dragged from the 
 remoteness which she had always enjoyed. She was in- 
 telligent but of a temper only to understand things at a 
 distance. (Jamie thought she was like himself in that.) 
 There was some truth there, and yet that did not explain 
 Tom. He tried from Tom's point of view. Admitting 
 to himself that Agnes had been to him a symbol of 
 beauty, that she was to a certain extent in herself a 
 symbol (a most unsatisfactory thing for a human being 
 to be) he wondered what on earth Tom could see in 
 her. A prettier woman should have been his choice: 
 a pleasant ornament for the dinner-table. Then he 
 pitched on a theory that helped: Tom desired nothing 
 except through his ambitions: Agnes would stand in 
 his eyes for success: to win her would be to set the 
 crown on a triumphant youth, to pull the Lawries up to 
 the level of the Greigs. That Agnes had a considerable 
 fortune was incidental. The chief thing for Tom was 
 not that she was Agnes but that she was a Greig. Most 
 unsatisfying for her; but here Jamie had to concede that 
 his own realisation of her had hardly been more ade- 
 quate. He had perhaps adored most of all her remote- 
 ness and had longed to share it and this under no circum- 
 stances w r ould she allow. She prized it : Tom would 
 never intrude upon it. He would fuss over her body 
 and her physical health : her spirit he would ignore 
 entirely. That would suit her, and then she must desire 
 a change of view. She had hinted more than once at 
 dissatisfaction with the Greigs: she had seen from her 
 remoteness all that there was to be seen in them, and
 
 THE STRUGGLE WITH VANITY 291 
 
 who could be more amusing than Tom when seen with 
 sufficient detachment? 
 
 Painful and yet pleasant was the working out of this 
 intellectual problem. Not for a moment could Jamie 
 allow that the betrothed couple might be after their 
 fashion in love with each other. They were certainly 
 not in love as he was whenever he entered in any degree 
 upon that delicious state, but he was forced to acknowl- 
 edge that between the two as factors in his problem and 
 then as he saw them daily in the flesh (for Tom had ar- 
 rived to stay and to seize the moment for the forcing of 
 his betrothal upon the Greigs) there was a horrid dis- 
 crepancy which he rilled conceitedly with a wicked scep- 
 ticism. He saw more malice in Agnes than in fact there 
 was; and in his brother he perceived only the fatuous 
 arriviste achieveing that at which he had aimed. For this 
 vain folly Jamie paid handsomely in misery, and his 
 love for Agnes came perilously near breaking through 
 from his head to his heart, would have done so indeed, 
 and brought him thus early in life to tragedy, but for 
 that sure shield and defence of the heart, Vanity. 
 
 He achieved a new popularity with the Greigs, who 
 like the other branches of the clan prided themselves on 
 their intellect, and were confident that the superiority 
 which they collectively enjoyed would one day bring 
 forth a being of true as opposed to mere commercial 
 eminence. In his youth Hubert was to have been such 
 a being, but Andrew's wife destroyed that hope, wherein 
 for the Greigs lay her deepest wickedness. Now Jamie's 
 fame as Quintus Flumen had just reached the dale in- 
 habited by the Greigs: and this, aided by his mother's 
 volte-face towards him, made them lend him their ears. 
 He was encouraged to hold forth, and, being plied with 
 Donald's admirable port, had no difficulty in doing so fn
 
 292 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the evenings. Besides he wished to outshine Tom, who 
 could always hold Donald's attention about business, 
 prices, grey cloth, the Far East, the possibility of America 
 doing its own manufacturing. The theatre as a topic 
 was impossible for the Greigs never went to the theatre ; 
 poetry served for a night or two, because a Greig had 
 married a kinswoman of the Ettrick Shepherd, and old 
 Angus had once been taken to dine with Samuel Rogers, 
 and Christopher North had more than once attended the 
 great Greig garden-party at which all the county gath- 
 ered; but the subject could not last long because no one 
 knew anything of Wordsworth except his grave, and 
 Keats, Shelley and Byron had announced ideals upon 
 which Thrigsby had improved in practice. It was, 
 curiously enough, when the Vestiges of Creation cropped 
 up that Jamie was able to expound and defend the poeti- 
 cal attitude. Then he talked with an excited confidence, 
 keeping clear of denunciation and fortunately offending 
 no one, but saying many things that unknown to himself 
 had been lying next his heart. His luck stood by him 
 and he drew most largely upon Spenser and ended to the 
 admiration of all by reciting whole passages by heart. 
 The Greigs were happy and exalted. Here was one 
 of those young Lawries proving himself on lines which 
 threatened no Greig preserve. He would be a poet, he 
 would be famous. They could point to him and say: 
 Not only have the Greigs and the Keiths made Thrigsby 
 but they have given to the world a voice. Poor Jamie 
 got far more drunk on Donald's praise than upon Don- 
 ald's port, and he allowed these relations of his night 
 after night to make a show of him until he realised that 
 Agnes' eyes were upon him and that from her remote- 
 ness she was extracting her fill of amusement out of him. 
 He became horribly aware too that his mother was suck-
 
 THE STRUGGLE WITH VANITY 293 
 
 ing up their flattery and actually allowing the Greigs to 
 put the Lawries in their place. It was enough for the 
 Lawries to have produced this marvel, this poet; they 
 need look for no more : when the poet had conquered, 
 when his works were published in London, they would 
 have justified themselves. The Lawries were placed, by 
 these Greigs who had done all that they had by this same 
 process of allowing strangers to approach just so far as 
 to be useful and no further. Jamie saw that in one flash 
 of insight : he understood the whole household : he 
 understood Agnes too, and saw that she, being in re- 
 action against it, might well be, though never so little, 
 in love with his brother. Ever so little would suffice: 
 she would be so glad to be simply and womanly in love. 
 It was almost worth having made a fool of himself to 
 have arrived at that, but about himself the Greig process 
 had begun and there was no stopping it. It would grind 
 the Lawriean principle to powder. Only flight could 
 save him, but there was no moving his mother. She 
 was so entirely happy in Donald's flattery and had be^ 
 gun to vow that Jamie was the image of his father. 
 "It is time," said Donald, "that Thrigsby gave the 
 country something more than wealth and commercial and 
 political ideas. When we produce artists, poets, thinkers, 
 then the modern English city will rival Florence. I 
 have always felt myself that we were on the eve of a 
 Renaissance. Great wealth, great luxury, and then, art. 
 Out of mortality, immortality." Donald was not often 
 given to talking because he knew that he could so easily 
 talk himself off his balance. This happened to him now 
 and he went on talking. He dreaded the moment when 
 his habitual silence would return. Everybody else 
 dreaded it for him and the atmosphere was highly 
 charged. Jamie withdrew himself, profiting by his new
 
 /THREE SONS/ AND) A jM<DTHER 
 
 l^ordswarth'si grave 
 
 thdt wfeieip Gdteddgeifrad (occupied, par %/ 
 JaveufoK'tffesrf naetj, ffartly! in : the f (pathetic t 
 ipferswade.'hirjiseli, that.he 
 gfe)fcialpufvhe managed Itf Is 
 irafcof ihim^l^f bwtijthcjf)iMerf[S<i>) lame 
 witfailaughteir rtorerii^cm,' ad;fW^nt backup 
 
 bfeen I ,' fwcitten* I orilyi /the ( { jndst 
 justify a imian, in writing mOre 
 .Qoleiridge'sv luck and 1 4refaift, -.. 
 
 ; voices pi?opne^yjgf 
 
 ing !on aiici , oA until a ) wJao^e : wof Id i should 
 
 ffhf jnod.n n/<{ ,Jr>f!j ir, 
 
 gtliffedi (danger^ 
 
 mogt abvipbsi Wayjftif' a^sfert-ing himself . 
 ling Ithat Agues .feadipf^ 
 .hts /instinctive process ,of ,\ 
 Imagined thaOhe Grcigs were p 
 jgenerally. ;Mrs. Donald' Avas (makingt 
 .charmirtg ' )to; Margaret; ; Jd& : isej^cte^i : Mrs.o -> 
 ithfi .person to tyhxarn ifirs't. tQicpofiderlthQjt&Jpi qf ( t^e 
 
 had! re>tard 
 &!" i H-e .repe&ted f *'. 
 
 vbr^ a,tjtht.fchd .^ftisaid <;. "jW^/caa't gp 
 r/-' Aches' . fladeAii|f|yi.v// Mre> [ iPofta 
 i^iSawi: ->'fJ ^yei?! thought } 
 thingj :'f-/The good r crie&twe f nwf j r thought jOtf
 
 BdhaM ;; did* 'H f ' he' 'thinking - ! f Of* teiy ^d ars< 
 ha ; dTto tfiiflkr sh"toeW s^aigfh'f to hitii afotf Jt 
 < "That! -stopped liis' talking. He- ctep^ed-hi 
 h&UI J 'ahd ! w&it ! over 1 >' td se~e' to bk)th^r, Agnes' ; ' 
 Matthfe^'^ei^-^h^- Wearying itt- middlb'lrfe' of 
 aft'd- Thrigkby- Md tri^d-riiah^.'hobbie^ and i 
 had ; ftjtiftd< beihg : aii : invalid' tttore ittteT^tih^ 
 othierV ' /v tcr Wtd A^nfes had' Jbe^ 7 for yeatfs ; & tainfetfcfi 
 ahgd- 1 Part^t Mei' iittrtietis^ cretttattfB th^' G^s ! ' was 
 diM46'tier ^ftsyiflfehfi^ss; ^ith rfegard tO^er father,-; f wtib 
 v^as^-iriof e 1 \httff fcappy - to Simnief 3 ' in 'ttld; 'saiisf action^ ^f 
 tMr'- ^rfeet relationship. '' Donal^^^neW&'^cfed liptin 
 'like ''&$ : ti^n[ > 'a : snail; : H^ shriVell^el u{> ! and teii 
 'effort' averted ; hivtisklfy 'f Qi'got? - ! his .iHnfeks 
 f 'Ma^r-y ? 5 . Agries malrry^ T^ohi^ LaM^rie/ -that 
 o r n t f > w^G-raJnidsott,?? 'said- Etonaldi^AH '&* 
 same;. -i.Ilj^s infthe j bloold.:> AiiyoGe, anyonfei. but Agnfis/' 
 - j / JEVen, ^of:her -own: retatio'nsv rit- is, toi be ofeerved; 'Aj^nes 
 was :a'/'iyhibol; f/Tb- the. Gfeigs 'she /stood for/ 'perfect 
 ,; afl that thfey Considered^ themselvfels. tb Jaav/e 
 fti' ;the ipdust'dalisrti tb)?y had: s/0 
 i j, ,a, kin4 ; /pf' ; yirginityi,. 'a . I 
 
 wa-s -t^eyr- pburch, 
 sjgns_upon Agnes^w/ere a yiolatj.op. , If she 
 
 ni 
 
 ;< ,;Nlatthew. rang 'the b^U, 3 y 
 
 came anii receiyei exppstuja-tjon in^ie^e, wf|:I> J^ 
 '-rusting approval of ..pis brptljerr'Sy.protes,^ ^p^ ; entr^ati^s 
 
 irid drarr^aticaily expressed all tfiat' had f or. wars 'en- 
 teVtaiiied her iihtil she was weary of it. It was a magnifi-
 
 296 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 cent climax and must be the end : but, because she was 
 fond of the two old gentlemen, she was sorry. "But 
 suddenly," said Matthew, "suddenly to let such news 
 burst upon us. One thought you did not marry because 
 you were fastidious, and had your full share of the 
 family pride. You might have married almost any- 
 body. You had your seasons in London, but you seemed 
 to despise London." "Yes, papa," said Agnes, "we do." 
 "Then why Thrigsby? For you will have to live in 
 Thrigsby." "Our money comes from there." "Aye," 
 interjected Donald, "but our brains come from Scot- 
 land." "Then," said Agnes, "we should live in Scot- 
 land." "Do keep to the point," cried Matthew. "Yes, 
 please," said Agnes, knowing that this was the one thing 
 no Greig could ever do. Matthew and Donald went on 
 talking round and round the subject until she told them 
 that Tom had been asking her for the last four years 
 until at last she had consented. "At least," asked Mat- 
 thew, "will you wait?" "No," replied she, "Tom has 
 waited all those years." "Do him no harm to wait a 
 little longer." "At least," said Matthew suddenly senti- 
 mental, "at least I hoped you would wait for my death." 
 This baffled even Agnes, accustomed as she was to her 
 father's unscrupulous egoism. It stiffened her in her 
 resistance; made her feel that it was quite time she 
 escaped. "I will tell Tom to come and see you," she 
 said. "I will not see him," almost whined Matthew. 
 "Uncle Donald then." "Someone," said Donald, "must 
 look into his finances." "That," said Agnes maliciously, 
 "is all Tom wants." And then, without warning, a little 
 storm of emotion broke upon her and tears came to her 
 eyes. "Oh!" she cried, "if only you would for one 
 moment think of me." Donald drew himself up and
 
 THE STRUGGLE WITH VANITY 297 
 
 with immense dignity he said : "In every crisis we must 
 think of the family." 
 
 On that basis Donald conducted his interview with 
 Tom, whose finances were found to be eminently satis- 
 factory. "He was given to understand that the Greigs re- 
 fused to admit that Agnes would pass out of the family 
 or immediately to suffer his entrance to it. Opposition, 
 in a word, was not withdrawn though its futility was 
 acknowledged. 
 
 Over the negotiations the way was opened up for the 
 beginning of a rapprochement between the House of 
 Keith and the House of Greig which had for forty years 
 been separated ever since a quarrel between old Andrew 
 and old Angus. Tom was satisfied. Jamie was eclipsed. 
 As for Margaret she was in the farthest heaven of de- 
 light. Agnes Greig, that fine flower of the family, was 
 to be Agnes Lawrie ; all that she had suffered from her 
 descent from her own family was healed in this triumph. 
 She was free as never before to rejoice in her sons, most 
 of all now in Tom, tentatively and hopefully in Jamie, 
 and only in John was she now disappointed. It seemed 
 to her a confession of weakness in him that he should 
 have gone away to the Colonies. A glorious victory! 
 Her tongue was loosed. She sought Jamie's company 
 and began to tell him of all she had suffered from the 
 time when she had been left to bring them all up on 
 her pension, until now now when Tom's fortune was 
 made. "And, dear Jamie, I am so happy now that I can 
 talk to you. Dear Tom is so absorbed, so taken up with 
 his Agnes. And I am so glad that it is Tom and not 
 you who are going to be married, for I can look forward 
 to being alone with you. And if Tom could now make 
 
 room for you in the firm " "I'll stick to my bank," 
 
 said Jamie and he let her go crooning on. Of all the
 
 29$ TOftEB 1 3WS/ A W ;A MOTHER 
 
 peffStfns .engaged she was the most truly happy. In vain 
 did he look in Tom and Agnes for the enchanted wo^ider; 
 that -should- be inlovers; When he saw them together jhe 
 was reffliinied of ,the ; gqo4 peQpie/coming out of church 
 gentkmen in stiff broadcloth, ladies in 
 marriage, he thought, between a frock-coat 
 and a crinoline* A4: when he remembered the dreams 
 of Agues: that; lor. years had hovered in his mind, then 
 he was sad indeed. He shared rather the depression of 
 tbft Gfeigs than the elation Qf his own family, and, in- 
 dee^ he itoo, had been defeated. And so listless was his 
 vanity /that his heart was left unprotected, and a little, a 
 very little, of his love. for Agnes found its way into it 
 atod rriade- him very wretched. .He was glad when, the 
 wadding having been fixed, his mother withdrew trium- 
 phant /from the field and he could return with her to 
 Thrigsby. This time he was. glad to see the city, to take 
 up his career there, arid to feel that, for good or ill, he 
 had to work but his share of the clan's history in the 
 ugliness the clan had helped to make. Ah! if he could 
 bring some little beauty into it, if his miserable love .for 
 Agnes could, borne : to: flower there and do some service 
 /. 
 id\ 
 
 Dfl? rrroit f^ji^n^ l:rl vrl-j lln lo rr 
 no qw HB rn^rlj ^n ! A na&cf br,r 
 
 arif/iiol a'moT n^Hv/ v/orr- 
 
 I JnrlJ -ffon yqqnri o< rns I .airnfil 'n.^L . .5; 
 
 rljiv/ q nt>5lc} 02 .b&dio^dn os %t rrr> T T/rjG ; /lie; 
 
 on bfi moT r:i )i Jf!) bfilg I bnA . till 
 
 >lool n/io I ?/! .btjinr.rn od oi ^ 
 -//on bfmo rnoT li Ln/. .uov diiv/ si: 
 
 ",>Jrn;d v/n oj >f-ji)> II'T" " rmft aril m t; 
 
 wli 111; "tO > '
 
 H3HTOM A CT/IA 8XO 33HHT oo 
 
 nBsrn c\d8hriT lo rmblitb -isv^b or(j "lo ynsm 
 j barteiw 3fl ^BfiJ 'isrl ni aiuafisiq ni:' /;// ojrjyu ur^ 
 
 -ml r'.E^f oilV/ .vddiT iljr// J;M! uj i^il >I'.j) -jil bin; ji 
 yddfT bltie' ".blulj ,!''ii!,y .uvjils i3rt"7t!TT!Ttfi5TTT 
 
 bsl 08 m'l"- -'^S^^T^^terP^^Hr^V .bsabrri viu;l r, 
 
 . i -T t r .rv^Al/\ir l-llflx. A.A.V11 ,, r i r 
 
 JA .ynn^ 7 ! b^ulinq ,T3iDioe ^lE-n rnai snv/jjJ .i'/. 
 j'nbib I bnn isibloa Jaufafiv/' art Jrljii.'oii) I UK 1-.> 1^'u'i 
 
 ... T T/r AMBITION , 
 
 '.({/. .anwfiJ .iM nijslq SBW an nariv/- rrnn s^n^om 
 
 ilatte! t6^toja< i became jsuware i^ 
 I?; e.t^iitthing^^heri'he^aokedrfeackrcih'it, showed cbmic. 
 
 mobt 
 tiD> istoji 
 
 take 
 Uye. 
 as the bank was becoming iftQrBdMf 
 
 
 ifl^ey, 
 
 ;^n, her : |jj^ tra^d^f t|ie- precocious > sharpn?$ of . 
 299
 
 300 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 many of the clever children of Thrigsby's mean streets. 
 So acute was his pleasure in her that he wished to share 
 it and he took her to tea with Tibby, who was im- 
 mediately her slave. "Child, child," said Tibby, "you're 
 a fairy indeed, out of the play-acting." "I'm so glad 
 Mr. Lawrie isn't really a soldier," prattled Fanny. "At 
 first of all I thought he was just a soldier and I didn't 
 recognise him when he was plain Mr. Lawrie." "Ah! 
 He's a grand man," sighed Tibby. (Jamie had left 
 them together.) "Mr. Wilcox says he would have been 
 a great actor." "God forbid!" said Tibby. "Why ?" 
 asked Fanny. "I'm an actress." "You, child, an 
 actress? Actresses are hussies. He's a grand man is 
 Mr. Lawrie, and he goes among the actresses to relieve 
 his feelings, and, let me tell you, there's not many has 
 such feelings to relieve. If we were in Scotland now 
 they would make him a minister or a professor. He 
 would be looked up to anywhere." "Yes," said Fanny, 
 "he's so tall ; but he doesn't like being looked up to. He 
 looks quite unhappy if I even tell him what they say 
 about him at the theatre." 
 
 Jamie returned and teased Fanny because she had 
 made so great a hole in the cake. "You like our Scots 
 cooking?" he asked. "Next time you come we'll have 
 scones and honey. You can take what is left of the cake 
 home to your mother." Fanny beamed at that. "O, 
 mum will like that ; she'll be so proud, but I don't think 
 she'll eat any of it. She'll want to keep it in her treasure 
 drawer." "Then you sha'n't take it," said Tibby. "I 
 made the cake to be eaten." "If you cut it in slices," 
 said Fanny thoughtfully, "I think she wouldn't keep 
 it. Six slices, one for each, and a big one for dad." 
 
 Jamie was just cutting the cake when Margaret came 
 down into the kitchen to see Tibby. She was taken
 
 AMBITION 301 
 
 aback to see the child sitting at the table. "My friend, 
 Fanny Shaw," said Jamie. "Fanny, this is my mother." 
 The child dropped to her feet and bobbed a curtsey, and 
 Margaret bowed gravely. She was overcome with shy- 
 ness and Fanny was at once alarmed, disappointed too 
 for the mother of her wonderful friend should have been 
 wonderful also. Margaret seemed to be very much the 
 fine lady, made more awful by the mutch she was wear- 
 ing. "Tibby," said Margaret, "Miss Agnes is coming to 
 stay a night or two with us and you must air the best 
 linen sheets." Jamie winced at the mention of Agnes, 
 and that did not escape Fanny's sharp eyes and keen 
 instincts. Her perturbation communicated itself to 
 Tibby who turned her mournful eyes upon Jamie. 
 "Fanny is my best friend," said he. "We were cutting 
 up the cake for the family." "We don't often have 
 cake," said Fanny. Margaret smiled uneasily and with 
 the best intentions of saying the right thing remarked: 
 "I'm sure you are a good little girl." That "little girl" 
 finished the party. Jamie relapsed into a gloomy silence 
 and Tibby began to talk about the linen sheets, while she 
 made a rough parcel of the cake. With this presently 
 Jamie and Fanny sallied forth, he unable to say a word. 
 She was used to that mood in him and had learned that 
 it was best to talk through it. She rattled on : "Tibby 
 looks like a witch, doesn't she? I was frightened of 
 her at first, but she isn't a bit like a witch really. And 
 when she talked about you I was quite happy again. I 
 often wondered what grown-up people's mothers were 
 
 like and when she talked about Agnes " "For God's 
 
 sake, child," said Jamie, "be quiet." Poor Fanny's 
 lips trembled. He had never spoken to her like that be- 
 fore. Who was this Agnes who could cast so dark a 
 shadow ?
 
 THREE SO$$IA}fty-A MOTHER 
 
 they 
 rerrtoife li 
 
 $tagfc 
 
 he# 
 r 17 thfe 'f>6f ifof 
 
 ' sht>ckih^ 
 df 'm 
 
 -s 
 
 ^the 'onfy -^ 
 
 to 
 
 Sought f oat - Mi-, 
 e ^deptHs '.' 
 id; /^aftd ^ 
 * 1 ;^ m 
 ;* Not f 
 
 abo 
 ^^ 
 
 they 
 
 -home 
 
 m' Hsd'tb'lflta a- 
 
 sofntone ^'art 
 
 iihafeii/ f to" 1 tWs''isl a dog's ; Kfe, ^notHih^ but 
 flSlii^tt( Quint, if it AVasn't for iydta 
 up m print wefck after week many of us 
 
 some 
 
 ing of giving it up. It's quite time I made up
 
 < 3:1 HHT 
 
 what I am going to be 7J and, you 
 liked it, and there's n$ r gating 
 
 ; "It- ; 
 
 bk there w 
 
 ^ once, ;oi8i|ftrlfil's{ have 
 
 elaborated, r 
 season., [ ( 
 
 hp wpujd ;$ee whatr c(? 
 thinking-, <?f iFanny 
 within ; 
 
 done, {, 
 
 beM<eyed h"im,{lfe>r i 
 that 
 
 raorr he 
 
 appreciation VWhi 
 
 service 6f the ihfeatfe., 
 
 aE' would b^jwettlif tba*/y<?>#&g . 
 
 the ;minotr.atCtiYkiies; bf: - 
 
 bearfd/7 hd/said nowfj < /rWhatrs!;the 
 
 eyleiy thing or ; jth^, : ^ke j pj5 , peaqe, J^j w^: gi ve_ up;- ey.t;y r> 
 
 for the sake 
 ig, /M that .
 
 304 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 face like yours if you hide the best part of it?" Jamie 
 laughed at him. "And it isn't only your face, it's your 
 talents. Cut off your beard, drop the Quintus Flumen, 
 let them know that it's James Lawrie who makes the 
 broad-bottomed blood-suckers sit up, and make no bones 
 about it." "The bank wouldn't stand it." "Then let 
 the bank lump it." "Where's the money to come from 
 then?" "Oh, damnation take the money. If they won't 
 pay for art we'll give it them." "You might if they'd 
 give you the theatre and let you off the rent." "You'd 
 find someone to stand by you." "I think not." "Well, 
 all I can say is that if you're against them as you are, 
 you oughtn't to pretend to be with them. You don't 
 injure them by shilly-shallying as you do : you only hurt 
 yourself." "But I'm not against them." "You are. 
 You know you are, only you've got some ridiculous no- 
 tion of tolerating everybody and everything even though 
 they let everything you care for starve to death. That's 
 why you wear that beastly beard, because you can't bear 
 to let them see you as you are." This was nearer the 
 truth than Jamie cared to allow. He said: "Nonsense. 
 I've said I'll see what I can do and I will. I certainly 
 agree that the theatre in this town is treated disgrace- 
 fully, but I'm not so sure either that the town isn't 
 treated disgracefully by the theatre. You're a conceited 
 lot and I think that if an artist forgets his humility he 
 deserves all he gets. I don't say that if he remembers 
 it he gets what he deserves, but then, if he does re- 
 member, he probably doesn't care." Mr. Wilcox flamed 
 out: "That's it. At bottom you don't care. You're a 
 Scotchman and shrewd, and your shrewdness in the 
 end will be the death of you as it was with that old 
 tyke, Andrew." "All right," said Jamie, "that remains 
 to be seen." He prized the friendliness of Mr. Wilcox,
 
 AMBITION 305 
 
 drunken and foolish though he might be, and indeed it 
 was the friendliness of the theatre's atmosphere that he 
 relished. Jealousy and spite there were in plenty but 
 not the cold and ruthless misery of Thrigsbeian com- 
 merce. In the theatre a man would appreciate the suc- 
 cess even of his enemy. Crude and undisciplined though 
 it might be, yet there was the will to work for the com- 
 mon good, namely, to keep the theatre open in the face 
 of the indifference of Thrigsby, whose people, however, 
 were not without aesthetic pretensions. They had a pub- 
 lic Free Library paid for out of the rates: they had the 
 Picture Gallery instituted by Sophia's father: they had 
 admirable weekly concerts founded by the growing Ger- 
 man colony: only the theatre they would not patronise 
 or regard as a source of pride. That, thought our James, 
 with a touch of Greigishness, it would be for him to 
 alter. 
 
 As he walked home with Fanny for distances in 
 Thrigsby were then still walkable he asked her why she 
 liked the acting, and her answer pleased him. She 
 said : "It's like being in a story." "But doesn't it matter 
 what kind of a story?" She thought that over a moment 
 and then answered: "Oh! no." And that settled for 
 him one of the questions which had often puzzled him, 
 why the actors were apparently unaware of the fact 
 that they were boring their audience, and why they were 
 hurt with surprise when he as critic informed them that 
 they were so doing. It was true : it was nothing to Mr. 
 Wilcox whether he were saying "Mesopotamia" or the 
 Garden Speech from The Winter's Tale. It was noth- 
 ing to Fanny whether she were Mustardseed or the 
 Che-ild in melodrama. And somehow that was right for 
 Fanny, but wrong for Mr. Wilcox. In Fanny's life 
 there was still so much enchantment that art and poetry
 
 306 THREE SOK&iAMXA MOTHER 
 
 oiild><notJ'be. important to her. 'Indeed there was in 
 Pinny ? so -wiueh beauty that no .poet -had --ever cawght'in 
 Words*' the beauty that poets . saw in their Dramas' - be- 
 fore> even it Battle to the; -reptdsttkv - which ended ;th e* 
 pressioh.-^Jami^ had the repulsion* but with him it nev*r 
 dime-' W expression, "He -had always to go back /again 
 to: make 'sure./: Then there -ttfotiid be more Tepulsiqnr;jso 
 that he 'was .'nevef>st5ei.'fo^-'v?ry/'loug 'together. There* 
 fore- be clung to Fanny/ and-the idea of her and dreamed 
 fantastically of her- future,- \vhen -that \vhich--hd saw in 
 her would be revealed r tb ail men and through them hd 
 ivould be sure. On thit his x^ueer : untrained vinetai 
 Scots mind worked out a theory of the theatbe 
 its collective; appeal- im.de> alt 'men ^ure.^^Bat 
 di'd not the Church d o that ? It made them sure o a God 
 frfofm'g in: a, mysterious way, 'ibut^that: only reconciled 
 them to ugliness. He needed to be sure of beaufryL 
 Through -Fanny and the theatre 'he' -would attains that 
 end. ^ Now, he thought, he knew^ivfeatiie must d6c^ Mr. 
 Wilcox r :had given him the opportunity, Fanny the in- 
 centive.:.' He must make it 'possible for everyone in the 
 theatre, on: erther side; of the footlights,; to know and to 
 shire/lier;<joy.iin living in a story. If he could do thatv 
 orri help to do that, -he wotiW have accomplished-"rnoTe 
 than either- 'ofteis ^brothers,- and his sister :Mary's letters 
 wnould/'nb longer .fLH, him with envy and melancholy; 
 That, he!? felt sure; was: what Alary meant by England 
 giving the .world something- for :the privileges; slie had 
 enjoyed. He was absundhy /an A magnificently ambitious, 
 but very<ha!ppy r and strode along idealising Fanny as 
 she trotted^ by his side, until ^he remembered that he had 
 had rriiach'tne same feeling when he watched her putting 
 her little : brother to bed and hearing him gabble his 
 prayers and 'evening -'hymn: "Pity my simplicity, Suf-
 
 AMBITION 307 
 
 fer me to come to Thee." Exactly the same rush of 
 adoration, the same swift and burning hope, the same 
 melting into weakness and resignation. Then he laughed 
 and called himself a sentimental fool and told himself 
 that if he could ly^jfy j^^Ti^^y P* ^ e Deserved to 
 have the bad time which vaguely ne had felt was in 
 store for him, and ^mo^f su/p^i^n^ly had not yet ar- 
 rived. First Selina, tnen Agnes, men Fanny had helped 
 to make things bearable. It was a poor oort of man 
 would always be taking refuge behind a woman's skirts. 
 
 rf ^&ntfa&ff. 
 
 ,morlw \o ?.i3lhw .arilaoO nov .V/ .{ bnr, 
 
 io\ 5J[ooI Ylnr^v jrf^im uoY .abfiarl anri 
 sH .msrlj lo brjoiq esw aami;^ bnA .Yda^nrlT ni 3>lil 
 ^o 9bi?. isrfjia no mooi-gninib arij ni gnurl marlJ bgriarw 
 lo -iBarf Jon bluow rrtoT juQ .isrijB^ giri ^o iijntioq art) 
 9tB 9f( alirlw nriri Jr, nwob ^rinfil^ gnBmiaO yiJzG^d : }i 
 vda^iiflT nr ri^grjorta gnBrrnaO siaw 9i9rIT "iisnnib 2frf 
 fri rnsriJ jy^rn oJ sv^ri oJ ^rrdauggib vIJnaiDfftijg ; SBW Ji SB 
 Jo^ 9fl ri^riw arriori tB rn^fb gnibnft Juorfjiv/ 
 
 .Ilr, JB agniwfiib ion SIB x 9 rf^ " : rnarfj I)9ntmr,x9 rnoT 
 
 Dfll nwob ~Aooi rnoT ".snojg no nwrnb 
 on JBfi) bsvonq boc yrlqBi^oriJil qn bsmuJ bnB 
 3fiJ 9io^9i3flJ Jj;rij bnB ,9noi8 Dfll no anob ^BV/ 
 nwo 11/07 Ji avr.H" .aJnhq Jud ^nhiJ^nB acl Jon bluoo 
 
 Oftft 7197 91B
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 
 
 BEFORE Agnes came on her visit for the purchase 
 with her future husband of furniture, household 
 linen and clothes there had been almost a quarrel be- 
 tween the two brothers. From Berlin Mary had sent 
 her James, with whom alone she now kept up any regular 
 correspondence, two handsome lithographs of J. P. F. 
 Richter and J. W. von Goethe, writers of whom, through 
 Mr. Carlyle, every cultured Scot had become aware. 
 They were fine heads. You might vainly look for their 
 like in Thrigsby. And James was proud of them. He 
 wished them hung in the dining-room on either side of 
 the portrait of his father. But Tom would not hear of 
 it: beastly Germans glaring down at him while he ate 
 his dinner? There were Germans enough in Thrigsby 
 as it was; sufficiently disgusting to have to meet them in 
 business without rinding them at home when he got 
 there. "But they are very fine drawings," said Jamie. 
 Tom examined them: "They are not drawings at all. 
 They are prints." "Of course they are: lithographs, 
 drawn on stone." Tom took down the Encyclopaedia 
 and turned up lithography and proved that no drawing 
 was done on the stone, and that therefore the portraits 
 could not be anything but prints. "Have it your own 
 way then," said Jamie, "but they are very fine and as 
 
 308
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 309 
 
 for their being German, they are poets, so that it doesn't 
 count." "Jean Paul never wrote a line of poetry in his 
 life." "How do you know? Have you read him?" 
 "No. Have you?" "No." 
 
 So began a very pretty wrangle which was carried on 
 for the best part of a week. Tom said the proper place 
 for the pictures was a portfolio so that when Jamie 
 wished to refresh his soul with them he could take them 
 out and do so; or, if the wretched things were to be 
 framed let them be hung on the landing well away from 
 the skylight. "I shall hang them in the dining-room," 
 said Jamie, "and I don't know why you should be so 
 dead set against the Germans. The Queen's a German 
 and I don't know where we should have been at Waterloo 
 without them." "Excuse me," said Tom icily, "the 
 Germans look like sheep and they are like sheep. Look 
 at your Goethe ! Did you ever see such a mutton-head ?" 
 "He is the greatest genius since Shakespeare." "You 
 make me sick with your genius. What good is it? I'd 
 like to know. All the trouble in the world that isn't 
 caused by women is caused by genius." "You'll deny 
 Shakespeare next." "I wouldn't mind. I never read 
 him." "Whom do you read then?" "Malthus and 
 John Stuart Mill." "O, my God!" "But I don't pro- 
 pose to disfigure the dining-room with their portraits." 
 "I shall have the pitcures framed and I shall hang them 
 in the dining-room." "Then I shall remove them." 
 
 The pictures were framed and hung in the dining- 
 room. Whenever Tom entered it he took them down 
 from the wall, and as soon as he had left Jamie replaced 
 them. At last they had their meals at different times 
 and for six days did not speak to each other. Margaret 
 tried to make each confess the cause of their difference 
 but was met with the silence in which both were skilled.
 
 310 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 She observed that the pictures had something to do with 
 it and, to save further trouble, removed them and hung 
 them on the landing. When Jamie asked her why she 
 had done that she said that Goethe was an atheist and 
 she could not have him in her dining-room without 
 offending her visitors when they came to tea. "And 
 Jean Paul?" he asked, highly amused and beginning to 
 recognise that the whole squabble had been more than 
 a little silly. "He must have been a friend of Goethe's," 
 said Margaret, "or Mary would not have sent them 
 together." "You dear innocent," cried Jamie, catching 
 her in his arms and hugging her. "Don't do that," 
 said she. "Where's your dignity? I shouldn't have 
 minded such things when you were a boy, but you never 
 did them then." "That's true," said he. "I was too 
 shy then. First shyness, then conceit to escape from the 
 torment of it, then God knows what." "Love," said 
 Margaret, "and it's quite time you followed Tom's ex- 
 ample." "And leave you alone, mother?" "I've had 
 years to get used to the thought of it." "Then you'll 
 be disappointed, mother, for I'm not for marrying. "- 
 "Then do you settle down and make a great name for 
 yourself and conquer this wildness that has come over 
 you." 
 
 That, however, was exactly what Jamie had no mind 
 to do. His youth had come upon him rather out of its 
 time but he was not disposed, for that reason, to forego 
 it. He felt himself, every now and then, a free man, 
 and every defiance of Tom accentuated that feeling. He 
 looked forward to Agnes' coming. Tom might have all 
 the wonder of her and yet be infinitely lower than him- 
 self. Tom might have her pledge, he would have her 
 sympathy and would win more and more of it. Tom 
 and she would be building their cage while outside he
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 311 
 
 would be free in mind and heart. Agnes might feel 
 it; if so, she would be open to suffering. That would 
 be his gift to her, the capacity for suffering; better, 
 at all events, than the absolute negation in which Elisa- 
 beth, Andrew's wife, had perished. 
 
 In such fantasy Jamie thoroughly enjoyed himself, 
 forgot his annoyance over the pictures and made it up 
 with his brother. And then Agnes came. She was at 
 tea with his mother when he returned from the bank. 
 As soon as he set eyes on her his fantasy came tinkling 
 down like a broken window. Already she had suffered. 
 There was to be no triumph for him. He knew himself 
 by the clear light of her eyes for the Harlequin that 
 he was. He was to take his mood from her. That he 
 realised in a flash. She was taking her marriage with 
 Tom seriously. He had never allowed for that. To 
 him it had never been anything but comic. Beauty and 
 the Beast, the peculiar Thrigsbeian kind of Beast, that 
 would admit neither enchantment nor wonder even in 
 woman. He greeted her kindly, sat down opposite her 
 and munched buttered toast. He was afraid of her and 
 was faced with the unpleasant fact that he had always 
 been so. "Is the wedding fixed?" he asked. "Six 
 weeks to-day," said she. "I suppose you'll have a bigger 
 house than this." "Oh ! no. Quite small to begin with." 
 "I wonder Tom didn't meet you at the station." 
 "He said he would if he could." "You know how busy 
 Tom has been," said Margaret, "ever since all this 
 anxiety over the situation in America." "Uncle Donald 
 says things look so bad that we ought to wait until some- 
 thing is settled." "Don't you wait," said Jamie, rather 
 surprised at his own words. "If I were getting married 
 I'd not let the Day of Judgment interfere with it." 
 "Jamie!" said his mother scandalised. However, seeing
 
 312 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 that Agnes did not mind the profanity, she continued : 
 "It does seem a shame that hard-working people should 
 be upset by things that happen so far away. But if it 
 is the Lord's will I suppose it must be done." And Jamie 
 watched Agnes. He was puzzled and also a little 
 alarmed by the new depth in her. She was thinner and, 
 to him, even more beautiful than she had been; more 
 alive, had less of the sweet stupid acquiescence which 
 in most of the women of his acquaintance irritated him, 
 though it had previously been an important element in 
 her charm. Taking her marriage seriously, she was 
 going to allow herself to be dragged into the welter of 
 Thrigsby, where her fine quality would be ignored as com- 
 pletely as though she were entering a harem. Did she 
 feel that ? Was it the cause of her suffering ? But soon 
 these questions no longer interested him. Her suffering 
 hurt him and the hurt made other sensations impossible, 
 and thoughts all foolish. By his sympathy he knew that 
 he was separated with her from all that was going on 
 round them. Yet they shared nothing except her suffer- 
 ing. To his hurt she was indifferent. She was, he 
 knew, glad of it, for it accentuated and confirmed her 
 solitude. Then with a rush and a whirl of emotion he 
 was all worship for her. She had that dignity which 
 always and everywhere he was seeking, the dignity of 
 the human soul that knows its loneliness, over the depths 
 of which all passions, all sorrows, all delights pass and 
 are gone. She was that woman in white of whom he had 
 read in an old Quaker's book, who, in the centre of the 
 earth, "sate, lookinge at time how it passed away." She 
 was that woman, and she was a bride on the eve of her 
 wedding day. There was the contradiction, there the 
 suffering. Her eyes met his and he saw how she was on 
 her guard against him. He had divined too much.
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 313 
 
 All this over a tea-table ! How amusing it was to re- 
 turn to the surface of things, to the queer ugly dining- 
 room, to his mother's fussy proprietary air with her 
 future daughter-in-law who was both to gain so much 
 by entering the family, and also was to bring so much 
 to it. Margaret was simmering with pride and happi- 
 ness. Tom's wife had beauty, wealth and position. 
 What more was needed? and she was satisfied was 
 Margaret : all her plans, all her privations had flowered 
 in this. Her cup was full. 
 
 Then Tom came in and to his brother's torment Agnes 
 at once became all charm, almost all coquetry. She rose 
 to greet her betrothed, accepted gladly his embraces, and 
 kissed him again when he produced a present, a jewel. 
 Margaret crooned and purred over it and Tibby, com- 
 ing in with fresh tea, was called to admire it. Then, 
 quite definitely, Jamie felt that he was apart from them 
 all, that they had some bond of union which he could 
 not accept, though for another kind of union, one more 
 intimate and less factitious, he was ripe and longing. 
 For him Agnes was no longer herself, but a very charm- 
 ing compound of good manners, Greig tradition and 
 conventional wifeliness. His rage turned against her. 
 How could she, that had this true dignity, so submit, 
 to being less than herself, and, being less than herself, 
 enter upon the rare mystery of marriage? To have his 
 rough and ready way with it was well enough for Tom, 
 but for her? Then Tom said: "You see, my dear, we 
 are homely people." And Agnes answered: "Homeli- 
 ness is what I want. I sometimes wish I could be a 
 poor woman, and make my own bread on Fridays and 
 wash on Mondays." "That, thank God," said Tom, 
 "you will never be." "No," capped Margaret, "you are 
 spared that, Agnes." "There's many a poor woman,"
 
 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 said Jamie, "has a better time of it than the richest 
 lady in the land." "Then why," asked Tom frigidly, 
 "do we all try to get rich and why are the rich re- 
 spected?"- "God knows," said Jamie, "unless it is that 
 they can make a show." Tom turned to Agnes and said : 
 "In another and a less happy country my brother would 
 be a revolutionary." "Why not say what you mean, 
 Tom ?" asked Jamie pleasantly. "I'd be a fool wherever 
 I was." "That," answered Tom, "I would never go 
 so far as to say of one of my own blood, or indeed of 
 any Scotsman." "At any rate," continued Jamie, 
 "Tom's no fool, is he, Agnes?" And Agnes blushed. 
 "Sometimes," said Margaret gently, "I wonder if my 
 two sons will ever be grown men." And she put them 
 both to shame by telling the story of the two German 
 portraits. Agnes smiled and patted Tom's hand and 
 said: "Now I know what to expect." 
 
 So conversation ran on, but Jamie's imagination was 
 working furiously over this matter of his brother's mar- 
 riage. It brought him very near to shaping an ideal. 
 Mysteriously it had thrown his mother into the back- 
 ground. She and her beliefs were no longer significant, 
 though they were remotely beautiful. All that com- 
 forted her God, the Church, the family was of no 
 avail for this younger generation. They had the forms 
 still but they were empty and there was no health in 
 them. But where to turn for satisfaction? Tom ap- 
 parently could fill the void with material success; he 
 could materialise everything, even, apparently, the pro- 
 foundest human relations, with a sublime and unshaken 
 confidence, because the forms remained and he never 
 suspected that they were meaningless. And Agnes, turn- 
 ing from her family, had thought Tom's way the best. 
 It did at least lead to security. How Jamie detested that
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 315 
 
 word! It resounded on all sides of him. The bank was 
 safe, though its security rested upon nothing but the 
 good will of its customers. Keith's was safe as long as 
 there was cotton grown in America and a market in India 
 made doubly secure by the British Government. Marri- 
 age was safe, a safeguard! That was how Agnes had 
 been tempted. Jamie felt that he was near the truth, 
 and this beautiful creature's suffering was so heartrend- 
 ing because it was so obscure. 
 
 He was always home earlier than Tom and was able 
 to have several talks with Agnes. One day he asked 
 her if she had never thought of entering a nunnery. 
 "Perhaps I have," she said. "But why do you ask 
 that?" "Something," he said, "that I feel in your na- 
 ture." "But I find life too amusing. Don't you?" 
 "So amusing that I can hardly bear it. I find so little 
 that is serious." '"And yet you are more serious than 
 any man I ever met. I find no reason for quarrelling 
 with absurd things because they are not serious." "But 
 when everything seems absurd . . . ?" "That could 
 not happen. It would be too terrible if it could." '"I 
 sometimes think that it is happening, that all the old 
 values will go and that human activity will become un- 
 directed and idiotic." "That is too philosophical for 
 me." "I don't want to be that." "You oughtn't to 
 be dissatisfied, Jamie. You Lawries have done very 
 well." -"For whom?" "For yourselves. I'm sure the 
 way you have all stood by your mother is perfectly 
 splendid." "Aye, she's satisfied, or I imagine she is." 
 '"If you stand by your wives half as well, you'll have 
 done fine." "But I think there's more to do than stand- 
 ing by women." "Is there ?" "Perhaps it's in the way 
 of doing it." "But that must be different for every- 
 body." "That's true and my way's not everybody's."
 
 316 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Agnes smiled at that: "No," she said, "I wouldn't 
 expect it of you." 
 
 Not a flicker could he get out of her. She was serene, 
 quick, ingenious to turn all his curious emotions back 
 upon him. Almost she made him believe that his first 
 terrible impression was illusory. Philosophical! All 
 his passionate interest in her! Philosophical, and there- 
 fore not to be considered. He protested : "I tell you I 
 feel that. We've stood by my mother but we've not 
 believed in her, and if you do a thing without believing 
 in it you have to pay dearly for it. She's believed in 
 the Lawries as old Angus believed in the Greigs, but 
 we younger ones don't : we don't believe in ourselves 
 as Lawries and Greigs any more than we believe in our- 
 selves as Christians, and we haven't the courage to 
 believe in ourselves as human beings, as men and women. 
 There's a deal of play-acting crept into it and for that 
 reason we are driving the soul out of everything that 
 we do." <Agnes was alarmed by the outburst and de- 
 fended herself: "It isn't true, Jamie. It isn't true. 
 I do believe in myself as a Christian woman." "If you 
 did," he replied, "you would be even now in a nunnery." 
 "You shall not say such things. You must be the 
 unhappiest man alive to say such things." He went 
 and stood by the window gazing out into the little gar- 
 den where in the apricot-coloured light of the evening 
 sun there shone the golden tassels of laburnum, the 
 white and mauve drooping heads of lilac. "Yes," he 
 said, "if I'm against that I'm against everything, every- 
 thing that they do." "Against what?" asked she. 
 "Against such marriages as yours." -"Oh! Jamie." "I 
 see a flowering beauty in you," he said, "like the beauty 
 of yon flowers, and only such love as I have for them 
 is worthy of you. I can laugh over most things but
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 317 
 
 not over the profanation of such beauty as that." Agnes 
 gave a little moan and he knew that she was weeping. 
 He turned but she was gone. 
 
 Between the lilac and the laburnum Tom appeared 
 in his top hat and broadcloth suit, carrying a little shiny 
 leather hand-bag. "Now," thought Jamie with a qualm, 
 "she'll tell him and there'll be an unholy row." 
 
 It was so. Agnes did not come down to tea. Tom 
 went up to her room and found her weeping and she 
 told him it was because Jamie was so unhappy and 
 had been saying such terrible things. Down came Tom 
 in a fury: "What have you been saying to Agnes?" 
 "I told her a little of what I felt." "About what?" 
 "About the sort of life we live." "Speak for yourself." 
 "I did." "There are certain things of which we do 
 not speak to women. A decent man would realise that 
 a woman on the eve of her marriage is in a sensitive 
 condition." "All the more hope of her understanding 
 a little of what one is talking about." "There are cer- 
 tain things that I do not wish my wife to know." Tom 
 was very droll in his sternness; and Jamie flashed: 
 "Look here, do you imagine that I have been talking 
 dirt to her?" '"No. Trash, which amounts to the 
 same thing. I know the sort of trash you love to 
 chew until you can stand the taste of it no longer and 
 must spit it out." "That's a pretty simile," said Jamie 
 smiling. "I will not have it," cried Tom. "You can- 
 not stop the thoughts in my head." "I will not have 
 the pure mind of an innocent girl polluted with them. 
 A lot of free-thinking, atheistical, bombastical trash." 
 "Hadn't you better find out first what I have been say- 
 ing before you attempt to describe it?" "Man, I know. 
 I know the kind of things have been in your mind 
 since you chose to associate with that adulterous beast
 
 318 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Hubert. You can't touch pitch without being denied, 
 and I've been a fool to let Agnes come here with you 
 in the house. If anything of the sort occurs again I 
 shall be compelled to forbid you to enter my house 
 when I am married. A married man has his respon- 
 sibilities." 'Jamie's mind flew to old Andrew : the same 
 pathetic uncomprehending belief in marriage as mar- 
 riage, and very much as Andrew had married his Elisa- 
 beth was Tom now marrying Agnes. "I think you've 
 said enough," muttered Jamie. "We're on delicate 
 ground and a word too much might be fatal." "To 
 whom?" "To you. You might understand what you 
 are doing." "I know perfectly what I am doing, thank 
 you. I have always made a point of that." "Very 
 well, then. I'm not interfering. Agnes and I have been 
 very good friends. I hope we shall continue to be so." 
 "Don't abuse your friendship, that's all. / understand 
 you. I hope Agnes never will, at least until she is more 
 advanced in years." '"Magnificent Tommy!'' laughed 
 James. "The perfect Lawrie." Tom took up his at- 
 titude by the fireplace. "I have said all I wish to say. 
 Bear it in mind and we can consider this regrettable 
 affair closed. If you choose to make a mockery of 
 me, you may, but you shall not in my hearing jeer at 
 the family. The family is the basis of the state 
 
 Tibby came in: "Thomas, do you wish the sheets 
 marked with initials or with the full name?" "They 
 are to be marked T. A. Lawrie," said Tom, "and the 
 same with the towels and table napkins." '"Thank you." 
 "I'd have thought you'd have linen sheets." "The 
 best cotton fabrics are the equal of linen." 
 
 Jamie chuckled and as Tibby went out her solemn 
 face flashed a merry twinkle and her left eye closed in 
 a wink. Jamie was very happy. He had Tibby to share
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 319 
 
 the joy of this sublime Thomas of theirs, who took 
 everything solemnly because it happened to be himself 
 who was doing it. But at once he was filled with grief 
 at the thought of Agnes being drawn into that self- 
 important existence. What room could there possibly 
 be in it for her? What chance had she of finding there 
 the intimacy which is the essence of marriage? It was 
 that hurt Jamie so, though he fought shy of it and 
 would not think bluntly of it. 
 
 He had no further opportunity of talking with Agnes. 
 She avoided him, or would only approach him through 
 his affection for his mother, which, by her appreciation 
 of it, was strengthened. That made for Margaret's 
 happiness in which there was now no shadow. She 
 felt even glad that Tom was going. She was so sure of 
 him, but for Jamie she was afraid. There had always 
 remained with her something of the mystery to a woman 
 of her first-born, so much, often so overwhelmingly, the 
 father's child. Very strangely, though she often played 
 with the idea, the thought of Jamie's marrying filled 
 her with dread, but for Tom she could excitedly re- 
 joice. 
 
 And with her excitement grew daily. She worked 
 with more than her usual exceptional energy at the 
 house he had taken a couple of miles away near the 
 Scots church, for Tom adhered to the faith of his fathers 
 and would enter no place of worship where the Psalms 
 were sung in the Book version. She was at the house 
 all day long with Tibby, and often alone in the even- 
 ings. It was bliss to her to be there and to fill the 
 house with dreams, of Tom repairing at last her down- 
 fall from her own family, bringing a Greig no less! 
 to his bed and board. And often she would go back 
 in memory to the days when she had had the rule of
 
 320 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 a whole parish. Those days had been worth all the 
 slights put upon her by the Keiths. She had served 
 the Lord and seen to it that His name was regarded in 
 every house. And the Lord had remembered His ser- 
 vant, and blessed her in her son Thomas. All Mar- 
 garet's days before the wedding were days of thanks- 
 giving and she prayed that Thomas might be blessed 
 with sons who would carry the name of Lawrie higher 
 yet so that in the end the Greigs and the Keiths and 
 even the Allison-Greigs (though their behaviour over 
 Hubert made them less important) should bow before 
 it 
 
 For Tom's wedding there were no false economies. 
 Donald had bought a new silk hat, and Mrs. Donald a 
 new grey satin gown, and Maggie was given five yards 
 of a handsome brocade to have made up in the village. 
 The church was crammed with flowers and the aisles 
 were strewn with reeds and rushes. A Suffragan 
 Bishop performed the ceremony. Agnes' father was 
 unwell and Donald gave her away. Jamie was best 
 man, though Tom had been almost insulting and prac- 
 tically said in so many words that the Greigs might 
 think it queer if he had anybody else. 
 
 So Jamie stood behind his brother and watched him 
 take Agnes to be his wedded wife. He saw how the 
 solemnity of the occasion weighed upon her and it 
 seemed to him that she was unhappily conscious of his 
 presence, and he wished he had made excuses. 
 
 Tom's bearing was admirable. He looked handsome 
 and carried his head high except when the parson was 
 speaking and then he lowered it in simple humility. He 
 seemed aware of, almost to proclaim, his strength; too 
 strong, even to be disdainful. He was the rock to
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 321 
 
 which the frail creature, standing, almost swaying by 
 his side, clung. Indeed they were a fine couple, for 
 Agnes was nearly as tall as he, and every bit as dignified, 
 in spite of the stiff white veil she wore which reminded 
 Jamie of a meat-safe. 
 
 But the wedding was remarkable and interesting, apart 
 from the nobility of bride and bridegroom. The church 
 contained an unrivalled collection of Greigs, all solemn, 
 sober, stiff, dour, some of them good-looking, some ugly, 
 and not one of them poor. More than one had a tear 
 for Agnes. She was, in a sense, all that was left to 
 them of old Angus, and she was going out of the family. 
 To them her wedding was almost as a repetition of the 
 funeral of their great man. The occasion was solemn 
 and they had paid handsomely for it in wedding pres- 
 ents. Matthew Greig's house was bursting with them: 
 a harmonium, an alabaster model of the Acropolis, an 
 ink-stand made of an elephant's tooth (from Surgeon- 
 General Archibald Greig of the Indian Army), carvers, 
 fish-carvers, game-carvers, a carved ostrich-egg, rose- 
 bowls, a little Swiss chalet in a glass case, the poems 
 of Wordsworth, the essays of Emerson, the complete 
 works (to date) of Charles Dickens, the works of Schil- 
 ler (from Mary), an embroidered screen from Maggie, 
 and much money. (Jamie and his mother had agreed 
 to furnish their kitchen for them ; his idea, so that Tibby 
 could help.) 
 
 Nor was the breakfast stinted : there were aspics and 
 birds, tongues, hams, pressed beef, eggs, trifles, a tow- 
 ering wedding cake, and for every guest a little gift. 
 Donald made a speech; compliments to every illustrious 
 Greig there present the Surgeon-General, Professor Ian 
 Storey Greig of Oxford, Alpheus Greig, the architect. 
 As the head of the great family Donald was proud. He
 
 322 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 touched on all the important events since the last gath- 
 ering, triumphs which had added to the family's lustre, 
 disasters which had failed to dim it. That said, he came 
 to Agnes, her charm, her beauty, her grace, her bounty 
 and her charity. He told a story of her as a child and 
 tears began to flow. This treasure of the family they 
 were giving back to Thrigsby, to their kinsman, Thomas 
 Lawrie a Keith every inch of him. That led to gene- 
 alogy, in which there was a perfect orgy, and Walter 
 Greig, a retired doctor, who was cracked on the subject, 
 claimed through cousins' cousins' cousins kinship with 
 Robert the Bruce. He began to sing Scots Who, Hac 
 but was removed by Hubert, glad of the opportunity 
 to escape from the speech-making. 
 
 Tom replied tactfully, even eloquently. He knew 
 the part the Greigs had played in the making of Thrigsby, 
 the part they were playing and would play in its great 
 history. He was proud to be a Scotsman, proud to be 
 a merchant in Thrigsby, but never so proud as on this 
 day when he had Agnes Greig to be his wife. "And 
 the Lawries?" asked Jamie in a fury. "I am proud 
 also to be a Lawrie." This was received in a silence so 
 dead as to force Tom to sit down pale with wrath at 
 his brother for having spoiled the effect of his speech. 
 
 The ladies soon left, for the bride must be prepared 
 for her journey to London where the honeymoon was 
 to be spent. The male Greigs crowded round Tom and 
 incorporated him into the family with handshakes and 
 initiation into one or two of the family jokes. Jamie 
 was ignored and presently he slipped away. He was 
 genuinely sorry for having spoiled Tom's triumph, for 
 it was to him a parting of the ways and he wished that 
 parting to be amiable. 
 
 He walked disconsolately down to the lake and there
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 323 
 
 rather to his annoyance found Hubert and Margaret, 
 he discoursing to her of the beauties of the scene and 
 comparing it with their native scenes in Scotland. Hu- 
 bert had attached himself to Margaret from the moment 
 of his arrival and had refused to be shaken off though 
 she was magnificently frigid. He was bent on amusing 
 her and in spite of herself she was amused. She did 
 not often meet wicked people and was constantly in a 
 pleasant state of alarm. "I was telling your mother, 
 Jamie, that you have done me more good than I have 
 you harm, and that she must not object to my being 
 here as it was Agnes' wish." "And I was telling him," 
 said Margaret, "that I am sure she did not consult Tom 
 about it."- -"Her last graceful act as an independent 
 person," said Hubert; "but when I think of all the 
 Greigs who are here to-day I am not sorry there is one 
 the less." "I must say," laughed Jamie, "that I am 
 glad the Lawries are so few." "Your father was an 
 only son," said Margaret, "but he would have been a 
 very proud man to-day, even though the service was 
 Anglican." Hubert chuckled: "I thought Tom looked 
 a finer man than the Bishop. It isn't often one sees a 
 bridegroom get the better of the parson. But when it 
 comes to looks the Lawries have it. I'll say that for 
 you, ma'am." "Skin-deep," ejaculated Margaret. Hu- 
 bert went on : "For brains it's the Keiths. As for the 
 Greigs, they have what is better than beauty or brains 
 self -worship." Margaret turned to Jamie: "The man 
 has done nothing but talk blethers ever since I set foot 
 in the place. Will you take me back to the house? We 
 must be there to see Tom and Agnes off." 
 
 Jamie had one moment with Agnes. He held her 
 hand in both his: "I hope you will be very happy," he 
 said, "with all my heart." "I'll wish you the same,"
 
 324 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 said she, "and may it come to you soon. Don't waste 
 all your life." 
 
 He dropped her hand. She ought not to have said 
 that to him, on the threshold of so great a mystery. 
 How in such a moment could she judge him? Was it 
 no mystery to her? He felt very unhappy. "I'll run 
 my risks," he said. 
 
 Tom appeared surrounded by half-a-dozen Greigs. 
 Jamie held out his hand, and muttered : "Good luck, 
 Tommy." And Tom just touched his hand and said : 
 "Remember, I trust you to look after mother." Then 
 he climbed after Agnes into the best Greig barouche ' 
 three horses, with a postillion on the leader. Jamie was 
 left speechless. Rice, slippers, flowers were thrown 
 as the carriage moved off. "O for a stone-bow to hit 
 him in the eye !" said Jamie not knowing he was speak- 
 ing aloud. A chuckle discovered Hubert at his elbow. 
 "I felt like that in church," said Hubert, "and now we 
 have to share in the Greig family merry-making. If I 
 had a magic carpet I would send it to London to fetch 
 old Mother Bulloch." "O damn you, Hubert," cr;ed 
 Jamie, "you are like an omen at the feast." 
 
 Hubert led Jamie away and told him with every air 
 of enthusiasm that he had taken seriously to farming 
 and cattle-breeding, or horse-coping as he preferred to 
 call it. "I'm tired of trying to make Thrigsby appre- 
 ciate the blessings of culture and I'm going to feed the 
 swine. The paper stops and with it what you made 
 out of it. You'd better come and learn to be a farmer. 
 I shouldn't be surprised if the bucolic was really your 
 line." Now Jamie suffered little by this new freak of 
 Hubert's, but he knew that Currie Bigge and one or two 
 others would suffer much. He first of all made an offer 
 for the paper, which was accepted, and then he told
 
 TOM'S MARRIAGE 325 
 
 Hubert exactly what he thought of him. "You are 
 as heartless with your whims as the rest of the Greigs 
 are with their mills," he said, and much more. "My 
 dear James," replied Hubert when he had finished, "don't 
 for heaven's sake take your reactions seriously or you 
 will end by becoming a bore. You just take your broth- 
 er's tip. The only sane way to treat the Greigs is to 
 get what you can out of them."
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 
 
 "DOTH Margaret and her first-born were nervous on 
 *-* their return home. The household had been or- 
 ganised for Tom and his absence left a painful gap 
 and caused much moral dislocation. Both had indeed 
 existed in deference to the successful member of the 
 family; their hours had been his, their food his choice, 
 their evenings, when all were at home, had been par- 
 celled out by him. At nine Tom would play backgam- 
 mon with his mother; at eleven he would take out his 
 watch and say: "I am going to my bed," or "Mother, 
 it is your bed-time." Then Margaret would take up 
 her book and a box of throat lozenges, kiss her two sons 
 on the brow and depart. Tom would hesitate for a 
 moment and say: "So ends another day." Then he 
 would follow her, leaving Jamie to take the large coals 
 from the fire, put out the lamps, bolt the doors, and 
 fasten the catches of the windows. Jamie would always 
 linger and drink in the vitality of the quiet household 
 in the darkness, for it had then a life of its own in the 
 release of its essence. There were sounds and smells and 
 queer shadows thrown through the windows; noises in 
 the streets outside; and mystery everywhere. It was all 
 very fine to dream of liberty, but except in this mystery 
 what freedom could there be? And yet Tom's pres- 
 
 326
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 327 
 
 ence had denied it: Tom, taking out his watch, ended 
 the day. Tom, asserting first right to the newspaper 
 in the morning, began it. 
 
 With Tom removed Jamie was filled with hope and 
 dread, hope that the days might be more free, dread 
 lest Tom should have taken with him some essential 
 of their economy. Deep in his heart was elation that 
 the last immediate pressure of the Keith tradition was 
 gone from his daily existence. He could assert himself, 
 perhaps successfully enough to repair his mother's dis- 
 appointment in him. That he had felt very keenly. 
 She should not have been disappointed in him; she 
 should have seen that Tom's way was not his. He 
 and she were with each other so inarticulate. She had 
 been very happy with Tom's preciseness, and it was 
 discomforting for her to be left with Jamie's mystery. 
 
 For several days they groped through silence, fum- 
 bling for new habits until at last a day came when 
 Jamie, over tea, gulped out : "I've bad tidings for you, 
 mother." She trembled, but was at once firm: "Good 
 news or bad," she said, "don't be afraid of it for me. 
 Is it yourself?" "No. There's no news of me. It's 
 
 John." "John? Not " At once she thought of 
 
 John dead, young proud John, dead. "No," said Jamie, 
 "the news is not from him, but here. Murdoch's have 
 failed." '"Murdoch's?" -"The old story of giving credit 
 to rotten people. They have let the bank in for a pretty 
 penny, and they came to us through John and me." 
 "I was against it from the very first," said Margaret, 
 "and so was Tom." "It was a good firm then," replied 
 Jamie, "but there's many a good firm dying of the new 
 ways of business. I'm thinking what's to happen to 
 John and Sophia and their bairns. Maybe it's easier 
 out there to turn your hand to other work. I'm thinking
 
 328 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 that Tom and I will send him out something to tide him 
 over. It will be weeks before he can know, and what- 
 ever happened, John would not be one to ask for help." 
 "I should think not indeed," said Margaret, "but we 
 can send it him and then, if he comes home, that will 
 leave Tom free to find room for him in the firm." 
 "There's not much hope of that for, even if Tom would, 
 John is even less Tom's man that I am and Tom knows 
 that he has a better head for business." "Better than 
 Tom?" "Aye, that's not unthinkable. I go so far as 
 to say that if John had stayed here there would have 
 been no failure in Murdoch's. He's canny and cautious 
 and bold." "Will you tell Tibby or shall I?" said Mar- 
 garet in a hushed voice, beginning already to brood over 
 the disgrace that had come upon her family. Tibby was 
 informed of every event for good or evil : births, deaths 
 and marriages were solemnly laid before her, almost as 
 a rite. She had become, as it were, the visible con- 
 science of the family, and, as such, even Tom had felt 
 and acknowledged her power. She was a good and 
 loyal conscience and accepted that she was there rather 
 to be informed than consulted. 
 
 In the evening Jamie called Tibby from the kitchen 
 to his room and told her of his anxiety. "Indeed," she 
 said, "I thought things were going overwell. It was 
 time you had a reminder." "A reminder of what?" 
 "That you can't have everything to your liking or all 
 your own way. But I did not conceive that the blow 
 would fall on John, him so far away. I thought he 
 would have escaped and it would have been you or Tom 
 and you most likely. I hope the mistress has not 
 taken it too unkindly." "No. She has been very brave. 
 She asked me to tell you." '"I would have preferred 
 her to tell me herself but they are few words I get now
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 329 
 
 from her lips. You said I should never be a servant, 
 Jamie, but I am that." "No, no. You have been with 
 us so long, and grown up with us." "I am a servant, 
 Jamie, and I would prefer not to be told anything that 
 it does not come easily to tell for the mistress, I mean. 
 She meant kindly by me, I know, but being together has 
 been too much for us, and what can't come from her 
 can't come from you." Very gaunt she was as she 
 stood there fingering her apron. There was only one 
 lamp in the room, on Jamie's desk. She was in the 
 shadow, hovering, shifting, swaying. Again, as once 
 or twice before, he had in her presence the feeling of 
 an impact with some profound reality and immediately 
 he was filled with sympathy for her. He did not under- 
 stand her scruple, but he was moved to ask her: "Are 
 you unhappy, Tibby?" She answered: "I'm not one 
 of those who look for happiness, or unhappiness either, 
 being born as I was." He knew her to be sensitive on 
 that point and was a little irritated with her for in- 
 troducing it. '"It's a poor life," he said, "cooking, wash- 
 ing, cleaning." "I've no scunner against it," replied 
 she. "It's my work and you must be cooked for, washed 
 for, cleaned for and I would not let any other body do 
 it now." "Is it Tom's going has upset you?" "Noth- 
 ing's upset me. There's nothing to worry over in John. 
 He can look after himself. And as for Tom, if the 
 country were invaded and conquered he would be the 
 
 last man in it to be ruined." "Then, if my mother " 
 
 Tibby moved towards him. '"You have not to say a 
 word to her. She'd send me away if she knew what 
 I've said to you. She'd send me away." "But you 
 have said nothing." On that Tibby laughed, a little 
 weary chuckle. "Less than nothing would be enough for 
 her."
 
 330 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Jamie remembered Fanny Shaw saying that Tibby 
 looked like a witch. She did so now and he felt as 
 though she had cast a spell on him, for he could not 
 take his eyes off her nor resist the tug at his heart nor 
 raise the strange weight that had come upon his brain. 
 She withdrew back into the darkness and hovered there 
 by the door. Presently she said: "It's right now, 
 Jamie. Just you and me and her in the house, and in 
 the end me and her." The note of warning in her voice 
 sent a chill through him. "Rubbish, Tibby, you're not 
 yourself. You should have a holiday. Go home." "I 
 have no home but this." "Then go to Scotland." "I'll 
 never go to Scotland now my father's dead." "Then let 
 me take you to the theatre." "No. The theatre's the 
 ruin of you." That struck home. She had gone too 
 far. He was not going to have that. He rose and moved 
 towards her. For a moment she confronted him then 
 shrank away and slipped out of the room. 
 
 With his mind he followed her down the dark stairs 
 to the kitchen and formed a picture of her brooding, 
 weaving out of hints and whispers the story of the 
 family, but he saw her doing this as an artist, indiffer- 
 ently: of her feeling, or of where it lay, he imagined 
 nothing. And yet unconsciously he believed her assur- 
 ance that no harm would come to his brother. Here 
 he found himself sharply divided from his mother who 
 fretted and worried over it all day long. She had 
 made no allowance for failure in her plans: even when 
 her sons had crossed them they had prospered. Almost 
 she persuaded herself that the failure of Murdoch's was 
 a direct intervention from above to punish her for some 
 sin that, for all her admirable intentions, she had com- 
 mitted. The discovery of the sin became with her an 
 engrossing labour, an obsession. She had not properly
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 331 
 
 dedicated her offspring to the Lord : she had taken too 
 wordly a delight in them. Every day she wrote long 
 letters not only to Tom and John but also to Agnes and 
 Sophia, exhorting them not to allow their children to 
 depart from the way of the Lord as laid down by 
 Andrew Keith and Angus Greig, who had accepted their 
 worldly goods humbly as the due reward of just ser- 
 vants. She imagined that Tom and herself had achieved 
 their measure of success more by works than by faith 
 and therefore she was punished. 
 
 Every night she made Jamie read the Bible to her, 
 more particularly the Mosaic prohibitions. She was a 
 good Old Testament woman heeding Thou Shalt Not 
 more than Thou Shalt. The reading of each night 
 provided her with material for the writing of each day. 
 
 Jamie had to post her letters with his own. He was 
 conscious of a strain between his mother and himself 
 and fancied that her letters were her means of relief 
 from it. She was absorbed in her own conscience- 
 stricken thoughts, and he took this absorption to be an 
 instinctive withdrawal from himself. He suffered be- 
 cause he was conscious of failure. The house, with 
 Tom gone from it, seemed too big, even pretentious. 
 His clearest and dearest idea of Margaret was in the 
 little house in Kirkcudbright. There she was in her 
 right setting, struggling, fighting, filling all that place 
 with her spirit. But now there was no fight in her. She 
 resented the disaster to John, she was bitter and venge- 
 ful, and she avenged herself on both Jamie and Tibby. 
 They had dreadful days but neither let the other suspect 
 the pain they were suffering. Neither could help Mar- 
 garet. All her thought was for Tom. He must repair 
 the disaster, must send for John and take him into the 
 firm.
 
 332 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 When Tom returned from his honeymoon, which 
 business extended from London to Lille with a journey 
 through the north of France, she went to see him, then 
 to stay with him, and every night he had to listen to 
 his mother's argument. He must send John money. 
 He pointed out that Sophia had money. "Then she can 
 put that into the firm for John." "But, my good mother, 
 I have my partners to think of and business is not what 
 it was for the old firm." "But trade does not stand 
 still." "No. The markets grow as new people come 
 into the trade, and new people mean new methods." 
 "Then what is John to do?" "That is John's affair. 
 He knows better than we do the openings out there." 
 "Then you refuse to help your own brother?" "It 
 is not a question of refusing, it is a question of inability. 
 Business is not what it was. The old personal relations 
 are gone and there is no longer room for a man merely 
 because he is your brother or your friend." "But you 
 can make room. Your family comes first." '"No, my 
 dear mother, the firm comes first. As a public-spirited 
 man, the firm comes first. If it is a matter of helping 
 John over a difficult period, well and good, though you 
 should remember that he has brought his misfortunes 
 upon himself. We all had equal chances. I am sorry 
 that he has not used his better." 
 
 Margaret returned home and did not again ask Jamie 
 to read the Bible. She sat, lost in thought, with an 
 expression of bewilderment upon her face. She was not 
 hurt, but simply puzzled. Her innocent faith in her 
 original plan was shocked but by no means destroyed. 
 She was still unaware of the lack of faith in Tom. It 
 was true, what he had said, that John had brought his 
 misfortunes upon himself and she had failed in not 
 asserting her authority. But that was not altogether
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 333 
 
 her fault, but was due in part to her tragedy and her 
 presumption in dreaming that, once in Thrigsby, An- 
 drew Keith, that great man, would be a father to her 
 sons. She had been blind, and lacking in common-sense. 
 Of course Andrew could not acknowledge them or help 
 them until they had proved themselves. Tom had 
 proved himself. The others had been headstrong. They 
 had failed. She looked sullenly upon Jamie. He had 
 been a bad example for John. 
 
 As for Jamie, he had taken refuge, as so many times 
 before, behind the written word, discovering a new liter- 
 ary delight in the Bible, and, saturating himself in it, 
 he had passed on to Paradise Lost, which he had never 
 before been able to read. Now he perceived its beauty, 
 the nobility of its architecture, and it contained for him 
 the truth of the life against which he was in revolt. 
 The God of the poem seemed to him abominable, but 
 he recognised him as the God of his mother. He was 
 by now a thorough-going evolutionist and saw (not 
 very clearly for he was an undisciplined thinker, depend- 
 ent upon fierce and often blasting flashes of light) 
 that the Gods also are evolved by man and perish as 
 from man they grow more remote. The God of the 
 poem was an egoist without grace, whereas Adam and 
 one or two of the angels were in grace. It seemed to 
 him then that Milton had penetrated in the mystery of 
 human nature only to the angelic sphere, and had not 
 touched the Godhead, and there he fell behind Shake- 
 speare whose very thieves, pimps and bawds were in 
 their motions God-like, with dignity and laughter. 
 There was more God in Falstaff than in Milton's Je- 
 hovah whose greatness was too much asserted, too little 
 revealed, and yet how moving and how beautiful was
 
 334 
 
 the wedded love of Adam and the Mother of Mankind, 
 how noble and how sweet the love of the angels: 
 
 "Whatever pure thou in the body enjoy'st 
 (And pure thou wert created) we enjoy 
 In eminence, and obstacle find none 
 Of membrane, joint or limb, exclusive bars. 
 Easier than air with air, if Spirits embrace, 
 Total they mix, union of pure with pure 
 Desiring, nor restrained conveyance need 
 As flesh to mix with flesh, or soul with soul." 
 
 The angelic, he saw, was but a condition of the spirit 
 of man, yet lower than the highest, lacking the true grace 
 without which the fullness of love is not. That only 
 could be known to the human spirit in its highest flight 
 whose pure and serene joy man had mistakenly called 
 God. God must be beyond that joy which is in the 
 approach to Him, the all-living and unceasing creator 
 and destroyer, the supreme Being in whom all is. 
 
 In such thoughts Jamie had his highest joy. When 
 he turned from them to life he was shocked by the 
 discrepancy, and enraged by his inability to confirm 
 his thoughts. By his daily life they seemed to be de- 
 nied. No word did he ever hear spoken that could en- 
 dorse them, and against his will he was driven into 
 isolation. The real solitude of his soul he could accept, 
 but apparent solitude, lack of cohesion with his fellows 
 was a denial, was an infringement of it. Yet he lacked 
 the strength to save himself, for he had no power to 
 concentrate and clarify his vision. His weakness lay 
 in that, if he was amused, he was content. If he was 
 not amused then he would take refuge in some game, 
 mental or emotional, or, in his worst condition, he would
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 335 
 
 resort to the trick of letting his thoughts and emotions 
 play hide and seek with each other. He would often 
 marvel at the apparent simplicity of those about him, 
 and wonder why, if they were spared, as they seemed 
 to be, the tortures through which he struggled, they were 
 not more amiable, and why there appeared such a lack 
 of purpose in all their doings. They were all busy in 
 the creation of Thrigsby. Why, then, if they were so 
 simple, and straightforward, did they not create it bet- 
 ter? Why did they accept the making of money as good 
 evidence that they were doing well enough ? 
 
 His mind, it is to be observed, had become, for better 
 or worse, critical. Those processes of the intelligence 
 which he had acquired in the theatre he had begun to 
 exercise upon life and upon himself. He was unusual 
 only in that he had more humour for the contemplation 
 of himself than for his consideration of life, which he 
 was apt to regard as though it were a play, a creation by 
 familiar and discoverable machinery. Forced by his de- 
 velopment and the spirit of his time to discard the cur- 
 rent forms of religion, as representing a metaphysic no 
 longer valid, he performed the act of rejection so vio- 
 lently as to leave himself exhausted and almost unaware 
 of his need for a religion. And he looked for it in 
 the acts and practices of everyday life, and, naturally, 
 he looked in vain. Though he could understand per- 
 fectly his mother's anxiety over John, and even her self- 
 castigation, he could not help being impatient with her, 
 and, helplessly, he saw the gulf between himself and 
 her widening. His high hopes of a greater freedom 
 in Tom's absence were dashed to the ground. Margaret 
 became Tommish and assumed the headship of the 
 household, dictating the time for bed in the evening and
 
 336 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 claiming the first sight of the newspaper in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 At length, in exasperation, and by way of asserting 
 himself, Jamie brought down from the landing the por- 
 traits of Goethe and Jean Paul and hung them in the 
 dining-room on either side of the portrait of his father. 
 He did this one night after his mother had gone to bed. 
 When he came down in the morning the pictures were 
 removed. He could not let it pass and said : "I thought 
 now that Tom is gone that I would use the dining-room 
 for my study." "If I am to eat in this room," answered 
 Margaret, "it will not be beneath those heathen Ger- 
 mans." 
 
 There were other differences, over food, over the 
 place of the lamp in the drawing-room at night, over 
 his intolerance of an antimacassar on his chair, but, in 
 spite of these, perhaps because of them, he discerned 
 slowly and over many days a new beauty in his mother. 
 She seemed definitely shaped and fixed in type Milton- 
 ian he called her, having amused himself with dividing 
 his friends and acquaintances into Miltonians, Shake- 
 speareans and neuters. Her costume had become fixed, 
 black with white collar and bands, with soft linen cuffs 
 at her wrists. Her skirts were full, her bodice tight 
 and unadorned. Upon her grey hair she wore a spot- 
 less white mutch with wings that swung out behind her 
 as she walked. With a rare dignity she walked, very 
 erect, with her head a little bowed as though she were 
 continually acknowledging herself to be the servant of 
 powers greater than herself. Very silent was her tread 
 so that it was almost terrifying when she came into a 
 room. Not even a rustle of her wide skirts announced 
 her coming. The whole personality of the woman was 
 immediately there to be faced and reckoned with. Jamie
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 337 
 
 could neither face nor reckon with her. For him she 
 had gained most awfully in power. This it was that 
 forced him to see her beauty and behind it her hostility. 
 
 Often he endeavoured to assert himself. Sometimes 
 he would try to win her support for what he most 
 cherished in her doings, but his attempts were futile. 
 That he held a good position in the bank was her sole 
 satisfaction in him. All else that he did, every friend- 
 ship that he made, she ignored. He felt that she was 
 alarmed for him. She watched over him and deep in 
 her inmost tenderness she was fearful and hungry for 
 him. He had already betrayed the family in his en- 
 couragement of John. What next would he do? She 
 did not see that Tom also had betrayed the family to 
 industrialism. How then could she see that her eldest 
 son, partly because of this betrayal, but most because 
 of his hatred of all tyranny and his passionate but still 
 unconscious desire to reconcile the responsibility of 
 human love with freedom, was, in his turn, revolted 
 against industrialism and bent upon betraying it ? She 
 was unhappy, knew not the cause, and was hardened in 
 her pride. 
 
 Sometimes for days together she would hardly speak 
 and would be busy in the household or with charitable 
 works. Her shadow filled all the house. Jamie and 
 Tibby would creep together in the dining-room or the 
 kitchen, and whisper strangely, hardly knowing what 
 they said, each imploring the other to invent some way 
 to distract Margaret from her brooding. Neither could 
 think of any way. Tibby would excel herself in cook- 
 ing, Jamie would bring home flowers, but they could 
 win neither gracious word nor smile. "You'd think all 
 her heart was out with John," said Tibby one night. 
 '"Oh! Tibby, I sometimes think her heart must be in
 
 338 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the grave." "She's a living woman. ''--"But never 
 meant to live in a place like this," said Jamie, "or in 
 times like this." "Is there ought wrong with the times ?" 
 "Aye," said he, "men have seen themselves as mon- 
 keys." Tibby whispered: "Not you, Jamie."--Then 
 he found her hands in his and himself gazing down into 
 her gaunt ugly face. "I see your hair's grown well 
 again, Tibby. She took that off your head." "It was 
 for Maggie," said she, "and I owed more than that to 
 the family." She smiled up at him and they felt rather 
 foolish, she in her soiled cooking-apron with the grime 
 of the kitchen still on her cheeks, and he in his fine 
 broadcloth. And behind them suddenly appeared Mar- 
 garet holding a letter in her hand and crying: "Jamie! 
 Jamie! There's word from John. He's coming home!" 
 
 Tibby slipped away. Margaret came to her son and 
 took his face in her hands and kissed him. Her cheeks 
 were flushed, her breathing came heavily. She had 
 been weeping. "Oh! Jamie," she said, "my prayers 
 have been answered. He is coming home ! He is rich!" 
 
 Jamie read the letter. It was a song of triumph from 
 John. Immediately on receipt of the news from Mur- 
 doch's, he had bought the Australian stock. There had 
 been a gold rush. He had had a share in a corner in 
 corrugated iron, was now realising the profits which 
 would amount to many thousands of pounds. As soon 
 as he had put his affairs in order he proposed to return 
 home there to enter politics, or, if his health made that 
 impossible, to study the principles of political economy 
 and to prepare his sons for the career which had been 
 denied himself. And he remained his mother's affec- 
 tionate and obedient son. 
 
 Jamie folded the letter up: "That's Tom and John,
 
 NEWS FROM JOHN 339 
 
 mother. You should be a proud woman." "I am that," 
 said she. "Then bide your time for me," he said, and 
 to his astonishment she touched his arm affectionately 
 and replied. 1 "No. You mustn't go yet awhile." 
 "I'll wait till John comes home with his riches," said 
 he. "We'll see what riches and a travelled mind will 
 do for us. If a letter from John can bring back the 
 spirit in us, think what John himself might do. John 
 standing there, where Tom used to stand, by the fire- 
 place, and talking canny wisdom. Ech! If John had 
 kept his pair of lungs he would have talked his way until 
 he'd go before the Queen next but one to the Archbishop 
 of Canterbury." Margaret smiled reprovingly : 
 "We're not a talking family," she said. "Will you come 
 now and read John's letter aloud to me? I want to 
 hear it." 
 
 He followed her to the drawing-room where she sat 
 in her chair by the fireplace and he read aloud John's 
 letter. When he had finished he had to begin all over 
 again. Then he promised that the next day she should 
 come and fetch him from the bank and they would 
 both go out to tell Tom the news. "I don't think," said 
 Jamie, "that I should tell Tom that John is rich until 
 we know how rich. It would worry him." Margaret 
 saw the fun of the remark and replied: "But we will 
 tell him." And she added, folding her hands: "Do 
 you know, I feel like the mother of Tobias in the Apo- 
 crypha." "My dear mother," said Jamie, "I often feel 
 that you are like all the mothers in the Bible." "There 
 are very few," said she, and Jamie, who had begun to 
 be a little sentimental about the mothers in the Bible, 
 was shocked into an appreciation of his mother's sense 
 of fact. She liked success because it was a goodly fact,
 
 340 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 whereas he disliked facts whenever they loomed so large 
 as to obscure reality. This success of John's had in 
 truth rather distressed him and the best way to be rid 
 of it would be to present it to Tom.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 
 
 THE patient and careful reader, if patient and care- 
 ful writing have led him so far, will remember a 
 panegyric, which like a peal of trumpets hailed the ar- 
 rival of James Lawrie in Morley Street, that noble ex- 
 pression of Thrigsby's early dignity when merchants had 
 the air of diplomatists and bankers cherished the future 
 of England as impressively as statesmen guard her 
 present. Magnificent though that expression was it 
 failed to satisfy a younger generation possessed by the 
 idea that nothing could express importance but size. 
 Factories and warehouses no longer expanded economi- 
 cally to meet needs. They must be enlarged by the 
 thousand thousand cubic feet. The boundless expansion 
 of trade would fill them. Thrigsby possessed in the 
 John Bright Hall the largest place of public assembly 
 in the north of England. The Town Hall had been 
 added to. The Cotton Exchange had been rebuilt. A 
 great house in Morley Street had been converted into 
 an art gallery. The German colony had caused the 
 erection in the Derby Road of a Gentleman's Concert 
 Hall where could be heard the sweetest music in all Eng- 
 land. The Thrigsbeians did not go to hear it but they 
 boasted of it. They liked brass bands and they got 
 them in the Victoria Gardens and Zoological Collection. 
 If there was to be a noise, let there be much noise; 
 
 341
 
 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 if money, then much money; if bricks and mortar, then 
 much bricks and mortar. Happy Thrigsby, to desire 
 only that which can be easily expressed, to aim only at 
 that which can be lightly won, to have so constant a 
 stream of success that there shall never be the shadow 
 of a thought of the cost of it! Happy, happy Thrigsby 
 to call in from the country-side new, abundant and eager 
 life and to have, when that is used up, coming in from 
 the country-side, life eager, new and abundant! To 
 use up human life in the creation of trade, to be able in 
 so doing to destroy beauty, to ignore love, and the joy 
 of little children! Thrigsbeians were very happy then 
 in the erection of enormous buildings, with every two 
 miles or so a little church just to assure themselves that, 
 though they really preferred the places in which they 
 spent their weekdays, they had not forgotten the God of 
 their fathers. Yet, somehow, their churches all looked 
 rather casual, for they were built on plots of land which 
 had been forgotten, or through some close-fisted dealing 
 had been left until they were useless for any other pur- 
 pose, or by some evil proximity had been made cheap. 
 The Low Churches had the best of it because they had 
 most adherents and the few High Churches had to be 
 built on slag-heaps or marches. Chapels seemed to be 
 much more at home among the warehouses and in the 
 streets of little houses, for those who frequented them 
 assumed (or so their frankness would lead one to sup- 
 pose) that God did not mind a little ugliness more or 
 less. But the massive banks could redeem the poorness 
 of the churches. There are High and Low in banks 
 also, and the Thrigsby and District was distinctly Low. 
 Cateaton's was the bank of Thrigsby's representative 
 men : the T. & D. that of the Thrigsby which they rep- 
 resented, and the representative men were puzzled that
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 343 
 
 Thrigsby should need a bank. The city was their crea- 
 tion, it existed in order to be represented by them. It 
 ought not to develop institutions without consulting 
 them. They were broad-minded. Did they not believe 
 in laissez fairef They could admit the right of disrepu- 
 table things, such as anarchy, Roman Catholicism, and 
 Irish Nationalism to exist and find public expression, but 
 they could not admit of any other respectability and 
 prosperity than that for which they stood. When there- 
 fore the T. & D. built itself an enormous Florentine pal- 
 ace with little windows strongly barred and a vast door 
 wide enough and tall enough to admit the train of ele- 
 phants of an Indian rajah, Cateaton's went one better, 
 bought a whole row of houses opposite their premises 
 in Morley Street, pulled them down and put up a Gre- 
 cian structure, with fluted pillars and enormous plate- 
 glass windows, as to show that the power of Cateaton's 
 lay in something more than the mere hoarding of cash, 
 and the door was made so that, but for the steps leading 
 up to it, it could have admitted the Lord Mayor's coach. 
 This pile was severe and, in intention, dignified, a re- 
 proach to the vulgarity of the T. & D. It was the last 
 triumph of Mr. Rigby Blair, for before the glass was 
 put into the windows, and the brass fittings were sup- 
 plied for the great general office, he was laid low with 
 a stroke, and was never the same man again. He re- 
 covered and struggled back to his work but the general 
 feeling was that he must retire, and Jamie, who had been 
 for some years his chief lieutenant, became his captain, 
 consulting him after instead of before the event. 
 
 At the top of Cateaton's new building was a house for 
 the manager where Mr. Rigby Blair hoped seraphically 
 to dwell. He was a hospitable little creature and all 
 the thought he could spare from the circulation of cash
 
 344 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 and credit and the behaviour of the money market was 
 devoted to the house-warming, or rather the house- 
 warmings he would give; one for men and potations, 
 and one for ladies and polite entertainment. When he 
 was stricken and Jamie had to go and see him every 
 day he would talk of little but the new building and his 
 house-warming and he wondered whether it would be 
 beneath the dignity of Cateaton's to have something 
 really convivial, and he even hinted that Jamie should 
 introduce some of "the Bohemians," beings who, to Mr. 
 Blair, lived in another and a nether world. They de- 
 cided that if it was to be "staff," then the Bohemians 
 could be admitted, but that, if the Directors were to be 
 invited, then the Bohemians could not come unless it 
 were professionally, to sing, recite and make music. 
 Clearly the little man was hoping for some dedication 
 with delight of the crown of his life work. He had 
 given the bank an entity, whereas in the old days it had 
 been merely the instrument of Elias Cateaton, to whom 
 it had been nothing compared with his own reputation. 
 To Jamie on the other hand it was merely the means of 
 getting his bread and butter and as he sat talking to his 
 chief he wondered how far the little man suspected him, 
 deciding finally that Mr. Blair was incapable of imagin- 
 ing any such thing. It would have been blasphemy to 
 him and that being so there was an irony, which Jamie 
 did not fail to appreciate, in his being marked out to 
 succeed to the managership and the house above the 
 new head office. 
 
 When Margaret called for him on the day after the 
 receipt of John's news he took her to see the new prem- 
 ises, where a horde of workpeople were hurrying to 
 catch up the time lost by the contractors. They en- 
 tered through the vast doors, and pushed open the new
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 345 
 
 swing doors leading to the vestibule by the counter. Be- 
 hind this were rows upon rows of desks, each with a 
 brass rail and a green lamp. "It is enormous," said 
 Margaret; "you'll feel lost in it." "I do," said Jamie. 
 "It's so impressive that I shrivel up in it. It frightens 
 me to think that I might one day be manager of all this, 
 seeing to it that not a penny goes through the place 
 without earning its little bit of interest." That was 
 beyond Margaret to whom money was still a miracle be- 
 yond the understanding of man. 
 
 He took her to see the Board-room and the Man- 
 ager's parlour where he would one day sit and advise 
 shrewd men and anxious ladies about their investments 
 and agree to loans on good tangible security, honesty 
 being no longer security enough, or rather the bank, 
 unlike Elias Cateaton, being no judge of honesty. He 
 showed her the drawers where the gold would be kept, 
 and the labyrinth of strong-rooms, some of them al- 
 ready in use. In one there were many bags of gold and 
 Margaret was tremendously impressed, and put on the 
 expression she wore in church, so that Jamie felt con- 
 firmed in his old notion that there was some kind of 
 God dwelling in the bank, a conception which could 
 exercise tyranny over the human mind and impede its 
 fine apprehension of life. The combination of his 
 mother and the bank roused the rebellious instinct in 
 him as it had not been roused for many a long day. 
 She so perfectly approved and bowed down before this 
 vast machinery which seemed to him excessive and os- 
 tentatious, horribly impersonal and therefore dangerous, 
 a useful abstraction become concrete and a burden. The 
 strong-rooms were like catacombs to him and he felt 
 stifled. He hurried Margaret away and they climbed 
 up many stairs to the manager's "house." "I should
 
 346 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 have to live here," he said, "if I were made manager. 
 Would you come too?" '"You would have a wife then, 
 I hope," said Margaret. "Not I. I'm well enough with 
 you and Tibby." He could not say what he was feel- 
 ing, how it disgusted him to think of bringing a young 
 bride to dwell in such a place, what a desecration it 
 would be, the offering up of love and wedded bliss and 
 the lovely mystery of birth to money. As they wan- 
 dered through the rooms and Margaret criticised their 
 disposition he could not away with the idea. It might 
 be his fate to be swallowed up by Mr. Blair's machine 
 but he would not drag after him the fairest beauty in 
 life. His heart was heavy but he had one of those ex- 
 tremely pleasant moments when a man has the illusion 
 of seeing the future before him and of facing it, though 
 he likes it but little, with a proud determination. In 
 short our James saw himself living, a chosen celibate, in 
 the blessed apartments designed by the Cherub for him- 
 self above his temple. 
 
 Margaret, on her side, had begun to think better of 
 her eldest son. Nothing in Tom's place of business had 
 impressed her so much as the strong-rooms. Tom's 
 office was, after all, more than a little squalid, and it 
 was impossible to see at a glance what was being done 
 there or what it stood for. She understood better 
 Jamie's malicious pleasure in John's success, and she 
 began to share it, and to cast about in her mind for 
 ways of playing with Tom, the indubitably and tradition- 
 ally successful. She had her share, though in a very 
 small proportion, of the sardonic Keith humour, and as 
 they left the bank she had a pleasant and unusual sen- 
 sation of being at one with James, the moody, the ob- 
 stinate, and the perverse. She was pleased with him for 
 showing her over the new bank, for she imagined that
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 347 
 
 he had done so out of pride. She could approve of that 
 and forget the idea with which she had so long com- 
 forted herself that he was unhappy and in his heart 
 sorry for the day when he had left Keith's mill. Al- 
 most she began to feel that she had humbled herself 
 unduly before the Keiths who had never treated her well. 
 The Lawries had been well able to take care of them- 
 selves. Then as they walked away from the bank a hor- 
 rid thought seized her. She asked Jamie : "Would a 
 manager be a kind of partner?" He assured her, no. 
 A manager would be a very powerful being but still in 
 receipt of a salary. That dashed her. Real success in 
 her eyes lay beyond salaries : indeed, it began where 
 salaries ended, where a man hovered mysteriously and 
 awfully above a business and accepted its profits as they 
 exuded from it in a cloud, much as the Papist God may 
 be assumed to accept incense. Your truly successful 
 man must be in a position to exact homage and fear as 
 well as labour and money from those beneath him. 
 At the base of all Margaret's conceptions was the no- 
 tion of tidiness, of keeping everybody in his place, 
 with herself at the top: not that she was at all a conceited 
 woman, but she was religious. That was how the Lord 
 behaved and that was how she thought she, who dwelt 
 in the Lord, ought to behave. The success of her sons 
 left her free to imagine that she was doing so. It was 
 all perfectly clear and simple to her because she could 
 ignore everything that contradicted her idea. For all 
 that, she was shrewd and quite a keen critic of the human 
 comedy, which, when it did not threaten her programme 
 for her earthly and divine existence, constantly amused 
 and enlivened her, She knew the ways of men and 
 women with each other, and, had Jamie ever consulted 
 her, she could have enlightened him, startled him and
 
 348 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 done him a world of good. But he stood in too great 
 awe of her, and, merely because she was his mother, 
 imagined that there were certain aspects of his life and 
 of life generally to which she was blind. And yet both, 
 had they been friends, could have shared to the full the 
 comicality of things, for both could take a hearty de- 
 light in the humour of life among men and women who 
 have lost their innocence and its grace so that vanity has 
 become in them an offensive and no longer a defensive 
 element in their constitution. Yet because they had al- 
 ways lived together they could not be friends, -but were 
 mother and son sharing nothing but the habit of living 
 and their profound but well-nigh inarticulate affection. 
 They were not even aware of sharing their malicious 
 joke at Tom's expense, but felt it almost strange that 
 they should be going to Hill House together. And both, 
 for different reasons, were shy of meeting Agnes. 
 
 Hill House lay some miles away. It stood on a green 
 bank rising high above the already filthy river. It had 
 been the house of a very rich man and had lawns and 
 fruit and vegetable gardens, stabling for three horses 
 and a coach-house with a handless clock above it. In 
 the front it had ten yards of drive enclosed with laurels 
 and by the door was a leaden statue of a naked boy 
 holding a lamp. For a newly married couple it was an 
 absurdly big house but Tom had felt that he could not 
 take Agnes to anything less, or, at least, that to a smaller 
 place he could never invite Donald Greig to dinner. 
 Also, through a friend, he had got it cheap, and the 
 landlord had agreed to paint it outside and in before 
 occupation, also every five years to paint outside. 
 
 Agnes from her parlour saw her relations-in-law enter 
 the drive and she was not above opening the door to 
 them herself. When she did that Jamie knew that Tom
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 349 
 
 was not at home. Though he had not often been to 
 the house yet he knew its ways and how intent Tom was 
 on the observance of every formality. 
 
 The house had that curious raw emptiness of the 
 houses of the newly married who have not yet shaped 
 their belongings to their character or indeed their char- 
 acter to their new life. Agnes was rather pathetic there 
 in her great parlour with its new paint, new chintzes, new 
 furniture, new ornaments. They were not her back- 
 ground and without her background, for Jamie at least, 
 she lost in beauty. She needed the lake. It had been 
 wonderful to him to look from her eyes out over to 
 the fells. She needed the collective adoration of her 
 family ; that most of all. She had been the centre of all 
 the love of which the Greigs were capable, and to re- 
 place that Tom seemed somehow inadequate. Jamie was 
 very sensitive to the rawness and the emptiness of the 
 house, and, as usual, unreasonably making staight for the 
 affections, he scented failure there. He was right, of 
 course, and with anybody else he would have been as 
 indulgent as his mother, who knew the pain of early mar- 
 ried life and the slippery nature of its happiness and 
 how fond couples laboriously build up a store of mem- 
 ories and how they discover means of communication 
 and how they are quickly bound even by their knowledge 
 of how to hurt each other. Margaret enjoyed seeing 
 anything so ordinary and human going on in Tom's life, 
 but where Agnes was concerned Jamie's humour deserted 
 him and he could not bear the thought of failure. Suf- 
 fering she might have, but not the nagging pain of 
 stupidity and lack of sympathy. 
 
 Agnes explained that Tom had some meeting but 
 would be back soon. She had been trying the effect of 
 the Diirer prints over her mantelpiece. She had had a
 
 350 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 little difficulty with Tom because of his absurd objection 
 to Germans. She told him Diirer was a Dutchman and 
 then Tom looked him up in the Encyclopaedia. (She 
 wished encyclopaedias had never been invented.) It was 
 all very silly, especially as Tom had given her the pic- 
 tures. "He didn't!" cried Jamie. "Years ago," said 
 Agnes. "But I sent them myself," said he, and was 
 sorry at once that he had spoken, for she looked so hurt. 
 She understood at once how she must have grieved him 
 and made matters worse by pretending to ignore it and 
 she went on : "But I insisted on them being hung here." 
 As if it mattered that she had triumphed over her hus- 
 band: as if it were not shameful that she should need 
 to triumph ! Down with a crash came Jamie's year-long 
 idealisation of her, and all his power of resistance was 
 swept away and he was forced to face the fact that 
 Agnes was mated with his brother through some fitness 
 in herself, through her own will to surrender, finally, 
 that, whether she knew it or not, she had surrendered. 
 There swept through him a cold wave of emotional per- 
 ception in which he saw marriage as a refuge into which 
 men and women creep away from the threatening storms 
 of their existence. For a moment he had a sick sense 
 that he was prying into the affairs of others, but that 
 he flung away. This perception had been surprised in 
 him. It had given him valuable knowledge, stripped 
 him of foolish illusions concerning Agnes and only 
 warmed his affection for her, while at the same time it 
 had given him back some respect for his brother, since 
 he was compelled to see that the marriage was not only 
 a matter of calculating ambition. If marriage were 
 the refuge of weakness it was none the less profound for 
 that, though it meant confinement instead of release. But 
 how much of good humanity must perish in confinement!
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 351 
 
 How much already of the beauty in Agnes was withered 
 away. Some of the rawness, some of the emptiness of 
 the new house was permanent. It was designed to keep 
 out the strength and the joy that alone could entirely 
 fill it, and much though he often hated his own home 
 Jamie preferred that to this. His mother seemed to 
 him a finer creature than Agnes. A part at least of her 
 nature had been fulfilled. 
 
 He had created a strain and to break it Agnes sat at 
 her new piano and sang. She had a very sweet voice 
 but the songs she sang were sentimental and most grimly 
 appropriate, the soft sighing after emotions that had 
 for ever become impossible, or, most vilely, a pretty imi- 
 tation of them. Jamie's blood ran cold. He understood 
 then so much of what he most hated in Thrigsby, in the 
 thoughts and the writings of his contemporaries. "Have 
 done!" he raged within himself. "Have done! If it is 
 your will to deny your feelings and your deep desires 
 then have done with them, leave them to those who have 
 more courage than yourselves." But Margaret praised 
 Agnes' singing and thought it very pretty. She liked 
 Tom's house. It was not so very much smaller than 
 Clibran Hall and Agnes was just the charming accom- 
 plished wife it needed. She would have been glad had 
 Agnes been no more than that but she too had her 
 qualms about the marriage. Tom in his own queer way 
 was devoted to his wife, and Margaret knew that she 
 had been replaced in his thoughts, too easily replaced 
 and by something that in her heart of hearts she de- 
 spised. Her own marriage had been deeply satisfying 
 to her strong nature, always a wonderful astonishment 
 that in the weak sensitive man of her choice there had 
 been a joy stronger a thousand times than her strength. 
 It had seemed to her so unique in her husband, so mys-
 
 352 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 teriously his, that she was blind to it in all else. It 
 had been strongest in him when he came to her for pro- 
 tection. She looked for it only in those whom she could 
 protect, while at the same time she would protect only 
 those in whom she found his peculiar tender weakness. 
 Where there was any strength she was indifferent for her 
 widowhood had led her to believe self-reliance all-suf- 
 ficent. She as well as Jamie knew that Agnes had failed 
 in self-reliance, and therefore it had hurt her so easily 
 to be replaced. 
 
 Tom was not long in returning. He came in in the 
 middle of a song. Agnes stopped at once and went to 
 him, seeming to wait upon his mood. It was a bad one 
 and she wilted. "Did you have a good meeting?"- -"No. 
 Bad." "I'm sorry. Jamie and mother came in." "So 
 I see. How are you, mother?" "I'm well," said Mar- 
 garet. "We've had news of John." "Oh! Is he well? 
 And how's Sophia ?"" All well." "I suppose he's not 
 such a fool as to be coming home. England's not a 
 fit country to live in since the Crimean War." "Why?" 
 asked Jamie. "Trade's never been better." "Just the 
 point," said Tom. "What's to become of agriculture? 
 No one knows where we are or what we are. Some 
 people say we're an Empire, other people say we're a 
 free, trading nation. All I know is that the manufactur- 
 ing classes aren't properly represented in Parliament. 
 Reform Bills are quite useless. We are still at the 
 mercy of the aristocracy, and if the fools go on as they 
 are doing they will ruin the country." "What are they 
 doing?" asked Jamie. "Nothing. That's the point."- 
 "Very well then. John is coming home with a head 
 bursting with political ideas. He'll put things right for 
 you." "John ? What can he do ?" "He's coming home 
 with a fortune." "What?"
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 353 
 
 Tom sat down heavily. Jamie and Margaret had a 
 splendid moment. Very deliberately and with a nice 
 picking of his words he set forth the nature of John's 
 achievement in the manipulation of corrugated-iron 
 sheets for the building of huts in the new Australian 
 gold-fields. Tom sat pondering it and at last he scratched 
 his head in approval. "I'll always respect a man who 
 knows his opportunity. But he's a fool to come home. 
 He can't have exhausted it." "Perhaps," said Jamie, 
 "having tasted gold-rush profits he cannot stomach those 
 of ordinary trade." "Aye," said Thomas. "It does 
 need a strong stomach to do that. When I think of the 
 business that old Andrew had " He bit his lip. 
 
 "If he's on his way," said Margaret, "how long will 
 it be before his return?" "Sailing vessel?" asked Tom, 
 and Jamie nodded. "Three months, at least." 
 
 They fell then to making plans for John. He could 
 have a house just outside Thrigsby, if his lungs were 
 no better and he could easily find a use for his capital. 
 Margaret returned to her old charge and hinted at a 
 partnership in Keith's. Tom sneered: "Why, John 
 would just laugh at our trade ! It isn't capital we want. 
 It's specialisation." He caught Jamie's eye probing into 
 him and his mouth shut on his words like a trap. He 
 never had given himself away to his elder brother and 
 he never would. He could not know that Agnes had 
 given him away in the matter of the Diirers but some- 
 thing in Jamie's mood roused his hostility. This he 
 vented on John and began to rail against his coming 
 home. "If a man makes money out of a place," he 
 said, "he ought to stay there and give it the benefit of 
 his brains. Colonies are not farms, they are not so 
 many Tom Tiddler's grounds. If we are to be an Em- 
 pire then we ought to feed not bleed the Colonies. We
 
 354 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 lost America because we failed to do that, and as long 
 as we have men going out and playing this trick of 
 John's we shall never construct anything. Fair trade 
 is fair trade but a trick's a trick." "One would think," 
 said Margaret, "that you were not glad of your brother's 
 success." "Oh! I'm glad enough. Australia must be 
 a beastly hole and Sophia will be glad to get back."- 
 "To Thrigsby?" asked Jamie. "Yes," flared Tom, "and 
 what's the matter with Thrigsby ? It's been good enough 
 for two generations of Greigs and for many of the best 
 families in Scotland. Oh ! I know you sneer at it in your 
 scribbling because it isn't an Edinburgh or a London 
 with their artistic and literary fops and society fallals. 
 But we're honest hard-working home-loving men and 
 don't need or look for anything else. We're proud of 
 Thrigsby." "I'll believe that," said Jamie, "when you 
 clean the river, so that I can fish in it. I should like to 
 retire at forty with a competence and spend my days in 
 the middle of Thrigsby, fishing, and contemplating the 
 meaning of human activity." Agnes broke into laughter 
 and though Tom looked hurt and puzzled he too was 
 restored to good humour and produced Madeira wine 
 and cake with which to celebrate John's home-coming. 
 More graciously he said : "I do object and I think I have 
 every right to object that you and your people on The 
 Post do not give us credit for doing our best." "The 
 English," said Jamie, "are shirkers and slackers and mud- 
 dlers. They need perpetual criticism to keep them up to 
 the mark." "I agree," said Tom, "but not when we 
 are going through a crisis, and I am not an Englishman." 
 "No," said Margaret, now quite happy that the bite 
 had gone out of the talk. "In all Scotland you will 
 not find anybody so Scottish." "Well," said Tom, "if 
 it makes you happy, mother, there is no more to be said,
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 355 
 
 and John will now be able to pay his share of the pension 
 money." 
 
 Agnes took Margaret away to see some silks she had 
 bought in France. The brothers sat for some time in 
 silence, each sipping his Madeira. At last Jamie said : 
 "This reminds me of old days at Clibran. And you are 
 wonderfully like old Andrew." "Do you think so?" 
 asked Tom, flattered and warmed by having one of his 
 private convictions confirmed. "Wonderfully like. I'm 
 thinking of selling Clibran." "Why? The time hasn't 
 come yet." "I'm sick of having it eating its head off 
 and a garden run wild is enough to make angels weep." 
 
 -"I thought you poet fellows believed in Nature. "- 
 "Only through human nature. I'm going to sell it."- 
 "In another two years you'll get double the price. Sell 
 the bricks and mortar if you like but hold on to the 
 land." "No. I shall sell now." "Then you'll be doing 
 me a disservice." "How?" "I bought the farm next 
 to it. The two lots should go together." "You never 
 told me that." "It was my business." "I think you 
 ought to have told me. It affected my property."- 
 "Well, I've told you now. We ought to come to some 
 agreement about it. If that part of the town develops 
 as I think it will it ought to be possible to sell the two 
 together, or we might be able to realise a good ground 
 rent."- -"I'd prefer to get rid of it. I hate the place." 
 "I think you're a fool." "Maybe, but I want to get rid 
 of it." "Will you sell it to me?" "I don't care about 
 doing business with relations. It always leads to quar- 
 rels." "But there'll be no room for quarrels. We can 
 have a valuation by an agreed surveyor." "No. I 
 won't sell it to you, Tom." "Will you sell it to Agnes?" 
 The quick turn so amused Jamie and he was so pleased 
 with the comic spectacle of Tom in action, really alive
 
 356 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 and keen and full of enthusiasm and for once in a way 
 forgetting himself, that he consented to sell Clibran Hall 
 to Agnes, and said that he would take fifteen hundred 
 for it. Tom brushed that aside and insisted on a valua- 
 tion. "Eh, man," he cried, "you're a fool. Another 
 two years would treble the value of it. And think of 
 the value in your sons' time. Think of leaving them 
 to be ground landlords in Thrigsby. That's how the 
 Greigs are what they are. They've half Queen Street 
 and two-thirds of Sowgate, in addition to the business." 
 But Jamie thought of Mr. Wilcox and the dreams that 
 generous simpleton had been weaving on the strength of 
 his promise to find money for the theatre, and the dreams 
 of Mr. Wilcox seemed to him to be more valuable than 
 all the security of the Greigs as they slumbered away 
 their lives in the lovely valley they had spoiled with 
 their houses. He could imagine the little ugly man who 
 had never in his life earned five pounds a week glowing 
 at the thought of spending hundreds in the hope of giv- 
 ing others pleasure. And the dreams of Mr. Wilcox 
 were his own. He had pointed the way, hardly believ- 
 ing that it could ever be open until his friend, the first 
 he had ever made in Thrigsby, had walked down it. He 
 could not fail Mr. Wilcox. He agreed to Tom's pro- 
 posal. 
 
 When Agnes came down Jamie informed her that he 
 had sold her a house as an investment for her children's 
 children. "Clibran?" asked Margaret, and Jamie ex- 
 plained that Tom had bought the farm next to it and 
 needed the house to round off the property. "I'll have 
 the farm conveyed to Agnes too," said Tom, now in fine 
 feather. He urged his mother and brother to stay to 
 supper but Jamie refused. He had work to do, he said, 
 and in spite of himself the sight of Tom and Agnes
 
 MORLEY STREET TRANSFIGURED 357 
 
 together oppressed him, and he was glad to be out of 
 the house. He was glad also to be rid of Clibran, the 
 last link that bound him to old Andrew, and curiously 
 it had rid him of Hubert also. He had nothing now 
 to do with either the Keiths or the Greigs except through 
 his mother in whom he liked to think that the best of 
 them was to be found. Now his life was divided be- 
 tween the new glory that was growing in Morley Street 
 and the greater glory which he hoped to find through Mr. 
 Wilcox. He had left Agnes sitting with a basket of 
 wools by the fireplace and Tom, on the other side of it, 
 reaching over for volume C-D of the Encyclopaedia, and 
 he thought whimsically that he would recommend En- 
 cyclopaedia to Mr. Wilcox as a substitute for Meso- 
 potamia.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 
 
 THE agreed surveyor valued Clibran Hall at twelve 
 hundred pounds, and that sum Jamie received 
 from Agnes' trustees, less the cost of the conveyance 
 which they had had prepared by their lawyer. It was a 
 long business, but Jamie went straight to Mr. Wilcox and 
 promised that for six months he would guarantee at 
 least one hundred pounds a month for any venture to be 
 entered upon at the theatre. Such wealth seemed fabu- 
 lous to that worthy. He would at last have a say in the 
 management. He would have only to breathe the words 
 "One hundred a month," and all his dreams would come 
 true. There would be crowded and enthusiastic audi- 
 ences every night: there would be no more slipshod 
 and listless acting; and every day there would be ener- 
 getic keen rehearsals with everybody word-perfect and 
 nobody jealous of anybody else, and he himself would 
 be allowed to play Tony Lumpkin in She Stoops to Con- 
 quer instead of Old Hardcastle to whom he had always 
 been condemned. He could hardly contain his eager 
 happiness and almost every day came round to the bank, 
 as Jamie was leaving, with new suggestions and ideas. He 
 harked back to his old plan of a prologue and one night 
 in an ecstasy he proposed that Jamie himself should 
 play Hamlet. "Shave that beard," he said, "though 
 
 358
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 359 
 
 there's nothing to show that Hamlet didn't have a beard. 
 It's the face; it's the moody Dane to a T. Now, why 
 do men fail with Hamlet? Because it needs more than 
 acting. It needs the heaven-searching brain. Actors as 
 a rule don't have that. I haven't got it. You've got 
 it. You had it when you were a boy. Acting by itself 
 is all right for Macbeth or Othello, which play them- 
 selves, but there's more in Hamlet. You can't let fly 
 at Hamlet. 'That's where you would come in, for you 
 don't let fly at anything, but you feel it just the same. 
 Whenever I do a bit of Hamlet, just for the words, I 
 say to myself that's young James Lawrie all over. Get 
 him out of his office clothes, shave that beard, put a 
 skull into his hands and there you are." So saying 
 he lifted up a tobacco jar from the mantelshelf, seized 
 the red and black tablecloth and flung it round Jamie's 
 shoulders. Then he himself retired behind the great 
 horsehair arm-chair and became the gravedigger: 
 * 'Cudgel thy brains no more about it, for your dull ass 
 will not mend his pace with beating ; and, when you are 
 asked this question next, say, a gravemaker : the houses 
 that he makes, last till doomsday.' Now I've thrown 
 up the skull. You go on." And Jamie took up his part : 
 "That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: 
 how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's 
 jawbone, that did the first murder!" And so on they 
 took it to the end of the scene, Mr. Wilcox when neces- 
 sary becoming Horatio. He was loud in his applause. 
 "You must do it. Promise me, you'll do it. For there 
 never was, there never could be such a Hamlet. I tell 
 you it made my back open and shut to hear you. If it 
 had been the Ghost scene ! Will you do the Ghost scene 
 now? I can be the Ghost and talk into a jug." Jamie 
 dared not laugh, for fear of spoiling the comedian's
 
 360 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 pleasure. "No, no," he said, "we've had enough." 
 "If you did the Ghost scene you would be terror itself, 
 and the audience will say, what are all our little fears 
 to the terror of so brave a man." "I think not," said 
 Jamie, "the audience would say this fellow can't act for 
 toffee, and they'd go out of the theatre. What is acting 
 to you and me here in this little room would be lost in 
 the great theatre. Believe me, it would need an art that 
 I don't possess." "But, but," cried Mr. Wilcox, now 
 very chap-fallen, "it's the real thing, and you've always 
 said an audience must recognise the real thing when it is 
 put before them." "Yes," said Jamie, "but it must be 
 given flesh and shape. The actor must make no move- 
 ment that is not effective to his purpose, he must use no 
 tone of his voice that does not contribute to the rhythm 
 of his scene." "But if you know all this!" "My good 
 friend," said Jamie, "I only know enough to tell when 
 other people are wrong. That does not mean that I 
 can do the thing right myself. The one thing, I assure 
 you, that you do not want in your theatre is the ama- 
 teur." "Then we shall have to open with a comedy," 
 said Mr. Wilcox, "for we have no tragedian since Henry 
 Acomb went to London." "There is no money in 
 tragedy," answered Jamie. "I doubt if Thrigsby, as it 
 is now, would listen to Siddons if she came. Let it be 
 comedy, and, if comedy fails, try farce. If farce fails 
 then I'll write you a satire and that will be the end of 
 us." "The end of us !" Mr. Wilcox's blood was up and 
 he would not hear of that. "There is a beginning and 
 an end of everything," said Jamie, "and nothing is 
 permanent and it seems folly to me to ignore that."- 
 "When you talk like that," observed Mr. Wilcox, "I 
 feel that there is nothing left for me to do but to put 
 my head in a bag and drown myself." "And yet," re-
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 361 
 
 plied Jamie, "it is only when I talk like that that I have 
 any confidence in myself or any power to endure what 
 I have to endure." 
 
 Mr. Wilcox asked for an advance of ten pounds and 
 then for six days he disappeared. On the seventh day 
 he returned with a bill written out on the fly-leaf of 
 a play-book showing how he had expended the money: 
 
 By railway fares . x - . . . . 4 13 4 
 By victuals . '." . . . . 130 
 
 By i pr. boots having worn out one pr. in 
 
 walking from Matlock to Derby . . o 15 o 
 By postage . V . . . .016 
 
 By engaging one tragedian, one serio-comic, 
 and one juvenile lead and advancing 
 travelling expenses to same . . .300 
 
 9 12 10 
 
 And he pressed into Jamie's hand seven shillings and 
 twopence. "But you needn't account for every penny," 
 said Jamie. "Indeed I must," replied Mr. Wilcox. "It 
 must all be in order, indeed it must. I was doubtful 
 about the boots but as they were worn out in the search 
 for talent and I could not go on without boots I thought 
 it best to get a pair and account for them." "But you 
 have been a week out of work." "What's a week out 
 of work to an actor ?" said Mr. Wilcox. "Nothing. And 
 I'm fortunate. Being local I can always fill out with 
 concerts and readings." 
 
 He had made his arrangements with the management, 
 who, being in a lean period, were only too glad, if possi- 
 ble, to do without the travelling "stars" who demanded 
 so exorbitant a share of whatever the profits might be,
 
 362 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 in addition to their guarantee. They had no difficulty 
 in hoodwinking Mr. Wilcox who imagined that they 
 shared his enthusiasm and were all for making the 
 theatre worthy of Thrigsby, and in time Thrigsby 
 worthy of the theatre, that is the theatre of Mr. Wilcox' s 
 imagination, where it was as a shining citadel so brilliant 
 that all else became invisible, and all men turned to it 
 and only lived through the day that in the evening they 
 might pay their five shillings and half-crowns and shil- 
 lings and have their sides shaken with laughter and their 
 eyes salted with tears. He asked no other profit. His 
 heaven was to be in front of a good audience and he 
 imagined that James Lawrie had showed him the way 
 to it. Therefore he was eternally grateful and could not 
 conceive that his friend existed for any other purpose 
 than to receive his gratitude and to share his heaven 
 when it was won. He was like a woman in love, allow- 
 ing the whole world and all life to be blotted out by the 
 treasure that he had the illusion of holding in his hands. 
 And like a woman in love he sought a jealous possession 
 of the person from whom his treasure seemed to have 
 come. Often he caused Jamie to feel that he was be- 
 traying his friend and his friend's happiness. He simply 
 could not rise to the heated exaltation that possessed 
 Mr. Wilcox. All he hoped for was that in the experi- 
 ment the theatre might be lifted a little from the low 
 level it had reached. In solitary and philosophic mo- 
 ments he did sometimes dream vaguely and painfully of 
 a regeneration of Thrigsby through art, but, soberly, 
 when he went about his business, he was forced to con- 
 fess that Thrigsby, articulate Thrigsby, saw no necessity 
 for any regeneration, and found so much satisfaction in 
 its functions as a trading centre that it hardly ever re- 
 quired to be amused. He was still rather vague in his
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 363 
 
 mind and could not clearly associate poetry with experi- 
 ence. Poets were to him beings almost as far above 
 humanity as the angels. They had, so he imagined, 
 some extra source of vitality given to them for the pro- 
 duction of verses, through which those who had the 
 power to respond could escape the tyranny of the crowd- 
 ing monotonous days. He was no poet himself. Had 
 he been one he would not have stayed more or less con- 
 tented in the bank while Mr. Rigby Blair turned it from 
 the instrument of an efficient man into a machine efficient 
 in itself. On the other hand it pleased him to take money 
 out of the bank and give it to Mr. Wilcox to whom, for 
 its own sake, it was entirely valueless. He felt that in 
 so doing he was putting the bank in its place in his mind 
 and not allowing it to absorb more of his energy than 
 was absolutely essential to it. Yet he was not satisfied. 
 The Wilcox transaction had added to his discomfort in 
 one way though it had relieved him in another. He could 
 never be morally comfortable without his mind working 
 on his condition, not always, of course, to good purpose, 
 and more than once he came very near to realisation of 
 the truth that he was attempting the impossible, to buy 
 his freedom. 
 
 He found that when this new unhappiness was upon 
 him he liked to be near his mother. Her serenity was 
 very healing to him. He knew her to be as proud as 
 himself, and stronger, as sensitive and as obstinate in 
 struggling with anything that menaced her serenity. 
 Yet she could more easily recover it than he. He tried 
 to talk to her about it to discover the nature of that 
 ordered universe in which she dwelt so securely. He 
 talked to her of death and of good work she had done 
 for a friend of hers whose life had been most miserable, 
 to end in the failure of a beloved son and poverty in-
 
 364 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 curred through his wicked recklessness. He found that 
 she believed absolutely in a future life: that the woman 
 and her son would eventually be united in perfect love; 
 that the woman would wait by the gates of heaven 
 through the age-long torment of her body until sin in 
 forgiveness ceased to be and all would be united with 
 those whom they had loved. "Tom and Agnes?" asked 
 Jamie. "Tom and Agnes, but the curse of Eve will be 
 removed and there will be neither marriage nor giving 
 in marriage." "John and Sophia?" "John and Sophia, 
 of course. All those who have loved each other." It 
 was almost pictorial to her, but to him it meant nothing. 
 It seemed so completely to ignore this world in which 
 for good or ill he was living. But he could understand 
 and rejoice most profoundly in the wonderful love that 
 suffused her picture and gave a certain majesty to its 
 ugly ruggedness and coldness. It was a good logical con- 
 ception, but he could not accept its logic, for its premiss, 
 the postponement of love, was foreign to him and impossi- 
 ble as a postulate for the business of living. If love were 
 postponed then Thrigsby was right, Tom was right, and 
 a man must obey the dictate of circumstances and seek 
 neither to transcend nor to amend them. Here however 
 there was a discrepancy. Torn had not his mother's 
 faith. He did not merely postpone the active principle 
 of love but absolutely ignored it. To Margaret life 
 was inevitably tragic; to Tom it was, as to ancient 
 Pistol, an oyster to be pried open: gulp down the little 
 morsel of jelly and throw the shells away. To Jamie it 
 was alternately beautiful and comic, and more often the 
 latter, and as he grew older the comic became more 
 unbearable and drove him into the desire for more 
 beauty. On the other hand, being excessively sensitive 
 and lacking the kind of experience which toughens the
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 365 
 
 moral fibres, in the presence of beauty he was over- 
 modest and shy and rather preferred the hint of it to its 
 full flowering. Possibly the climate of Thrigsby had a 
 good deal to do with it. The mists of England cause 
 all things to appear in the most questionable shapes, 
 which, reacting upon the minds of those who live among 
 them, produce the oddest effects of character, and, most 
 often, a very touching timidity in the face of an emo- 
 tion. That may or may not have been the cause of 
 James Lawrie's growing inability to do what was ex- 
 pected of him and even what he expected of himself. 
 He could never put his finger on any valid reason for 
 his objection to Tom and Tom's ways. There, out- 
 wardly, was all that a man can desire, comfort, ease, 
 independence, a handsome, accomplished, dutiful and 
 wealthy wife, the respect of his fellow-citizens both on 
 week days and Sundays. At best he could only tell him- 
 self that it was because Tom had become so perfectly 
 Thrigsbeian and that Thrigsby was wrong: exactly how 
 he did not know, but he knew it. The bank was very 
 typical of Thrigsby and the bank was wrong, for it was 
 the collective product of a number of minds over which 
 no single mind had any genuine power. A good machine 
 you can start and you can stop: but there was no stop- 
 ping the bank. It simply swallowed up money and human 
 life. It was really very like the machinery of Margaret's 
 religion, which also swallowed up money and human life 
 in order to create a strange empty world from which all 
 good had been postponed. Everyone else accepted this 
 affair cheerfully and quite blandly the Thrigsbeians 
 treated each other abominably: Margaret, for instance, 
 in spite of her belief in a future love was quite content 
 to stifle the life out of Tibby and to leave her for days 
 without a smile or a kindly word; and so the Toms
 
 366 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 and the Greigs were quite happy to take their comfort 
 out of Thrigsby and to allow its slums like a dirty flood 
 to swell out all over the city. Jamie did not so much 
 know better, as know that Shakespeare and Spenser 
 and Shelley and Keats and William Blake knew better, 
 and, being of a natural indolence and unpractical, he was 
 quite content to take their word for it and to relieve him- 
 self in mild satire in The Weekly Post and in the en- 
 couragement of Mr. Wilcox, whom, fundamentally, he 
 admired because he had had the courage to abandon 
 Keith's for the sake of the thing he believed. 
 
 Jamie had to work very hard during those summer 
 months. Mr. Wilcox was not going to let him off. He 
 had to write articles about the modern industrial city 
 and the theatre and the disadvantages of the "star" sys- 
 tem; he had to write about Shakespearean and English 
 comedy: he had to write about the great tradition of 
 English acting, unbroken from Betterton down to the 
 nineteenth century, when, with so much else, it had been 
 engulfed. He had to interview actors and approve them 
 and he had to arbitrate in squabbles between Mr. Wil- 
 cox and the management, and also to extricate Mr. 
 Wilcox from the financial bogs into which he kept 
 floundering. 
 
 At first Jamie was rather tepid in all he did. In his 
 writing he borrowed wholesale from Hazlitt, and Mr. 
 Wilcox's difficulties were so comic as to seem unim- 
 portant. But gradually he warmed to his task and be- 
 came conscious of a release of energy. His thoughts 
 no longer were so exasperatingly separate from his 
 existence, and he could control them better, extract more 
 from them. He became more hopeful and almost vision- 
 ary. In his sanguine dreams he exceeded his colleague 
 in his idea of what the theatre was going to do for
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 367 
 
 Thrigsby. It should not only provide them with more 
 and finer amusement than any they had ever known, but 
 it should make them think. As Jamie in his innocence 
 imagined it, that was a perfectly painless process. The 
 Thrigsbeians had but to love the dramatic fare set before 
 them and at once they would begin to use their brains, 
 not only upon their daily tasks but upon life beyond 
 them. So great would this new delight be to them that 
 they would detest all that had previously kept it from 
 them. They would abhor their little round of excessive 
 business. They would say : "This new joy has come out 
 of life. There must be more, boundless stores of it, 
 if we could but release it." 
 
 All this enthusiastic work went to Jamie's head and 
 he had a fine period of intoxication. He was himself 
 to a certain extent regenerate. He had known nothing 
 like it since Selina and enjoyed this more because he 
 was more free. The routine of the bank carried him 
 through the day and at five o'clock he came wonderfully 
 to life. He felt irresistible and was so to a certain ex- 
 tent. His energy carried him into the newspaper offices 
 to win the support of the editors who all wanted to know 
 what names he had behind him. He had thought 
 Shakespeare's and Goldsmith's and Sheridan's good 
 enough but they wanted local names. Therefore he pro- 
 cured a Greig or two, and an ex-Mayor, the Town Clerk 
 and the principal of Grime's College. Armed with these 
 he procured promise of support, but then found that he 
 had to earn these names. The ex-Mayor wanted to 
 figure in Quintus Flumen's series of Thrigsby worthies : 
 the principal of Grime's College wanted a lecture on the 
 drama: and the Town Clerk wished to be admitted 
 behind the scenes. All these commercial transactions 
 rather sullied the purity of the reformer's ardour but he
 
 368 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 went through with them, wrote satirically of the ex- 
 Mayor, gave a very bad and incoherent lecture, and took 
 the Town Clerk behind the scenes and let him talk to 
 the wardrobe mistress, who did not in the least mind 
 being treated as though she kept a bagnio. 
 
 Outside the theatre both Jamie and his henchman 
 were consumed with a fever. Once inside it they were 
 swept up into a blissful dream. They were like gods 
 filling the void of chaos, but, unlike gods, they were 
 driven on by some purpose greater than themselves. 
 There was magic in their ringers; difficulties and quar- 
 rels disappeared before them. Where Mr. Wilcox saw 
 a difficulty Jamie could not see it, and at once it would 
 disappear for Mr. Wilcox. "We can't have that tattered 
 old flat," Mr. Wilcox would say. "It is the very thing," 
 Jamie would reply. "When the light is on it of course 
 it will look different." And at once Mr. Wilcox would 
 forget about it. When they were near a quarrel they 
 would make desperate haste to agree, and at once the 
 cause of the quarrel would fade away and be forgotten. 
 They would sit for hours in the dark auditorium having 
 the light turned up and down, until the management 
 asked them if they knew they were doubling the gas- 
 bill. Then they played with the scenery and the ward- 
 robe, and that game cost Jamie nearly one hundred and 
 fifty pounds. But his blood was up and he would not 
 count the cost. The theatre must be made worthy of 
 the wonders that the New Company was to bring to 
 birth in it. So fascinating, so intoxicating was this 
 fingering of the machinery of the theatre that it was 
 often one or two in the morning before he got home and 
 Margaret more than half convinced herself that he had 
 taken to wild courses, save that he never smelled of 
 whisky, nor had his complexion taken on the queer floury
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 369 
 
 tone induced by debauchery. He was wonderfully fresh 
 and eager: so eager that when it came to actual work 
 in the theatre and others than Mr. Wilcox had to be 
 admitted he felt rather dashed and hopeless. Re- 
 hearsals were a torment. The actors simply could not 
 speak their lines with any sense of the value of words. 
 They were indifferent to words and would substitute 
 for Shakespeare's noble prose trite banalities of their 
 own. They seemed to Jamie to be doing it on purpose. 
 As a critic he had rarely noticed such substitutions, 
 being far too much absorbed in the emotional structure 
 of the play. But now watching the actors in their 
 ordinary clothes and being no longer a mere spectator 
 but an essential part of the organism he was labouring 
 to create, every slip, every distortion hurt him as an 
 abomination, and he would curse and swear under his 
 breath, but never dared do more than mildly and sar- 
 castically suggest the value of accuracy, for the actors 
 always treated him as an intruder and made him feel 
 very small indeed. "Sir," an old man once said to him, 
 "I have been on the boards thirty years and if there 
 is a laugh in a line I can get it." "Fool!" said Jamie 
 under his breath, "there's a pleasure and a beauty in 
 words themselves. Who wants to laugh while he is 
 tasting that?" 
 
 Fortunately the actors would listen to Mr. Wilcox as 
 one of themselves and he was able to expunge some of 
 their enormities, but they shattered Jamie's dreams, and 
 he soon saw that the New Company was simply the 
 old writ large and that Thrigsby had and would continue 
 to have the theatre it deserved. Further he saw that 
 for a man engaged in its commerce to attempt in his 
 spare time to give it better was little short of impudence. 
 The task was Herculean and made him almost desperate
 
 370 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 with unhappiness. If it was worth doing it was worth 
 doing wholly and that for him was impossible. An 
 essential part of his personality remained outside the 
 work, being pledged to the ambitions of his family. He 
 knew that if, as was necessary for the work he had 
 undertaken, he became a vagabond, the idea of Tom's 
 triumphant "I told you so" would paralyse him. More 
 than that, he admitted that Tom was not the real ob- 
 stacle so much as his own liking for respectability. The 
 duality of his existence was beginning to tell upon him 
 and he had appalling moments when he lost all sense of 
 his own reality, even the physical appreciation of the fact 
 of living. Food lost its taste, flowers their scent, the sky 
 its colour, and the end of it was a miserable liaison with 
 a young woman of the theatre who tortured him for a 
 month, at the end of which time he gave her money and 
 sent her to London. 
 
 How he hated himself after that! He crawled back 
 into self-realisation again to discover what looked to 
 him like utter ruin, round which with idiotic insistence 
 his normal life went on. Knowing that he had failed 
 Mr. Wilcox, yet he could not desert him and worked 
 harder than ever, writing, lecturing, attending rehearsals, 
 making up programmes and circulars, and himself doing 
 much of the clerical work of sending out invitations to 
 the first performance. 
 
 The dress rehearsal comforted him somewhat. He 
 got back into his old place in the stalls and viewed the 
 performance critically, rolling the flavour of it round his 
 tongue. Not so bad ! Certainly a better performance of 
 a Shakespearean comedy than had been seen in a 
 Thrigsby theatre in his time. Mr. Wilcox as Dogberry 
 was nobly absurd; but the Beatrice! Great Caesar! 
 Where on earth was such a woman dug up? She had
 
 SANCHO WILCOX 371 
 
 the humour of a cook and the diction of a prima donna. 
 Jamie's fingers itched to write the notice of the per- 
 formance. How he would strip the woman of her pre- 
 tensions. He determined that, if things were no better 
 at the first performance, he would write a notice in The 
 Post. His humour began to assert itself and he felt 
 better.
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS 
 
 THERE was a good audience. In those days it was 
 part of the fun of going to the theatre, if you 
 went in the pit, to stand for an hour or two jammed 
 in a crowd, which, when the doors were opened, moved 
 in a flood and poured through the narrow aperture. 
 Jamie went and stood for an hour in the crowd and 
 found it wonderfully stimulating to be pressed and 
 jostled, to feel rough human contact, to smell warm 
 human bodies. How good they were, how genuine and 
 solid after the shadows with which he had been dealing : 
 the shadows of the theatre, the shadows of his own 
 thoughts, the shadows of the small affections with which 
 he had imagined his life to be filled! How robust they 
 all seemed, and how humorous in their appetite for pleas- 
 ure ! They jeered at the New Company : hardly a name 
 in it they had ever heard of. There were enthusiastic 
 playgoers who could remember the great actors of two 
 generations. They were contemptuous of this new way 
 of doing things and Jamie heard himself described as : 
 "some young swell who fancies himself and doesn't know 
 what to do with his money." He agreed, and was more 
 pleased when they went on : "Quintus Flumen will have 
 a word to say to this !" and longed to reveal himself as 
 Quintus. They went on to discuss the critic, but he 
 
 372
 
 MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS 373 
 
 could not stay, for he had Tibby and Agnes coming to 
 sit with him in his box. Tibby had forced him to con- 
 fess what he was up to and had been very sad about 
 it, for she had thought he was done with the "play-act- 
 ing and all that," and she had told Agnes, who was her 
 friend and very good to her, often inviting her to her 
 house for the pleasure of her shrewd talk and the benefit 
 of her knowledge of Tom's character. Tibby had not 
 said much about Jamie's nefarious activities but she had 
 persuaded Agnes to go with her and Agnes had tried, in 
 vain, to induce Tom to join her. He forbade her to go, 
 but she declared that she had promised and must keep 
 her word. Very well then, he would go to bed and 
 would lock the door at eleven and, if she was out later 
 than that, he would know the kind of woman she was. 
 Agnes took the key of the back door and told her cook 
 to see that it was left unbolted. She hired a fly, called 
 for Tibby and found Jamie waiting for them under the 
 portico of the theatre. As they passed into the vestibule 
 they met Hubert, grown very fat and brown. "I 
 couldn't stay away from this," said he. "Too much like 
 my own youth come to life again." Jamie wondered 
 how far he was really like Hubert, and hated the idea. 
 Agnes was very glad to see her cousin, explained to him 
 who Tibby was, and invited him to sit with them. "I 
 knew your father," said Hubert to Tibby and set himself 
 to be very pleasant to her. Tibby said: "Jamie was 
 the only one my father was anxious about." "People 
 have always been anxious about me," chuckled Hubert, 
 "and I am the only one of the Greigs who has done any 
 good. I've won three medals with my fat stock. And 
 how do you like being married, Agnes? The Greigs 
 don't take kindly to it as a rule. They resent any in- 
 fusion of a new strain." '"I'm very happy," said Ag-
 
 374 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 nes. Jamie pricked up his ears. Her words carried 
 conviction even to his jealousy. 
 
 When they reached the box Hubert and Agnes sat 
 in front, Jamie and Tibby behind. Hubert looked round 
 the house, and nodded at acquaintances. "You've pa- 
 pered the house well, James," he said, "though I'd like 
 to have seen a few more pillars of virtue, a little more 
 of the cream of Thrigsby. This is only the skim. A 
 fatal mistake, for even if it is a success you won't get 
 the cream, the real flor de Thrigsby. They like to be in 
 everything from the beginning." "The cream of an au- 
 dience," said Jamie, "is always in the pit and the gal- 
 lery." "But they won't keep you going. Please your 
 pit and gallery by all means; but this is England, and if 
 you wish to keep your head above water you must go 
 for the snobs." "I'd rather drown," retorted Jamie. 
 "Then you certainly will," said Hubert gaily, "unless 
 you can persuade Thrigsby that you are a genius. No- 
 body has ever succeeded in doing that except by go- 
 ing to London and being successful there." Jamie 
 shrank away to the back of the box. Hubert withered 
 even the little pleasure that was left in him. 
 
 The curtain rose and Hubert ceased his chatter. He 
 loved the theatre and had long ago given up being- 
 critical. He praised the scenery and leaned back in his 
 chair to compliment his cousin on the dresses. Then 
 he sank back into enjoyment. To Jamie's horror the 
 Beatrice was immediately successful, She walked right 
 out of the play and laboured to make a personal effect 
 and made it. She produced ripples of laughter while 
 she was on the stage and applause when she left it. She 
 was so comic that poor Mr. Wilcox as Dogberry had 
 no shine left in him. He was listened to as though he 
 were a melancholy interlude, and his really capital per-
 
 MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS 375 
 
 formance won small recognition. Jamie in his box grew 
 gloomier and gloomier. The loud applause at the end 
 of each act had no power to reassure him. He was ab- 
 solutely convinced that he had laboured in vain and it 
 only irritated him when Agnes and Tibby excitedly ex- 
 pressed their pleasure. They ought not to have been 
 pleased, and at least they ought to have known that they 
 were being pleased in the old, old way, trickily and with 
 the grossest personal appeals. Shakespeare's comedy 
 as now presented was really no different from the annual 
 pantomime. It ought to have ended with a transfor- 
 mation scene with Beatrice revealed in the end as the 
 Queen of the Mermaids, or of the Night, or as the 
 Mother of Nations. How could people laugh at her, 
 and not feel shamefully that they ought to be laughing 
 with her? 
 
 During the Church scene Tibby was excited to recog- 
 nise in one of the ladies little Fanny Shaw dressed up 
 in long skirts, with her hair up, looking like a doll. 
 "What a shame," she cried. "What's a shame?" whis- 
 pered Jamie, glad to be diverted from the performance. 
 "That poor child," answered Tibby, "dressed up like 
 a little old woman. I declare it makes me feel ashamed." 
 "She's very happy doing it and in some ways she is 
 older than you or I, Tibby." "It's made me feel," said 
 she, "that I hate all this mummery." "So do I," mut- 
 tered Jamie fiercely, "all mummery whatsoever. But 
 come behind the scenes and see what it is made of." 
 
 In the next interval they went behind and sought out 
 Fanny, who was, as Jamie had said, very happy, half 
 in, half out of the play and deep in the sorrows of 
 Hero and Claudio, also full of the general excitement 
 over the apparent success. Mr. Wilcox had heard of 
 Jamie's coming round and he rushed in in his paint and
 
 376 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 gaberdine, holding his wig and hat in his hands: '"Me 
 boy!" he said, "me boy! I always said from the first 
 that you were a mascot, and here's our luck at last. 
 She's playing with them, me boy. She has but to lift 
 her little finger and they laugh. Why, they laugh so 
 much they they only smile at me, and, after all, the play 
 is Beatrice, ain't it?'' "It is," said Jamie aghast at this 
 tragic end to all his hopes of Mr. Wilcox, "the play is 
 Beatrice, and nothing else. I should like to see what 
 she would do with Hamlet." "Women have played the 
 Prince," said Mr. Wilcox, "but she's a comedy queen, 
 and she's fifty-four if she's a day. She's a marvel."- 
 "Fifty-four?" cried Tibby in amazement. "I would have 
 called her a plump thirty." "Fifty-four," said Mr. Wil- 
 cox, "and she cost me a pair of boots. Shall I see you 
 afterwards, Quint?" "I think not," said Jamie. "I 
 have my sister-in-law with me." 
 
 While Jamie and Tibby were away Agnes seized the 
 opportunity to tackle Hubert. "Don't you think it's a 
 pity?" she asked. '"What ?" "That Jamie should throw 
 himself away on this kind of thing?" "Why not? He 
 must throw himself away on something." "Why?" 
 "Because he's generous and the rest of us are not."- 
 "But the theatre?" "It is a will-o'-the-wisp that leads 
 nowhere. Jamie is the kind of man who must run after 
 a will-o'-the-wisp, and another might lead him into a 
 bog." "Do you think him a genius? He is certainly 
 very odd." "I think he might have been a genius if he 
 had been born into any other family." "Why not in 
 ours?" "Because it is strong and believes in nothing 
 but safety." "Then he must be very unhappy."- 
 "Dearest Agnes," said Hubert, "which of us is happy?" 
 "I mean, he could be happier than most of us."- 
 "But as things are he won't be and the best thing you
 
 MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS 377 
 
 can do for him is to find him a wife, get him away 
 from that old mother of his, and let him breed." Agnes 
 blushed and hid her face in her fan. She was used to 
 Hubert's excesses and knew how to flatter him. He was 
 pleased and went on: "It isn't the least use being 
 ashamed of the breeding instinct. I used to jeer at it 
 but in the end I had to satisfy it by farming and even 
 now I feel rather mean at getting pigs, horses, cattle 
 and poultry to do for me what I ought to have done for 
 myself." -"But Jamie has so much imagination." 
 "Certainly, and it wants its food, which in a family like 
 ours it does not get. His has been starved and is not 
 strong enough for the kind of work he is trying to make 
 it do. That is why I say he is not a genius. He would 
 have got away years ago if he had been." "It seems 
 very dreadful." "It is very dreadful," said Hubert, 
 "but the family has its uses and cannot take overmuch 
 account of the individual. In the long run the individ- 
 ual will have his revenge." "Weren't you yourself in 
 revolt against the family?" "O yes. I rammed my 
 head against the brick wall and was maimed for life. 
 Jamie is quite merciless. He hates me worse even than 
 the family. He thinks I don't believe in him, and I 
 don't." '"Why not?" "From my own experience. If 
 he thinks the family, as all institutions do, has become 
 a tyrant he ought not to compromise over it." "It is 
 difficult to see what else he could do." "Exactly, and 
 a genius would not see any difficulty." Agnes smiled 
 and said : "I think you are unfair to him because he has 
 seen through you, Hubert. I think he sees so clearly 
 that a very little action is all he needs. I believe he is 
 a genius because he is so like a child and asks nothing 
 at all but that people should be kind to him. Tom says 
 he is conceited, but he is the humblest creature I ever
 
 3/3 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 met and I am very fond of him, as well as sorry for him, 
 and this kind of thing seems to me wrong because any- 
 body else could do it as well." 
 
 Tibby returned then, saying that Jamie would stay 
 behind for the rest of the performance. "He's per- 
 fectly miserable," she said, "and I would like to take 
 him home." "Why is he miserable?" asked Agnes. 
 "He would not say. Indeed he said nothing, Mrs. Tom, 
 but I know him. He cannot take his pleasure like other 
 folk. You'd think, as he sat here so glum, it was a 
 tragedy on the stage, and he used strong language in 
 the Church scene. You'd think he hated the players 
 from the way he went on and yet, as I've told you, he 
 cannot keep away from them.'' "Does he do any writ- 
 ing now?" asked Hubert. "Only what you see in the 
 papers and every now and then a little poetry, which 
 he tears up." "The fact of the matter is," said Hubert, 
 "our James is an intellectual without intelligence and 
 he should have been a professor." "He is the best of 
 men," said Tibby, "and if he were a gaol-bird he would 
 be the best of men, for that's the kind of man he is." 
 
 At the end of the play there was great applause, which 
 however did not last very long. There was nobody in 
 it and Hubert grunted dubiously. "You don't think it 
 will be popular?" asked Agnes. Hubert grunted again. 
 "Big snobs and little snobs," he said. "It's no good. 
 You can't get on without them. There's no such thing 
 as spontaneous success. It must be to a certain extent 
 automatic. Even with the snobs I doubt it. The Bea- 
 trice is a clever-farceuse but she is too old." "I hope 
 Jamie won't be disappointed but I must say I am glad it 
 is not a success." "And I," said Tibby, "thank God 
 for it." Hubert laughed : "You think there is nothing 
 to be said for these harlotry players?"
 
 MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS 379 
 
 They waited for Jamie until the theatre was quite 
 empty, but he was already at home in a frenzy writing 
 his notice of the performance of Much Ado About Noth- 
 ing, words which had taken on a dreadful significance 
 for him. He began by telling the story of the play and 
 then explained that he had had to turn to the book to 
 discover what it was, since the performance had left 
 him in some doubt. Then he went on to show what 
 dignity he had found in the printed page, what wit, what 
 raillery, what splendour of diction, and how on the stage 
 he had seen a rude farce, for the justification of which 
 he had looked in vain. "If I could have forgotten my 
 Shakespeare I might have enjoyed a splendid perform- 
 ance, but I could not forget my Shakespeare, nor could 
 I consent to his work being presented to those who have 
 not read it in so debased a form. They may like it 
 so but no critic worth the name can approve their liking 
 it, or suffer it without protest." As he wrote on he 
 forgot that he had had anything to do with the produc- 
 tion and praised what there was to praise, the greater 
 care that had been given to the scenery, dresses, lighting 
 and production. He praised Mr. Wilcox and the Don 
 John and the Benedick, whom he commiserated on hav- 
 ing the wit of his part bludgeoned out of existence by the 
 Beatrice with her rolling-pin, who cooked her jokes 
 like jam-tarts and hawked them two a penny. 
 
 He had not for a long time written so easily or so 
 clearly. He had neither confusion nor doubt as to his 
 meaning. It was the old gusto again and he felt con- 
 siderable satisfaction in signing it Quihtus Flumen. 
 Then it must be sent off at once to The Post office in 
 time to have a proof. He packed it up and sent it off 
 and returned just as Tibby was descending at the gate 
 from Agnes' fly. "Thank you very much, Jamie," said
 
 380 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Agnes. "It was a most entertaining evening. But I 
 hope you didn't run away from Hubert. He is really 
 very fond of you." "No, my dear," said Jamie. "I 
 ran away from the play." "Your own play? I think 
 you ought to stand up for your own." "Even if it is 
 abominable?" "It's too late to argue now. Will you 
 come and see me soon?" "I will very soon. I've been 
 a little afraid of you." "You need never be that. Good- 
 night. ""Good-night." 
 
 Tibby was very stern with him. "Where have you 
 been?" she asked. "To the post. I I wanted a little 
 air." '"Why do you go among the players, if you hate 
 them so much, Jamie?" "It isn't the players. It's the 
 theatre. It gets into my blood. I'm full of it, always 
 expecting something from it." He was very excited 
 and she commented on it: "You're not yourself to- 
 night, Jamie." "No," he said, "I think I've been over- 
 doing it. I'm not myself and that's the fact. There'll 
 be no sleep for me for hours and I'd be pleased if you'd 
 come and talk to me; none of your shy hovering at the 
 door but a real sit-down talk." Tibby followed him up 
 to his room. They listened outside Margaret's door but 
 there was no sound. 
 
 Jamie lit the lamp and suggested that they should 
 have tea. Tibby stole downstairs to the kitchen and 
 came back with two cups. "That's good!" said Jamie. 
 "Do you think I'm a terrible fool, Tibby?" "I have no 
 decided opinion about you," said she, "but I have my 
 hopes." "That I'll be a fool?"^"No. That you'll be 
 as good a man as your mother." "Aye, she is fine, and 
 I must be a sore trial to her." "Nay. She's pleased 
 now to think of you in the bank." "Ah! That's it, 
 Tibby. That's where I'm the fool, to want the theatre to 
 be as good for its work as the bank." "You'll never get
 
 MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS 381 
 
 that." "Why not?" '"Because play-acting's an off-time 
 thing." "Not for the people whose work it is."- 
 "They've got to take the mood of the people they have 
 to do their tricks before, and they're all tired people." 
 "But they ought not to be tired." "And yet they are. 
 It's been an easy thing for you to get your living, Jamie, 
 though I will say that I never knew you take things 
 easily, but for most of us living is hard. We're not all 
 happy in ourselves as you are mostly in yourself, and 
 we shrink from any little extra suffering or from any 
 extra effort." Jamie thought that over for awhile. 
 There seemed to him to be some truth in it and he asked : 
 "Are you speaking for yourself, or only from what you 
 think ?" "It's true of me too," said Tibby. "I often 
 think you never realise what other people are going 
 through because you go through things so quickly your- 
 self. We can't. We're slow and helpless." "You're 
 not slow, Tibby. My mind never jumps so fast but you 
 are there before me and I must say this of you that 
 you never leave anything behind. Very often I move 
 so fast in my mind, I mean, and my feelings that I 
 seem to leave everything behind and to forget not only 
 what men are doing but what they are. It's an amazing 
 freedom that I get there, but I can do nothing with it 
 and I have to come back wearily. And yet always when 
 I do come back to things as they go slowly grinding on 
 I know that I simply cannot live among them. I won- 
 der sometimes if I am wicked, but if I were wicked I 
 couldn't be sitting here talking to you as I am now. All 
 I feel is that everything is too close here in this place; 
 people are too close to each other, and yet what worlds 
 away! our ideas are too close: God, the kind of God 
 my mother still believes in, is too close. I feel that we're 
 fast losing something, some idea maybe, or some power
 
 382 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 of communication one with another. It means more to 
 me, I know, to see you or to feel your presence in a 
 room than to talk to any other living soul. There's life 
 
 in that ""Oh! Jamie! Oh! Jamie!" cried Tibby. 
 
 and he felt a strange tingling and throbbing in his breast. 
 She was trembling. "Tibby," he said, "for God's sake 
 what is it? Have I hurt you? Have I been talking 
 blethers?" She had risen from her chair and she stood 
 looking down at him, her curious veiled eyes shining. 
 "You arc a fool, Jamie," she said. "Much thinking has 
 made you a fool and may God forgive you.'' He stood 
 and confronted her: "Tibby!" he said. "Tell me what 
 it is. Tell me, for I'm sick to death of being the kind 
 of fool I am." "It would harm us both if I told you," 
 said she, "so I'll haud my tongue. I'm used to that." 
 So saying, she left him and he sank back into his chair 
 with the tingling and throbbing in his breast turned to a 
 dull ache. For an hour or more he sat blankly staring 
 in front of him. He was not insensible of the torment 
 in Tibby but he was numbed by the stab of the fierce 
 instinct in her, and mentally confused by the tenderness 
 in her which had not for a moment failed him. And 
 suddenly he was the victim of a violent eruption of 
 feeling, that seemed to have no object but to destroy 
 his being. It was an agony but he shrank from no 
 moment of it, feeling all the dissatisfactions of years 
 being rent from him. He was left with small imme- 
 diate consciousness. Suppressed desires, distorted and 
 abused desires came up in a vile flood thrusting their 
 way through the shell of his being, darkening his mind, 
 freezing his heart. He could find no relief but in mov- 
 ing slowly about the room. It was a comfort and a 
 reassurance to touch things, the curtains. Many times 
 he pulled the blinds up and down. He extinguished
 
 MRS. LESLIE IN DISTRESS 383 
 
 the lamp, lit it again and once more extinguished it. 
 He broke a heavy ivory paper-knife into five pieces and 
 cut his hand in doing so. At last dawn came and he 
 stood at the window watching the coming of the light 
 from grey to pearl and pearl to red in the sky, noting 
 the changes with a cold exactness and precision until 
 at last another day enormous and abominably empty 
 had begun. It was the vastness and emptiness of the 
 day that Jamie felt. It must be filled and his mind 
 began to cast about for his means of filling it : break- 
 fast, work at the bank, dinner, work at the bank, tea, 
 conversation with his mother. He went into all that 
 in detail and heaped it up but still the day seemed very 
 empty: a sieve of a day. He poured into it all the 
 activities he had ever known, the activities of the thou- 
 sands in the great city; all his pleasures, all his loves, 
 all his happiness and all his sorrow, and still the day 
 was very empty. At last he shrugged his shoulders and 
 told himself that he had nothing more to cast away and 
 was miraculously still alive. Then he went up to his 
 bed and lay down and slept for a couple of hours, de- 
 liberately and consciously put himself to sleep because 
 he needed it, and felt that, as nothing worse could pos- 
 sibly happen, he had the right to so much refreshment. 
 In the morning there were several letters for him, 
 one from Mrs. Leslie which ran: "My DEAR JAMIE, 
 For I always shall call you Jamie in spite of what has 
 happened. Will you excuse me asking you to come and 
 see me, but I am in some trouble. Mr. Leslie has been 
 asked to retire from the firm and I don't know what- 
 ever we shall do. It isn't as if he was a young man 
 but we can talk of all that when you come, which please 
 do soon, as Mr. Leslie will let no one come to the 
 house and I have no one to talk to." '"Tom's work,"
 
 384 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 said Jamie as he read this letter over a second time. 
 Margaret handed him his coffee, saying: "You're look- 
 ing very well this morning, Jamie. John writes from 
 Madeira to say that he and Sophia are so enchanted 
 with the place that they will stay there, perhaps until the 
 spring. They are sending me some Madeira lace and 
 I must say that John is very generous. Sophia has 
 been very good for him in that way." "My letter," 
 said Jamie, "is from Mrs. Leslie. She tells me that her 
 husband has been dismissed from the firm. "--"Yes," 
 said Margaret, "it does seem a pity. Tom told me some 
 time since that he would have to go."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 
 
 THAT evening, when he left the bank, Jamie took 
 the way that he had gone every day when he had 
 first entered his uncle's office. There was no change 
 in the streets but for the worse, yet he no longer re- 
 sented deterioration; it no longer fretted his nerves. 
 He could face the squalor in the mean streets as he 
 had faced the squalor in himself, and both seemed to 
 him part of the same evil against which it was his clear 
 and joyous duty to fight. In responding to that duty 
 liberty stirred in his heart. That day, as he had lived 
 it, had been full to brimming over, though it had con- 
 tained nothing that there had not been in countless 
 days before it. It had been like no other day in all 
 his life; not even the wonderful joyous days of his boy- 
 hood had been so full. Everyone had responded a little 
 to the zest in him and he had found it so easy to enter 
 into all the little jokes of the bank, though where the 
 others laughed uproariously he could never give more 
 than a dry chuckle. The business of the day had seemed 
 to him more than ever trivial and unduly intricate, ex- 
 cessively slow and indolent, but none the less worth 
 doing well and carefully. It absorbed very little energy 
 and he had plenty of leisure for thinking of other things 
 and for considering the possibility of changes that he 
 
 385
 
 386 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 could bring about in his life, so that he could taste more 
 of this new liberty that had come so suddenly as to 
 seem Heaven-sent. It had the very magic of poetry, 
 and it seemed to him that he was feeling as poets feel, 
 with a joy beyond all pleasure, with no thought of 
 pleasure in the free activity of love. He could love 
 even evil, since from the strife of good and evil in 
 himself as in all things came this joy, which forbade 
 nothing and excluded nothing. 
 
 He could not resist the temptation to look back on 
 the small, conceited, egoistic and most unhappy self that 
 he had left behind. That self had often tasted the pleas- 
 ure of feeling virtuous, which was most absurdly like 
 the pleasure of feeling wicked; it had often tasted the 
 delight of an eruption of blind instinct, which it had 
 called passion, impotent and futile, producing nothing 
 in the end but disgust. But now it was as though his 
 instincts had been given sight. They were eager. They 
 poured, thrilling through all his senses, quickening them 
 so that his joy was no more confined within himself but 
 could pass out into all that he could see and touch and 
 smell, withdrawing before all offence or reaching through 
 it to understand it and to know its nature. 
 
 As he walked by the old way he could meet his younger 
 self, who had suffered in his unwitting desire for this 
 very thing, this fulness of a day. It was good to be 
 going back to Mrs. Leslie who had done so much to make 
 those old times bearable. It was good to go back with 
 this first fulfilment to the scenes of the innocent young 
 desire. 
 
 Mrs. Leslie opened the door to him herself. Trouble? 
 There was no sign of it upon her face, in her ready smile 
 and her child-like eyes that had surely seen no evil any- 
 where and in all that has passed before them had found
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 387 
 
 only food for gaiety. "He! He! Jamie," she said. "It 
 is good of you to come at once." "Of course I should 
 come at once." "He! He! I knew you would." 
 
 She led him into her little parlour, not, he knew, be- 
 cause he was a ceremonious visitor, but because she 
 wished to have him alone. She said : "I thought I could 
 bear it until Sunday, but when Mr. Leslie refused to go to 
 church then I couldn't bear it any longer. He hasn't 
 missed church on Sunday for fifteen years, not since he's 
 been churchwarden. I wouldn't mind anything. I never 
 did mind anything that happens, for when one door shuts 
 another door opens. I was always a puzzle to Mr. Leslie, 
 being so cheerful, and now he can't understand me at 
 all. He just sits there and won't go out until after dark 
 and if I make a suggestion he snaps my head off. We 
 shall have to leave this house because of the rent but he 
 won't hear a word of it. And at night when I used to get 
 something out of him he just lies silent as the night." 
 "When did it happen," asked Jamie, "and how?" 
 "A fortnight ago. They had told him three months 
 before but he never said a word of it to me. He came 
 home a fortnight ago and said the office had no further 
 use for his services. Then it was days before I could 
 get anything more out of him. They have given him his 
 salary up to the end of the year, which is generous con- 
 sidering that they need not have given him anything." 
 "They'd had his work for thirty years and more." 
 "Thirty-two years. He was very proud of that, but he 
 can't think of anything else. I can't do anything with 
 him. He says I have never understood him and I thought 
 if you could do something. He used to be fond of you 
 in the old days." "Will you ask him to see me?" 
 "I'd rather you went in yourself. I've always found 
 that the only way is to take him by surprise. He! He!
 
 388 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 That's why he's so fond of me, because I'm always a 
 surprise to him." 
 
 Jamie went along to the dining-room where he found 
 Mr. Leslie sitting in his old easy-chair, cowering before 
 the fire and reading the advertisements in the news- 
 paper column by column. When he saw Jamie he turned 
 over the page to the notice of the production of Much 
 Ado About Nothing. "Good-evening," said Jamie. 
 "Good-evening," said Mr. Leslie, "and what brings you 
 here?" -"My old friends," replied Jamie, "old friends 
 are best." He winced at once at the tactlessness of his 
 own remark. But it did not seem to wound Mr. Leslie, 
 who was in a bewildered apathy. "I was thinking of 
 the old days," said Jamie, "and I thought I would come 
 and take you out for a walk. We used to enjoy our 
 walks in the old days." "I've changed my habits," re- 
 torted Mr. Leslie, "I used to enjoy a walk of a Sunday, 
 but all days are Sundays now." "Then come and enjoy 
 a walk." "I couldn't." 
 
 There was a long and very awkward silence which 
 Jamie at last broke by saying lamely : "I think it would 
 be a good thing." Mr. Leslie had reduced him to impo- 
 tence and he chafed against it. He felt that if only 
 he could get the wretched man out of doors he would 
 be able to do something with him. Sitting there, he was 
 in a strongly fortified position. The easy-chair was the 
 throne from which he had exercised his sovereign power 
 over his family. He had taken refuge in it now and 
 resented Jamie's suggestion as an attempt to drive him 
 out. "Come, come," said Jamie. "Let us be friends." 
 "Not," said Mr. Leslie, "with any member of your 
 family. For thirty years and more I've worked for 
 your family, that your uncle and your brother may live 
 in luxury and that you may waste your life in sinful
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 389 
 
 courses. You were the ruin of my daughter, James 
 Lawrie, but I believed in the firm. I always have believed 
 in the firm and I find it hard not to believe in the firm 
 now." 'Jamie received this onslaught with a gulp. That 
 he had been the ruin of Selina was, from Peter's point 
 of view, true enough, though not at all true from Selina's. 
 However, Peter did not admit that Selina had a point 
 of view, or, indeed, an existence. According to his no- 
 tions Jamie had put an end to that as surely as Tom 
 had put an end to his connection with the firm. He was 
 completely baffled. Such things do not happen to a 
 churchwarden. The mere fact of being a churchwarden 
 ought to have made them impossible. And yet they had 
 happened and he simply could not understand it. If 
 there were any justice in Heaven, as there was certainly 
 none on earth, the Lawries ought to be struck dead, 
 and for his effrontery in coming to see him, Mr. Leslie 
 half expected the finger of God to touch James Lawrie 
 as he sat by the table in the dining-room. 
 
 Jamie could feel the man aching and throbbing with 
 injured vanity and a helpless rage at being deprived of 
 the habits which through so many years had carried him 
 on from day to day. At the same time he realised how 
 entirely inaccessible the unhappy Peter was to any sym- 
 pathy that might be given him. He had repulsed even 
 his wife. What then could an outsider do? The only 
 thing Jamie could think of was to get him out of the 
 easy-chair. "I should have thought," he said kindly, 
 "that you would have been glad of your independence." 
 Peter sat bolt upright: "I have always been independ- 
 ent," he snapped. "That is the trouble. I have been 
 independent in my politics, in my religion, and I have 
 been master in my own house, as you ought to know, 
 having lived here when you were a boy and I did my
 
 390 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 best to discharge my responsibility to your uncle, who, 
 if he had been alive, would never have tolerated the 
 things that are being done in his business to-day. I have 
 never asked for help and never will, neither will I brook 
 any interference in my affairs." "I had no intention of 
 interfering," replied Jamie. "I certainly think you have 
 been treated very badly and I only wished to offer you 
 such help as I can give if you have any intention of 
 finding other work." "I am quite capable of applying 
 for work when it is wanted." His rage suddenly boiled 
 over. "The firm offered to keep me on with my work 
 taken away from me and given to another man. Charity ! 
 If I could pay them back every penny I have ever had 
 from them, I would. If I were a younger man, I would 
 work myself to the bone until I had paid them back." 
 "But they could not pay you back the work you have 
 done." "If it had been work for righteous men I could 
 not regret one moment of it, but for men like you, like 
 your brother ..." He had risen from his chair and 
 Jamie stood also. He was shocked to see how thin and 
 old Peter looked. Peter had lost even his trim spruce- 
 ness. He was a figure of weak inarticulate fury. After 
 a moment or two he seemed to feel his weakness and he 
 sank back into his chair again, took up the newspaper 
 and began once more to read the advertisements. So, 
 sick at heart, Jamie left him. 
 
 There could not have been a more complete apparent 
 denial of the joy that had so recently possessed him and 
 that he had believed to be omnipotent. It had failed him. 
 It had failed to give him power to break through the 
 unhappy Peter's misery, and yet through the encounter 
 it had become active and fierce: no longer a sweet easy 
 condition, but almost a pain, which was redoubled as 
 Mrs. Leslie came out of the parlour. He said: "I can
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 391 
 
 do nothing with him, but for you there is nothing that I 
 will not try to do." And he almost broke into sobs when 
 the little woman seized his hand and kissed it. "It's my 
 fault," said she. "I can't help trying to be cheerful, 
 whatever happens, and it does aggravate him so." Her 
 words made Jamie want to laugh through his sorrow. 
 He patted Mrs. Leslie's cheek and told her that she must 
 be cheerful even if it drove Peter off his head, as of 
 course it would not, because he would soon discover that 
 she was worth more than all the big firms in Thrigsby 
 put together. "He ! He ! Jamie," said Mrs. Leslie, mop- 
 ping at her eyes with a child's stocking she had produced 
 from her pocket, "I declare you haven't changed a bit. 
 You are the same boy that came here all those years ago." 
 When he left her Jamie walked straight over to Tom's 
 house and asked to see Agnes. She received him in the 
 little room they called the breakfast-room, though they 
 never had breakfast in it. He came straight to the point 
 and told her of Tom's treatment of Peter Leslie. Did 
 she know? No. Tom never told her anything about 
 his work. The Greigs had never told their wives any- 
 thing either, so she had not expected it, and thought it 
 must be very difficult. "How do you think it can be 
 difficult if Tom can succeed in it?" "I wonder why you 
 and Tom can never admit each other's ability?" asked 
 Agnes. "Ability is comparative and Tom's is not su- 
 preme. I don't see that that, is disparaging." "Very 
 well, then, business is quite easy but I don't suppose I 
 should find it interesting." >"Do you find anything in- 
 teresting?" "O! yes. Being happy is so." "I find 
 that it depends upon the quality of the happiness and 
 happiness for its own sake is only a pleasant form of 
 boredom. But I want something done for the Leslies. 
 He has his salary to the end of the year and then noth-
 
 392 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 ing or next door to it. He cannot have saved much 
 with a wife and seven children to keep:' "I will ask 
 Tom." "I have no hope of Tom. He will be official 
 and say that as an employer he knows nothing of Leslie's 
 wife and family and has no interest in the way in which 
 his employees choose to spend their salaries. I say and 
 I want you to say that Leslie is entitled to a pension or 
 at least to some small charge on the firm's profits."- -"I 
 will certainly say so, but it will make Tom very angry." 
 "I don't see why you should mind making him angry." 
 '"But I do. I'll help the Leslies myself if they need 
 help." "They don't. They want justice." Jamie was 
 really angry with Agnes' placidity. She seemed to be 
 incapable of imagining that there could be injustice in 
 the dismissal of a clerk, who was apparently only a part 
 of the machinery of an office, to be kept in working 
 order while useful, and to be dismissed when no longer 
 so. The office was something entirely remote from 
 Agnes' life. It swallowed up Tom every morning and 
 returned him between six and seven in the evening. It 
 had besides some mysterious function in the mainte- 
 nance of Thrigsby which the Greigs, with some assistance 
 from the Keiths, had created and established for ever. 
 And because the Greigs and Keiths had created and es- 
 tablished Thrigsby Tom, being a connection, was to ex- 
 tract from it large sums of money. He did this through 
 an office, and she did not really conceive that Tom worked 
 or that it could be necessary. 
 
 All this from her conversation Jamie roughly divined 
 and he recognised the spirit which in old Andrew had 
 caused him to revolt and in the Greigs made the atmos- 
 phere of their homes absolutely asphyxiating. He thought 
 he could detect it here in Tom's house and that did a 
 little account to his mind for the dismissal of Peter Les-
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 393 
 
 lie. Also, he was bound to admit, Agnes' theory of 
 Thrigsby and the office was to a certain extent borne out 
 by the facts. It was really false only in the assumption! 
 that the Keiths and the Greigs, and perhaps the Allisons, 
 had created and established Thrigsby, for there were at 
 least a hundred other families living serenely under the 
 same impression, and very proud of it too. The fact that 
 they were rich seemed to prove it. They were rich be- 
 cause they had conferred benefits on their fellow-men, 
 who showed small gratitude and much envy. 
 
 It was a new side of Agnes and Jamie was puzzled 
 by it, for it did not diminish his old admiration and love 
 for her. They remained, but this new aspect made him 
 understand why he had held aloof from and idealised 
 her. That strange hardness in her was repellent to love, 
 which could only gain access to her through persistent 
 violence. All her rare and beautiful qualities were inac- 
 tive. She was static and would never be either old or 
 young, never pitying, never compassionate, never sympa- 
 thetic, but always easy, kind and charitable. In its way 
 it was as tragic as Peter Leslie. And here too was inac- 
 cessibility to joy. 'Tm in no luck to-day," thought 
 Jamie humorously, and he began to see himself as rather 
 absurd. However, he felt that he owed justice to Peter 
 and stayed on until Tom came home. Then he let fly, 
 pleading his cause eloquently and moderately, so as to 
 leave no loophole for an accusation of prejudice. Tom 
 heard him out to the end. "You can't expect us to 
 pension a clerk of ours merely because he is a friend of 
 yours. Every clerk in our office knows that we have no 
 pension fund and pensions are bad in principle ; they dis- 
 courage thrift and enterprise and encourage slackness. 
 On the other hand, while our clerks behave themselves, 
 they know that they are as safe as if they were in the
 
 394 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Bank of England. As for Leslie, the fact is that he is 
 past his work and ought really to have retired when 
 Andrew died. Uncle Andrew ought to have left him a 
 small legacy upon which he could have retired quietly 
 without all this fuss. As it is we kept him on until re- 
 construction made it imperative that he and one or two 
 others should go. He could have stayed on and made 
 himself useful in a number of small ways, but he pre- 
 ferred to go. If we give him a pension then the other 
 clerks will expect the same and the firm cannot afford it." 
 "Put in the name of justice." "Justice? He has no 
 claim on us. He has been paid for his service. He has 
 nothing to complain of on that score." 'That sounds 
 to me more like law than justice." "My dear James, the 
 law of the land and of the time in which you live is 
 justice. Only a knave or a fool will look beyond it." 
 "Then the world owes its progress to knaves and fools." 
 "Possibly. All right-thinking men are content with the 
 world as it is." "And to leave honest men to starve." 
 "What nonsense? We are quite ready to give Leslie 
 the warmest recommendation for any position he may 
 apply for. And he must have saved." "With seven 
 children ?" "Our mother brought us up on ninety pounds 
 a year and I beg you to remember what her feelings were 
 about her pension." "It is not the money that Leslie is 
 worrying about. He has been hurt in his devotion to the 
 firm." "That is sentiment. There is no longer room 
 for sentiment in business. You ought to know that. 
 Every penny counts nowadays and there is no room for 
 luxury or leisure. The whole affair has been very pain- 
 ful to me, but it became clear that as long as Leslie 
 stayed there was no getting the full amount of work 
 out of the other clerks."^-" And also, I suppose," re- 
 marked Jamie sarcastically, "he was grossly overpaid."
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 395 
 
 "The salary list has been revised, certainly." "In- 
 cluding yours?" -"I am not a salaried partner. The 
 salaried partners have been subject to the revision. I 
 wish you would believe me when I assure you that you 
 are wasting your time. These people always have griev- 
 ances. There are men in this town who devote their 
 whole lives to the venting of grievances, and pestiferous 
 nuisances they are. I hope you are not going to become 
 one of those. You had much better stick to your rogues 
 and vagabonds." Jamie swallowed the implied insult 
 cheerfully : "Very well then," he said. "Will you give 
 me the three hundred pounds you owe me?" "What 
 three hundred?" "You offered fifteen hundred for Cli- 
 bran and gave me twelve hundred." "Not at all. You 
 insisted on the surveyor, and besides you sold Clibran 
 to Agnes, not to me." "Will you give me the three hun- 
 dred then, Agnes?" "Certainly," said she. "I forbid 
 it," cried Tom. "I forbid it. I forbid you to entrust 
 a single farthing to this fellow who has no sense of the 
 value of money and no respect for it." Jamie saw Agnes 
 flush with pleasure as Tom's voice grew louder and loud- 
 er. She enjoyed being bullied by him, revelled in it. She* 
 was afraid of him and delighted in her fear. For two 
 or three minutes she let him rail on and then she said 
 meekly: "Yes, Tom." And Tom shook himself like a 
 dog that has growled at another dog smaller than itself 
 and frightened it away. Then he turned to his brother 
 and said magnanimously: "Of course, if Leslie finds 
 himself in real difficulties we will do what we can for 
 him." Tom's face adopted the expression he wore when 
 he was feeling virtuous, which was his greatest and most 
 constant pleasure and was gained chiefly in the contem- 
 plation of the wickedness, the folly or the recklessness 
 of others. Now he had two causes for it : Leslie's crim-
 
 396 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 inally rash declaration of independence and Jamie's wild 
 espousal of the cause of his inferior. Add to that his 
 successful squashing of his wife, and he had good reason 
 to be self-satisfied. Thomas Lawrie was master in his 
 own house and his own business ; "come the four corners 
 of the world in arms" and he would shock them. He 
 straddled his legs in front of the fire, parting his coat- 
 tails to warm the backs of his thighs. "I am not an un- 
 generous man," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice, 
 while Jamie and Agnes on either side stared up at him : 
 "I am not an ungenerous man, I hope, but I have my 
 principles, and I believe that every man should look 
 after himself and not look to others for support in any 
 crisis. If a man is honest, thrifty and puts his trust in 
 God he should have no difficulty. If he fails in any of 
 these then he should face the consequences without 
 squealing." "Have done!" cried Jamie unable to bear it 
 any longer. "If there ever was a thrifty, honest and 
 pious man it is poor Leslie and, though you refuse to see 
 it, he has deserved better at your hands. What you do 
 with all your money or what you want with it, I don't 
 know, but it seems to me that it's as much a dead end with 
 you as poverty is to the to the men you have impover- 
 ished." With that he stalked out of the room and the 
 house. Tom had become entirely and intolerably fantastic 
 to him. His own brother ! Tom, whom he remembered 
 as an eager ambitious boy, come down to smug scratch- 
 ing of his own virtue, with his honesty, and his thrift 
 and his trust in God ! Nay, that was more tragic than 
 Peter in his easy-chair. Peter was but a poor, tame 
 frightened man at the best, but Tom had had pride and 
 vigour. "I will not believe it," said Jamie to himself. 
 "I'll not believe it." He half -persuaded himself that it 
 was his own fault, that he was not the person to inter-
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 397 
 
 fere, that he ought to have remembered the old animosity 
 there had always been between himself and his brother. 
 But then there was the bullying of Agnes. There had 
 been hints of that before, incidents that should have re- 
 vealed to him before the true relationship of the couple. 
 Agnes had been bullied into marriage, not against her 
 will, but because she had liked it, because it broke in 
 upon the somnolence induced by her own charm. 
 
 The experiences of that day forced Jamie into acknowl- 
 edging that he had been living in a fool's paradise, be- 
 lieving in humanity, that men were bound together by 
 some profound spiritual tie which in certain relation- 
 ships, such as marriage, friendship or common suffering, 
 was made clear to them : further that men were masters 
 of their actions and always knew tolerably well what 
 they were doing. Certainly he himself hated doing any- 
 thing that he did not understand sufficiently to set his 
 conscience at rest. Now however his innocence was 
 shocked. Men, he began to see, were terribly at the 
 mercy of their actions, and for the first time he really 
 doubted himself. Was his own case any better than 
 Tom's or Peter Leslie's? Was he not also at a dead 
 end, making it tolerable by indulgence in the most easily 
 procured pleasures? That with the wonderful free joy 
 'still stirring in him he could most fiercely deny. Only 
 he felt sorry, utterly and miserably sorry that such things 
 could be. Mrs. Leslie and her Peter, Agnes and her 
 Tom. Where in either was evidence of the spiritual tie 
 which he had so fondly imagined ? Ugly, ugly and mean 
 it was, the life of those honoured and respectable cou- 
 ples. Money or no money had nothing to do with it. 
 Their cruel confinement came not from their circum- 
 stances but from the conceptions by which they lived. 
 They were neither to be blamed nor hated. The evil
 
 398 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 that they represented lay rather behind than in them. 
 It was an evil everywhere present. It had produced 
 the rows and rows of little houses, the flat, prosperous 
 villas, the immense factories, the foul canals, the smok- 
 ing stacks, the blighted trees and the pale blighted men 
 and women of the streets. It was subtle and compelling 
 and there was no escape from it. To that pass had men 
 all come that they must live in evil, because they lived 
 so narrowly, so huddled in one upon another, that there 
 was no moving out of the filth of their own decay or 
 the stench of their own excrement. Almost Jamie began 
 to hate his joy which had led him to feel bitterly this 
 clinging, muddy evil. He did not know, could not 
 know its source. It obscured his own knowledge of 
 good, for the good he had always acknowledged had be- 
 come mechanical and automatic. It was no longer a liv- 
 ing principle. It was only another aspect of that dreaded 
 evil. There was so little goodness in it. It was hardly 
 more than a dressing up for decency. He wandered 
 through the streets and every sight that met his eyes 
 confirmed his impression. He choked with it all, was 
 stifled with the agony of his own ability to apprehend the 
 idea intellectually. It was as though the truth in him 
 was burned out and dwindled to ashes. He was left 
 with nothing but ugly facts. It was no comfort to him 
 to think that all these men and women were enduring 
 heroically the abomination that was in them. They were 
 not heroic. They were living in hiding. They were pre- 
 serving decency, no more. All their effort, all their 
 striving achieved no more than that. He had a sense 
 of being in the midst of some appalling mysterious catas- 
 trophe, devastating the whole world so that thought no 
 longer had any machinery wherewith to work, since all
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 399 
 
 things were subtly transformed so that their names no 
 longer applied to them. 
 
 He came at last to the street in which he lived, so 
 respectable, so prosperous, already so suburban, and 
 when he came to his own house he said: "This is my 
 home." He needed to reassure himself. The word 
 "home" was a mockery. It should stand for the dearest 
 and the purest known to man, but there the evil was 
 most firmly seated. Every house in the street was a 
 place of authority, within each a man like Peter Leslie 
 enthroned in an easy-chair, a dead man at a dead end. 
 
 Yet in his own house he found comfort. In his mother 
 he met purity and strength. He found her innocent and 
 his impulse was to go down on his knees before her, for 
 the sight of her could release him from the almost terror 
 that had possessed him. She was marvellously alive to 
 the need in him and was very gentle and tender. He 
 surprised her into intimate talk and she went back over 
 the years and told him more about his father than she 
 had ever done, so that he felt, what he had thought, that 
 love for her was in the grave. Yet that love was indeed 
 her only thought, so that there was no evil in her. She 
 was no longer of the world and the evil had passed her 
 by, or she had been armed against it. From his father 
 and those deep memories her talk passed naturally to her 
 religion and Jamie understood how perfectly it was an 
 expression of her love, the stern and tender love she 
 must have had for the devout and gentle man, his father. 
 But outside in the world from which he had fled to her 
 such a love could no longer live. It had lost its expres- 
 sion. Evil had broken the vessel that could contain it, 
 or perhaps the vessel had been broken so that evil could 
 enter in. 
 
 He could not tell her of the cataclysm in his life. She
 
 400 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 would not have understood it, for she was already so 
 remote. Her work was done and she had folded her 
 hands. She was happy still and clear of soul in her 
 faith and her love. These had sustained her and she 
 would never understand that they were not sustenance 
 also for her sons. They were good men, as men go, 
 and she was content. To her it was but a strange in- 
 cident that Jamie should turn to her. He had a difficult 
 character. There must be times for him when he felt 
 altogether weak and helpless and unworthy. His father 
 had had such times, when he had felt that he could no 
 longer teach the Christian belief in the face of the mean- 
 ness and jealousy and spiteful rivalry of the folk in the 
 glen. It had been difficult and she had often had to back 
 his gentleness with her authority. But here in the town 
 the people were so much pleasanter, so much more ready 
 to accommodate each other, at every turn there was such 
 kindness that there was no call whatever for despair. 
 Jamie had only to do his work; the care of souls was 
 no affair of his. He had only to do his duty to prosper 
 and indeed he had his share of prosperity. Whence 
 then these collapses? . . . All the same, though she 
 could not in the least understand him, she was glad to be 
 able to comfort him, and to take him back in thought 
 to Scotland, where she too was happier and livelier, for 
 a while, until she would begin to remember the lives of 
 men she had known there, fair hopeful men, with the 
 same strong stirring of the mind that had too often 
 suddenly, and for no apparent reason, collapsed. Then 
 she would be afraid, and quickly would conceal her fear, 
 and no more comfort could she bring. Life here in the 
 town was so much easier and gentler. There could not 
 be the same dangers. It would be all right. "That" 
 could not happen here. She had no clear idea of the
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 401 
 
 nature of "that," but her memory darted for one little 
 flash to the death of her husband and to his willingness 
 to die, and beyond that to other men who had met an- 
 other kind of death in life. It was only for a flash. 
 Those things were very far away. Here were ease and 
 security and prosperity assured. 
 
 Her thoughts had carried Jamie with her and he sat 
 grimly opposite to her, staring into her face, searching her 
 eyes for the knowledge that condemned him. He looked 
 like a doomed man. He gazed at her as though in her 
 thoughts were some heaven from which he was for ever 
 shut out. Yet, as he gazed and saw that heaven he felt 
 that the evil was behind him, and he began fiercely to 
 hope for another and a higher heaven. Hers was too 
 remote, and for ever inaccessible. What he hoped for 
 was a sudden revelation, a golden city springing from 
 the earth, towards which, even though he might never 
 enter it, he would be content to struggle. Some such 
 vision he needed to resist his new consciousness of evil, 
 and, because he needed it, already in the depths of his soul 
 his spirit had begun to create. "The life of a man," 
 said Margaret suddenly, "must be a hard thing for it 
 is always torn two ways." "I have always had most 
 pity for women," replied Jamie. "There is only one 
 way for a woman," said she, "and I could never under- 
 stand your father when, as he always used, he talked 
 of intellectual beauty." "Aye," said Jamie, "you would 
 always understand a man's thoughts in relation to the 
 man, but never value them for themselves. And sup- 
 pose his passion was in them, what then, what then ?" 
 "Jamie, Jamie," said she, "it might be your father speak- 
 ing, and he used to torture himself with the thought 
 that it was sin, though he never was and never could be
 
 402 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 a sinful man." "Then," said Jamie humbly, "that is 
 my inheritance from him." 
 
 So he went away and sat for hours in front of his 
 father's portrait, scanning the beautiful rather weak face, 
 the wistful dreaming eyes, the delicate mouth, sensitive 
 and trembling, that never could have borne any rude tast- 
 ing of beauty through the senses, and therefore could 
 have known no sin, no defilement of beauty for sensa- 
 tion. The forehead was wide and clear. Behind it, 
 Jamie imagined, thought must have moved with an ease 
 and largeness unknown and never to be known to himself. 
 How then was there sin? The faith that was in his 
 mother was limpid in this man. But again were there 
 not thoughts in his brain which his faith could not con- 
 strain? Was that his sin ? Jamie decided that it was so, 
 that already his faith was insufficient, that he also had 
 desired a new Heaven and a new Earth, for when the 
 faith is insufficient, then evil must be triumphant. 
 
 Having got so far, Jamie turned from the picture and 
 went to the window to look out into the scrubby little 
 back garden with its blackened earth, and meagre trees, 
 at the grimy walls of the houses opposite and the smudged 
 sky. It amused him to think that in that prospect he was 
 looking for a new heaven and a new earth, seeking in the 
 evil itself for the power that should combat it. Tibby 
 came out into the garden with a basket of clothes which 
 she proceeded to hang out on the line. He watched her, 
 fascinated by the movements of her strong thin body. 
 She had on a blue cotton dress and the colour seemed to 
 lighten all the scene, to draw out colour and force from 
 what had before seemed only drab. She was the centre 
 of it all, one solitary human figure, dignified, indestruct- 
 ible. The excitement died out of him. He felt entirely, 
 utterly alone with Tibby. That she was unconscious of
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 403 
 
 his presence only strengthened the idea, and he had no 
 desire to have more than the idea of it. With her, with 
 the idea of her, he felt strong and most wonderfully 
 serene. 
 
 Now she had emptied her basket and returned to the 
 house again, He felt then that he understood what 
 Margaret must have been to his father, who became at 
 once a living presence to him so that the myth and legend 
 he had always been perished. The house was now a 
 living home. It was a stronghold. It was a chamber 
 in the golden city of his dreams, but only the more re- 
 pulsive was the life outside and the thought of going 
 into it again. He would have the night. Perhaps the 
 night spent in this new home would give him strength. 
 
 A messenger brought a proof of his article on the play. 
 He corrected it without heeding a sentence or remark- 
 ing anything but verbal inaccuracies, while the messen- 
 ger was waiting, a cheese-faced boy who sucked his teeth 
 and shifted from one foot to the other. "Who sent you?" 
 asked Jamie. "Mr. Bigge, sir." "Wait a moment and 
 I'll give you a note." "Yes, sir." 
 
 Jamie wrote to Currie Bigge asking him if he wanted 
 a clerk in the office, and, if so, would he communicate 
 with Mr. Leslie at the given address. "If I were you," 
 said Jamie to the cheese-faced boy, "I should run away 
 to sea." "I 'ave thought of it, sir," replied the cheese- 
 faced boy, "but I believe sailors is 'orrible rough." 
 "You'd see the world." "Plenty to see in Thrigsby," 
 replied the boy, rather despising Jamie as an amateur, 
 one who wrote his "stuff" at home comfortably and 
 avoided the manly rush of the office where at a moment's 
 notice men could write on Foreign policy or the finances 
 of the local infirmary. Nor was the cheese-faced boy's 
 opinion mended by the present of sixpence he received.
 
 404 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 He was used to being cuffed or kicked. He pocketed the 
 coin and broke into a whistle and went out whistling. 
 
 This intrusion restored Jamie to his normal condition 
 and he turned to his books. He had just discovered 
 Webster and was soon deep in the White Devil which 
 he read far into the night, finding in it lines and phrases 
 which he crooned over and over to himself until he 
 had lost the excitement they roused in him and he could 
 appreciate their real strength and keenness which seemed 
 to cut through the appearances of life to reveal life 
 itself. Never before had he so closely established a com- 
 munication between his own being and the poetry he 
 worshipped. From that heaven he was not shut out, 
 and what greater heaven could there be? So powerful 
 was this happiness that it endured for many days and 
 carried him easily through the routine of the bank and 
 through distasteful hours in the evening at the theatre 
 in which he had lost faith. Poetry and wit were done 
 to death in it, and it was a place of blasphemy where 
 the loveliest movements of the human mind and heart 
 were debased to make sport for snobs and sentimentalists. 
 
 Much Ado About Nothing was kept in the bill for a 
 month and was replaced by She Stoops to Conquer, which 
 was a failure. Mr. Wilcox had not the physique for 
 Tony Lumpkin and was too old, and he was so pleased 
 with himself in the part that there was no holding him 
 in. This failure produced internal dissension. One 
 night when Jamie was in the theatre the acting manager 
 came to him and held out a copy of The Post, with half- 
 a-column heavily scored in pencil. It was the notice of 
 Much Ado. Jamie read it, not at first recognising it as 
 his own, though it seemed to him rather well written. 
 "Well, Mr. Lawrie!" "Well, Mr. Tonks !" " Several 
 members of the company want to know what you have
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 405 
 
 to say about it, Mr. Lawrie." "It is a newspaper opin- 
 ion." "Is it yours?" "Yes, certainly." 
 
 The acting manager worked himself up into a fury : 
 "There's been a deal of talk about that article, Mr. Law- 
 rie, and several of the ladies and gentlemen feel that 
 they have been made a laughing-stock of, Mr. Lawrie. 
 They have held meetings about it and the sense of the 
 meeting held to-day was that nothing but a public apology 
 on the stage would be adequate." "It seems to me a very 
 fair opinion on a matter of public interest. It is not an 
 expression of my private opinion. If I had expressed 
 that you would have had a grievance." "That's all very 
 fine," said the acting manager plucking up courage, when 
 he saw that his onslaught had been taken amiably. 
 "That's all very fine, but I'm not here to split hairs. 
 The play was your own show and you ought not to 
 have crabbed it. The success or failure of a play is 
 a very serious matter to the ladies and gentlemen en- 
 gaged in it. There are several of them who declare 
 that they will leave the company unless they receive 
 an apology." "You can say I am very sorry." "The 
 apology must be public." "That seems to me unneces- 
 sary. I am very sorry. I had not thought of the play 
 in terms of bread-and-butter and I suppose I ought to 
 have done." "Very well, Mr. Lawrie, I will tell them 
 what you say and I will not answer for the conse- 
 quences." He strode away leaving Jamie more than 
 ever disgusted with the theatre through this invasion 
 of personal animosity and jealousy. 
 
 In a moment or two Mr. Wilcox came rushing up in 
 a frantic state. "They'll leave," he cried, "they'll leave 
 if you don't apologise! Why, oh, why did you ever go 
 and write that article? Why write anything? You 
 weren't there as a critic, and she had such good notices
 
 406 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 everywhere else. She'd have had the success of her life 
 if it hadn't been for you. She'd have had offers from 
 London, and she's had a very hard time of it. She 
 can't really afford to go, but she will, if you don't apolo- 
 gise." Jamie was beginning to feel nettled. He really 
 was sorry and angry with himself for having been so 
 ridiculously disinterested as to throw the whole scheme 
 into jeopardy. He knew his Thrigsby well enough to ap- 
 preciate what a good joke it would be for a man publicly 
 to disparage his own goods. Thrigsby had not many 
 canons of good taste, but it was among the first that a 
 man shall not inquire into the quality of his own but 
 shall assume its perfection. "But why," asked Jamie, 
 "was there no fuss before? The article is five weeks 
 old." Mr. Wilcox was nearly in tears. '"I lied to 
 them," he said. "I told them that Quintus Flumen was 
 another Mr. Lawrie. Then they found out that there 
 was no other Mr. Lawrie on The Post. I said that 
 Quintus Flumen was a name used by several men; but 
 that very day there was an unsigned article. I've told 
 them you are an eccentric and they didn't mind until 
 this play was a failure. Then they said they'd been made 
 a laughing-stock of and that you'd ruined them. And 
 they fancied you were as rich as Rothschild, but now 
 they've found out who you are." "And Rothschild, I 
 suppose," said Jamie, "would not be asked to apologise." 
 "For God's sake," said Mr. Wilcox, "don't be clever 
 about it. Say you'll apologise or some of them will go 
 out of the theatre and we shall have to ring down."- 
 "I would be glad," said Jamie, "if the whole lot left the 
 theatre for good and the place was turned into a Pepper's 
 Ghost. They're only fit for The Murder in the Red 
 Barn." "I'm beginning to think," said Mr. Wilcox dole- 
 fully, "that it's a pity you ever came behind the scenes
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 407 
 
 at all, but you're a wonderful actor wasted and I've had 
 such hopes. And all to come to this ! I've never had any 
 luck at all. I was born on the stairs and it is my destiny 
 to go neither up nor down. But all goes by me on the 
 stairs of life and my mother died of it." Jamie could 
 hold out no more. He clapped Mr. Wilcox on the shoul- 
 der and told him that he would see him through and 
 would apologise to the actors if they would meet on 
 the stage after the performance. 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I am very sorry to 
 learn that you have for some weeks past been labouring 
 under a misunderstanding and I only wish I had been 
 informed of it sooner." Then he stopped. It was one 
 thing to promise to apologise to these people, another 
 to do it. He hated the whole pack of them standing 
 in their powdered wigs, painted faces and old costumes. 
 The words stuck in his throat. He had done them no 
 real harm. He had only wounded their preposterous 
 vanity, from which it had been his impulse to defend 
 their art. He was quite clear suddenly as to his motive 
 in what he had done. It was a necessary and a good 
 thing to have done, and because he had wounded their 
 vanity they were insisting upon his humiliation, and 
 that was not to be endured. The words stuck in his 
 throat. He began again : "Ladies and gentlemen," and 
 again he stopped, and stared round at them. Would none 
 of them speak? His presence there was apology and 
 humiliation enough for them. He felt a hard wall of 
 hostility all round him. Not another word could he 
 find. Why waste words on hostility? The whole com- 
 pany was assembled. From a far corner came a sob 
 and a wail and Fanny Shaw rushed away. That broke 
 Jamie's defiance and the ring of hostility. He admitted 
 that he had done a very foolish thing which was open to
 
 408 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 misconstruction and he declared himself heartily sorry 
 for it. His apology was accepted with a few genial ob- 
 servations by the acting-manager and the company dis- 
 solved, leaving only the leading players on the stage. 
 The Beatrice obviously expected a few words in her 
 own private ear. That was difficult, for Jamie had not 
 altered his opinion of her and thought her a bad actress 
 and a detestable woman. However he gulped down his 
 distaste, which mounted again as he saw her bridle at 
 his approach. She had tasted the sweets of revenge and 
 had laid low a "manager" and on the whole she was 
 grateful to him for it. Very archly she said, in her best 
 Beatrice manner: "Oh! you are a naughty man!" 
 "Now," replied Jamie with a most courtly bow, "I have 
 your opinion of me and we can cry quits." With that 
 he walked on and the leading lady said : "What a 
 tongue, my word, what a tongue !" 
 
 Only then did Jamie discover that there is a real pleas- 
 ure in being disliked when respect for the person from 
 whom it comes is impossible. What he did not appre- 
 ciate was the fact that he had redoubled the woman's 
 pleasure at having humbled him. 
 
 He went in search of Fanny and found her crying her 
 heart out at the end of a dark passage. She flung her- 
 self into his arms crying: "She's a beast, she's a beast, 
 and you oughtn't to have said it." "Pooh !" said Jamie. 
 "Who's the worse for it?" But the child had worked 
 herself into a passion and would not listen to him. 
 "She's been saying awful things about you and making 
 everybody else say them too." "But I don't mind what 
 they say, Fanny." "I mind," she moaned, "and I would 
 like to run away." "Dearest child," said Jamie, "I 
 shouldn't have said anything if it hadn't been for you. 
 I couldn't say a word until it all seemed silly and not
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 409 
 
 worth bothering about." "It's all been spoiled." "No. 
 no. They'll forget about it very soon." "But I sha'n't. 
 I never forget anything." "I know you don't." He 
 found it very difficult to find the right thing to say. She 
 was comforted, but she still clung to him, and it needed 
 a strong effort of sympathy for him to discover how 
 deeply she was hurt. But with that effort he saw that 
 her childish innocence was broken and she was alive to 
 the harshness and hard egoism of men and women, but 
 as yet had no defences against them. He recognised 
 his own responsibility. He had saved her from her 
 normal development through a slow lapse into her sur- 
 roundings until she was one with them, and had helped 
 her to pass from the wonder of childhood to a world 
 even more magical, and then through his own humiliation 
 her illusions had been snapped. 
 
 It was the most bitter failure he had ever known, but 
 it was one with all the rest. No sooner did he gain some 
 little beauty than it was destroyed, not by his own wick- 
 edness but by his absolute inability to defend it. How 
 had this thing happened? He had so loved the child's 
 happiness, had so delighted in her thoughts that he had 
 never given them any correction in his own. He had 
 been able to live in her mind but had never aided her 
 to dwell in his. She had seemed to him so perfect as 
 to be beyond danger. And now that the danger had come 
 he could do nothing against it but could only mutter in- 
 coherent words. The fury in the child shocked him. 
 He had forgotten his own boyish rages. "Run along 
 now, Fanny," he said. "Run and change and I'll take 
 you home." She was quiet now and obeyed him. When 
 she returned he found her in a docile mood, almost sullen. 
 She had placed herself unreservedly in his hands. Then 
 he found that he no longer thought of her as a child.
 
 410 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 She had grown most astonishingly, and was tall and 
 thin : in body rather like Tibby when she had first come 
 to the family. She said: "I've got to go on because 
 mother wants the money, and if I didn't go on I should 
 have to go into a factory." "How would you like to 
 go to school?" "Me? They'd laugh at me. No. I 
 must go on." '"But I don't want you to go on if it will 
 make you unhappy." "It won't if I can see you." 
 Now he had been careful not to see too much of her, for 
 he had been anxious that she should find her feet for 
 herself, believing, as he had done, in her immunity from 
 harm. He was brought back to the personal relation- 
 ship and its responsibilities. Those he had not even 
 realised and his effect upon the child had been to isolate 
 her at the very time when she most needed support. 
 That he knew she would not find at home, but, without 
 him, she would have accepted the impossibility of all 
 such growth as cannot be accomplished unaided. "I'll 
 promise you," he said, "I'll promise you that. We'll 
 have nearly every Saturday." "I don't want anybody 
 else," she said. "I don't care about anybody else." She 
 seemed very weary. Her face was that of a little old 
 woman. Always she had had an amazing knowledge, 
 a singularly exact understanding of her surroundings 
 which she had been able to bear easily and without pain. 
 Now she was all pain. "To-morrow," he said, "you 
 must rest. I won't hear of your going to the theatre. 
 If you don't rest, I won't see you on Saturday." "I'm 
 tired," said Fanny, "that's what it is." '"Yes, poor 
 thing. Tired out." "I'll be all right, I expect, after 
 a rest. Mother's like that. She gets tired out and 
 sometimes the smell of the house is too much for her." 
 As they reached the door of her house she put up her 
 face and he kissed her. She was reluctant to let him go
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 411 
 
 and kept him talking for some moments longer. When 
 she knocked he stood and watched her until the door 
 opened and she passed into the darkness of the house. 
 All the clear beauty had faded from his image of the 
 child and he was bound to her by her passionate need of 
 him. Without him she would be swallowed up by the 
 dark house and by the squalid and hideously vibrant 
 life of which it was a part. He was fully alive to the 
 waking woman in her, dreaded it as a new force in the 
 conflict of good and evil for which he had found him- 
 self suddenly so ill equipped. Yet he had gained in him- 
 self. He was aware in himself of vast new stores of 
 patience. Not yet was he defeated. Nothing outside 
 himself had completely had its way with him, but also, 
 his honesty admitted, nothing inside himself had yet 
 fought its way to a conclusion. 
 
 She Stoops to Conquer never recovered. Two or three 
 other plays were tried but with hardly more success. 
 Jamie had lost nearly two thousand pounds when there 
 came the news from London that a new great actor had 
 arisen, who was none other than Henry Acomb. He 
 was hailed as a tragedian worthy to rank with Kean and 
 Macready. In one night he had conquered London with 
 his performance of a dual personality, a nice and benevo- 
 lent merchant by day, a dipsomaniac and a murderer by 
 night. Jamie rushed up to London to see him. The suc- 
 cess was indubitable. There had been eight weeks of 
 triumph and now it was proposed to consolidate this 
 by visits to the principal provincial towns beginning 
 with Edinburgh. Jamie offered his theatre and Henry 
 Acomb accepted it, agreeing to play Macbeth and Hamlet. 
 Jamie saw that it was a surrender. He was convinced 
 that only the genius of the individual player could keep
 
 412 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the theatre alive in England. Acomb's genius certainly 
 made even the absurd melodrama in which he was play- 
 ing seem marvellous. "Upon me soul, Mr. Lawrie," 
 he said, "it does me good to see you. An honest, north- 
 ern face. London is all rogues and old women, and an 
 audience of Londoners is like an audience of sheep. 
 They cheered me on the opening night, and it sounded 
 like this : Baa ! Baa-a-a ! Baa-a-a-a !" Jamie laughed 
 and recounted his experiences. "Amateurs !" said Henry 
 Acomb, "amateurs! You can't expect a city of workers 
 to put up with the kind of show that would do in a duke's 
 drawing-room." Acomb was entirely charming. His 
 egoism had lost its aggressiveness. He had won that for 
 which he had fought during fifteen poverty-stricken years 
 and no longer needed to convince himself of his own 
 greatness. It was generally acknowledged, and he was 
 inclined to despise it a little. Selina was not for the 
 moment playing. She had two children and devoted her- 
 self to them. "I tell you what," said Acomb, "I'm going 
 to put a stop to the treatment of actors as rogues and 
 vagabonds. It is a calling like any other. I shall have 
 me home, me wife and me children like any other man 
 and I'll be treated like any other man, if I have to go to 
 Parliament for it." 
 
 So Jamie returned to Thrigsby with the glad news 
 that Henry Acomb would come fresh from his London 
 triumph. Mr. Wilcox was then happy, and Mrs. Leslie's 
 heart was rejoiced when she heard that Selina was com- 
 ing, rich, successful and respectable once more. 
 
 Selina had gained in grace. She was devoted to her 
 Henry and their struggles had made her practical and 
 sensible. She was even more in revolt against a Bohe- 
 mian life than he and had firmly set her face against 
 poverty. When she heard of the plight to which her
 
 ACOMB TO THE RESCUE 413 
 
 father and mother were reduced she insisted that they 
 must leave Thrigsby, take a cottage in the country and 
 keep chickens. She went down to see Hubert at his 
 farm, being neither afraid of her memories nor abashed 
 by them, bought a cottage and within a week had her 
 father and mother installed in it, Peter enthroned in his 
 easy-chair, and Mrs. Leslie hard at work in the garden. 
 Selina's energy and happiness were contagious. She told 
 Jamie to his face that he was a fool, but a very dear one, 
 and that he had better stick to his pen and leave acting 
 to actors, journalism to journalists, and living to people 
 who wanted to live. "But that," he said, "is just what 
 they don't want to do." "Pooh!" she replied. "You 
 don't know anything about it." She simply melted the 
 unhappiness in him, and wafted away his heavy sense 
 of responsibility with a touch. She wormed out of him 
 a full confession of his deeds and misdeeds and it was 
 only with the greatest anxiety that he could bring him- 
 self to tell her about Fanny. "It's a woman's job. Let 
 me have the child. Or, if that's impossible, since you 
 insist on it, you must look about for a wife and make 
 her do it. My goodness, gracious me, what are the 
 women of the town thinking of to let a dear, handsome 
 creature like you go about loose ?" Jamie laughed aloud : 
 "My dear Selina," he said, "don't forget you ran 
 away from me yourself." "You were so overpowering," 
 she answered, "and if there's any overpowering to be 
 done, I prefer to do it myself."- At that he roared with 
 laughter and she was rather puzzled. "What's the 
 joke?" she asked. "You. You're the most splendid 
 joke in the world." That, however, was not Selina's 
 view of herself and she protested in good round terms. 
 She knew what life was, and it was to her anything 
 but a joke. The point was arguable, but she was im- 
 patient of argument.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 JOHN'S RETURN 
 
 FOR a time then Selina occupied Jamie's attention to 
 the exclusion of everything else. The theatre made 
 money but not enough to repair all that he had lost. He 
 did not mind that, if it had been necessary to bring Selina 
 back into his world, and a Selina so transformed and 
 become a living fount of humour and zest. She teased 
 him for being an old stick-in-the-mud and declared that 
 in many ways he had not altered a bit since he was a 
 boy and had written love poems to her. "And you still 
 talk Scotch," she said. "And why not?" "You don't 
 want everybody to know where you've come from."- 
 "But why not? I'm proud of coming from Scotland." 
 '"It's like a label round your neck and people ought not 
 to wear labels. It doesn't matter in the least where you 
 come from, but it does matter that you are Jamie Law- 
 rie." "A name is only a label." "No one thinks about 
 it. No one would have said that but you. There are 
 names just as there are knives and forks. O! Jamie, 
 if I'd married you I'd have had you out of this. But I 
 thank God I didn't marry you." "So do I," said he 
 quaintly. "I was born to trouble like my friend Mr. Wil- 
 cox." "A pair of innocents," said she, "and you ought 
 to be parted by main force. I shall make Henry take 
 old Wilcox back to London. He's not good enough but 
 
 414
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 415 
 
 he's just the kind of darling old fool who makes an ideal 
 stage manager. And he adores Henry almost as much 
 as he adores you, and with better reason. Henry may 
 be a genius but he has a head screwed on his shoulders 
 and would never lead anybody into a mess. You see, 
 Henry knows what he wants." "Is all this for my bene- 
 fit?" asked Jamie. "I fancy that if a man is able to 
 know what he wants, it is because he does not want any- 
 thing much. I am suspicious of that kind of man. He 
 is fat and eats too much." "Who? Henry?" "No. 
 That kind of man, and by eating I don't mean food. I 
 mean every kind of desire." "Now that's exactly why 
 I couldn't marry you, because you always mean more 
 than you say and say one thing when you really mean 
 another. It has grown on you and there is no hope for 
 you." "If you don't stop bullying me I shall write about 
 Henry in The Post." "Do you know, I met a man in 
 London the other day who said you were the only critic 
 in England." "Really. It is obviously not true." 
 "Yes. He had written a book about money and you had 
 said it was the most amusing volume that had appeared 
 for years." "I remember it. Money is the funniest 
 thing in the world." "Not when you haven't got any." 
 "So you like having money?'" "Yes. Love it." 
 "Why?" "It makes you so free, so free. Everything 
 that is happy in you can come out then." "Then people 
 ought to be paid according to their capacity for happi- 
 ness." '"O dear," she said, "if you're going to worry 
 about what ought to be I give you up. You really must 
 take care or you'll turn into a G.G. or gloomy grizzler." 
 She insisted on seeing Margaret and then for the first 
 time she was depressed. Margaret was perfectly charm- 
 ing to her and showed herself genuinely pleased at her 
 success. She had read her newspapers and knew that
 
 416 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Thrigsby was proud of Henry Acomb. But Selina sim- 
 ply could find nothing to say. Reminiscences were soon 
 exhausted and then conversation ended. The two women 
 respected each other, but they had nothing in common. 
 Neither's charity could include the other. Jamie felt 
 the division but could do nothing to break it down, noth- 
 ing to interpret them to each other though he loved and 
 honoured both. 
 
 Selina frankly confessed her embarrassment to him. 
 "It's no good," she said. "It simply stifled me. All the 
 time I could not help thinking how like she is to my 
 father, though she is entirely different and a saint. She 
 is a saint and I am the world and the flesh, and I am 
 not and never shall be a family woman. If ever my 
 children begin to talk about 'the Acombs' I shall turn 
 them out at once to learn that there are other people in 
 the world." "That is all very well for you," said Jamie. 
 "You have the world at your feet, but other people are 
 ambitious and have no means of gratifying it, because 
 they are neither charming, nor clever, nor witty."- "You 
 have theories for everything," said Selina, a little tartly, 
 because she had really suffered and now resented time 
 wasted on suffering. "I can't understand people want- 
 ing to be anything but lovable." "That also is impos- 
 sible for most people." "Of course it is," cried she, 
 "because they won't love and, if you don't take care, it 
 will be quite impossible for you. You will grow into 
 a saint and a martyr and I shall hate you." 
 
 It would be quite useless, he saw, to explain to her 
 that his mother also had loved. Selina's love was easy 
 and maternal, hardly more than a part of her abounding 
 physical well-being. She was very wonderful but he was 
 devoutly thankful that he had escaped having her for 
 a mate. For her part she shuddered when she thought
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 417 
 
 that she might have had to live with him in such a house 
 as that, regular, ordered, neat, tidy, overcrowded and 
 drab. "I don't wonder the man's running to seed," she 
 said to Henry as she described the tea with Margaret. 
 "When I think of the handsome proud boy he was it 
 makes me savage. To think of a man like that living 
 with his mother. She might be an angel from heaven 
 but she could never satisfy the devil in him, and that's 
 what a man wants, isn't it, darling?" Henry scratched 
 his head: "Yes," he said, "upon me soul, women are 
 savages and it is just as well." "O, Henry," she said, 
 "never a day passes but I thank God for not giving you 
 any brains." Henry looked dubious over that and again 
 he scratched his head. "The immortal bard had brains." 
 "Yes," said Selina, breathlessly and indignantly, "and 
 we know what he was." "What was he?" '"Well, he 
 was in love with a man." "Oh!" said Henry. "Is that 
 what brains does for you?" "It is," replied Selina, "and 
 brains with Jamie Lawrie is neither more nor less than 
 a disease." "But you like him?" "Of course I like 
 him. He makes you want to take him in your arms and 
 comfort him and stop the world from hurting him. I 
 can't think why no one does it." "You had your chance," 
 said Henry, in whom there were still some seeds of jeal- 
 ousy. "And after all the world hurts me even if I haven't 
 any brains." "Hum!" said Selina. "You are much 
 more likely to hurt the world than to let it hurt you and 
 that's why I love you. But Jamie lets it hurt him 
 through other people, which seems to me to be asking 
 for trouble." Henry was incapable of understanding 
 that and the conversation languished. Selina seized the 
 opportunity to arrange that Mr. Wilcox should be taken 
 back to London, and it was agreed upon. 
 
 Negotiations were subsequently opened for taking
 
 418 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Fanny also but her mother flatly refused. The idea 
 of London frightened her. It was a wicked place, full 
 of marauding men and governments, press-gangs, luxu- 
 rious and wicked marquises and earls. It had cost her 
 much effort to be convinced of Mr. Lawrie's virtue. Mr. 
 Lawrie had pledged himself to secure the safety and 
 advancement of her girl, and further than that she could 
 not go. In her heart of hearts she absolutely distrusted 
 Selina and did not believe a word she said, though she 
 was quite ready to accept a substantial gift of money. 
 "She's a good girl," said Mrs. Shaw, "and good girls 
 is rare. And if a woman has such a blessing in the 
 house she ought to stick to it. Who am I to look a 
 gift from above in the mouth, with rent to pay and 
 butcher's meat at the price it is? Take your blessings, 
 I say. The poor don't 'ave too many and there's no 
 call for them to go gathering mushrooms in the streets. 
 I wouldn't let a girl of mine go to London, not if it was 
 to be set on the golden throne itself. And besides that 
 she's a growing girl yet and her troubles are yet to come." 
 Selina was a shrewd judge of womankind and knew when 
 to hold her peace. She sighed, for she saw that it would 
 go hardly with Fanny, having such a mother to stand in 
 her way and deny her right to anything better than she 
 herself had known. 
 
 Selina was glad to leave Thrigsby. It made her sad. 
 She missed the dignity and ease of London, where she 
 could be entirely happy with success and money and 
 friendliness on every side of her. She was glad to 
 leave Jamie too. He seemed to her, though this she did 
 not tell him, very typical of Thrigsby, labouring, labour- 
 ing, straining in the darkness, while love and laughter 
 and all sweet things passed him by. 
 
 On the other hand she left him feeling that he had
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 419 
 
 had a bright holiday, all the more delightful for the 
 element of flirtation there had been in all his conversa- 
 tion with her, and he plunged back the more eagerly 
 into his ordinary life. And as Selina became more 
 remote from him she did seem just a joke, delicious for 
 the moment, but unessential. She stood for nothing but 
 evanescence. He could no more symbolise her than he 
 could a sunbeam in a shower of rain. He soon found 
 that the idea of her was not necessary to him, not half 
 so necessary as the idea of any member of his family 
 or the idea of Tibby, which was always hovering, un- 
 heeded, behind his thoughts. All the same Selina had 
 left him conscious of his unmated condition, and he 
 had been subtly aware of her scorn of him as a man in 
 full maturity living with his mother. His vanity re- 
 sented it and by way of protest he set about making 
 his relation with his mother a more delightful and satis- 
 fying one and strove to break up the habits which en- 
 couraged their daily indifference to each other. He 
 talked to her of the books he was reading, of the doings 
 of his day in town, of her doings and of her friends 
 (she had a small but very loyal and admiring circle) 
 even of Tom's virtues, and of John's future. Eve- 
 ning after evening he sat and read the Bible to her and 
 tried to induce her to appreciate its finest passages as 
 literature; but she would not have the Bible criticised, 
 nor one passage set above another. Still less would she 
 listen to him when he tried to examine its philosophy of 
 life. It was not to her a philosophy but an authority. 
 However, her taste was good and her favourite book was 
 Job, which she much preferred to the histories. "If 
 you'd only let me read Shakespeare to you," said Jamie 
 one evening, "you would find Hamlet very like the Book 
 of Job, though much better." "There can be no com-
 
 420 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 parison," said Margaret. '"Indeed, yes. The Bible is 
 the book of the Jews. Shakespeare is the book of the 
 English. They are very much alike except that the 
 English have discovered humour as a relief from their 
 destiny." "Don't talk nonsense," said Margaret with a 
 click of her knitting-needles. "Shakespeare is only poet- 
 ry. Read me the twenty-third chapter of Isaiah, the 
 miserable overthrow of Tyre." And he read: 
 
 " 'The burden of Tyre. Howl, ye ships of Tarshish; 
 for it is laid waste, so that there is no house, no enter- 
 ing in: from the land of Chittim it is revealed to them. 
 
 " 'Be still, ye inhabitants of the isle ; thou whom the 
 merchants of Zidon, that pass over the sea, have re- 
 plenished. 
 
 " 'And by great waters the seed of Sihor, the harvest 
 of the river, is her revenue; and she is a mart of nations. 
 
 ' 'Be thou ashamed, O Zidon ; for the sea hath spoken, 
 even the strength of the sea, saying, I travail not, nor 
 bring forth children, neither do I nourish up young men, 
 nor bring up virgins. 
 
 ' 'As at the report concerning Egypt, so shall they be 
 sorely pained at the report of Tyre. 
 
 ' 'Pass ye over to Tarshish ; howl, ye inhabitants of 
 the isle. 
 
 ' 'Is this your joyous city, whose antiquity is cf an- 
 cient days? her own feet shall carry her afar off to 
 sojourn. 
 
 ' 'Who hath taken this counsel against Tyre, the 
 crowning city, whose merchants are princes, whose traf- 
 fickers are the honourable of the earth ?' ' 
 
 Here he broke off to say : "I can't make much sense 
 of it, but that last verse sounds like Thrigsby." "Go 
 on," said Margaret. He finished the chapter, and then
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 421 
 
 repeated the last two verses: "This," he said, "is proph- 
 ecy: 
 
 " 'And it shall come to pass, after the end of seventy 
 years, that the Lord will visit Tyre, and she shall turn 
 to her hire, and shall commit fornication with all the 
 kingdoms of the world upon the face of the earth. 
 
 " 'And her merchandise and her hire shall be holiness 
 to the Lord: it shall not be treasured nor laid up; for 
 her merchandise shall be for them that dwell before the 
 Lord, to eat sufficiently, and for durable clothing.' ' 
 
 "Reading Thrigsby for Tyre," he said, "I am only 
 sorry that we have to wait seventy years." "Prophecy," 
 said Margaret, "is not to be taken literally. It is to 
 turn our thoughts from worldly things. Many of your 
 father's sermons were on the twenty-third chapter of 
 Isaiah." "Have you got any of them?" he asked. 
 "About fifteen. He used generally to preach extempore." 
 "I'd like to see them. The reference to food and 
 clothing seems to me worldly enough, but perhaps as I 
 am only a bank clerk it is difficult for me to escape all 
 worldly thoughts. Tyre and Sidon were real places, you 
 know, mother, and I think they must have been very 
 like South Lancashire, without the smoke." "They may 
 have been real places," said Margaret, "but they are 
 used in the book to express blemishes upon the soul. 
 The book, your father used to say, is the story of the 
 soul."- -"But it is not a true story," said he, "for there 
 is not a smile in it from beginning to end." "Neither," 
 replied she, "in the history of the soul upon earth is there 
 anything so pleasant as a smile. It is one long expiation 
 for the knowledge of good and evil, as we are told in 
 the book of Genesis. We are happy for a little while as 
 children, but that is soon taken from us and we have to 
 bear our lot." "I deny absolutely," said he, "that I
 
 422 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 was happy as a child, and I was never happier in my 
 life than I am now." "But then you were not an ordi- 
 nary child. You were a source of great anxiety to me." 
 "And I daresay that is why I never believed in a good 
 without evil. I always did prefer poetry to prophecy and 
 always shall." Margaret sighed: "Well, I have done 
 my best for you, Jamie. You must dree your own 
 weird. It is not given to any of us to know what the 
 Bible means, but it does make clear to us our own wick- 
 edness." "I suppose so," said he, "but it makes even 
 clearer the wickedness of other people. I shall be glad 
 to hear what my father had to say on the subject and 
 I should like to read him to the assembled family when 
 John returns." "That will be soon now," said Mar- 
 garet. "They have been delayed because Sophia is going 
 to have another baby and they do not wish to risk its 
 being born at sea. She is not at all well and John is 
 very anxious about her." "I sometimes wonder, if the 
 world is so doomed to sinfulness, why we ever bring more 
 people into it." "That also is our curse." "O, come, 
 mother, the angel appeared to Abraham and assured him 
 that his seed should be as the sands of the sea-shore and 
 he was quite pleased about it, and you have fought like 
 a tigress for your own five." "There are consolations," 
 said Margaret, "and the New Testament has made a 
 great difference." 
 
 That sent Jamie to the New Testament and with this 
 and his father's sermons he spent some weeks until the 
 news came of John's return to England and landing at 
 Plymouth. The New Testament certainly did something 
 to relieve the stoic pessimism of the Old, which no one 
 but the Jews could have endured, but it produced con- 
 fusion. It gave relief but only at the cost of sacrifice. 
 There was still the same belief in the impossibility of
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 423 
 
 happiness after childhood and the same rigorous ex- 
 clusion of the ordinary mechanism of life as a means 
 to happiness. It seemed to Jamie that the Reverened T. 
 Lawrie, his father, had avoided the exclusion by escap- 
 ing into a private little poetic joy of his own which he 
 had vainly tried to express in the conventional termin- 
 ology and the legend of the religion he professed. There 
 were passages concerning flowers and mountains and 
 running water which were purely poetic in feeling and 
 entirely free of the taint of the religion which forbade 
 all immediate joy and under pretence of redressing mean- 
 ness and ugliness and brutality sanctioned them. It was 
 quite clear to Jamie that his father's faith had been en- 
 tirely different from its letter and far removed from 
 Margaret's, who looked for and accepted the ugliness 
 in all things and really believed that her sufferings would 
 be rewarded hereafter. The Rev. T. Lawrie on the 
 other hand had his sufferings immediately rewarded but 
 never succeeded in sharing his reward with another liv- 
 ing soul. His sermons were a strange combination of 
 conventional damnations and blastings and natural ec- 
 stasy. As he read them Jamie understood himself better 
 and other people rather less, inasmuch as he began to 
 find excuses for them. It was simply that he was no 
 longer frightened of his ideas, and could abstract them 
 and did not need to use people as symbols for them. 
 Many of his obsessions faded and he was more open 
 to common affection. 
 
 He was very eager to see John again. Quite unrea- 
 sonably he hoped for great things from him, who had 
 been over the wide world, and had travelled in far lands 
 where the sun shone unimaginably for weeks together 
 and peaches were so common that they were given to 
 the pigs for food. John was to be in some sort a proof
 
 424 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 that Thrigsby was wrong. This idea had come from 
 Tom, who had been greatly upset by his younger broth- 
 er's success, not as success but as an assertion that there 
 was money elsewhere than in Thrigsby and that there 
 were other praiseworthy means of becoming rich than 
 by being a Thrigsby merchant. This it was impossible 
 for Tom to admit. He despised two things : aristocracy 
 and speculation. It was wrong in his eyes to be born 
 rich or to acquire riches suddenly, for wealth was to him 
 evidence of character. A poor man was a man who had 
 something radically wrong with him, but a duke or a 
 speculator could be rich and yet possessed of nothing 
 but luck or cunning. To Jamie such ideas were repulsive 
 and he looked to John for refutation of them. He imag- 
 ined John returning like a nabob, splendidly generous 
 and putting to shame the screwing and scraping and 
 hoarding that went on in Thrigsby with its prematurely 
 elderly gentlemen all bent on proving their character by 
 their banking accounts. What made the situation par- 
 ticularly acute was that Tom had docked half the allow- 
 ance he had made to his mother on the score of growing 
 expense and with the excuse that the household was really 
 Jamie's, who as a single man could well afford it. 
 
 John arrived and Jamie met him at the station, but 
 did not recognise him. Sophia had altered very little. 
 She had two boys, Angus and David, and a Portuguese 
 nurse, picked up in Madeira, who carried a baby in her 
 arms. A tubby little man was standing near them. He 
 had a beard and wore broadcloth and looked like a 
 Thrigsbeian tradesman waiting for his wife. This was 
 John. He recognised his brother and came forward. 
 Jamie stared at him and could not conceal his disappoint- 
 ment. This was another and a lesser Tom. Where was 
 the adventurer, the nabob, the rare traveller ? And when
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 425 
 
 John spoke it was with a Scotch accent more pronounced 
 than would be heard upon the lips of any Scot in his 
 native land. "Ye've no' cheenged, Jamie," he said. 
 "You've grown fat !" said Jamie, almost in a tone of hor- 
 ror. "I should have known you anywhere," said Sophia. 
 "This is Angus and this is David, and this is Maria. She 
 doesn't speak a word of English and I don't know a 
 word of Portuguese but she simply would not be parted 
 from baby. She was just like a piece of luggage. She 
 belonged to us and had to be packed." "But I had to 
 pay her passage just as much as if she'd been English," 
 said John. Luggage, Maria and the children were sent 
 off in one fly and Jamie and his relatives followed in an- 
 other. John seemed actually to be pleased to be back 
 in Thrigsby and remarked changes and remembered 
 shops and landmarks. "A bit different to our first com- 
 ing to Thrigsby," he said. "There was nothing in the 
 old place but you then; at least, for me." '"Then you 
 can imagine what it was like for me," said Jamie, "com- 
 ing here with nothing at all in front of me. I'm still 
 looking for it." He liked John for saying that. It 
 was a taste of the old John and a little palliated the 
 shock that he had had in seeing his brother come back 
 as though it were only from the sea-side. However 
 that relief was taken from him for John said : "You 
 little thought then that I should be the rolling stone 
 of the family. But sometimes it's the rolling stone that 
 gathers the moss, eh, Sophia?" And Sophia said: "I 
 don't suppose your mother will look for any. She won't 
 care so long as you roll back to her." 
 
 Indeed when they reached home they found Margaret 
 strangely excited but having herself under tight control. 
 She was arrayed in her best and had tea ready. She 
 received John's kisses almost absently. Her eyes were
 
 426 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 for her grandchildren, the two sturdy little Lawries and 
 the plump brown baby. The boys had been instructed 
 to bob to their grandmamma as lords bob to the Queen. 
 Margaret was delighted with them and Jamie felt an- 
 noyed with John for not taking a more obvious pride 
 in his sons. After all, they were his real treasure and 
 Margaret's instinct, as usual, was perfectly right. 
 Sophia was blissfully happy, but John looked rather 
 morose as though this was not quite what he had ex- 
 pected. He stood gazing round the room, taking in its 
 contents, and his eyes were rather contemptuous. Maria 
 stood dandling the baby with a wide grin on her ma- 
 hogany-coloured face, and her strong white teeth flash- 
 ing. Margaret spoke to her and she broke into a torrent 
 of Portuguese. "O!" said Margaret, "I hope she is 
 not a papist." "There are no Protestants in Madeira," 
 said Sophia apologetically. 
 
 The children were removed, Tibby taking charge of 
 them and Maria. "Of course," said Margaret, "you will 
 send her back as soon as you are settled here." "I don't 
 think you'll get her to go until the baby can walk," said 
 Jamie. Sophia cried : "Why, Jamie, what do you know 
 about it?" -"Not much," he said, "but I fancy I know 
 something about Maria." "More than I do," John threw 
 in. "I only know that she is an infernal nuisance and 
 eats as much as an elephant." "Do they have elephants 
 in Australia?" asked Margaret, by way of making con- 
 versation easier. "Of course they don't," answered 
 John. "That's India. In Australia they have emus, kan- 
 garoos, wallabies and black swans and no other wild 
 animals. It is a beastly place and I don't wish to talk 
 about it." "But we expected you to talk, John. We 
 stay-at-homes have nothing to tell, except what I have 
 already told you in my letters. You heard about Tom
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 427 
 
 and Agnes and really nothing much else has happened. 
 We want to hear what you intend to do." "That de- 
 pends on Sophia," said John. "She's a regular Greig 
 and can't bear to be parted from her family and wants 
 me to build near them. We have promised to go up 
 there next week to stay and see what can be done about 
 it." "Next week?" asked Margaret a little querulously. 
 "I hoped you would make a longer stay than that." < 
 John's eyes roved disapprovingly round the room. It 
 was obvious that he had no intention of staying. "I 
 want to settle down," he said. "The sooner the better. 
 I've been thinking out in Australia and it is obvious to 
 me that England has to look for her future to the mid- 
 dle classes, at least to those members of it who are rich 
 enough to have leisure without the false position which 
 ruins the aristocracy. If I am well enough I should 
 like to stand for parliament. If I am not I shall devote 
 myself to the study of politics. I am convinced that 
 unless the middle classes take the trouble to understand 
 politics there will be a revolution. Palmerston's policy 
 has been the ruination of the country and we are taking 
 on more than we can safely deal with. What England 
 wants is safety and the only safe people in it are the 
 middle classes. It is high time we had a Prime Minister 
 without a title." Margaret and Jamie exchanged be- 
 wildered glances. Had the family produced a bore? 
 That was the uneasy suspicion that flashed across Jamie's 
 mind. If sun and peaches produced that effect, better 
 the smoke and gloom of Thrigsby. John went on: 
 "Bright was always my man, you know. Cobden and 
 Bright set the country on the right road and it is simply 
 disastrous that the aristocracy are still allowed to have 
 any say in the government." "What I want to know 
 is," said Jamie, "do kangaroos really carry their young
 
 428 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 in a pouch and is it true that they can be taught to box?" 
 Sophia gave a wild giggle. "Not that I ever heard 
 of," said John solemnly, "but they kick like a French- 
 man. And that's another thing that I cannot abide, 
 this toadying to Louis Napoleon. I should have thought 
 Europe had had enough of that family/' "Who is 
 Louis Napoleon?" asked Jamie, and John gasped, 
 stared, appreciated the snub and was angrily silent. 
 "Sophia dear," said Margaret, "do tell me if you are 
 glad to be back in England." "Glad is not the word for 
 it. You can't imagine what it means to come back and 
 see green fields and hedges and a soft blue sky full of 
 wonderful great clouds. You need to have been in a 
 place where the sky is hot and hard and for months 
 on end there is never any rain. Everything else seems 
 hard and uncomfortable. It can't be home where there 
 is no softness and gentleness." John interrupted this 
 charming lyrical praise of England. "What strikes me 
 about England," he said, "is that she is asleep." "You 
 won't think that if you try to do business with an Eng- 
 lishman," said Jamie. "I have no intention of doing 
 business," retorted John, "and my experience of peo- 
 ple is that they are quite capable of doing business in 
 their sleep; that is, without being awake to the serious 
 problems of life." At this point Margaret seemed to 
 realise that this was not the John of her dreams and 
 expectations. She had looked for a long-lost son to 
 come back grateful, burdened with experiences and riches 
 to the bosom of the family which had sent him forth. It 
 was slowly being borne in upon her that John had not 
 a thought in his head for the family. She might have 
 known that. Had it been otherwise, he could not have 
 given his children a popish nurse. With less dismay 
 and more excitement Jamie had become aware of the
 
 JOHN'S RETURN 429 
 
 same thing. John was not a bore, he was a phenome- 
 non. After all, why should he expect John to regard 
 the family with more respect than himself, to whom 
 it no longer existed as at once the condition and the 
 object of life? He could not altogether ignore it as John 
 seemed to do. '"What are the serious problems of life?" 
 he asked. "The development of a democratic govern- 
 ment without the tyranny of the mob. That is the first 
 and it contains all the rest." "I don't think," replied 
 Jamie, "that you will find a single woman in the world 
 to agree with you." "Women," said John, "are not 
 concerned with the serious problems of life." "Moth- 
 er's fingers are simply itching to smack you," said Jamie 
 and at that even John laughed and Margaret joined 
 in, and at last the party felt at their ease. Sophia chat- 
 tered away, told stories of the children, described their 
 life in Australia in a house built of wood, their dismay 
 when they had the news of Murdoch's failure, and how 
 quietly John took it all, the excitement of the gold rush, 
 the long voyage home and their stay in the paradise 
 of Madeira. Jamie warmed to her. She seemed to 
 him the most delightful woman he had ever met, so 
 human and good, and because good, beautiful. She 
 was not at all exciting, but was immensely satisfying: 
 a little bovine, but she had what he had hardly 
 met in a woman before, absolute physical contentment. 
 Warmth came from her and it was clear that to her 
 marriage was a blessed state. That was to John's credit, 
 and from that Jamie began to appreciate his brother's 
 honesty and entire lack of pretension. John had 
 not changed so much as he had thought. Always blunt 
 and straightforward he had simply ignored everything 
 in his way that threatened to prevent his being so. 
 
 Later on when the brothers talked together Jamie
 
 430 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 found that John had without a tremor discarded the idea 
 of the family, religion, every pretence of superiority 
 either as man or Englishman as hindrances to the prac- 
 tical genial happiness of his desire. He had become 
 an out-and-out Darwinian and to him man was but 
 an animal who could outwit all other animals and main- 
 tain himself in ease and security all his days, loving his 
 wife, his children and his occupation until, full of years 
 and blessings, he died and was forgotten. No immor- 
 tality for John : mortality was quite enough for him 
 and he only required that it should be decent and or- 
 derly. At first Jamie envied him and thought he had 
 found the way of peace, but before long he was in 
 revolt. John's way was intolerably dull and his ideal 
 of comfort seemed ludicrous. One little particle of 
 envy remained with him and the night before John's 
 departure for the Greigs' Jamie confided that if he 
 could find another woman like Sophia he would marry 
 her. "Oh!" said John, "but Sophias do not grow on 
 every bush."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 A LETTER FROM ROME 
 
 A LARGE package arrived from Italy. It con- 
 tained sketches of the Austrian Tyrol and the Alps 
 painted by Mary on the top of the diligence as she went 
 by easy stages from Berlin to Florence. She wrote : 
 
 "One thing only in your letters worries me, dearest 
 Jamie. They grow more and more theoretical, without 
 being abstract. You probably won't know what I mean. 
 I have already torn up seven letters to you. All the 
 time as I travelled I was obsessed by a feeling that you 
 were unhappy, but as your letters never contain any 
 hint of it I must conclude that it was hallucination on 
 my part. Yet it was very real. I sometimes have a 
 kind of fury that you are not with me. Seeing that 
 you are not married there seems no reason why you 
 should not be. There have been cases like that of a 
 brother and a sister finding more through each other 
 than they ever could have done through anybody else. 
 They are to each other like the arch in some of the pic- 
 tures here; through which one is shown a most lovely 
 landscape. I confess that what I see through you I 
 do not altogether like. I have been so long away from 
 home and perhaps I have lost touch with you and can 
 only see what you are willing to let me see. If I were
 
 432 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 in touch with you, I should see more than you would 
 be aware of. I am not at all to be envied. You try 
 living among foreigners, away from those you love, 
 and living on letters. It is not far short of starvation. 
 I have had my days of real physical starvation, for I 
 have sometimes been miserably poor, but that is noth- 
 ing to it. Please realise that and write to me more 
 often, more humanly and less theoretically. What do 
 I care whether the family is dying in England and re- 
 ligion is going the way of all flesh and the English are 
 most dangerously exposed to evil? Mammon, Moloch, 
 Beelzebub, Ahriman and the rest of them may take 
 the lot of them and I sha'n't care. I can't love a na- 
 tion : and I can and do love you and very much care 
 whether you are or are not well, happy, contented in 
 mind and body, but most of all in mind, for you have a 
 mind and are the only member of the family who has, 
 but it is always worrying about other people's affairs. 
 That is, I know, because you are so sympathetic and 
 simply cannot help living in other people's lives, but 
 to do that you must not mind their being horrid. If 
 they are horrid it is because they like it, and neither 
 can nor want to be any better. Tom likes money. He 
 gets money. John likes comfort and he gets comfort. 
 Mother likes God and she gets God, and none of them 
 can understand anybody liking anything else but their 
 own particular little thing. I don't quite know what 
 you like but I am quite sure that you don't like it for 
 its own sake, but because it leads you on to liberty or 
 heaven or whatever you like to call it. If you could 
 be here you would understand yourself. I'm sending 
 you some of my badly drawn sketches so that you can 
 see for yourself. May they bring some light into your 
 dark, dirty Thrigsby! Italy means light! Goethe said
 
 A LETTER FROM ROME 433 
 
 that or something like it. Italy means Garibaldi and 
 Mazzini, and the Risorgimento, which will mean in the 
 end politicians, but to have had two men like that is a 
 great deal, and I dislike England for being sentimental 
 about them. You can't think how funny England seems 
 at this distance, patronising a man like Garibaldi, as- 
 suring him that she is free and that she will be only 
 too glad if he can make Italy like her. And when the 
 English say that they are free then I think of you and 
 Thrigsby; great machines and tall chimneys belching 
 smoke ; and I compare that with the freedom that is al- 
 ready in the heart and mind of a man like Garibaldi. I 
 have been reading Carlyle and Ruskin and I know that 
 a country which has roused such burning indignation 
 cannot be free. But clearly the English believe them- 
 selves to be free and the odd thing is that they persuade 
 other countries that they are so. The men I meet here 
 believe it, and it was just the same in Germany. I 
 suppose they mean that we don't have soldiers clanking 
 and clattering about everywhere. I suppose it was an- 
 noying to have the Austrians in Milan, but I'm becom- 
 ing a cosmopolitan and don't think one kind of person 
 is better than another. So long as I have a crust of 
 bread and one spare gown and a roof over my head I 
 don't care where I am. If only everybody would agree 
 about that there wouldn't be any soldiers, for there 
 would be plenty of room for all of us and there would 
 be nothing to fight about. They say here that there is 
 going to be war in America. I can't imagine why. 
 Surely there is room for everybody there. But I sup- 
 pose the Americans, no more than the Europeans, don't 
 think as I do. I am like Goethe, a good European, 
 and I believe nothing matters but civilisation, and I 
 believe in that because it makes possible the kind of
 
 434 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 life I -like. I expect the truth of the matter is that 
 most people dislike civilisation because it means re- 
 straint, and so this general dislike expresses itself in a 
 number of particular little dislikes, which gather into 
 something that is far more dangerous than hatred, 
 namely a superstitious jealousy. I think I agree with 
 you about the God-myth having become hopelessly in- 
 adequate under modern conditions and that the family 
 goes with it. It is all very difficult. Life does suddenly 
 seem to have become more difficult, but surely all the 
 better for that. I suppose there will always be myths 
 but the thing to avoid is the giving of authority to a 
 myth. One wants belief, for life must have a struc- 
 ture, but if evolution is true, as I think it is, then each 
 individual may be trusted to make his own structure 
 to convey and carry whatever it may be that he desires. 
 Selfishness makes structure impossible. That is why 
 ready-made structures are in the end always broken 
 down. With every man free to make his own structure, 
 selfishness would be gradually squeezed out. Evolution 
 has given a new meaning to liberty as to everything else 
 and I suppose none of us yet realises one-tenth of all 
 that it does mean. I think Darwin is far more the 
 saviour of England than ever Nelson was, for he has 
 saved her from herself, which was much more difficult 
 than saving her from Napoleon. I find, and I daresay 
 you do too, that evolution has given a new meaning to 
 poetry, and, oddly enough, also to the Bible, which I 
 have been reading again. It is quite wonderful but it 
 makes me feel ashamed of myself for I realise that I 
 have read the poets for their words and not for their 
 poetry. That is my chief comfort here. I have not 
 yet found any work to do, and am again poor, but living 
 with a lovely view over roofs to the dome of St. Peter's.
 
 A LETTER FROM ROME 435 
 
 I have been ill : Roman fever. Therefore I cannot write 
 a long letter and the sketches must tell you all the won- 
 ders of my journey here. I shall stay until I can speak 
 Italian and have read Dante and then with two languages 
 and my school French I shall seek employment in Eng- 
 land. My heart is in Edinburgh, but I could not bear 
 to live there again. Please keep the sketches and when 
 you write send me some sort of picture or photograph of 
 yourself. Get Agnes to draw you. She has a real tal- 
 ent. I feel very sorry for her and Tom. It must be 
 most disappointing to them to have no children, and 
 especially hard with John's boys so fine and jolly. I 
 hope John's comfort will not stifle them but he is sen- 
 sible and will bring them up well. If you could see 
 the children here! You would be envious of Italian 
 women. At least I am. The Spirito Santo must have 
 had something to do with them. They say it is the 
 Spirito Santo when a priest is the father!"
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 MRS. ELIAS BROADBENT 
 
 FOR once in a way Jamie's expectations were ful- 
 filled and there was a great change brought about 
 by John's return, though it came rather from Sophia. 
 Indeed with John there was soon a breach. Jamie was 
 anxious that provision should be made for his mother's 
 old age and wished to draw up some scheme by which 
 the three of them should begin at once to contribute. 
 Tom had refused to have anything to do with it and 
 John, when he was sounded, shared Tom's view that as 
 long as Jamie lived with their mother it was his affair 
 and there was no need for further thought. Margaret 
 kept his house for him and was therefore entitled to a 
 home at his expense. Tom had even gone so far as to 
 hint that his elder brother was trying to shirk his re- 
 sponsibilities and he gave John a most lurid account of 
 Jamie's loose and extravagant private life. In that ac- 
 count Jamie figured as a minor Heliogabalus. Sophia, 
 however, knew better, and always defended her brother- 
 in-law, in whom she had the sympathy which John, in 
 spite of his many virtues as a husband, lacked. Jamie 
 could delight in her children even as she did. He could 
 understand that they were a part of herself, that the baby 
 was still an essential piece of her physical existence, that 
 she lived through them and was only the more herself 
 
 436
 
 MRS. ELI AS BROADBENT 437 
 
 for it. He could be a child with the children (he had 
 learned that from Mrs. Leslie) and she found soon 
 that he was almost like another child to her, and could 
 be so without loss of dignity or hurt to his vanity. He 
 saw and allowed her own dignity as a woman practising 
 her womanhood and revelling in it without coquetry. 
 He could idealise her without making her inaccessible, 
 without diminishing her humanity, and for the first time 
 there was room in his world for woman, who had been 
 hitherto, so almost monastic had been his life, only an 
 exasperation and an obsession. She was entirely frank 
 with him as no woman had ever been, entirely with- 
 out that vain teasing which makes frankness impossible. 
 She accepted her husband's dictum that women have 
 nothing to do with the important problems of life be- 
 cause she was unaware of any problem. All her desires 
 had easily and naturally been satisfied and, since it had 
 been so easy and natural, other people's desires could 
 equally be satisfied. She had so much that it seemed to 
 her unreasonable and foolish to distract herself by wor- 
 rying because she had not something more, and because 
 she found something more in James, she did not, for 
 that, think ill of John. Indeed Jamie only made her 
 the more aware of what she had and more grateful for it. 
 She was sorry for him. The house seemed so empty 
 to her. It was just a house in which he ate and slept 
 and it was on the whole uncomfortable. It lacked all 
 the little graces that a woman who loved him could 
 have brought into it. She thought him very wonderful 
 and because he was that he needed such graces. There 
 was trouble with Tibby who did not at all like being told 
 that she must prepare a more dainty table and give more 
 attention to the cleanliness of the linen and provide a 
 greater variety of food. Sophia did not appreciate
 
 438 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 Tibby's position in the household and criticised her work 
 with no regard for her feelings. As if Tibby did not 
 know exactly what Jamie liked and disliked ! However 
 she bottled up her feelings and only let them loose upon 
 the Portuguese with whom she had managed somehow 
 to break down the barrier of language. Tibby was 
 alarmed. It was clear to her that John and Tom were 
 better fed than Jamie, whose alliance with Sophia was 
 also disturbing. "Never once has he complained," said 
 Tibby. "And never would," returned Sophia. "I am 
 sure you do your best, but, believe me, I know what men 
 like." "What's meat to one is poison to another," pro- 
 tested Tibby. "Certainly, but there are little things 
 that they all like, and they make all the difference. It 
 is not so much in the cooking as in the serving, nor 
 so much in the cleaning as in the arranging." "It is 
 small use arranging for Jamie," said Tibby, "for an 
 untidier man there never was." 
 
 Sophia went away feeling that she would never rest 
 content until she had taken Jamie away from that house. 
 Margaret obviously wished it to be like a Scots manse, 
 bare and frugal, and Jamie was not a Scots minister, 
 but a hard-working man blessed or cursed with a rarely 
 sensitive nature. "He must marry," said Sophia. "It 
 is perfectly absurd that he is not married, and perfectly 
 wicked of those two women to keep their claws in him." 
 
 To think of a thing was for Sophia to do it. She 
 never went out without looking at every young woman 
 she met and wondering if she would do, regarding them 
 from every point of view, the natural, the physical, the 
 aesthetic, the practical. There was no nonsense about 
 Sophia: a wife must be pleasing, healthy, happy and 
 sensible. Jamie's wife must be young, amiable, and 
 strong: young, because he was in many ways too old,
 
 MRS. ELI AS BROADBENT 439 
 
 amiable, because he had moods, strong, because he was 
 nervous, and with a nervous woman might produce un- 
 healthy and abnormal children, and children were ab- 
 solutely necessary for him. So eager was Sophia in this 
 search that she postponed her visit to the Greigs' three 
 times and at last sent John off without her, making as 
 an excuse that she had found a very good doctor who 
 wished to have her under his eye for some time longer 
 (she had had a very difficult time with the baby in 
 Madeira and had had no proper attendance, and there 
 were after-effects which might or might not be serious). 
 This doctor, Elias Broadbent, it transpired, had married 
 the mother of a school friend of Sophia's, Belle Wood, 
 and Belle, hearing of her, arranged a meeting and 
 brought with her her young sister, Catherine, a girl of 
 eighteen. No sooner did Sophia set eyes on Catherine 
 than she decided that here was the wife for Jamie. The 
 girl was beautiful: tall, fair, radiant with health and 
 of an obvious innocence and purity, placid and immobile. 
 She was neither awkward nor shy, but always at her 
 ease, if anything lazy because she was so certain of 
 giving pleasure with her beauty. Belle on the other hand 
 was a plump little chatterbox, full of wiles and flattery, 
 extremely vain and obviously a little anxious at being left 
 unmarried. She was consumed with interest in Sophia's 
 marriage, her children, her husband, her voyage to the 
 antipodes, but for all Belle's efforts, Sophia could not 
 keep her attention from the younger sister and she saw 
 then that Belle was afraid of this beautiful rival and 
 hated her. Belle was full of grievances and conveyed, 
 without actually saying it, the idea that she had been 
 greatly wronged. She had had many offers but just at 
 the time her mother had been preoccupied with catching 
 Dr. Broadbent, and no young man had had the temerity
 
 440 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 to approach her. It was with an amazing skill that Belle 
 laid bare the whole story of her wrongs so that not a 
 word of it should be intelligible to Catherine. Sophia 
 felt that she was possessed of every detail. She was so 
 sympathetic and kindly that Belle invited her most pres- 
 singly to come and see her at home and to make the 
 acquaintance of her mother. 
 
 Mrs. Elias Broadbent was a formidable woman, large, 
 with a greedy mouth and hard eyes that shone like 
 polished pebbles. She was the daughter of an Arch- 
 deacon, a Northrop, and she let Sophia know within 
 five minutes that the Northrops had their seat in York- 
 shire and she had been married very young to Mr. Wood, 
 one of the Warwickshire Woods, and she had been left 
 a widow and had remained so for many years because 
 there were so few gentlemen in Thrigsby. She was 
 swollen with pride over her capture of Dr. Broadbent 
 who was one of the leading physicians of the town. 
 "And how interesting that you were at school with 
 Belle, Mrs. Lawrence." "Lawrie/' said Sophia. "The 
 Lawries are well known in Thrigsby, though not so well 
 known as my own family, the Greigs." Greig! The 
 name worked wonders. Mrs. Broadbent welcomed 
 Sophia as an equal. Her husband had attended Donald 
 Greig through a long and dangerous illness, and, as a 
 matter of fact, it had been through Angus Greig that the 
 doctor had made his reputation. 
 
 In her mother's presence Belle was no longer a chat- 
 terbox. She was almost as silent as Catherine, and it 
 was patent that the two young women had no kind of 
 interest for their mother, who was entirely absorbed in 
 her new life and rather resented her children as re- 
 minders that there had ever been any other. Tea was 
 brought in, with muffins and three varieties of rich
 
 MRS. ELI AS BROADBENT 441 
 
 cake. Mrs. Broadbent ate three muffins and two slices 
 of cake and gave herself up to the pleasure of eating. 
 The younger women hardly touched a morsel, but sat 
 like ministrants while Mrs. Broadbent, almost like a 
 priestess, accomplished the ceremony of the meal. 
 "If this is tea," thought Sophia, "what must dinner be 
 like?" Then her mind began to play about Catherine, 
 for whom she felt vaguely sorry, to be so young, so 
 lovely and so cruelly neglected. Thinking of her in 
 connection with her purpose, Catherine seemed like a 
 ripe plum on a wall that would come off at a touch. 
 
 Sophia was always liked by women and she was urged 
 to come again. She explained that she was staying with 
 her mother-in-law and hoped Mrs. Broadbent would call. 
 
 A week later Mrs. Broadbent called and, with her, 
 Belle. It was on a Saturday and Jamie was in, having 
 brought Fanny to her periodical tea-party with Tibby 
 in the kitchen. Belle had made inquiries about Jamie 
 and had heard much to his credit and set herself to tickle 
 his vanity and to attract him. But he detested her co- 
 quetry and even more he hated Mrs. Broadbent who sat 
 with a hard wandering eye taking in the bare furniture 
 and heavily patronising Margaret, who fascinated her, 
 as a woman who had cherished her widowhood and 
 tended it most lovingly. The atmosphere awed Mrs. 
 Broadbent. She was sensitive to its aristocratic quality 
 and drank it in greedily. It was so acute a pleasure to 
 her that she almost ignored the food that was set before 
 her. 
 
 To Jamie the woman was a living offence and as 
 soon as he could he made excuses and escaped. He was 
 very angry with Sophia and reproached her bitterly. 
 Sophia replied: "She is not so bad as all that. She 
 simply doesn't matter. I asked her because I wanted
 
 442 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 you to know the Doctor who is a really interesting man, 
 a man of science, who would be very good for you. And 
 he is interested in you, besides. I hoped she would bring 
 her younger daughter who is a great beauty, a lovely 
 creature and most unhappy, as you can imagine with a 
 mother like that." The mention of beauty in distress 
 caught Jamie's attention as it was intended that it 
 should. "If she is anything like her mother," he said, 
 "she cannot be beautiful and girls always grow like their 
 mothers in twenty years' time." "She is not at all like 
 her mother," answered Sophia, "and she is a perfect 
 angel, for, though she suffers a real martyrdom, she is 
 entirely unspoiled and needs nothing but friendship. If 
 she could meet your mother I am sure it would make all 
 the difference in the world to her." 
 
 The next move was that Sophia brought the Doctor 
 home with her one evening, with the result that he and 
 Jamie sat up until two in the morning, Jamie thrilled 
 with the pleasure of meeting a man of ideas and skilled 
 mind (though it made him feel hopelessly muddle- 
 headed) and the Doctor delighted to find a young and 
 eager mental curiosity prepared to discuss science with- 
 out reference to theology. The views of each were 
 complementary to those of the other and each felt that 
 at last he had met a thoroughly sensible man. Their 
 conversation was entirely abstract and impersonal and 
 very exciting so that Jamie was eager for more and 
 eagerly accepted an invitation to dine at the Doctor's 
 house on the following Tuesday. 
 
 He forgot to make a note of the exact time and arrived 
 half-an-hour early. The Doctor was out. Mrs. Broad- 
 bent was dressing and asked Belle to go down. Belle 
 knew that Jamie was hopeless for herself: also she dis- 
 liked any man who was impervious to her coquetry : and
 
 MRS. ELIAS BROADBENT 443 
 
 she sent Catherine, a radiant vision in pale blue. She 
 introduced herself: "I'm the younger Miss Wood," 
 she said. "My mother will be down soon." So this 
 was the beauty! Jamie was dazzled by her. His blood 
 went singing in his veins for the sheer joyous delight 
 of her. He held her hand for a full minute in the 
 oblivious happiness that he had in saluting her beauty, 
 in the pure freshness with which it filled him like the 
 air of a spring morning. "You must excuse me," she 
 said, "if I do not entertain you very well, but I have only 
 just begun to meet people and I do not know yet what 
 they talk about." "If they are friends," said he, "it 
 does not matter much what they talk about, and if they 
 are not friends they need not talk at all." She responded 
 instantly to the kindness in his voice and she accepted 
 the whole-hearted homage in his eyes. She was used 
 to homage, but of a furtive and unwilling kind. With 
 this went the whole nature of the man in absolute sim- 
 plicity. All the seeds of warm human love that had 
 been planted in him during his days with Sophia grew 
 up to flower, and Catherine became at once an image of 
 that love. Her beauty was worthy of it, spiritualised it, 
 rid it of the excessive comfort which in Sophia had 
 oppressed him. That gone, he was, on the instant, in 
 love. His whole force was concentrated on the girl and 
 he was entirely, deliciously happy and reckless, sensitive 
 to her innocence, instinctively careful lest anything in 
 his feelings should hurt her or rouse her too suddenly. 
 He rejoiced too in the chill of her modesty. O ! to melt 
 her, to waken her, to set her spirit free, to catch her 
 soul and never let it go. At once he was her wooer 
 most supple and most skilful, not dreaming of success 
 or failure, not caring what might come, but absorbed 
 wholly in his own immediate surrender, in the joy of
 
 444 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the wooing. It mattered nothing what he said to her. 
 The barest words formed a song, and her voice, her 
 gesture, her smile were more beguilement for his heart. 
 In one moment all his straining after love, after life, 
 after creative consciousness of life was snapped. He 
 was in a lovely ecstasy, hovering nearer and nearer to 
 beauty. Catherine spoke no word, made no movement, 
 but he at once translated it into evidence of her perfec- 
 tion, and nothing could mar the pure delight of that 
 evening. He found Mrs. Broadbent vastly amusing and 
 indeed when she could give vent to her malice she could 
 be witty. He flirted openly with Belle since it was 
 plain to both of them that it was nothing but nonsense 
 and such flirtation was a good outlet for the fun that 
 frothed up in him. How delicious the food was, how 
 good the wine, how charming the gleaming tablecloth, 
 the shining white plates and the sparkling glass and 
 silver! The table floated before him and he half ex- 
 pected it to be spirited away like the feast of the Barme- 
 cide. Indeed that seemed to have happened when he was 
 left alone with the Doctor and had to listen to talk about 
 comparative osteology and the evolution of bone struc- 
 tures. What did it matter to him that the bear and the 
 horse were most nearly akin, or that either was in the 
 least like man? What did it matter that he had bones 
 himself, and, if he had, why talk about it? Bones did 
 their work well enough in carrying the body about, and 
 if they broke there were doctors to mend them, and 
 that being so, why was not this particular doctor away 
 about his business ? 
 
 Dr. Broadbent drew his own conclusions and smiled 
 at the alacrity with which Jamie sprang to his feet when 
 he said: "Shall we join the ladies?" He was also a 
 little distressed, for he had thought Jamie a sensible
 
 MRS. ELIAS BROADBENT 445 
 
 man and had expected him to share his own cynical but 
 thoroughly healthy attitude of approval of the arrange- 
 ments provided for the continuance of the race. And 
 lo! Jamie had lost his head like any young moon-calf. 
 
 When that night he confided his impression to his 
 wife she remarked: "It would be a very good thing. 
 Katy wants a man of character to knock the nonsense 
 out of her, and he is certainly very good-looking." 
 
 At once Mrs. Broadbent informed Belle and Belle told 
 Sophia, and the three of them laboured in the good 
 cause, arranging that Jamie should be left alone with 
 Catherine, who received his attentions unmoved and as 
 a matter of course. She was of a slow nature and could 
 not easily grasp a new idea, but she accepted Jamie's 
 wooing. It was certainly very pleasant to be with him 
 and he was kinder to her than anybody had ever been. 
 But until he felt that she was moved he could not speak 
 his love to her. He waited, to the exasperated fury 
 of Mrs. Broadbent, Belle and Sophia. Mrs. Broadbent 
 and Belle set themselves to make Catherine's life a hell 
 to her and concentrated themselves on the task of driv- 
 ing her out of the house. Once they were assured that 
 they had Jamie's arms to drive her into they had no 
 compunction about it. Both were jealous of the beauty, 
 Belle for reasons already stated, and Mrs. Broadbent 
 because the Doctor was more appreciative of her daugfr 
 ter than she liked. 
 
 At last one day, when Jamie had been more tender 
 than usual, Catherine burst into tears and when he com- 
 forted her, petted her, patted her head and stroked her 
 pretty hair, she told him that her life was a perfect 
 misery to her. Then he could refrain no longer and 
 poured out his love for her and said he would love her 
 always and protect her and be good to her and she must
 
 446 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 love him and they would be happy together. She clung 
 to him and he kissed her and she accepted his kiss as 
 a child might, and it seemed to him then, in his mood 
 of passionate chivalry, right that perfect beauty should 
 so accept his kiss. 
 
 A few minutes later Mrs. Broadbent entered the room 
 and was informed that he wished to be engaged to her 
 daughter and to be married immediately. She already 
 had exact knowledge of his material condition and pros- 
 pects, mopped at her eyes, took him to her capacious 
 bosom and, to his astonished horror, kissed him. Cath- 
 erine rushed weeping to her room, and he was left feel- 
 ing extraordinarily foolish. All the elation passed from 
 him to Mrs. Broadbent, Belle, and Sophia. Catherine 
 was now as much petted as before she had been bullied. 
 He was hardly allowed access to her. The date of the 
 wedding was fixed. Sophia took charge of him and .made 
 him take a house, far removed from Margaret, and 
 furnish it. When he was not being worried by Sophia 
 he had to cope with the thousand and one suggestions 
 put forward by his mother. Scarcely had his mother 
 let him go than Agnes pounced on him with advice, and 
 hardly had Agnes turned her back than he found that 
 he had to deal with lawyers and go into the complicated 
 maze of a settlement, and that settlement had to be 
 agreed with other lawyers representing Catherine's small 
 inheritance from her grandfather. Then he had to meet 
 four families of the Woods and five of the Northrops, 
 not to mention a Broadbent or two. And Catherine on 
 her side was so bewildered that he was unable to get 
 two sensible remarks from her in a month, so that at 
 last he was driven to take refuge in science and philoso- 
 phy with the Doctor. That had the unfortunate effect 
 of clearing his brain so that he began to take a detached
 
 MRS. ELI AS BROADBENT 447 
 
 view of his marriage. Certainly he loved Catherine, but 
 he resented the indubitable fact that marriage had al- 
 ready interfered with its natural course, namely the 
 lovely wooing of the woman in a world that because 
 of it had become all fun and beauty, all blossom and 
 sweet scents and sunshine all aquiver and sweeter than 
 honey : an entire forget fulness of all save the body, which 
 had become light as thistledown, hovering in constant 
 glee upon the warm winds of love, blowing through it 
 so that it trembled, both from the ecstasy of the gentle 
 movement and from the inward knowledge of the sacri- 
 ficial sacrament that was to come. And all that had 
 been broken down, the blossoms were trampled under- 
 foot, the body's ecstasy was chilled, and every human 
 being round them shut them out and busily prepared to 
 isolate them for ever, to kill the ecstasy, to rob it of the 
 light, to deny it access to the world that through the 
 woman it loved so passionately. As his mind was cleared 
 again Jamie knew it, knew that his ecstasy was being 
 denied and utterly ignored. He knew Sophia what she 
 was, a woman living in the flesh, and he hated her for 
 it. She had wakened desire in him and quite calmly 
 would see it die because she knew no other desire than 
 the desire of the flesh. She ached with that desire and 
 she had her man to satisfy it. Her' breasts ached to 
 give suck and she had her children to satisfy that. Ah! 
 there was the evil that he had felt so menacing; not 
 money, not meanness, not ugliness, not any trivial lust 
 nor any blundering folly, but the callous confinement of 
 desire to the flesh, so that all was pleasure and nowhere 
 any joy. Yet he loved Catherine and would not sur- 
 render his idea of her beauty for which, in offering, he 
 had nothing but his ecstasy, for nothing else was worthy. 
 And that was perishing for lack of sustenance. Cath-
 
 448 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 erine was always with Sophia, who would poison her, 
 or with that vile old woman, her mother. He wished 
 to go to her as a bridegroom to his bride and in all 
 these preparations he could see nothing but the base 
 delivery of a slave to her master. Again and again he 
 would tell himself that joy must live, that nothing can 
 kill joy. Can joy live if it be denied? And what was 
 there anywhere in his surroundings that did not deny it ? 
 Only his mother with her joy pent up in the dim hope 
 and misty promise of Heaven, and the children with 
 their little joy still unaware of denial. 
 
 He wrote every day to Catherine and as he grew 
 desperate poured out his ecstasy in poems, but her letters 
 were few and unavailing for she could express little on 
 paper. 
 
 As the time drew near one idea, one image grew in 
 his mind, the figure of Tibby, formed out of the few 
 glances he caught from her. She was a figure of silent 
 sorrow, gazing down upon him with eyes full of wisdom 
 and a clear knowledge past understanding. Like a 
 strange woman looming out of darkness she was and 
 there was in her a feeling that crept into the marrow of 
 his bones. Once or twice she was so real to him that 
 he thought it must be she and he said: "What do you 
 want, Tibby?" And then she vanished. At last he 
 learned not to speak, and dared to meet her eyes and to 
 let the feeling in her go racking through him. It racked 
 through him and crept into his poor starving ecstasy and 
 passed through it and grew into something beyond 
 agony, beyond all joy, into clear knowledge of the equal 
 and unending strife between good and evil. Then he 
 was flung back into consciousness and left to take up his 
 ecstasy, his dread, his hatred of the evil that denied his 
 joy as the implement of his life, the instrument where-
 
 MRS. ELI AS BROADBENT 449 
 
 with his emotions must shape his love and give it grace. 
 Strangely as he toiled back into this smaller conscious- 
 ness the figure of Tibby lost its strangeness and dark- 
 ness fell away from it and she appeared more like the 
 Tibby of every day. And every day he was acutely 
 aware of her, a figure of silent sorrow. Most plainly 
 she was suffering and he could not endure the thought 
 of it. 
 
 On the night before his wedding he went down to the 
 kitchen. He found Tibby asleep. He stood in the door- 
 way and watched her. The shadows fell queerly upon 
 her face and turned it into a grotesque. It was like a 
 mask of suffering. The deepset eyes were like black 
 holes. There were deep shadows under her high cheek- 
 bones. He thought for one horrid moment that she 
 was dead. Could death look so strong, could there be 
 so fierce a will in death? Her lips parted and she 
 moaned a little, and slowly she raised her right arm and 
 drew it across her eyes. Then her arm fell again and 
 her hand dropped into her lap. He watched her and 
 her breathing came heavily. He thought, without pity, 
 simply, of her life. Day in, day out, drudging, serving 
 faithfully an old woman and a foolish man, keeping 
 them from the distasteful practices of daily life, with 
 little thanks and rare words of encouragement, even of 
 recognition. Ugly, uncouth, of a type to call down 
 upon herself the laughter of unworthy men. Yet there 
 was a rare spirit in her and an indomitable pride, that 
 should, surely, have been broken by such a life. As 
 she lay sleeping and he watched her, he saw in her face 
 a beauty such as he had seen upon no other face, a 
 serenity, a clear exalted dignity, a lovely proud purity, 
 a confident knowledge whereby that which had come to 
 him in his agony seemed small indeed. There was no
 
 450 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 room for pity, no need for it, none for love, as he had 
 known it, none for that ecstasy which had seemed to 
 thrill through all the world. These things were passing 
 and of time. There was in Tibby, in that strange mask 
 of hers, the sure knowledge of the omnipotence of love. 
 She opened her eyes and a veiled light shone in them. 
 As she saw him the veil was dropped and the light blazed. 
 She did not move. She made no sound. He knew that 
 she loved him and that he loved her, and that their love 
 would make two worlds, his in the likeness of marriage, 
 citizenship, success or failure, and such-like things; and 
 hers grey, dull, monotonous and beyond all hope of 
 change. "I wanted to say good-bye to you, Tibby," 
 said he. "Good-bye, Jamie," said she. She folded her 
 hands in her lap, turned her head with a jerk, as though 
 it needed some violence to take her eyes from his, and 
 gazed into the glowing fire. The lamp on the table 
 flickered and died out. He lingered for a moment. 
 She was no longer a figure of sorrow but of patience. 
 She needed neither comfort nor pity. There was no 
 emptiness in her life, but the enduring peace of knowl- 
 edge in innocence. "Good-night, Tibby," he said. 
 "Good-night," said she. He drew the door to but could 
 not bear to shut it. He felt that she was with him, and 
 would be with him whatever might befall. As he turned 
 away he found that he was trembling and could hardly 
 walk. He groped his way back along the passage, back 
 to the duty and the joy that awaited him in life, in 
 the life that could take cognisable tangible shape, the 
 comic life of every day.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 SO he was married. Catherine was delivered over to 
 him by her stepfather, with the priest as interme- 
 diary. It was extraordinarily like a commercial transac- 
 tion, with amazing complications to transfer the goods 
 from the producer to the consumer, and the middleman 
 taking more profit than his services seemed to entitle 
 him to. Jamie thought of that in the middle of the 
 service and the whole affair which till then had been 
 depressing and vulgar became splendid farce. Here was 
 the business with which plays and novels were usually 
 rounded off actually happening to himself and the fun 
 was only just beginning. Were he and Catherine going 
 to live happily ever after? He hoped so, but he had his 
 doubts. He did not at all agree with the tone of the 
 marriage service which was as blunt and cynical as a bill 
 of lading. Catherine was heavily veiled and orange- 
 blossomed and so dressed as to look as little like a woman 
 as possible. He disliked the phrase "wedded wife," 
 which sounded heavy and ominous. Certainly he was 
 in a difficult and fastidious mood, but he knew what he 
 felt and he disliked his feelings being interfered with 
 by inappropriate and ponderous sounds. In Scotland he 
 could have had the matter over in a few moments by 
 the holding out of his hand and the clear expression 
 
 451
 
 452 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 of his intention to live with the woman as his wife. 
 These English were so pompous. They could do, say 
 and think nothing without insisting on its importance, 
 for no other reason than that it was they who were 
 doing, saying and thinking it. They had always been 
 devastating to his feelings, and here in the face of one 
 of the most cherished of their institutions he began 
 to understand why. It was simply that they had no 
 notion of adjusting the means to an end, and became 
 so entangled in the means they employed that they lost 
 sight of the end altogether. He did not yet desire 
 Catherine as a wife. That might be, and again it might 
 not. He had thought the matter over carefully. Mar- 
 riage was to him a sacrament. He was quite clear about 
 that. It meant the coming of the bridegroom to the 
 bride, with all its mortal consequences, the fruition or 
 the death of love. To these people marriage was only 
 a contract, and, as the contract was indissoluble, it was 
 a means so bungled that it had become an end. That 
 was why novels and plays were rounded off with it, 
 because the English were so entangled in their means that 
 they could look no further. They were entangled in 
 marriage just as they were entangled in commerce and 
 in Empire. What on earth had happened to them, 
 thought Jamie, as he walked, hurt and bewildered, from 
 the altar steps to the vestry what had happened to them 
 since Shakespeare had rounded off the Midsummer- 
 Night's Dream with a marriage wherein were united 
 labour, intellect and fairyland? The marriages of 
 Theseus and Hippolyte and of the Grecian lovers had 
 helped him greatly in his approach to his own marriage. 
 It should be a blessing of the sense, a kindling of the 
 spirit, a mutual surrender and a new creation. And these 
 people had made it as ugly as it could well be. They had
 
 CATHERINE 453 
 
 tricked out his bride until she looked like a figure off her 
 own wedding cake ; they were stolid in their demeanour 
 and on the whole unhappy; the whole ceremony was 
 gloomy and full of warnings and forebodings. Almost 
 everything possible was done to rob him of his delight in 
 Catherine. Why mention worldly goods? All that had 
 been arranged by the lawyers, if there were any worldly 
 goods. Why talk of sickness at such a time ? Why drag 
 in death ? And why obedience ? He had certainly no in- 
 tention of commanding Catherine to do anything, and if 
 she did not obey him he would have no remedy since 
 there was no amending the contract. No, the marriage 
 ceremony was muddle-headed, and, like the English who 
 had evolved it, without purpose, unless it was their pur- 
 pose to kill joy. He had noticed that trick of theirs. 
 They could never believe themselves to be serious unless 
 they were solemn. Perhaps, he thought, in a race of 
 humorists that was inevitable. 
 
 He did not at all like these busy thoughts, but it was 
 not his fault. The marriage ceremony would not admit 
 his feelings and he must win through it as best he could 
 and hope manfully that when at last he was allowed 
 to take his bride away he would be able to obliterate the 
 painful impressions of the past few weeks, and to wipe 
 out all traces of Mrs. Broadbent, Belle and Sophia. As 
 he drove away from the church with Catherine he was 
 happy to find the ceremony becoming fantastic and amus- 
 ing in his mind. He asked Catherine to remove her 
 veil as he had not had a clear sight of her that day. 
 She said she would wait until they got home. Jokingly 
 he said : "I order you to take it off." "Certainly not," 
 she replied, and not another word passed between them 
 until they reached the house. Then she was taken from 
 him once more and he was left with his father-in-law,
 
 454 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 his brother, and his mother. "I shall miss you, dear 
 Jamie," said Margaret, who had obviously been weep- 
 ing quietly to herself. "Miss him?" said Tom. "We're 
 all going to look after you now." "You're very good, 
 Tom," said Margaret, "but somehow I never believed 
 that Jamie would marry." "It's never too late to settle 
 down," replied Tom. "And I'm only too glad to do for 
 his kitchen what he did for mine." So the talk went 
 on, forced joviality with an undercurrent of lugubrious- 
 ness that flung Jamie into a profound depression and 
 made him wonder whether after all they were not in the 
 right and he was in the wrong. Nearly everybody pres- 
 ent, except Belle, was married, and they all had the air 
 of being sorry for him even when they shook him by 
 the hand or patted him on the back. He had a sense 
 that they were all hostile to him, even his mother, and 
 were crowding in upon him to make sure that he did not 
 escape. 
 
 And Catherine? What had it all been to her? She 
 appeared presently in a grey travelling costume. (The 
 honeymoon was to be spent in London.) She kissed 
 her mother and clung to her, shed tears upon her re- 
 doubtable bosom, kissed and clung to Belle, and pecked 
 timidly at Margaret's cheek. Her stepfather kissed her 
 full on the lips and she shrank from him. "I'm ready, 
 Jamie," said she, and he walked after her saying: "O 
 my beautiful, I do thank God to escape." He took off 
 his hat and lifted his face to the sky to feel the wind 
 in his hair and the light upon his eyes. In the carriage 
 he asked her: "Aren't you glad to escape?" and she 
 replied: "I'm glad it's over. I was getting sick of all 
 the excitement." Said he: "I was beginning to think 
 you might forget me altogether." "Forget you, Jamie? 
 How could I?" He felt a swift elation, a return of the
 
 CATHERINE 455 
 
 enchantment that had come upon him when he first saw 
 her. On the threshold of her young life, his own, fan- 
 tastic, absurd, confused and twisted, fell away from him. 
 The glamour of her youth touched him and he was 
 young again but without the torment of shyness and 
 conceit that had so blurred his own boyhood. All things 
 seemed possible then. He and she would live in the fair 
 house of their love and they would fill it ingeniously with 
 beauty so that no darkness could ever enter into it. This 
 love of his was an active state, not a mere pleasant con- 
 dition into which he sank. He was extremely wary of 
 everything that was hostile to its activity and it was 
 not long before he discovered hostility in his wife. She 
 was charming and had a great capacity for enjoyment. 
 Good company she was and easily pleased, but she yielded 
 too readily to his emotions, and absorbed them, without 
 being roused to activity. So it was with his thoughts. 
 She received them too but never brought her own per- 
 sonality to bear on them so that he would find them in 
 her mind, or she would give them forth again, un- 
 amended. It was like living in front of a mirror and 
 it was abominable to him. He reminded himself that 
 she was only a girl and told himself that he must be 
 patient, but he was disappointed. He had expected mar- 
 riage to have a transfiguring effect upon her, as indeed 
 it had had so far as sensations went. Her capacity for 
 mere physical companionship was enormously increased ; 
 she could taste almost to the full the satisfaction of 
 having another human being near her. He could per- 
 ceive a visible difference in her when he returned after 
 a short absence. This new capacity in her augmented 
 his and the act of living became a less airy and fantastic 
 thing so that he lived less in his imagination and dis- 
 covered innumerable small pleasures of sight and touch
 
 456 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 and taste that had hitherto been hidden from him. These 
 all made the honeymoon more and more delightful but 
 less and less as the time approached did he relish re- 
 turning to the task of building up the household in 
 Thrigsby. That, he knew, was not a thing that would 
 happen automatically, and when he contemplated the ma- 
 terial with which he had to deal he was ruefully dis- 
 appointed. Love had brought delight, ecstasy, but no 
 miracle, and he had counted on the miracle. Out of 
 love should have grown a new world in which he and 
 his wife should dwell in simple amity and understand- 
 ing even as the first man and woman of the Bible. 
 Without that, love was vain, a little comfort in a world 
 already too comfortable. He had entered into it honestly 
 and frankly not caring in the least what was destroyed 
 in him so the miracle came about. It had not come about 
 and without ceaseless striving there would be another 
 dull, respectable plodding household added to the thou- 
 sands of them in Thrigsby. Very well then, he was 
 ready for that effort. Did striving mean strife? So 
 be it. Yet he trembled when he thought of Catherine, 
 so young, so innocent and unsuspecting of the gusts of 
 fury that assailed him. 
 
 But she was not so innocent. She was slow and sly. 
 She liked her husband, she liked his kindness, and the 
 unfailing consideration with which he treated her was 
 the most comfortable sofa she had discovered, and she 
 liked sofas. It was delicious to her to lie on her sofa 
 and to have her handsome romantic man hovering over 
 her. She would draw him closer and closer to her and 
 lose herself in the overpowering comfort of his presence. 
 All her romantic dreams of love seemed to be fulfilled. 
 She had hardly a wish but it was gratified almost before 
 she became aware of it. From the beginning to the
 
 CATHERINE 457 
 
 end of the day she hardly needed to raise a finger for 
 herself, and at night she had but to accept a love which 
 penetrated to every corner of her being and filled it 
 with sweetness. It was the realisation of all her dreams 
 and she was content and asked no more. Her husband 
 quite perfectly performed his functions of ministering 
 to that realisation and she could not imagine his having 
 any desire outside or beyond it. Sometimes he would 
 talk to her, as she called it, solemnly. Then she would 
 listen but only to his voice, catching all the tenderness 
 in it and drinking it in to add to the store of sweetness. 
 She hoarded love as the camel hoards sustenance in 
 his hump, and when Jamie had one of what she called 
 "his moods" and was remote from her, then she drew 
 on her hoard and lived on it until he came back to her. 
 What seemed to her a return to the duty of ministra- 
 tion was to him a return to the assault. He would try 
 to get her to talk of herself, but she remembered very 
 little. She seemed always to have been petted and spoiled 
 and her only positive impression was one of dislike for 
 her mother. "You understand," he would say, "that 
 we are going back to build up our home, with children, 
 friends." "Mother was quite different after she mar- 
 ried the Doctor," said Catherine. "She stopped fussing 
 and scolding. And of course he adores her, but we 
 didn't seem to belong to her any more. Say you adore 
 me, Jamie." "Yes, yes, I adore you, Kate, but there is 
 something else beyond all that." "I don't want any- 
 thing else." "But you have to live through it whether 
 you want it or not." "I leave everything to you, Jamie. 
 You are so wonderful and I am so happy." "I can 
 do nothing without you, Kate." "You have me, every 
 inch of me." Really, she thought, he was sometimes 
 very tiresome. What more did he want ? She was very
 
 458 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 happy, far more happy than she had ever expected to 
 be. It was folly to think of the future when the present 
 was so entirely satisfying. She supposed him to be talk- 
 ing of the future and when she got tired of it would 
 try to drag him back into the exquisite anguish of present 
 delights, but always what to her was a sinking into the 
 void was to him a leap into the keenest and most living 
 joy. She contained her pleasure, while his joy burst 
 from him and was free everywhere but through her. 
 She felt dimly that he accepted her and she was faintly 
 conscious of the danger she was in and ceased her activity 
 and became once more, and with great relief, passive. 
 It was pleasanter so. There were none of the emotional 
 storms which had frightened her in him. 
 
 The crisis came one night when he broke into an 
 agony of tears, and she lay for a long time in silence 
 hating and despising him. At last she could endure it 
 no longer and she comforted him blindly and stupidly 
 as she would have done a child. His sobs tore at her 
 heart and she wanted to stop that. She soothed him 
 like a mother with a little foolish passionate boy: 
 "Don't cry, Jamie darling. I can't bear it. What are 
 you crying for? Aren't you happy? I can't bear it if 
 you aren't happy." He was so glad of the comfort, 
 so reassured to have her recognise even the boy in him 
 that he took hope and turned to her and told her that 
 he was a fool. Perhaps he had come too late to mar- 
 riage, perhaps it would have been easier had he been as 
 young as she (in his heart he knew that it would not 
 have been) and perhaps she would understand later on. 
 
 From that moment he fixed his hopes on the time 
 when the child should come. Then, he thought, she 
 would be awakened. Then she would be alive to the 
 lovely changing world in which he had his being and
 
 CATHERINE 
 
 459 
 
 there would be an end of the rigid conceptions in which 
 she was bound. His tenderness for her redoubled and 
 all his thoughts were centred upon her. That made her 
 happy, convinced her that her marriage was a success 
 and that she was provided for in complete security. She 
 had the pleasure of feeling superior to her mother, whose 
 marriage was one of violence quarrels and reconcilia- 
 tions and to her sister who had become more precisely 
 the enraged spinster. Quarrels in her own life there 
 were none. All that happened in this kind was that her 
 husband sank into a profound gloom from which he 
 would emerge in a desperate and furious ecstasy. Life 
 with him was more than happy : it was exciting, though 
 she felt a little ashamed of him for being so singular. 
 In her rare moments of articulate dislike for him she 
 called him unmanly, though she would have been hard 
 put to it to point to any action of his in support of the 
 epithet. 
 
 For Margaret she conceived a great liking, for Tom 
 a full admiration tempered with jealousy when she dis- 
 covered that he was the leading member of the family 
 into which she had passed. Very easily she adopted the 
 Lawrie shibboleths and looked down on her mother as 
 of an inferior class : a doctor being a mere parasite on 
 the Thrigsby which the Lawries had made, for the legend 
 had now descended to and included them. John's suc- 
 cess had conquered the last resistance of the Greigs 
 and the Lawries were established in the hierarchy. 
 Catherine had married much better than she had ex- 
 pected and she was rather overwhelmed at her luck. 
 All her relations-in-law were pleased with her because 
 she had succeeded in pinning down the one doubtful 
 member of the family. Jamie had settled down and 
 Cateaton's Bank would be included in their territory.
 
 460 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 His indiscretions would be forgotten and he and his 
 brothers could be left to represent the interests of the 
 clan in Thrigsby, while the senior branches propagated 
 the gospel of hard-headedness and the divine right of 
 commerce elsewhere. Catherine took to it like a new- 
 born swan to water. She had never been buoyed up by 
 a philosophy before. Her own father had been an 
 Anglican clergyman living in perpetual self-abasement, 
 while her stepfather's whole enthusiasm was in his 
 medical work with no other reality in the world than the 
 human body, its mechanism, sensations, diseases, singu- 
 larities, tricks, oddities, pranks and comic functions. He 
 saw good and evil only in terms of physical health or 
 illness, and he had denied Catherine all belief except 
 in her beauty of which he had been almost jealously 
 appreciative. She had had no self-reliance until she 
 found this service in her family by marriage, who valued 
 her beauty as an asset. They called her "the lovely Mrs. 
 James" and made her feel her consequence. All this 
 pleased Jamie in his simplicity. His relatives had never 
 been so amiable to him. He was proud of his wife and 
 glad of the happiness she had. She was not so exacting 
 with him and they had a long period of romantic easy 
 pleasure in each other, genial and expansive so that he 
 hoped steadily for the love and intimacy that he craved. 
 She was so young yet. She would learn that because 
 she wanted a thing that was no reason why she should 
 have it immediately without any reference to the wishes 
 of others. But he gave her everything she wanted. 
 When the child came, he thought, she would discover 
 that she must yield to the necessities of another life and 
 how they were identical with her own. 
 
 Yet when the child came there was a terrible repetition 
 of the comedy of his marriage, and he was made a farce-
 
 CATHERINE 461 
 
 fool. Margaret and Agnes now joined with Sophia, 
 Belle and Mrs. Broadbent. One or other of them, often 
 more than one, was in his house continually. When he 
 tried to protest he was told that Catherine was so young 
 and must be looked after, and any attempt on his part 
 to discuss her condition was treated as an indecency. 
 He raged against them to Catherine, but she said they 
 were very kind and she felt lonely while he was away. 
 "Then let them go when I come home." "Jamie, your 
 own mother !" "When it comes to a great mystery like 
 this she is as much a stranger as any other." "How can 
 you say such a thing? It isn't a mystery. I'm not the 
 first woman in the world to have a baby. Besides it 
 doesn't belong to us alone. It belongs to the family." 
 "Ah ! You have all their arguments. I want your own. 
 I want your own feeling." "Oh! Jamie, do be reason- 
 able. Do see that it is a very difficult time for me and 
 that I want help." "Then let me give it you." "How 
 can you? You're a man." He threw up his hands in 
 despair. The family! The family! It took everything 
 and gave nothing. It insisted upon marriage, and denied 
 marriage, denied its sanctity, its privacy, its intimacy. 
 He implored Catherine to listen to him but she parried 
 all his arguments with sentiment, his mother, her mother. 
 At last he forced on her the logic of her sentiment and 
 got her to consent to limit the feminine invasion to his 
 mother and hers. Sophia, Belle and Agnes were warned 
 off. Between Margaret and Mrs. Broadbent there were 
 fierce battles over the pregnant body of Catherine. Mrs. 
 Broadbent was for sound medical wisdom, Margaret for 
 religious comfort, in what they both agreed to be an 
 affliction. Catherine very soon wearied of them and 
 was reduced to tears, and she vented her unhappiness on 
 her husband. She revenged herself by treating him as
 
 462 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 a mere man who could understand nothing of what was 
 going on. To keep him frantic she indulged her caprices : 
 now she must have this to eat, now that to wear: or 
 she desired to see a particular corner of a particular field 
 some ten miles away: or she took a dislike to a certain 
 piece of furniture and wanted something else in its stead. 
 She made him buy three different new beds for her con- 
 finement and would have the bedroom repapered within 
 a month of the event. He was kept busy altering and 
 adjusting her outward world to meet her new condition. 
 To her inward world she never once admitted him. 
 And over every outward change Mrs. Broadbent and 
 Margaret quarrelled until at last Catherine, though she 
 enjoyed it, could bear it no longer. Jamie interfered, 
 and drove them out. They insisted that Catherine must 
 have a woman near her until the nurse came and he said 
 he would have Tibby or none. Tibby! What could 
 she know about it ? She was unmarried and, breathe the 
 word, illegitimate. "It shall be Tibby or none," said 
 Jamie. "At least she will not quarrel and carp at every- 
 thing I do. At least she will respect us as husband and 
 wife and have a little human pity for the two of us." 
 
 So Tibby came and, with her, peace. Catherine was 
 cowed by her and grateful for her instinctive sympathy. 
 She was allowed at last to become absorbed in her condi- 
 tion and to gaze in upon herself in a musing drowsiness 
 that presently included her husband so that she would 
 sit for hours in silence with her hand in his, expectant, 
 but too self-absorbed even for humility. Jamie was 
 sensible then of his isolation with her, of the profound 
 emptiness save for the corporeal mystery of their life 
 together, and of the loving protection that Tibby' s pres- 
 ence afforded them. For the other women were afraid 
 of Tibby and suffered her to dictate their visits.
 
 CATHERINE 463 
 
 When the nurse came, Tibby remained. There was 
 an outcry and a concerted effort was made to remove 
 her. But she remained. John came to his brother to 
 protest. "Tibby's place," he said, "is with mother, to 
 whom she is bound in gratitude." "Mother has had 
 twenty years' service from her," said Jamie. "Twice 
 twenty could not repay the debt she owes her and us." 
 "I don't think Tibby's life has been so grand an affair 
 as all that, and mother really does not need more than 
 one servant. She should move to a smaller house." 
 "But we are all agreed that Tibby should stay with 
 mother." "I am not agreed. Neither is Tibby." 
 "Have you been putting your heads together?" "Not 
 a word has either of us said." "How does Catherine 
 like it?" "She clings to Tibby." "H'm! Sophia 
 wouldn't stand it, if I did a thing like that." "Look 
 here, John. Tibby is a remarkable woman. She has 
 made a world of difference to us. She is happy here. 
 I think she is entitled to a change. Mother's life is 
 finished. Her house is no place for an active woman. 
 And further, Tibby is a free agent. A kindness done 
 twenty years ago does not make her a slave. She has 
 repaid that kindness with a thousand kindnesses to us 
 all. She wishes to stay here and we should respect her 
 wishes." "It's a damned queer business," said John, 
 "and I wash my hands of it. I simply don't understand 
 Catherine." "Understanding Catherine is my business," 
 retorted Jamie, "yours is understanding Sophia." On 
 that John looked blank and went away to report his 
 failure to Tom and Agnes who were much concerned 
 with this new evidence of Jamie's oddity. "It is per- 
 fectly clear," said Tom, "that Tibby is in love with him 
 and always has been, and the only hope is that he is 
 the kind of fool who would never see it. For he is
 
 464 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 certainly a fool and we have not done with him yet." 
 "I don't think he is a fool," said Agnes, and Tom 
 snorted: "He is a fool. I say he is a fool, and he is 
 entirely without regard for his family. And a man who 
 does not regard his family will not regard his Queen, 
 his country or his God. If he were not a fool he would 
 be dangerous. He is not dangerous, therefore he is a 
 fool." "What sticks in my gizzard," said John, "is 
 Tibby's extraordinary ingratitude. Mother says she will 
 never have her in her house again. The fact of the mat- 
 ter is that Tibby has lost her head. The fact of his 
 marrying has distracted her and that of course is the 
 one reason why she ought not to be in his house. I 
 think Catherine ought to be told." "I don't think," said 
 Agnes, "that I should like to be told anything about Tom 
 that I couldn't find out for myself." "There is nothing 
 that you could be told," Tom rapped out and Agnes 
 smiled to herself. She was amused by this little pother 
 and in her heart admired Tibby for what she had done. 
 It was so remote from what she herself could do. 
 "Jamie may be a fool," she said, "and Catherine cer- 
 tainly is, but Tibby is a wise woman. As for scandal 
 there will never be any outside the family, for it is per- 
 fectly natural that she should go from your mother to 
 her eldest son when he has need of someone in his house 
 whom he can trust absolutely." 
 
 On the night of Catherine's confinement Jamie spent 
 hours pacing up and down the dining-room, racked and 
 torn with fear and doubt and disappointment. He was 
 feeling acutely the humiliation of the male in his utter 
 helplessness. He had been to fetch the doctor, who was 
 out but would come as soon as possible. There was 
 nothing to do but to wait. Jamie could not read. His 
 eyes wandered about the room without resting upon
 
 CATHERINE 465 
 
 anything. His helplessness seemed to him a mockery 
 of all pretensions. This mystery alone, and the greater 
 mystery of which it was the centre, seemed important. 
 All tended to the one end, but it was hidden away and 
 ignored. Almost every idea that he had ever encoun- 
 tered led away from the mystery. Religion, art, habit, 
 the traffic of every day, coaxed and seduced life away 
 from it. Vanity erected vast fabrics from which the 
 mystery was excluded. Even the idea of the family 
 admitted the mystery only as an incident. Oh! but 
 thought was not what he wanted now. Thought also 
 was a mockery. Presently one image only was with 
 him. The child; he would hold the child in his arms. 
 That would be pure contact with living flesh. That 
 would release the mystery, give it expression and set 
 it moving in this fog-ridden life. That would be satis- 
 faction, beyond all pleasure, a song of praise beyond 
 all words, with none to steal the praise and kill the song. 
 Then it was bitter, bitter to be reduced to so small a 
 thing, that the body of a little almost insentient child 
 should give a truth desired in all other contact with 
 humanity. The mere idea of it began to make his posi- 
 tion bearable, to kindle the truth in himself and to 
 restore his faith. Then came dread that it might be 
 snatched from him. Every possibility ran through his 
 mind. He might in a few moments be deprived of every- 
 thing, of the baffled and yet precious love he had for his 
 wife, of all his hopes. He broke into a sweat and was 
 half-way up the stairs to see that all was well with 
 Catherine when the Doctor arrived and he had to slink 
 back, composing himself as best he could, and assuming 
 a manly attitude. The Doctor was a little perky man 
 with a thin, crooked, warty face. He was very pleasant 
 and brisk. The nurse came down to greet him and he
 
 466 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 said he would wait. Jamie offered him whisky but he 
 refused saying that he made it a point never to take 
 stimulants while working. "Can't be done," he said, "if 
 you respect your work. Ha! Ha!" "Ha! Ha!" laughed 
 Jamie wondering what the joke was, but the Doctor was 
 only being cheerful. "I often think," said the Doctor, 
 "that a whole book might be written about a time like 
 this. Mysterious, you know. In the dead of night, 
 you know. An upheaval in the family, you know. I'm 
 a bachelor myself, perhaps that's why I think about it. 
 It's a pet idea of mine that novelists ought to consult 
 medical men about their books. They write them too 
 often from the point of view of the clergy. Ha! Ha! 
 And of course they make the most woeful mistakes. 
 Physical basis to everything, which of course knocks 
 the bottom out of the happy ending. Ha! Ha! I mean 
 you can't hate a villain when you know that he is only 
 mean because he has a stone in his bladder, or that a 
 bungler in my profession may have pressed his thumb 
 into his brain. Little physical accidents like that you 
 know may make all the difference between a politician 
 and a cut-throat." "I can imagine," said Jamie, "a cut- 
 throat being a much more likeable fellow than a politi- 
 cian." "True ! True !" tittered the Doctor. "You will 
 forgive my saying so, Mr. Lawrie, but you have the 
 most refreshing ideas, I mean in your writing. You help 
 one to believe that people are not such fools as they 
 seem. You have an eye for vanity, sir. You see through 
 it. You are interested in life as I imagined only a 
 bachelor could be. I am surprised that you do not write 
 a book." "I have too much respect for the few books 
 worth reading," said Jamie, "to add to the multitude of 
 bad books which make them inaccessible." "Ah!" said 
 the Doctor. "I often feel like that about children. Why
 
 CATHERINE 467 
 
 add to the difficulty of the few lives that are worth liv- 
 ing?" "Good God, sir," cried Jamie, "is not every 
 child a new hope?" "Not," replied the Doctor, "when 
 you look at their parents. That is how I should write 
 my book. I should describe a man like myself entering 
 a house, his impressions of its atmosphere. I should set 
 down in detail the history of the parents, and the atti- 
 tude of each towards the expected event. But I think 
 I should choose the second child rather than the first, 
 which is nearly always the father's child. By the second 
 child the woman has discovered as a rule that she cannot 
 live altogether in her husband, nor he in her. You see, 
 she is thrown back upon herself. The child has more 
 chance. If the woman is thrown entirely back upon 
 herself there is a very good prospect of her child being 
 a genius. Her whole vitality goes into the making of 
 him, her whole desire for the masculine complement of 
 her nature." "An interesting theory," said Jamie. "An 
 absorbing theory," cried the Doctor. "I am examining 
 the lives of great men for evidence of it. It explains 
 why so many men of genius have worthless fathers, 
 though of course a man of iron virtue is as disappointing 
 to a woman as a drunkard or a rake. I mean that if a 
 woman is baffled in her instinct she must either destroy 
 or create. A weak man she need not destroy, but a 
 strong man, a man possessed of an idea, to his destruc- 
 tion she will often become completely devoted. You see, 
 the theory is pregnant. A book on it would occupy a 
 lifetime. It attaches a new importance to birth. Why, 
 sir, it might revolutionise the world." "Stop, stop, 
 stop!" said Jamie. "You are talking too fast for me. 
 It is one o'clock in the morning and I find it hard to 
 follow."- -"Why, sir, don't you see? It gives a new 
 importance to women, bless 'em." "A man of genius,"
 
 468 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 said Jamie, "is a doubtful blessing to his parents, and I 
 think a woman cares little what a child is so he be 
 straight." 
 
 There came a bump on the floor above them. Jamie 
 leaped to his feet. "I declare," said the Doctor, "I had 
 forgotten my patient." "Be careful of the boy's brains," 
 said Jamie. "And if it is a girl." "Then be very care- 
 ful of her nose." "Ha! Ha!" said the Doctor. "There 
 is no fear of your son being a man of genius." "The 
 name of Lawrie," said Jamie, "is so committed to money 
 that it could never be that of a poet. No one can ever 
 sing the virtues of the middle class. They can only be 
 set down by double entry in a ledger." "Ha! Ha!" said 
 the Doctor. "There spake Quintus Flumen." 
 
 Tibby came in to summon the Doctor. "Tut! Tut!" 
 he clicked with his tongue. "Tut! Tut!" He seized 
 his little black bag and ran upstairs. Tibby said : "The 
 child's born, Jamie. It is a fine boy and she is well."- 
 "Oh ! Tibby, Tibby. Thank God for that. And I heard 
 no sound. I sat here havering." "It's a fine strong 
 boy," said she, "and as straight as an arrow. I can't 
 go back now, Jamie." "No," said he. "I knew you 
 would never go back." They had a moment of the 
 most thrilling happiness, sharing the lovely miracle that 
 had come to bless the house. 
 
 Soon the Doctor returned : "A boy, Mr. Lawrie," he 
 said, "and as fine and strong and healthy a young mother 
 as ever I saw. She'd sit for a Flemish Virgin and 
 Child. If I may say so, sir, the very best corrective to 
 your nerves that you could have found." "Sir," said 
 Jamie, "my happiness leaves no room for theory. "- 
 "Pooh!" said the Doctor. "Go and dandle the boy in 
 your arms, express your gratitude to your wife and go 
 to bed, for you need a sleep."
 
 CATHERINE 469 
 
 Catherine was dazed and could only smile wanly at 
 him when at last he was admitted. But he took the boy 
 in his arms and hugged him and cried within himself : 
 "O! my little flame of life, O my jewel, my wonder and 
 my hope. She has been to fetch you from the gates of 
 death and I sat havering, spoiling the world for you 
 already."
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 
 
 JV/TARGARET could not bring herself to forgive 
 J-*-*- Tibby who had brought out into the open that 
 which she had known for years and had cherished as 
 one of those secrets hidden from all save God, and there- 
 fore shared only with Him. She had often prayed to 
 God about it but now that it was known to others that 
 Tibby loved Jamie, even though he was married, she 
 washed her hands of it as a worldly and perishable thing 
 to be swept with all the rest to damnation. However, 
 being a just woman, she went to see her grandchild and 
 requested Tibby to return. When Tibby refused she 
 said she hoped she would not be too severely punished 
 for her ingratitude, waited to see Jamie, told him she was 
 going to withdraw from Thrigsby to a village on the 
 outskirts and asked him for the copy of his father's ser- 
 mons with which she proposed to console her declining 
 years. "You have all gone out into the world," she 
 said, "and it is a world that has small use for me, a 
 world that I do not understand very well. It seems to 
 me to be moving farther away from God and I am draw- 
 ing nearer to Him." Jamie could find nothing to say. 
 Her speech admitted of no comment. "You are all 
 married," she went on, "and living worthy lives and I 
 am amply repaid for all the sacrifices I have made."- 
 
 470
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 471 
 
 " 'Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace/ " 
 quoted Jamie. "No, James," she said, "I would prefer 
 not to hear Scripture on your lips." "Very well, mother. 
 I should be sorry knowingly to do anything to hurt you." 
 
 "You have hurt me. I have only pride in my sons 
 and pride is sinful." "The world would be a harmless 
 place if there were no worse sinners in it than you." 
 "Oh! well," she said, "I have done my work and now 
 I must fold my hands. But if I am to sit at a window 
 I must have more to see through it than Harporley Road. 
 So I have taken this cottage at Irlam which has a win- 
 dow looking out over a churchyard to meadows and a 
 wood." "A churchyard, mother? That's cold com- 
 fort." "I find it very comforting." 
 
 From the churchyard they passed to the question of 
 Margaret's income to which Tom and John had at last 
 agreed to contribute a third each. "I'm sure I'm doing 
 right," said Margaret. "I have never known you do 
 anything else," replied Jamie. "You always did have a 
 fine sense of the fitness of things." It flashed across 
 him that she was going to leave no room for any doubt 
 as to the correctness of Tibby's coming to his house. 
 He smiled at her and said: "At least, mother, if you 
 go, you will run small risk of meeting Mrs. Broadbent." 
 
 "That woman knows," said Margaret with great dig- 
 nity, "that I should never meet her again. And I do 
 thank Heaven you did not marry that Belle. In twenty 
 years' time she will be exactly like her mother. Catherine 
 is a sweet girl and very religious and just the wife I 
 could have wished for you." 
 
 So Margaret went to live by her churchyard and her 
 three sons took it in turns to go out to see her on Sun- 
 days, and their wives would visit her during the week, 
 Sophia and Catherine taking their children with them.
 
 472 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 But Agnes had no children and found life difficult, yet 
 there was no one who could understand her difficulty. 
 Sophia's only recipe was "Be cheerful," Catherine's 
 remedy for all ills was, "Marry Jamie." And as Agnes' 
 real trouble was that she had married Tom neither piece 
 of advice availed her much. Tom was kind to her but 
 he could not conceal the grudge he bore her. He alone 
 of his family had made a really good position for him- 
 self and he disliked the idea of leaving it for his brothers' 
 children. His brothers had departed from the tradi- 
 tion. It should be closed to them for ever. For Tom 
 the family had ceased to have any meaning. His belief 
 was in the tradition of commercial expansion, just as 
 John's was centred in spread of English Liberalism, and 
 neither cared a jot for anything else. Commerce and 
 Liberalism depended upon the fruitfulness of money and 
 both therefore invested their money with great skill and 
 caution, invested, sold out, reinvested, leaving no stone 
 unturned to make every penny earn every possible frac- 
 tion of interest. They would have been hurt had they 
 been told that they were usurers, but they were usurers. 
 They liked to think that they were pioneers of modern 
 England, and they were pioneers of modern England. 
 Both hated the aristocracy and both were very eager that 
 the lower classes should be kept in order and cured of 
 the drunkenness, lewdness, thriftlessness, extravagance, 
 recklessness and love of pleasure which impaired the 
 quality of their labour and exposed them to dangerous 
 ideas and insidious doctrines. Tom was a Justice of 
 the Peace and was notorious for the swingeing punish- 
 ments he imposed on all offenders. They were different 
 only in their ideals. Tom thought England could be 
 made perfect by imposing severe discipline on the lower 
 classes, while John was of the opinion that all would be
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 473 
 
 well if the aristocracy were removed. Therefore Tom 
 remained in Thrigsby where he could have hundreds 
 of thousands of the poor within reach, while John pres- 
 ently moved to the South of England to study the ways 
 and the iniquities of the aristocracy. He had no inten- 
 tion of looking for their qualities. 
 
 When Tom began to study the Poor Law and ex- 
 pressed his aspiration to be a guardian and help in the 
 administration of it then Agnes, without understanding 
 a word of the Poor Law, instinctively revolted. She 
 saw that Tom was becoming harder and more cruel 
 and felt that he was seeking an outlet from the kind- 
 ness which he forced himself to give to her. She was 
 afraid of him and dared not implore him, as she longed 
 to do, to pour out his cruelty upon her. She tried to 
 provoke him to it, but he had an invincible idea that he 
 was a good husband to her and nothing could break in 
 upon that idea. He had her captive. The idea shut her 
 in like an iron door. She suffered the wildest agony. 
 Often she would lie upon her bed and writhe and weep 
 for her barrenness. He would see that she was suffer- 
 ing and be coldly kind and refuse to listen to her when 
 she tried to discuss the matter with him, because it must 
 be too painful for her. She could have the best advice 
 available, but she must not talk about it. His attitude 
 was: "We know. Yes, we know. It is our tragedy. 
 Let us forget it." She, poor wretch, wanted to realise 
 it, not to have it eating into her very bones, not to 
 have it crushing all her life and every pleasant thing 
 in it. At most he would recommend her to turn to God, 
 to his mother's God, in whom he no longer believed, 
 for comfort. Religion was made for women, who had 
 so many obscure sources of suffering. That religion, 
 Agnes knew, was not made for her. She was living
 
 474 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 in a world for which it was inadequate. She was an 
 honest creature and needed to know her tragedy, to 
 expose herself to it, not to bolster herself up against it. 
 She had strength and beauty of character and she loved 
 Tom and wished to be stronger and more beautiful for 
 him, if only he would let her. He loved her too, but 
 could not see her point of view, or, indeed, that she had 
 a point of view. He was her husband, her dictator, he 
 knew best how to make her life less hard. 
 
 At last she broke down and went to Jamie and 
 astounded and shocked him by pouring out her tale. 
 "I want you to know," she said, "for I feel so useless, 
 useless altogether, useless even to Tom, for it is shutting 
 out everything in me that wants to help him and to be 
 with him." "I don't think I understand Tom very 
 well," said Jamie. "He and I are so different and in 
 so many ways he is a better man than I am. I used to 
 laugh at him but what you have told me makes it very 
 hard to laugh." Agnes was between laughing and cry- 
 ing. "Dear Jamie," she said, "it is almost enough to 
 have told you. What is happening to us all, or was 
 life always so hard?" "I don't know," he said. "It is 
 always hard, I think. But my mother's life must have 
 been easy compared with yours. And those old people, 
 Andrew and Angus and Donald, I think their lives were 
 easier, simpler perhaps. It may be that they made mis- 
 takes for which we have to pay. But I like to think 
 that we are trying for something greater than they ever 
 dreamed of, some way of living that will give more satis- 
 faction to more people. It is all very dark now and 
 hard to see, but I like to think that. Sometimes I do 
 believe it and then I find that I can bear any suffering. "- 
 "Why can't Tom see things like that?" "I expect Tom 
 is helping to do what I only dream. That would make
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 475 
 
 him blind." "You won't tell Catherine? I don't want 
 Catherine to know." "No." "I oughtn't to have said 
 that, but I can never keep anything from Tom myself." 
 Jamie smiled: "I imagine you'll keep it from him 
 that you have told me." "Yes." Agnes too smiled. 
 She felt happier. Part of her burden had passed over 
 to Jamie and he was content to bear the weight of it. 
 Presently she said: "You ought to be happy, Jamie. 
 It would be dreadful if none of us was happy, when 
 we're all so pleased with ourselves and convinced that 
 we are somehow great and important." He assured her 
 that he was happy enough and was at any rate prepared 
 to meet anything that life might have to offer. "We 
 have none of us been just to you," said Agnes, "because 
 though we all feel that you are unusual and have great 
 qualities, there is nothing we can point to as your 
 achievement. Perhaps we cannot believe in anything 
 but success." "There's the bank," replied Jamie with 
 a grin. "I should have thought Tom would believe in 
 the bank." "Yes. But you are swallowed up in that. 
 Though I wasn't thinking so much of that, but of your 
 being important because you are what you are." "Noth- 
 ing," said Jamie, "is important in Thrigsby but money 
 and there I am admittedly a failure. I can't keep it. 
 Tom said once that if I had a hundred pounds in my 
 hand and crossed the road, by the time I got to the other 
 side I should have lost it." "Money, money, money!" 
 cried Agnes. "Is there nothing else? Can't people be 
 estimable without it?" "Not generally," he answered. 
 "To be publicly esteemed is very expensive." "At any 
 rate," said she, "I know you better now and I should 
 be sorry if you were any different. I think Catherine 
 is a very lucky woman to have you and her baby and I 
 hope she knows it." On that she went upstairs to see
 
 476 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 the baby and left Jamie to a melancholy musing, vaguely 
 dissatisfied, oppressed with the picture of the narrowness 
 of the life to which Agnes was condemned. It was the 
 story of Andrew's wife over again. Success measured 
 by money produced indifference to human failure. It 
 looked as though marriage and love and parenthood had 
 been abandoned as factors in happiness, dropped in 
 favour of the security afforded by money. There was 
 not even the heroic stoicism of his mother, such as had 
 been adopted to protect a dear religion. Men like Tom 
 simply shut their eyes to their failure and sentimentalised 
 it. He was glad that Agnes had come to him. She had 
 shaken him in his complacency and confirmed him in his 
 recognition of the impossibility of measuring his outward 
 life by money or his inward life by formula. That 
 would mean to accept and condone squalor in both. At 
 the same time he could no longer be stoical. The old 
 religion was broken for him. It offered him no com- 
 pensation that he could accept without feeling that he 
 had denied and betrayed his liberty. Ah ! That was the 
 word. It had begun to have a new, though as yet no 
 very precise, meaning for him. It implied tolerance. 
 He must allow every man, even Tom, to be himself, and 
 certainly he felt no rancour over Tom's treatment of 
 Agnes. That was a pitiful but inevitable tragedy. Only, 
 if he himself were not in his own life to pile tragedy on 
 tragedy he must gain and assert his own liberty. He had 
 thought that the disapproval of others could deprive 
 him of it but now that seemed to him false. Tom had 
 everybody's approval, including his own, but he had 
 destroyed his own liberty. He was bound hand and foot 
 to his avarice. What then was this liberty and how 
 could it be asserted in terms of Thrigsby, in terms of 
 marriage with Catherine? There was no doubt in his
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 477 
 
 mind as to which was the more difficult. Thrigsby had 
 begun to appear to him as a grim joke, a huge effort on 
 the part of humanity's liking for the grotesque: slums 
 for the poor, villas for the rich, a complete denial of 
 the human need of grace, beauty, and even fresh air, a 
 most thorough denial of all that previous generations 
 had held desirable. So complete was the denial that it 
 was hardly at all a menace to liberty: it had indeed 
 given liberty a new meaning and driven himself to look 
 for it in his own soul and not as a gift from the Almighty 
 or a privilege wrung from princes and governors. It 
 entailed isolation, but with it the power to break isolation 
 down. It made it intolerable for him to live without 
 more communication with his fellows than he had. He 
 must be active among them for more than material profit 
 or momentary pleasure, which meant the establishment 
 of monotony and a drifting to stagnation. As he saw 
 it now, Tom, the bank, the Keiths and the Greigs meant 
 the creation of slums and poverty to procure a wealth 
 as stagnant as poverty: a vicious circle from which 
 liberty was excluded. They were building a dark prison 
 in which future generations must live. There would 
 soon be no chink nor cranny left through which the light 
 could penetrate. And there could be no revolt. There 
 were sentimental formulae to provide for every dissatis- 
 faction, and how could the poor rebel ? They could keep 
 themselves alive by working ten hours a day: they had 
 no room for anything else but such pleasure as they 
 could snatch, and sleep. As for liberty! Who talks of 
 liberty in England? Are not all men free to say what 
 they like, think what they like, do what they like, to 
 become rich in any way they like so long as they keep 
 within the law? A man must be very drunk before he 
 is locked up in England. Yet this is not liberty. It is
 
 478 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 rather expediency and a certain civic sense, a timid ad- 
 mission of the principle of give and take which reduces 
 what is given and taken to the minimum. It is order 
 rather than freedom: once again, the end lost in the 
 means. The tyranny of the family had been broken, or 
 was then being broken, but a new and greater tyranny 
 had been set up. Behind the tyranny of the family was 
 at least the authority of a great religion: behind this 
 new tyranny, that of public order, was no authority. It 
 had no aim but expediency, no desire but for riches, no 
 perception of good and evil, no activity but the buying 
 and selling of labour. Its be-all and end-all was slavery 
 in the interests of order. Its merits were so obvious 
 that only a fool would think of criticising it. Abuses 
 there might be, but the system itself was beyond criticism, 
 and it was the duty of every Englishman to adapt him- 
 self to it no matter what the sacrifice. It was the beauty 
 of the system that it had no need of ideals. It was 
 itself an ideal, or the working out of an ideal: the or- 
 ganisation of human life in a free country, a democratic 
 country which had for ever done with aristocracy, a 
 country for ever committed to compromise. 
 
 Then, pathetically, our champion of liberty saw the 
 compromise of his own life, how, revolting from the 
 callous money-making of the firm of Keith, Stevenson 
 he had taken refuge in the bank, how, turning from 
 religion, he had taken shelter in literature, and how, 
 discovering a great love in Tibby, he had fled to a smaller 
 and more pleasant love in Catherine. Shades of Byron 
 and Shelley! What a poor thing he seemed, he, who 
 in his youthful conceit had imagined himself to be in 
 force another Napoleon. He roared with laughter at 
 himself. Tragedy indeed? His life was a grim farce. 
 Compromise at every turn and all the while his mind
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 479 
 
 would not compromise. At least he had that freedom 
 and the courage to be a fool. He decided that he would 
 compromise no more. Though much harm would be done 
 yet he would not let all wither away. He had his mental 
 life still and would preserve that whatever happened. 
 "The man of independent mind. ..." Poor drunken 
 Burns! Even he in Thrigsby would have had the song 
 choked in his throat. 
 
 It was a chastened and humble James that went to 
 the bank on the day after Agnes' visit. Thrigsby's streets 
 seemed wonderfully unsubstantial as though the black- 
 ened buildings could easily be blown away to remove 
 the earth of their burden. They were so ugly and ram- 
 shackle that they could not possibly be anything but 
 temporary, and the people had very much the air of 
 brief sojourners: they were so obviously not really in- 
 terested in what they were doing, no more interested, 
 thought James, than himself. He certainly was not in- 
 terested in the maintenance of the balance between re- 
 serve and credit, or in keeping Cateaton's superior to 
 the Thrigsby and District. Still less was he interested 
 in the recent rivalry which had sprung up between him- 
 self and Mr. Joseph Moon, lately transferred from his 
 very successful branch to the head office. So far he 
 had managed to keep Mr. Joseph Moon subordinate to 
 himself, but now rivalry seemed absurd. Mr. Joseph 
 Moon was one kind of man, he himself was another. 
 Their aims were not the same. Mr. Joseph Moon was 
 intent on self-preservation within the vicious circle of 
 the buying and selling of labour, while Jamie's concern 
 was with the preservation of a precious something called 
 liberty which the vicious circle excluded. His new toler- 
 ance made him see Joseph as a decent little man bent 
 on standing well with his fellow-Thrigsbeians and on
 
 480 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 having his name carved on one of the foundation stones 
 of a chapel : harmless ambitions enough which he would 
 in all innocence employ the most mischievous means to 
 satisfy. Why not let him? The whole of Thrigsby 
 was nothing but a means to such an end. There were 
 thousands of Joseph Moons and they would have their 
 Thrigsby though a thousand Jamies said them nay. 
 Jamie therefore relaxed in his share of the rivalry 
 and very soon saw himself supplanted in the confidence 
 of Mr. Rigby Blair. On the whole he was glad of that, 
 for the worst slave to the machinery of the bank was 
 its manager. 
 
 Mr. Rigby Blair lived for three months in the house 
 above the bank and then one morning he was found 
 dead in his bed. Soon Mr. Joseph Moon reigned in his 
 stead and Jamie had to go home to his wife and tell her 
 that he had not been appointed manager. This news was 
 received very ill. "Mr. Moon is quite a young man?" 
 asked Catherine. "Three years younger than I," re- 
 plied Jamie. "He is a better financier and his father 
 controls greater interests." "But it was always an un- 
 derstood thing that you were to succeed Mr. Blair. "- 
 "By us, but apparently not by the others." "You don't 
 seem to mind." "Frankly, I don't." "But you will 
 never be manager now. You will never have more than 
 a certain salary. O Jamie, it will be perfectly hateful 
 meeting Tom, now." "What does Tom matter ?"- 
 "He despises you. You know he does. And always 
 without a cause till now." "Do you prefer Tom to me?" 
 "No, Jamie dearest, you know I don't, but I hate his 
 having good reason to sneer at us." "As long as we are 
 living happily together I don't see how his sneering can 
 affect us, though we had only a crust of bread. "- 
 "You may not feel it, though I do. And there's mother,
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 481 
 
 and Belle with her new rich husband that she's so proud 
 of though he drinks like a fish." "But if I tell you 
 that I'm much happier, that I've been dreading having 
 to take up the appointment." "I don't believe it. I 
 don't believe you're quite such a fool as that." "I'm 
 sorry if you are disappointed." "Well, what do you 
 expect me to be? What will your mother think of it?" 
 "She'll be more reasonable than you." "She'll be re- 
 signed to it. She is resigned to everything and I hate 
 her for it. You are like her. She's a saint, I know. 
 So are you. But a saint in business is just a fool."- 
 "You sha'n't suffer as far as money goes. I shall have 
 more time for writing." "We sha'n't have the position 
 and I certainly didn't expect to be the wife of a common 
 journalist." 
 
 Catherine, it will be seen, had matured and, wearying 
 of her husband's elusiveness and unfailing gentleness, 
 had gone to her mother for instruction in the art of 
 marriage. From her she had learned the uses of the 
 sharp tongue, the curtain lecture, the skilful quarrel, the 
 curt demand, the wheedling caress, the kiss reconcilia- 
 tory, the angry flood of tears, the ill-cooked meal, and 
 the perfect joint, the sudden truth, the subtle equivoca- 
 tion, the locked door and the torrent of words, while at 
 the same time preserving, what her mother lacked, the 
 charming soft arrogance of her beauty. If, for a mo- 
 ment, we may regard marriage as a profession like any 
 other, we must admit that Catherine was brilliant and 
 shone in it. It was a profession to her, the only one 
 open to her. It was her object to be among wives easily 
 the first. She had been from the beginning socially 
 indefatigable and ingratiated herself with all the Greigs 
 as soon as she discovered that her husband had lost 
 ground with them. Jamie, as a husband, was rather
 
 482 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 intractable material but that only intensified her pleasure 
 in her problem. There was no circle admittedly the 
 best in Thrigsby but there were several groups who took 
 that title to themselves. Into every one of these Cather- 
 ine thrust her way, dragging Jamie after her, and, in 
 spite of his shy aloofness, she had won a considerable 
 popularity. She counted that week a failure in which 
 they did not dine out twice, and occasionally she gave 
 dinner-parties in her own house. Her position would 
 have been consolidated by Jamie's appointment to the 
 managership at Cate.aton's, and she was furious at his 
 failure, ashamed of him, exasperated by his frank con- 
 fession that it was his own fault, that he had let it slip 
 out of his hands. "How could you let yourself be bested 
 by that common, spotty-faced Moon? I should have 
 thought that, even if you did not care about yourself, 
 you would have had some thought for me and for your 
 name. After all the Lawries do stand for something in 
 Thrigsby." "For what?" asked Jamie. "Well, you and 
 Tom aren't exactly unknown." "But if I had got the 
 managership we should have gone on just as we were 
 doing." "And why not?" "Because we were going to 
 wrack and ruin as fast as we could : I mean between our- 
 selves." "Oh! You've been thinking again." "I have 
 had good cause to think." "We shall be poor, do you 
 realise that?" "I have told you that you shall not want 
 money." "But your writing only makes enemies."- 
 "Only of men who could never possibly be my friends." 
 "You are not thinking of me at all." "I am thinking 
 of the two of us." "So am I." "Then we think dif- 
 ferently." "O ! you are maddening, maddening."- -"My 
 dearest child, do, do believe in me a little." "How can 
 I believe in a fool who wants his wife and children to 
 end in the workhouse?"
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 483 
 
 From that time on she took the offensive against him, 
 plunged more vigorously than ever into social life, and 
 struggled hard to redeem his failure. Unfortunately for 
 both of them Mr. Joseph Moon, having tasted the sweets 
 of triumph over his rival, wished to continue the pleasure 
 of it indefinitely and never lost an opportunity of hu- 
 miliating Jamie, taking over more and more of his work 
 and reducing him to the position of a subordinate. 
 Joseph was a new broom and swept very clean and in- 
 discriminately. He made great changes in the staff, re- 
 duced salaries, and dismissed men who had been over 
 twenty and thirty years in the service of the bank. 
 Against that, remembering Peter Leslie, Jamie protested, 
 and when his protest was ignored he handed in his 
 resignation. It was accepted and he had to go home to 
 Catherine with the news that he had left the bank. 
 "Left the bank!" she cried. "I might have known. I 
 might have known that that Moon would never rest 
 until he had got you out of it. And now, pray, what 
 are you going to do?" "I don't know." "You don't 
 know? Are we to starve then?" "Even if we lived on 
 our capital we shouldn't starve for three years and some- 
 thing is bound to happen before then. I shall be glad 
 of a rest after all these years of routine." She was 
 frantic. Not at all adventurous, she needed the idea 
 of security to be active. Without that idea she saw 
 herself being dragged down and down into poverty 
 worse than that which she had known during her moth- 
 er's widowhood. Certainly in Thrigsby there were 
 depths of poverty truly terrifying. It was the abyss on 
 the edge of which all lived. Catherine persuaded herself 
 that her husband was bent on pushing her over. She 
 flattered herself that she understood him and she thought 
 him very weak. He would allow the Moons and all his
 
 484 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 enemies to thrust him down without a murmur. So she 
 bestirred herself, swallowed her pride and went to see 
 Tom. 
 
 He grunted when he received her news. '"But for 
 you, Catherine," he said, "I would tell him to go and 
 sweep a crossing. For your sake, I will do what I can." 
 Catherine plucked up heart. "Unfortunately," Tom 
 continued, and Catherine's heart sank, "unfortunately I 
 am not in a position to do much, as I have sold my in- 
 terest in my firm and am going to retire and leave 
 Thrigsby to live near my wife's family. I am anxious 
 about her health." "Poor Agnes," murmured Catherine. 
 "I am ready," said Tom, "to swallow my objection to 
 jobbery and I could get him squeezed into the Thrigsby 
 and District as a cashier, or there might be a clerkship 
 vacant in the municipal offices. My word would carry 
 weight with the Town Clerk." "Thank you for noth- 
 ing," said Catherine with a flash of anger. "I would 
 rather see him sweeping a crossing than that." Tom 
 knew perfectly well what she meant. He knew as well 
 as any Thrigsbeian the lamentable estate to which clerks 
 were relegated : the empty no man's land between riches 
 and poverty, but he felt that he had at last got his slip- 
 pery and unaccountable brother pinned down. He had 
 foretold this collapse. Jamie had flouted the tradition 
 and yet had more apparent happiness than himself who 
 had followed it to the letter, even to withdrawing from 
 active money-making as soon as his future was securely 
 provided for. He rejoiced in the downfall and Cather- 
 ine hated him. "I am sorry," he said, "that I am not in 
 a position to do more, but if you are in difficulties I 
 am quite willing to make myself responsible for Jamie's 
 contribution to my mother's income." "I am sure," 
 replied Catherine, "that he will not hear of anything of
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 485 
 
 the kind. Good-afternoon." "I am afraid," said Tom, 
 "that there are bad times ahead. That is why I am 
 anxious to help." 
 
 Catherine came away with a horror of the stubborn 
 hardness of these Lawries. She had no great affection 
 for her sister, Belle, but she could not have treated her 
 so had she been in trouble. She knew or she thought 
 she knew that same stubbornness in Jamie. It was that 
 had been his undoing. They were a dreadful family, 
 the Lawries, and she no longer counted herself lucky 
 in her marriage. It was wrecked. She could not think 
 of it otherwise. Jamie's courage and cheerfulness en- 
 raged her. When she told him of Tom's reception of 
 her he laughed and said that Tom was a close old 
 moudiwarp but would turn up trumps if it ever came 
 to a real pinch. 
 
 Jamie was happy, had never been in such spirits; no 
 more bank, no more routine, no more absurd rivalry 
 with Joseph Moon. Joseph had got what he wanted, 
 and he himself, James Lawrie, had got what he wanted, 
 room to move in, time to think in, leisure to work in. 
 Catherine on the other hand had lost everything she 
 prized : money, position, and the excitement of many 
 admiring acquaintances. She found that the truth was 
 quickly known and she was left only with a few men 
 who now openly demanded some return for their ad- 
 miration. The women who had flattered her deserted 
 her. To keep her footing at all she had to indulge in 
 flirtation. That, at first, she was loath to do. She 
 disliked familiarity in men from whom she had always 
 exacted homage. And Jamie had been so good a lover 
 that the slightest betrayal was repugnant to her. How- 
 ever, when he accepted his disaster so cheerfully, when 
 he seemed even to rejoice in it, when he simply would
 
 486 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 not hear of making any effort to regain the position he 
 had lost, then she regarded herself as betrayed by him 
 and conquered her repugnance, liked the new excitement 
 and enjoyed her little revenges on the women who had 
 flouted her. Jamie protected her as much as he could 
 and was kind and still lovely to her: but she had -lost 
 in grace for him, he knew not exactly how, and he too 
 began to be unhappy. 
 
 For a short while he wanted very much to go to 
 London to try his luck as a journalist. He got very 
 good introductions and was confident that through Henry 
 Acomb he could find his way to the inner sanctuary 
 where the great ones dwelt and revealed to the English 
 nation the splendour of its poetry and literature. 
 Acomb's Hamlet had rediscovered Shakespeare and 
 Jamie was sure he had a fine opportunity. The theatre 
 had become interesting once more and London needed 
 critics. He made a plan and drew up a scheme. They 
 would go to London, exactly as people do in books. 
 They would live in three rooms or in a little house with 
 only Tibby to look after them. They would find their way 
 into a circle, such as there always was in London, like 
 Holland House, and the Shelley circle. Catherine would 
 not hear of it. Thrigsby was good enough for her. 
 People in London were a fast worthless lot who had 
 to turn to the North of England when they wanted 
 anything serious. And the sooner he got such wild 
 ideas out of his head the better. Certainly she would 
 not hear of his going alone, though, of course, if he 
 chose to be like some worthless men she knew of, and 
 desert her, he could. It would be a sin upon his con- 
 science to his dying day and she would perish of misery. 
 He had brought shame and despair enough upon her 
 without dragging her from pillar to post among the
 
 MR. JOSEPH MOON AND THE SUCCESSION 487 
 
 riff-raff of London. (She also had read stories of art- 
 ists in London, though of a different kind.) On she 
 went with her talk until at last he gave in and promised 
 her that he would not go and would give up his rash 
 ideas. "You see," she said, by way of consoling him, 
 "writing in Thrigsby and writing in London are two 
 very different things and it would be a pity if you gave 
 up the reputation you have here. For, if we were ever 
 to sink so low as that, it might be valuable."--"! dare- 
 say," he said miserably, "I daresay we sha'n't sink so 
 low as that." 
 
 Worse remained, for in his elation he had confided his 
 plan to Tibby, who, seeing the keen happiness it gave 
 him, had applauded it. Now he had to confess to her 
 that it was shattered. "I sha'n't go after all, Tibby," 
 he said. "It was a wee bit romantical," answered she. 
 "I suppose it was foolish and young," said he. "A 
 man of my years ought not to be so foolish and young." 
 "You'll be a great man yet, James Lawrie," said she. 
 "While you were in the bank you were but half a man." 
 "There's no one like you, Tibby," he said, "for put- 
 ting a heart into me." And for a moment they were 
 once more the boy and girl by the bridge in Scotland, 
 bound together in hope and understanding. "We're 
 fools," said she. "We're the same sort of fool, you 
 and I," said he, "and there seem to be few like us."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 
 
 THE issue out of all these afflictions was another 
 compromise. Having failed again to do what he 
 really wished to do and knew to be best for the par- 
 ticular kind of fool he happened to be, Jamie could not 
 withstand the pressure that was brought to bear upon 
 him. He was bullied by Margaret, by Tom, by letters 
 from John, by Mrs. Broadbent, and, worst cut of all, 
 by Doctor Broadbent. He had no one on his side. It 
 was impossible to explain to them that he wished to 
 work out his own salvation, thoroughly and, if needs 
 must, disastrously. He did once or twice try to make 
 them see how lamentably ill equipped mentally and 
 morally the world was for the kind of life it was lead- 
 ing and how each man to live in it at all must necessarily 
 lose his soul, since there was no work done anywhere 
 that did not lead to the degradation of thousands of 
 men and women. They said "Rubbish, and the world 
 is very well as it is, prosperous and Christian, with 
 missionaries spreading the light in the darkest corners." 
 "How?" they said. "And who are you to decide that 
 this and that is wrong? While you were in a good posi- 
 tion and earning a handsome income we put up with 
 the unpleasant things you were in the habit of saying, 
 for we supposed it amused you. But now that you have 
 
 488
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 489 
 
 disgraced yourself and actually ask us to take you se- 
 riously, you are going too far. It is your business to 
 earn a living for your wife and children and we insist 
 on your doing so in a respectable and ordinary manner. 
 You don't suppose we like having to work, and who are 
 you that you should get out of it?" Jamie could not 
 explain to them that what they called work was a kind 
 of loafing which he abhorred. The actual work he had 
 ever done in a day could have been accomplished in a 
 couple of hours. He wanted work that called for more 
 concentration than was ever required in any commer- 
 cial activity he had known. All his objections were 
 waved aside, and at last he promised that he would look 
 out for some kind of regular commercial work that 
 would cause some of the immense wealth of Thrigsby 
 to flow into his pockets. They would not let him leave 
 Thrigsby and if he stayed he must act in the manner 
 of the Thrigsbeians, work hard, or, at least, long, shut 
 himself up in his house and have as little to do with 
 his fellows as possible. At last he consented, post- 
 poned his ambition to be another Coleridge and com- 
 promised. He took on for a time the work of a friend 
 of his who was ill and ordered away for a sea voyage: 
 he was in charge of the cotton market columns of 
 Thrigsby's new Conservative daily paper. 
 
 This work he enjoyed. It gave him an opportunity 
 to study men and manners. It meant going on 'Change 
 and meeting great men and strange people as Turks, 
 Greeks, Armenians, Germans, Italians and Jews. He 
 saw a great many more people than he need have done, 
 but he became absorbed in them and made opportuni- 
 ties. His romantic soul loved this patchwork of nation- 
 alities, the whole world in villainous little. Thrigsby 
 was no longer English. It was as yet, triumphantly,
 
 490 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 nothing, an enormous machine entirely indifferent to 
 race, colour, thought, feeling, individuality, variety. 
 His opinions and ideas were changed insensibly. He 
 began to admire Thrigsby, to wish to understand it. No 
 longer was it a dirty provincial town. It was that out- 
 wardly, but in spite of its repellent aspect and, on the 
 whole, disgusting habits, it had a powerful and a free 
 spirit. Its fame was world-wide. It was already some- 
 thing more than English. Its work depended on co- 
 operation with men working on the other side of the 
 Atlantic. It represented something new in the world, 
 something that at first sight appeared ugly, hostile and 
 destructive. It swallowed up men by the thousand, 
 took their children and turned them almost into a dif- 
 ferent race and entombed them in dirty bricks and mor- 
 tar, but it took from each a little of his essence and 
 absorbed it into its growing mighty spirit. James Law- 
 rie felt that and his own spirit grew big within him. 
 He was aware of purpose but could nowhere discern it. 
 There was nothing visible but the ugliness, the hos- 
 tility and the destructive cruelty. And the men he met 
 were also ugly, hostile, cruel and destructive. With 
 the essence gone out of them they were like insects 
 busily sucking the virtue out of the life of the place. 
 It was not the corruption of vice, not Sodom and Go- 
 morrah, but an active, splendid, ceaseless destructive- 
 ness, sucking up the rottenness of English life. De- 
 cidedly, thought Jamie, Thrigsby was the place to be 
 in and he had been romantic and a little foolish to 
 dream of London and the pretentiousness of letters. 
 Here was activity that affected the whole world, civi- 
 lised and uncivilised, and it was better to be destroyed 
 by it than elsewhere to seek to create a pleasant life. 
 There seemed even good reason for the Thrigsbeians
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 491 
 
 setting their faces against the amenities of life; they 
 were but a clog upon it, they had lost their meaning, 
 they made for falseness. Life must be reshaped and it 
 mattered not how hard and terrible and devastating the 
 process might be. It must become formless and un- 
 gracious again if ever it were to recover form and 
 grace. Thrigsby became to Jamie like some huge mon- 
 ster of which he had become affectionately terrified. 
 He felt as St. George must have done when the serpent 
 fawned upon him and became a meek beast and 
 debonair. Yet there was no taming Thrigsby nor had 
 he any wish to try. His desire was to live in its life 
 and as near the terrible black heart of it as he could 
 get. Merely to profit by its activity was in his eyes to 
 impede it and to deny its virtue. It had a greater aim 
 and significance than the reward of cunning. Never 
 was he so full of theories: never had he had so excit- 
 ing a time. He began to love Thrigsby and to yield 
 entirely to its fascination. Whatever happened he would 
 cling to it. In a few years, he thought (being very ig- 
 norant of history), results would appear, the new shapes 
 forged for human consciousness: something entirely 
 splendid and wonderful, as great as or greater even than 
 Elizabethan England. He was so naive as to imagine 
 that he had but to have a clearish perception of an idea 
 for it to become immediately effective and in accordance 
 with his imagination. He expected the forces that con- 
 trolled the destinies of generations to work in terms 
 of his single life, and was so eager in his search for 
 evidence in favour of this expectation that very little 
 sufficed for him and he was rarely disappointed. 
 
 He thoroughly enjoyed his work for the paper and 
 was sorry when his friend returned and he had to give 
 it up. Then after a brief reaction during which the
 
 492 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 actual heavy squalor of the town weighed heavily upon 
 him and choked his idealism, he set about repairing his 
 fortunes, being driven thereto by Catherine who threat- 
 ened to leave him if he did not at once set about making 
 money. 
 
 Among his new acquaintances was that Bell who had 
 had the desk in Peter Leslie's room at which he had 
 begun his career. Bell's career was varied and he had 
 been a yarn agent, a commercial traveller, a manufac- 
 turer in a small way, a tout, an insurance broker: one 
 way or another he had touched almost every side of 
 the trade of Thrigsby, sometimes losing, sometimes 
 making money. When Jamie met him he was prosper- 
 ous, having established connections with Liverpool as a 
 broker. He had just made a great bid to gain a really 
 solid prosperity and had assumed liabilities which, un- 
 less all went well, were far too heavy for his resources. 
 This he did not tell Jamie whom he marked down as 
 a man whose money and connections would be useful 
 to him. A popular man, he had been able to help Jamie 
 in a number of ways, giving him introductions among 
 the countless mysterious middlemen whose services 
 seemed to be necessary to the production and distri- 
 bution of cotton goods. Bell was a born middleman, 
 shrewd, quick, unimaginative, without the least inter- 
 est in the work he was doing except for the profits he 
 could get out of it. He lived for the convivial society 
 of men like himself and was never so happy as at a 
 smoking concert of the Bowling Club of which he was 
 a shining light. So far as he could apprehend heaven 
 at all, his image of it was a square of bright smooth 
 turf, with heavy wooden balls, like so many worlds 
 rolling rather crazily across it. The fancy was Jamie's, 
 who when he was introduced to the game by Bell, was
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 493 
 
 fascinated by it, and by the crazy passion which the 
 men who played it put into it. Nothing else in Thrigsby 
 had so satisfied his aesthetic sense. Perhaps it was only 
 the lovely turf that pleased him but he read far more 
 into it than that and he would talk by the hour to Bell, 
 who hardly understood a word of what he was saying, 
 but conceived a great and very humble admiration for 
 him. Bowls in the summer evenings and on Saturday 
 afternoons became Jamie's chief solace and delight, and 
 when Bell proposed as an adjunct to bowls and the en- 
 thusiasm they shared, that they should join together 
 in partnership in business, Jamie readily consented. Bell 
 prepared a statement showing his profits and how they 
 could be increased. The proposition was laid before 
 Catherine, who approved it, and so the firm of Bell, 
 Lawrie & Co. was founded and had its offices in Cut 
 Mill. 
 
 This step won general approval. It pleased Catherine 
 to hear Jamie speak of "his firm" and relieved her of 
 her dread lest he should drift into some indefinite way 
 of earning his living. It delighted Margaret to think 
 of a house being founded with the name of Lawrie upon 
 its doors, and Tom was of the opinion that anything 
 was better than the employment of labour. "You pay 
 a man two pounds a week," he used to say, "but you 
 have no means of knowing that you are getting two 
 pounds' worth of work out of him." And again he 
 would say: "There are no more fortunes to be made 
 without a certain element of speculation. The trade has 
 been so split up. There is specialisation in every branch 
 of it." Once he had made up his mind to retire 
 Tom took the gloomiest view of the prospects of South 
 Lancashire. Other countries would begin to compete. 
 The Southern States would manufacture for themselves,
 
 494 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 and he doubted if Thrigsby could last out another gen- 
 eration. He was inclined to regard the tradition as 
 having ended in himself, and Thrigsby without the tra- 
 dition could not last. Out of the fragments that were 
 left Jamie, he thought, might pick up a few basketfuls. 
 Sombrely he gave his blessing to the firm of Bell, Law- 
 rie & Co., visited its offices and looked enviously upon 
 its three clerks and a boy, and retired with Agnes to 
 Westmorland, there to devote his leisure to the study of 
 Adam Smith, Malthus and Ricardo, satisfied that, what- 
 ever happened, he would die a rich man, one who had 
 accomplished his whole duty. He put a certain amount 
 of work in Jamie's way, for the honour of the family, 
 whose fortunes at last he believed himself to have se- 
 cured. He was genuinely depressed by the loss of 
 prestige suffered by the great houses, his own among 
 them, and angered by the new spirit of individual suc- 
 cess that had no desire for honour or the respect due to 
 a great name. Thrigsby seemed to him to be full of ad- 
 ventures and he took his glory with him into retirement. 
 With this assistance from Tom and with a run of luck 
 attending Bell's ventures the new firm prospered, and 
 ventured still further. Catherine was very happy and 
 excited and became an entirely devoted wife. Her second 
 and third children were born in an atmosphere almost 
 idyllic. The arts of flirtation she had learned in the time 
 of her first marital crisis she practised on her husband 
 who responded to them with a boyish ardour. Their 
 marriage seemed perfect and Tibby returned, without 
 protest, to Margaret. She made no excuse except that 
 Margaret was failing and needed more than the raw 
 girls who entered and left her service in the intervals 
 of factory work. Catherine was charming to her and 
 said: "You know there will always be room for you
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 495 
 
 here, Tibby." "I know that," said Tibby, "but I go 
 where I am needed."- -"And if you should ever think 
 of doing some other work, or starting a little shop, my 
 husband will be only too glad to help you," added 
 Catherine, thoroughly enjoying this gracious expression 
 of her relief at Tibby's departure. "I've no thought of 
 such a thing," answered Tibby, "and if you should ever 
 be in a poorer way than you are now, I would come back, 
 without wages, if need be." "I know you would," said 
 Catherine, "but Mr. Lawrie has found the work he likes 
 and is confident of making his fortune." 
 
 Tibby waited to see Jamie. "You'll have need of me 
 yet," she said. "It's not in you to be happy for long."- 
 "That's true," said he, "but I don't think my happiness 
 is of much importance. I've put my shoulder to the 
 wheel and I'll shove as hard as I can." "You'll never be 
 the same as Tom and John, however hard you try."- 
 "No. I believe in Thrigsby and they don't. "--Tibby 
 gave a peculiar inarticulate grunt and a click of her 
 tongue. "Have it your own way," she said, "but you'll 
 have need of me yet." "What are you reproaching me 
 for, Tibby?" "I'm no' reproaching you, Jamie. I'm 
 just going and I don't like going. It seems like a slip- 
 ping backwards." "It's your own wish." "Aye. But 
 the tale's not done." "I never supposed it was." "But 
 you're content." "For the present. Why should I not 
 be?" "Oh, well, I'm a foolish woman, thinking better 
 of you than you deserve." "You've always done that." 
 "Humility, James Lawrie," said she, "is not becoming 
 to ye." 
 
 So she went back to Margaret and with her went the 
 peace of Jamie's domestic life. Catherine resumed her 
 old arrogance and was no longer a companion. Tibby's 
 presence had awed her into subtlety and meekness, but
 
 496 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 when she found herself once more mistress without ef- 
 fort of her own house she assumed her power and 
 exercised it for the pleasure of doing so. She felt that 
 she had been tricked into submission, duped into happi- 
 ness, and she strove to abuse her husband. With her 
 jealous mind she went probing into his relationship with 
 Tibby and could make nothing of it. All she knew was 
 that he and Tibby would sometimes talk together for 
 hours, while with herself he could never keep up a con- 
 versation, unless it were tender, for more than twenty 
 minutes. She hated Tibby but could never defy or resist 
 her authority. Even with the children Tibby was right 
 and herself was wrong. Without Tibby she was rather 
 helpless with the children and had no instinctive knowl- 
 edge of their needs. They fretted her nerves and ex- 
 hausted her and she was ashamed of the resulting 
 confusion. Without Tibby there were constant mistakes 
 in the household arrangements: there was a constant 
 loss in precision and cleanliness. Tradespeople cheated 
 her and she was continually removing her custom from 
 one shop to another. Nothing went right and she visited 
 her exasperation upon Jamie, who was tumbled out of 
 the paradise in which he had been living. The armistice 
 came to an end and the war was resumed, the pathetic, 
 futile and hopeless war of the sexes. 
 
 Catherine sought to make him jealous and for her 
 constant companion chose a certain Mrs. Halloran, a 
 woman with whom whispered scandal was constantly 
 busy. Jamie hated scandal and refused to listen to it. 
 Mrs. Halloran was an amusing clever Irishwoman, hon- 
 est after her fashion, but driven by the heavy respectabil- 
 ity in which she lived into strange courses. She adored 
 Catherine's beauty and found it useful as a protection 
 from the unwelcome attentions which her notoriety drew
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 497 
 
 upon herself. Men, with their boundless conceit, amused 
 her. She knew perfectly well how to defend herself and 
 it was a new excitement to her to defend Catherine. 
 Very soon Mrs. Halloran and Mrs. James Lawrie were 
 inseparable and the most malicious gossip was aimed at 
 them. They entered the social life which had a certain 
 very High Church for its centre and there they created 
 a disturbance. The young men were at Catherine's 
 feet, the married men at Mrs. Halloran's, and of the 
 doings at her house the wildest reports were circulated. 
 Jamie received anonymous letters but he burned them. 
 Once or twice he protested that he was lonely in the 
 evenings and Catherine said : "I am lonely all day long," 
 and she would observe that as she did not object to any 
 of his friends he had no right to object to hers. She 
 was careful never to be out late and none of her obvious 
 duties were neglected. 
 
 At last there came a dreadful period of silence be- 
 tween them. For three weeks hardly a word was spoken, 
 certainly no word that was not absolutely necessary. 
 It was torture to Jamie to come home to it, yet he could 
 not break the silence. She was expecting him to protest. 
 If he protested she would defy him. At last when he 
 could bear it no longer he took the blame upon himself 
 and he apologised and tried to examine with her the 
 causes of their estrangement. She said that men never 
 understood women and expected them to put up with a 
 dull life with no excitement except a new dress now and 
 then or a visit to the Panorama, that he never considered 
 her worth talking to and therefore could not blame her 
 for going among those who thought better of her. The 
 root causes of their difficulties she would not approach 
 but she gradually forced him to patch up a truce in which 
 their relationship was for the first time false. There
 
 498 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 was a dangerous excitement in it which angered him 
 and filled him with dread. He felt degraded and his 
 world became a mockery to him. What was the good of 
 success in Cut Mill if day by day he had to go home to 
 that appalling failure? He envied Bell who had a jolly 
 common little wife who was content to be kept in a cheap 
 little house that was rather like a stable, in which Bell 
 ate, slept, and fulfilled his natural necessities. It was 
 hardly more to Bell than the boots on his feet or the 
 clothes on his back. A man had to have a home and he 
 spent as little thought and money on it as possible. 
 Oddly enough the arrangement also suited Mrs. Bell. 
 She was fond of her husband, but if she had his com- 
 pany for more than half-a-day she quarrelled with him, 
 and she was very amiable and disliked quarrels. Their 
 relationship was simple but entirely hard and practical 
 and therefore, to Jamie, odious and a profanation. Bell 
 in his home was intolerable, completely empty and 
 vulgar, without even the geniality which elsewhere and 
 in other transactions made him so likeable. It became 
 almost an obsession with Jamie that his own marriage 
 might descend to that level, and it seemed better to him 
 to allow Catherine her freedom. Better those risks than 
 the suppression which had made of Mrs. Bell the faded, 
 foolish little creature that she was. It came as no sur- 
 prise to him when he discovered that his partner kept 
 a second establishment. That seemed a necessary 
 corollary of marriage a la Thrigsby. The town was 
 reeking with a sordid joyless viciousness, like a phos- 
 phorescence over a swamp. He could sympathise with 
 Catherine. He would continue to allow her her free- 
 dom and would do his best to protect her. He devoted 
 more time to her and went with her among her friends. 
 The result was comically disastrous for Mrs. Halloran
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 499 
 
 pounced on him and quickly had him entangled in a 
 foolish flirtation. He was no match for her, lost his 
 head, and relapsed into the fatuous condition to which he 
 had been reduced aforetime by Selina Leslie. Catherine 
 triumphed over him and scorned him and Mrs. Halloran 
 despising so easy a prey flicked him away and left him 
 raw with chagrin. 
 
 Jamie's domestic affairs were in a parlous state when 
 worse befell. Bell cleared out with the cash-box and 
 every realisable security, leaving only an impudent note 
 expressing his regret for his action which he explained to 
 be necessary before the storm broke. Jamie imagined 
 the storm to be domestic, but it was not long before he 
 discovered where it lay. The Southern States of 
 America declared their intention of seceding from the 
 Union and breaking away from the tyranny of the 
 North. War was declared and within a very few days 
 Jamie was faced with the fact that his business had been 
 swept away from him. At best, he saw when he ex- 
 amined the books, it had been a gamble of Bell's, and 
 once again he had made a complete fool of himself. 
 
 At first he could think of nothing but Bell's treachery. 
 That alone seemed black enough to account for the war. 
 If there was such evil as that in the world then there 
 must be wars, plagues, pestilences, famines. Then with 
 the war was associated Tom's retirement. Tom must 
 have known that it was coming : nothing else could have 
 made him renounce his ambition to have his statue along- 
 side Andrew Keith's in the Town Hall Square. 
 
 For a week or two Jamie was dazed and hid his con- 
 dition even from himself. He went down to his office 
 as though nothing had happened and kept his clerks 
 working at letters concerning imaginary transactions. 
 He could not realise the war as something actually hap-
 
 500 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 pening among human beings: it was taking place for 
 him on the map of America, a conflict between political 
 principles, and conveyed no idea of bloodshed, or wounds 
 or men lying dead on the plains. And so many of the 
 men he met were in the same condition, dazed, stupefied, 
 not seeing how they were concerned, not realising the 
 ruin that had come upon them. Little by little excite- 
 ment grew. What was the Government doing? There 
 were hotheads who cried for war upon the Northern 
 States, elderly gentlemen consumed with bloodthirstiness 
 who declared that the time had come for the British 
 nation to recover her colonies and to crush the damned 
 Yankees, if necessary to exterminate them, burn them 
 out like wasps. There were even men who came into 
 Jamie's office, very white-faced and grim, to say good- 
 bye as they were off to have a shot either at the Yankees 
 or at the slave-drivers. And there went up from 
 Thrigsby a droning mighty note of thangsgiving that the 
 English were not as these and had no blood upon their 
 hands. But when the Southern ports were blockaded 
 and it became clear that no cotton was forthcoming, 
 then the cry was for war. England must declare for 
 the Southern States and liberty. England alone could 
 free the negroes. England was the sole champion of the 
 liberty of mankind and it was almost an impertinence 
 of the Northern States to pretend to be acting in the 
 name of liberty. 
 
 The clamour died down as a paralysis crept over 
 Thrigsby and the mills were closed down one after an- 
 other. The attitude of the Government to the suffering 
 States was forgotten. It became a matter of sauve qiti 
 pent. 
 
 Jamie implored Catherine to listen to him, to help him 
 to restore their marriage, their life together to a basis
 
 BELL, LAWRIE & CO. 501 
 
 of understanding and sympathy and she was frightened 
 into acquiescence. He told her that .nothing else mat- 
 tered, and to him then nothing else did matter except 
 human comradeship: riches, poverty, intellect, art, 
 amusement, fun, kindliness, virtue, vice, good and evil, all 
 were to him vain without the central core of living sym- 
 pathy. That way lay liberty and towards that all efforts 
 should be directed with nothing spared for any other 
 until a little of it had been won and established. He 
 became like a man possessed and battered at the un- 
 fortunate Catherine with entreaties arguments, tears, 
 sobs. His was the cry of a soul in agony and it fright- 
 ened her. He told her that love was a sweet thing and 
 a dear pretty thing but in itself worthless unless it led 
 to that living sympathy without which joy itself was a 
 burden and a cruel hardship. And if love by itself was 
 worthless, what were pleasure and wealth and position, 
 all that she desired, all that she had lost in his ruin? 
 But she was too frightened to understand him: she was 
 frightened of poverty, of being dragged down with her 
 children. At last he understood, her and saw that he 
 must do what he could to comfort her. His ruin was 
 not utter. There need be no anxiety yet : not for many 
 months. He convinced her that he too had her welfare 
 at heart, but her relief was as overpowering as her fright 
 had been. That he loved her, that all the pleasantness 
 of life was not gone, was all she needed to know. His 
 passionate longing to break the sexual arrogance in her 
 was frustrated. She would not, could not look beyond 
 love or regard love as anything but an end in itself. 
 Love was her comfort against the fright she had had and 
 she insisted on his being wholly, violently, crazily her 
 lover. In the hope of more he acquiesced and seemed
 
 502 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 to win more and during this period of concentration on 
 his marriage was absolutely indifferent to the ruin and 
 famine that were creeping over Thrigsby and the 
 kindred towns.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 DISASTER 
 
 FANNY SHAW had not been forgotten. She and 
 Tibby had remained great friends so that Fanny was 
 often at the house where she would linger in the hope of 
 seeing her adored Jamie. She had accepted the melan- 
 choly fact that his marriage must thrust her into the back- 
 ground, and she was content to be a kind of pensioner of 
 the family. Catherine would give her parcels of old 
 clothes and every Christmas Jamie would send her home 
 with a turkey and a plum-pudding for her mother. At 
 first she made herself ill with hatred of Catherine, but 
 Tibby soon talked and coaxed her out of that and as- 
 sumed responsibility for the girl who remained attached 
 to the theatre, sometimes acting, sometimes helping with 
 the wardrobe, doing everything she was told to do cheer- 
 fully, being paid irregularly and living for the most part 
 on gifts from the kind-hearted women of the theatre. 
 Jamie's marriage was really a tragedy to her. It ate into 
 her spirit and arrested her development. She was left 
 turned in upon herself, brooding and moody. Tibby 
 coaxed her gradually to talk of Jamie and found that she 
 had an extraordinary understanding of him and showed 
 him often in lights new to herself. That eased Fanny's 
 pain and relaxed the strain in her. She would take 
 refuge with Tibby from the theatre and from the mean 
 
 503
 
 504 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 streets which she had begun to hold in horror. She clung 
 to the theatre because she did not know what else to do, 
 and imagined that she was pleasing Jamie by staying. 
 He did not forget her but was glad that Tibby should be 
 his substitute. However when Tibby returned to Mar- 
 garet and Fanny no longer came to his house he did 
 forget her except that he paid for her to have lessons in 
 singing and dancing. 
 
 She came to him one evening soon after his desperate 
 scene with Catherine. She came from the outer world 
 which just then seemed entirely remote as though he had 
 had nothing to do with it. "Why, Fanny," he said, "I 
 had almost forgotten you."- "Yes," she answered. 
 "I'm glad to see you," he said. "What a tall young 
 woman you have grown into." "Yes," she replied. 
 "They say I'm almost too tall for the stage and much 
 too thin. Though I don't think it matters much, as the 
 theatre will be closed very soon. Father's warehouse is 
 closed and mother has very little charing and I want to 
 know what I'm to do about it." Jamie stared at her, 
 hardly taking in what she had said. She went on: 
 "They've got about two pounds in the house and I don't 
 know what they'll do unless I go on the streets." Jamie 
 began to understand, to feel vaguely, the fury that she 
 was in. "It's the same everywhere," she said, "every- 
 thing is dearer and there's no money. What are you 
 going to do about it? They don't seem to mind, but I 
 can't bear it, I can't bear it." She began to beat her 
 fists up and down in the air, and he took her roughly 
 in his arms and held her tight until she began to weep 
 on his shoulder. Then he let her cry out her grief. 
 When she was calm again he promised that he would go 
 with her. They went down to the kitchen and made up 
 a parcel of food and with this under his arm they set
 
 DISASTER 505 
 
 out and walked through the strangely silent streets, under 
 the deserted mills, and the empty warehouses down to the 
 black stews where the Shaws lived. There Jamie was 
 appalled. The house was almost destitute of furniture. 
 There remained one bed and in this Mr. Shaw was sleep- 
 ing. It was his habit to go to sleep when trouble came. 
 He had been known to sleep, when out of work, for three 
 months on end, getting up once a week to eat a slice of 
 bread and an onion. He was philosophical about it, say- 
 ing that in this way he was no drag upon his wife and 
 children. For half-a-second he woke up when Jamie 
 came, asked if he had brought work, and went to sleep 
 again when he received an answer in the negative. Mrs. 
 Shaw as usual was loquacious. She had always been an 
 honest woman, she had, and with lodgers had made both 
 ends meet; but now there were no lodgers and no work 
 and, though God knows there were sinful people in the 
 world, she was not one of them and could see no reason 
 why she should be so punished. There was Mrs. Kerry 
 at 35 who took men as well as the washing, but the world 
 was not composed of Mrs. Kerrys, but perhaps it was a 
 judgment on her for letting her eldest girl go out above 
 her station and give herself airs. Jamie let her talk and 
 fed the children, who, poor mites, could hardly eat, they 
 were so hungry. One of them said his belly was growl- 
 ing. "Vile, vile, vile!" said Jamie as he left. No 
 thought had been given to these poor wretches. He him- 
 self had given no thought to them, and there were thou- 
 sands of houses like that, thousands of families in such 
 straits. He cried within himself : "While there is a 
 child hungry in the land, not one of us has the right to 
 hold up his head. Freedom! Is this your freedom, 
 England? And you dare to reproach the Americans 
 while there is hunger in your land !" He wrote to both
 
 506 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 his brothers, to Donald Greig, to Hubert. Hubert sent 
 him a cheque. The others replied that no doubt relief 
 would be undertaken by the proper authorities, and that 
 the collapse was only temporary. Work would be re- 
 sumed as soon as arrangements had been made for the 
 importation of cotton from Egypt and India. "On the 
 old terms?" asked Jamie. "On the terms that you make 
 as much as possible and give them as little as possible? 
 Have you no hearts? Will you not see that you are 
 responsible both for the slavery in America and the 
 destitution at home? You will have Thrigsby go back 
 to the old order of things, and on this ruin build more 
 squalor, more filth, more degradation?" All this made 
 Tom very angry and he replied from his comfortable 
 house in Westmorland: "If you had studied economics 
 instead of poetry you would have a better understanding 
 of what has happened, and would not be hysterical. The 
 good sense of the country will not allow the mill-hands 
 and warehousemen to starve." Jamie answered in three 
 words: "They are starving." 
 
 He tried in vain to procure some immediate organisa- 
 tion. There was individual charity in plenty but an 
 appalling waste of food through it. The churches and 
 chapels did all they could but they were jealous of each 
 other. It was soon clear that Thrigsby could not tackle 
 its own problem. Jamie was in such a fury that he could 
 find no one to co-operate with him. He condemned 
 charity. Gifts, he said, were not wanted, but a change 
 of system, and as all the charitable people were enjoying 
 their charity he was very unpopular. He wrote violent 
 exhortations to effort, but when he wrote what he really 
 felt he could not get his writings printed. The papers 
 had taken the line that everything possible was being 
 done. "Has any rich man," asked Jamie, "given even
 
 DISASTER 507 
 
 a tenth of his income, or given up consuming in one day 
 food that would keep a working-class family for a 
 week?" That kind of thing the papers would not print, 
 and one editor, his friend, took him aside and said: 
 "Look here, my dear Lawrie, you are doing yourself no 
 good. What you are after would mean a change in 
 human nature." "I don't want a change," said Jamie, "I 
 want human nature to be given a chance. Change your 
 rotten ideas. Talk sense. What else are the newspapers 
 for ? Give up telling them what you think they think you 
 ought to think. Let decent people tell them what they 
 feel. Nothing else is any good. Tell them that things 
 in themselves are of no value, that all the value is given 
 to things by labour, that the only object of labour is that 
 we should give each other liberty." The editor shied at 
 the word. He patted Jamie on the shoulder: "I know 
 all that, my dear old fellow, but you won't get the Mayor, 
 Aldermen and Council to see it. Nobody wants liberty. 
 What everybody wants is comfort. You're a bit of a 
 genius and a thinker and all that, but the main object of 
 the average man is to avoid thinking. They'll stump 
 up to get the dirty old town out of this mess but they 
 won't think about it. Now you run along home and 
 write me an article about old Donald trying to think 
 and giving it up because it makes his mind ache and I'll 
 print it with pleasure." Jamie began to chuckle. His 
 friend had checked his frenzy, but he was not to be free 
 of it for many months to come. It would break in upon 
 him and set him reeling at the oddest and most unex- 
 pected moments. To what end was all this hideous raw 
 suffering? 
 
 One night he went to the Shaws. Fanny admitted 
 him. She looked strange and he soon saw that she was 
 light-headed. The house was in darkness and filled with
 
 508 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 a strange sweetish smell. She told him in a cold matter- 
 of-fact voice that her father had risen from his bed, gone 
 out and come home drunk. Then he had cut his wife's 
 throat, smothered the two children who slept on the 
 mattress in his room, and gone out and flung himself into 
 the canal. "They're in there," she said. "All dead. 
 All dead. It's so easy to be dead. He was quite right. 
 It's better to be dead. He must have been thinking about 
 it when we thought he was asleep. He was always a 
 quiet one, was dad. But I don't want to die, because I 
 love you. Poor people don't love anybody, but I love 
 you." She crept to him and knelt by him and fondled 
 his knee. "It's wicked to love you. I'm the only wicked 
 one of them all and I'm alive." She kissed his hand and 
 her body writhed. He put his hand over her mouth to 
 stop her talking, and she tried to drag it down to her 
 throat, and to press his fingers into her flesh. He 
 shivered and was bitter cold. His throat was dry and 
 he could speak no word. His eyes burned but no tears 
 would come into them. "Hush, dear, hush," he said. 
 "You mustn't stay here. You must come away." He 
 half carried, half dragged her out of the house. On the 
 threshold they met one of the neighbours and a police- 
 man ; he told them what had happened, gave his name and 
 address and said that he was taking Fanny to be cared 
 for. "Quite right," said the neighbour. "Poor girl, 
 poor girl." 
 
 Fanny was half unconscious now. The fresh air had 
 been too much for her. Jamie carried her to a mews 
 he knew of round the corner, procured a fly and drove 
 out to his mother's house. He had no thought of going 
 to his own. His need was for Tibby. 
 
 They put Fanny to bed and Tibby wrapped her up in 
 a blanket to make her warm, for she was as cold as ice
 
 DISASTER 
 
 509 
 
 and shaking horribly and convulsively. When Tibby 
 returned to the kitchen she found Jamie sitting with his 
 head in his hands sobbing. "You mustn't break down 
 too, Jamie," she said. "You mustn't break down now 
 when there's so much to do." "What can I do? What 
 can I do? Except undo the whole of my life?" "You 
 can't take the sins of the whole world on your shoulders," 
 said she. "But we are all to blame, every one of us, for 
 we take and take and take and give nothing until we 
 are all separate and the whole world comes down about 
 our ears, and because we are separate there is nothing 
 to be done, only to feed hungry bellies. Fanny's mother 
 worked for a whole day for an apronful of stale crusts. 
 We are all separate and all starving. They'll feed them 
 with charity and then go on just the same as before. 
 The suffering of others is no suffering to them. Do you 
 think Tom will feel all this, or John? Not they!" He 
 raised his voice to a shout and Margaret who had just 
 come in from a consultation with her vicar hurried down 
 to see what the disturbance was about. Jamie told his 
 story and how and why he had brought Fanny to the 
 house. "She would have been better in hospital." "She 
 would not," cried Jamie. "She is devoted to Tibby and 
 the presence of her friends will be far more to her than 
 any physician's skill could be." "It is too ghastly," said 
 Margaret, "and I shall not sleep at night for thinking of 
 it." "That's fine!" said he. "Because you have rich 
 sons you are to be protected from all the suffering in 
 the world." Margaret was silent for a moment. He 
 went on: "And your sleep is of more importance than 
 the life and death of thousands. That's your ambition: 
 to be secure and indifferent." "You don't know what 
 you are saying," she said. "I haven't seen you like 
 this since you were a boy." "No," he muttered.
 
 510 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 "You've shut your eyes and your heart to me." Mar- 
 garet turned and almost ran from the room. "That's the 
 worst you've ever done," said Tibby. "It's true! It's 
 true!" said he, almost angrily. "Words spoken in 
 anger," said Tibby gently, "are never true." 
 
 The anger in him melted and he went up to his mother, 
 whom he found grim and turned to stone, sitting gazing 
 out of the window. He spoke to her very gently and 
 she said: "If I have done wrong I have been punished. 
 My sin was pride and I have been punished in the misery 
 of my children. There is not in any of you the simple 
 joy that was in your father. Is it all my fault?"- -"We 
 are all at fault," said Jamie. "We have destroyed and 
 made nothing new. We have denied the love which is 
 God and have dwelt in the love which is of the earth. 
 It has destroyed us." Mother and son made moan to- 
 gether and bitter lamentation. Both were simple and 
 primitive. The storm passed through them and purged 
 them and Jamie was left with a clear desire for action. 
 He had no thought for his own affairs. They could 
 wait. Only the plight of Thrigsby mattered. 
 
 The next day he took train for Westmorland and 
 descended upon the Greigs and made them hold a council. 
 It was easy to frighten them. He drew terrible pictures 
 of the destruction that might take place in Thrigsby if 
 the starvation was not relieved. He described and en- 
 larged on the riot which had taken place outside Clibran 
 Hall when old Andrew Keith had played the tyrant. 
 Those days, he said, were over. There was no longer 
 room for tyranny. There was no longer any other neces- 
 sity than that the people should be fed. No prestige 
 could hold out against that. Donald was thoroughly 
 frightened when he thought that his mills and ware- 
 houses might be burned and that the streets of shops
 
 DISASTER 511 
 
 from which he drew his rents might be sacked. Jamie 
 bullied him into starting a subscription list with two 
 thousand pounds. He made Tom fork out five hundred, 
 and felt like a dentist drawing a tooth. Agnes promised 
 to give him, secretly, two-thirds of her income every 
 quarter. With this for a beginning he went among the 
 merchants of Thrigsby and shamed them into subscrib- 
 ing. But still there was not enough. 
 
 He went out to see Hubert and got him to organise 
 his whole country-side to send in corn and vegetables 
 free. But still there was not enough. 
 
 When it seemed that Thrigsby could do no more then 
 he went to London where funds had been opened. Lon- 
 don was not yet awake to the necessity. The North of 
 England was remote from the Londoners who hardly 
 conceived of the Lancashire mill-hands being men and 
 women like themselves. Jamie went to see Acomb and 
 Selina and laid his case before them. They must give a 
 performance in aid of the suffering people of the North 
 and raise a subscription from the audience. Acomb 
 readily consented and put on Hamlet. Before the third 
 act he came forward and made a speech that was a 
 dramatic performance in itself. He described Thrigsby 
 quite wonderfully, beginning with his own first entry 
 into the place, how he had lodged in a certain gloomy 
 street where the children were like little old men. He 
 described his own early struggles. He showed how thou- 
 sands and thousands of men suffered these abominable 
 conditions to add to the wealth of the nation. Were 
 they not also a part of the nation and in their hour of 
 need was that wealth to be withheld from them? 
 "Good, good!" muttered Jamie, looking on, and seeing 
 the actor's words sink home into the audience of fashion- 
 able people, dandies and intellectuals. He met several
 
 512 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 of them afterwards in Acomb's dressing-room and in his 
 raw condition was acutely sensitive to their insincerity 
 which chafed him. They had a new sensation and were 
 excited about it. Not one of them seemed to be moved, 
 not one of them was shaken in his complacency. Yet 
 they were interested and that was the great thing. Some 
 of them were men of powerful influence and they prom- 
 ised to do what they could. Jamie was a new type to 
 them, a wild man from the North. They eyed him much 
 as a few years before they had eyed General Tom 
 Thumb. They patronised him and pitied him. He was 
 so obviously suffering under his sincerity, an affliction 
 by which they were determined at all costs not to be 
 visited. They stripped him of the last vestiges of his 
 illusions about the wonders of London literary life and 
 he was glad to depart for the North again. 
 
 The performance was far-reaching in its consequences. 
 The uses of advertisement were yet undiscovered in 
 those days, and any advertisement had tremendous re- 
 sults. Money in plenty was soon forthcoming and the 
 difficulties of Thrigsby were met until supplies of cotton 
 were available and the mills could be got going again. 
 
 Not a word of thanks did Jamie receive. He had 
 made himself a nuisance and he had given vent to violent 
 and dangerous opinions. Henceforth and for ever he 
 was a stranger to respectability. He crept back into his 
 own home and even there found little welcome. Cath- 
 erine's friends had been careful to inform her of the 
 effect of his utterances and not of his doings. When 
 she found that out of the three thousand pounds he had 
 left in the world he had given one thousand to the 
 Mayor of Thrigsby 's fund she was furious. How could 
 it help the starving poor if they also starved? He said 
 he would work. What work? "There will be work,"
 
 DISASTER 513 
 
 he said, "when the war is over." "And till then?" 
 "Till then there is no need for anxiety." "But I am 
 anxious." "Without reason. You can have the control 
 of what we have left, if you like." 
 
 She turned to Mrs. Halloran and plunged into the new 
 gaiety with which a certain section of Thrigsbeian so- 
 ciety had endeavoured to lighten the dark hours. Jamie 
 shut himself up with his old refuge The Faerie Queene 
 and for many weeks saw no one but his mother, Tibby 
 and Fanny, in the one house where he could feel any 
 stirring of the love of his vision. For he had become 
 visionary. The world of material things had dwindled. 
 He took so little interest in it that it was hardly even 
 comic. He had a terrible period when he thought of 
 human beings as mere animals controlled entirely by 
 their physical functions, having no connection with each 
 other save in the satisfaction of their lusts so that their 
 minds bred nothing but lies, in the accumulation of 
 which they were suffocated and brought to ruin : and 
 even when in appearance they had risen above this 
 brutish condition they were frozen by their hypocrisy. 
 It seemed to him true what his friend the editor had 
 said, that their main object in life, once they were fed, 
 was to avoid thinking. He was thoroughly exhausted 
 and reduced almost to apathy, through which there 
 thrilled slowly a tremulous happiness that brought with 
 it a strange child-like courage to bear injustice, evil, and 
 even spiritual failure with a stiffened lip and head erect. 
 His vision found the support of a rough hard-headed 
 common-sense, a belief that the confused appearance of 
 things was somehow an expression of a clear reality, 
 much as to his mother the world was an expression of 
 the God whom she so worshipped in her quiet devotion. 
 But life as he had known it was so much greater than
 
 5H THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 that God, who had become only a limitation of life and 
 a drag upon it, so that an emotion fashioned in his image 
 was immediately abstracted from life and ceased to be 
 effective in it. It was absurd now that so many natural 
 forces had been released and the impact of men in the 
 mass upon the individual had become so powerful as to 
 force the individual to react or perish it was absurd 
 to suppose that God had accomplished his creation once 
 and for all. With the resources of modern life such a 
 creation had become the prey of men. "The world's 
 mine oyster." Creation was not accomplished. It was 
 continuous and unceasing and in it every living thing 
 had its share, destroying and creating. 
 
 Jamie lost himself in a maze of metaphysical ideas, 
 striving to justify the ways of God to man and also to 
 enlarge his idea of God. As, however, he had a brain 
 that could not think for twenty minutes without taking 
 fire, he soon sought relief either in reading or in writing, 
 constructed nothing, and was left without any other 
 guide than his own honest humanity. That saved him 
 from the contempt into which in his more despairing 
 moments he was in danger of falling. Both his temper 
 and his humour were mellowed and he was left without 
 rancour. Thrigsby was itself again, more itself than 
 ever, for the lot of the poor was in no way alleviated and 
 a period of prosperity had set in to produce an un- 
 precedented expansion of trade. The famine had been 
 to the manufacturers, merchants, and shippers no more 
 than a bad year to a farmer. They had weathered it 
 somehow and must make up for it. Of deeper effects 
 there was no sign, though there was an increase of agi- 
 tation among the working people. Jamie had hoped for 
 a collapse but there was none. If anything there was 
 more frankness in the avarice of the business men and
 
 DISASTER 515 
 
 less cant about the future of England and Thrigsby. 
 There was even less civic sense. Local politics were 
 of less importance and it was hardly a distinction to be a 
 member of the Town Council. The Mayor and Alder- 
 men were, if they were noticed at all, objects of ridicule. 
 Still, the gain in frankness was something. Decent peo- 
 ple could have a quiet life and keep themselves to them- 
 selves. That was all Jamie desired. He had been hurt 
 and bruised and felt too crippled to enter the scramble 
 again. He had painful hours with Catherine trying to 
 reconcile her to the idea of being poor. It was difficult 
 but he was so kind to her that she could not take excep- 
 tion and she could find no argument in favour of riches 
 that he was not able to demolish with a word or two. 
 His attitude towards her now was that she was the 
 wife of his bosom, the woman with whom through fair 
 weather and foul he would go hand in hand. They had 
 had their pleasure and their torment, there was now no 
 room for sentiment. She was the fellow-creature with 
 whom it was his fate to live and quarrel and kiss and 
 bring up children. She would always be a romantic 
 figure to him and for the rest there would be one long 
 struggle to keep life decent until the end. He had no 
 room in his life for folly and hoped that in time there 
 would be no room for it in hers either. In the mean- 
 time it was not for him to dictate to her what she should 
 or should not do. He gave her full freedom and so im- 
 pressed her that for a time she sobered down. They 
 were brought together also by a great grief. In the mid- 
 dle of their greatest perplexity they received the news 
 that Sophia, to whom they were both fondly attached, 
 had died suddenly. She had been delicate ever since her 
 return from Australia, and her life with John had been 
 a pilgrimage from place to place in search of a climate
 
 516 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 that would suit her. Bournemouth had seemed to en- 
 courage her vitality, but she died there and John was 
 left with his two boys. 
 
 Margaret wished to go to him but it was generally 
 agreed that she was too old. Tibby offered herself but 
 the affair was settled by John's having a violent and bitter 
 quarrel with the Greigs over Sophia's estate in the course 
 of which he made himself so detestable and feeling ran 
 so high that there was a breach between the two families. 
 Tom gave up his house and withdrew to Cheadley Edge 
 and Mrs. Donald bundled Maggie out of her house. 
 Poor Maggie had given up all thought of fending for 
 herself and returned, bewildered and abashed, ashamed 
 and conscious, for the first time for years, of her wig, to 
 her mother's house. There she shut herself up in her 
 room and would see no one but Fanny, for whom she con- 
 ceived a great affection. John for the time being took 
 up his residence with Tom, the boys being turned into 
 Jamie's nursery. 
 
 So the family was united once more and Jamie with 
 a quizzical eye was able to measure its achievement, 
 solid, respectable, unadventurous : three quiet households, 
 established at the cost of what suffering and poverty to 
 others ! He and his brothers were three as upright, hon- 
 est men as you could find in England and two of them 
 were perfectly satisfied that no more could be asked of 
 them. Successful in their private lives they intended 
 henceforth to devote themselves to the public service, 
 that is to say, they proposed to do all in their power to 
 destroy the influence of the aristocracy and to enlarge 
 the sphere of men like themselves in order to increase the 
 wealth of the nation and to consolidate it by thrift. So 
 quiet, so peaceful, so ordered would the life of the coun- 
 try become that all other nations would emulate it and
 
 DISASTER 517 
 
 there would be no more evil in the world, no part of it 
 would be closed to trade and its blessings and black, 
 brown, yellow, red and white men would be united in 
 honest botherhood, and they would all speak English. 
 It was a joy to Jamie to listen to his brothers talk- 
 ing, to watch them oozing with a quiet satisfaction and 
 to think of his own capital trickling away while he did 
 nothing. They had no idea of the state of his affairs. 
 They were secret with each other and though they knew 
 Jamie to be poor, they never imagined his poverty to be 
 such as to disgrace them. They regarded him as a little 
 mad. He had lost his head during the crisis, but they 
 supposed him to be shrewd enough to have made some 
 provision for himself. It was often on the tip of Jamie's 
 tongue to tell them, but he decided to put it off until he 
 was compelled by poverty to do so, trusting that it would 
 never happen. When it became necessary he would make 
 an effort. Until it became necessary he could not. He 
 was so happy in his freedom, or at least in his discovery 
 of the way to it through what he called living sympathy. 
 It was his passionate and absorbing pursuit to be with 
 all sorts and conditions of men. He would go first of 
 all to Tibby, with whom his sympathy would be roused to 
 a high pitch of activity, and then he would welcome any 
 company that came his way, taking a passionate and 
 impersonal interest in all that was said and done. It 
 seemed absurd and pathetic to him then that people's 
 lives should be so personal and egoistic. They were so 
 stiff and cramped that even in what was purely personal 
 they could express no force or keen vitality. About Tom 
 and John for instance there was a queer perfection which 
 made them seem almost automatic, very like animals 
 except that they had none of the sleek contentment of 
 animals and no high spirits. They had no interest out-
 
 518 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 side the reduction of life to the terms of commerce and 
 they believed themselves to have succeeded. 
 
 The air of the melancholy widower suited John ad- 
 mirably. He was hushed and subdued. He took a little 
 house at Cheadley Edge to be near Tom. Maggie went 
 to be his housekeeper and took Fanny with her. Sophia 
 was canonised. The little house was a shrine to her 
 memory and Maggie's piety found full vent in being 
 priestess in it. For a time the little house became the 
 central point of the family's existence. Its members 
 were grouped round the memory of Sophia as the Greigs 
 had been grouped round the memory of old Angus. A 
 visit to John's house was a pilgrimage. 
 
 Jamie was depressed by it all without at first knowing 
 why. He recognised the assertion of the family prin- 
 ciple but could not acquiesce in it, for it was an offence 
 both to his vision and to his common-sense. It was 
 empty and meaningless, terrible indeed, for it meant that 
 the family could only hold together by living in the dead. 
 
 At last one Sunday when they were all gathered at 
 John's house he could endure it no more and blurted out 
 the lamentable state of his affairs, that he had been living 
 on his capital and in another few months would be re- 
 duced to penury and unable to contribue to his mother's 
 income. " 'Pon my honour," said Tom, "this is the last 
 straw! And what pray have you been doing all these 
 months?" "Nothing," replied Jamie. "Come, come, 
 this is no time for fooling. You are not a boy. You 
 must have realised how criminal it is to touch your capi- 
 tal." "I didn't see what else I could do." "You could 
 have worked." "That is just the point. I couldn't. I 
 wanted to think things out. "--"Rubbish. You have a 
 wife and children." "I supposed that, if the worst 
 came to the worst, the family would look after them."
 
 DISASTER 519 
 
 -"Shameless!" cried Tom. "I think it will be shameful 
 if the family doesn't look after them." "And you pro- 
 pose to sit still and fill your great hulking body with the 
 bread of charity?" "I don't see what else I can do. I'm 
 finished. I don't know why, but I'm finished. I couldn't 
 even do a clerk's work well enough to be kept on after 
 a month's trial. You see, I don't believe in any single 
 branch of the whole business. I think we're all finished. 
 We've done harm enough in all conscience and the only 
 reparation we can make is to do nothing." "Disgusting 
 nonsense!" cried Tom, "and I for one shall not raise a 
 finger to help you. A man who can think and say such 
 things deserves to die in a ditch and to be buried as a 
 pauper. I think John agrees with me." He glared at 
 John. "I agree," said John, "in theory." "I have no 
 use for theory that is not in accordance with practice."- 
 "Then you ought to approve of me." said Jamie, "for 
 I hold exactly the same view." Tom rapped on the 
 table : "But would you hold the same views if you did 
 not know that your brothers were rich men?" "If we 
 were a poor family," replied Jamie, "I should go to bed 
 and let Catherine go out charing, but then, if we were 
 poor, we should not be plagued with all this nonsense 
 about the family. We should know that the family 
 could do no more for us than the nation and that there 
 was absolutely nothing to support us in time of trouble. 
 I have done my best for the family and I have failed 
 because I never realised that the family's idea of a good 
 life and mine were hopelessly at variance. I have to put 
 up with the consequences of my folly and the family 
 repudiates its responsibilities. Very well then. We need 
 not quarrel. I will go my own way. Come, Catherine." 
 "Stop!" said Tom, and "Stop," cried John. Mar- 
 garet, who had been reduced to tears, slipped from the
 
 520 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 room. "If Sophia were here," said John, looking down 
 his nose, "she would put us all right. We had many 
 painful scenes somewhat resembling this with her family. 
 Sophia, who was an angel, could always find a solution." 
 "In this instance," said Jamie, "the only possible solu- 
 tion is mine. If you cannot stomach the idea of our 
 living from hand to mouth then leave us alone. You can 
 have the pleasure of abusing me as much as you like. 
 Either you share the goods of the family with those who 
 are unable to contribute to them or you must acknowl- 
 edge that the family is just a sham." "I do not ac- 
 knowledge anything of the kind. What I want to know 
 is what Catherine has to say to all this." Catherine drew 
 herself up with spirit and said : "I certainly do not intend 
 to live on charity. I don't understand what Jamie is 
 talking about and I am very angry with him, for I had 
 no idea that we were living on our capital, but if it is a 
 choice between him and you, then my place is by his 
 side." "That," said John, "is exactly what Sophia 
 would have said." "I think," remarked Agnes, who 
 had not till now uttered a word, "that Jamie is per- 
 fectly right." "Hold your tongue," snapped Tom. "I 
 am prepared to make you an offer, now, once and for all, 
 of three pounds a week, to be paid to Catherine."- 
 "Come along, Catherine," said Jamie. "There is nothing 
 more to be said." With that he took his wife by the arm 
 and dragged her out. 
 
 Outside Catherine's spirit left her and she began to 
 scold him: "Whatever shall we do? How could you 
 make such a terrible scene ? I declare I thought I should 
 have fainted. I was so ashamed. There was no need 
 for them to know. However poor we got we need never 
 have let them know, for you will easily find something 
 to do if you only look. You can't go on for ever doing
 
 DISASTER 521 
 
 nothing." "I wish I could," said Jamie, "I would 
 rather do nothing than work, if work means making the 
 rich richer and the poor poorer." "What does it mat- 
 ter ?" said she. "There always have been rich and poor 
 and there always will be." "Very well," answered 
 Jamie, "we will be neither, for I see no other way out of 
 it. Only, it would not be fair to do that without letting 
 them know." "They will never forgive you," said she. 
 "Nor will I ever forgive them, or the Keiths or the 
 Greigs for what they have done." "But the children 
 must be educated." "At a pinch I can teach them my- 
 self. But I don't think the pinch will come, for I feel 
 that anything is possible, now that I have broken away 
 from all that nonsense about our being better than other 
 people and therefore entitled to impose vile conditions on 
 them. I can't begin my life all over again, but at least 
 I can keep clear of the old conspiracy and fraud and 
 do as little harm as possible." 
 
 However, when it came to working or starving he 
 found it impossible to be altogether clear. His only 
 opening was with the newspapers and they were inex- 
 tricably tied up with what he regarded as the swindle of 
 Thrigsby. If he maintained his extreme position and 
 demanded perfect honesty in all his dealings then he must 
 starve. It began to dawn on him that honesty was an 
 intellectual attribute, only to be won by hard striving, 
 and that it was unreasonable to expect it from men who 
 had to work ten hours a day. It was as absurd to ex- 
 pect that as to insist on emotional honesty from his wife. 
 That he had long ago abandoned. His love and hers 
 were different. His was ecstatic and eager to prove the 
 wonderful richness of human nature with its inexhausti- 
 ble stores of feeling. To nine-tenths of his emotions 
 Catherine was blind, so that they fell upon the air and
 
 522 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 drifted away. They met no kindred emotions in her to 
 which they could be wedded. Her love was steadfast, 
 solid, asking only a genial welcome from his and, when 
 she had that, she was satisfied. She hardly needed more 
 than affection and had no emotional curiosity. For that 
 reason her adventures with Mrs. Halloran had soon 
 palled on her and she welcomed the compromise at which 
 her husband arrived. It meant the employment of a 
 multitude of subtle lies which hurt him, though he put 
 up with them when he saw that no other machinery 
 was possible. He had no reason to believe that with 
 another woman his position would have been any better. 
 The compromise in his marriage helped him to accept 
 the necessary compromise in his outward life and, when 
 he was offered a commission to go to the Southern States 
 to report on conditions and prospects there, he accepted 
 it. It meant assisting the traffic in cotton, which was 
 really a traffic in labour, but he did not see how he could 
 prevent that by refusing. If he rejected the offer he 
 might have to accept a worse and the prospect of travel 
 excited him. There was, or he thought there was, a 
 stirring of liberty in America, where men might be on 
 the point of discovering a means of extricating them- 
 selves from the meshes in which they were caught. He 
 was to be handsomely paid and Catherine was to have 
 an allowance during his absence. She was glad for him 
 to go, hoping that he might be happier for the change. 
 Also the commission was an important one and it was 
 well advertised by the newspaper. Jamie was forgiven 
 by his family and Agnes called on Catherine. Agnes 
 said: "Tom doesn't know I'm here. He is completely 
 baffled by Jamie, and says he has nine lives like a cat. 
 And really it is wonderful how nothing keeps him down. 
 I envy you, dear Catherine, for you must have a most
 
 DISASTER 523 
 
 exciting life, though you must hate his going away. 
 Tom has an idea that Jamie will settle in America. "- 
 "I'm sure he won't," said Catherine, "he always says that 
 he belongs to Thrigsby and could not settle anywhere 
 else. He has changed lately, you know. He used to 
 carry on and rage against the place and the people."- 
 "Dear Catherine," said Agnes, "Tom is very obstinate 
 and in some things very foolish, but because our hus- 
 bands quarrel there is no reason why we should, and I 
 want you to promise me that if anything happens to 
 Jamie you will let me help you." "Thank you, Agnes," 
 said Catherine. "As you say, there is no reason why 
 we should quarrel about things we do not understand. 
 There is trouble enough in the world without our mak- 
 ing more." "I mean," said Agnes, "that, as I have no 
 children of my own, I don't like being denied my share 
 in yours." "Dear Agnes," said Catherine, and the two 
 women kissed and made their peace.
 
 CHAPTER XLI 
 
 A LETTER FROM LONDON 
 
 A MONTH or two before these critical events Mary 
 had returned to England from her travels. She 
 had made valuable acquaintances in Rome who had given 
 her good introductions to distinguished families in Lon- 
 don. There she was soon installed in the household of 
 a Canon of Westminster as governess. When she heard 
 of her loved brother's American project she wrote: 
 
 "DEAREST, I am overjoyed. At last you are finding 
 yourself doing work in which it is a joy to me to think 
 of you. And your letters lately have been such a happi- 
 ness to me, making me feel foolish ever to have been 
 disappointed in you. My youthful hopes of course de- 
 served disappointment : they were vulgar dreams of suc- 
 cess, acclamation, of your being, somehow, a conqueror. 
 They were on a level with my ambitions for myself a 
 glittering marriage, a salon, Madame de Stae'l. But now 
 that I am an old maid and a very happy one, our history 
 as it has been seems to me much more wonderful than 
 anything I could ever imagine, and far more romantic 
 than the most brilliant inventions. It is such fun to 
 know that you are a perfectly ordinary person and yet 
 that you contain the oddest dramas that ever were in the 
 history of the world. For after all, what matters to us 
 
 524
 
 A LETTER FROM LONDON 525 
 
 all, both individually and collectively, is daily life. His- 
 tory is concerned with the absurd and rather theatrical 
 doings of a few people which, after all, have never 
 altered the fact that we do all of us live on from day 
 to day and only want to be left alone. Things happen 
 to us but the central fact remains. I mean that I, for 
 instance, as an old maid do certainly enjoy my life 
 as much as if I had married. It is another kind of 
 life, that is all, and neither better nor worse than the 
 other. My best friends are men, and I doubt if they 
 would be if I were married, though then, of course, 
 I should have other means of gaining human interests. 
 I am quite sure that love has a thousand meanings be- 
 sides the one that is usually attached to it and that that 
 meaning attaches to it a burden greater than it can 
 bear. It is monstrous that love should be excluded from 
 every other relationship than the conjugal. I suffer 
 from that exclusion here for my little pupils are simply 
 and most cruelly denied love. Their father is an Hon. 
 aa well as a Rev. and our childhood was a paradise com- 
 pared with what he thinks right for his boy and girl. 
 He seems to wish to make stoics of them and certainly 
 they have courage and self-reliance. 'Always tell the 
 truth except when you are afraid' is one of his maxims, 
 stated because the boy confessed that he was afraid of 
 the dark. And as the boy is afraid of his father and 
 will not admit it to himself he is growing into the most 
 wretched kind of liar. I talk to the children about you 
 and they love you. All their favourite stories have to 
 do with you, and they adore some of the absurd non- 
 sensical poems you used to write in your letters. I miss 
 your nonsense. I wonder if it will come back to you. 
 Perhaps your flight to America will do that for you, 
 though you will see many tragic sights there. Somehow
 
 526 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 I always think of you now as a tragic person, and I 
 don't mind. I should have been heart-broken ten years 
 ago but was too foolish then to realise that there is no 
 tragedy without inward nobility. Somehow whatever 
 happens to you I am always able to rejoice in you. Per- 
 haps (awful thought) that has become a habit with me. 
 No, no, no. I will never let it be that. I have taken 
 you through all my experiences and you have not only 
 survived them all but have quickened them for me. 
 There! If you had never done anything else, you will 
 have done that. Measured by results, of course, that 
 does not look very much, for a governess, even with 
 three languages, is an insignificant person and is not 
 entitled to experience of any kind. I think the house- 
 maid is in a better position than I, for at least her posi- 
 tion is clear, while I have humiliation unmitigated. After 
 my free life abroad you can imagine how I chafe against 
 it. I am allowed to have nothing in common with any- 
 body in the house but the children. I should have 
 thought my travels would have interested the Hon. and 
 Rev., but no; he is not interested in the Germans, or the 
 Swiss or the Italians. The Germans eat sausages and 
 the Italians eat macaroni : that is all he knows about them 
 and he finds it disgusting. Rome means to him the 
 Roman Church. He never thinks of it as a city with 
 delightful people living in it. On the other .hand he 
 thinks of London as a place containing the Abbey and 
 Dean's Yard. All the rest has no justifiable existence. 
 At the same time he is an intelligent man, very simple 
 and good and kind, so long as everything is in its place. 
 The children are in their place, I in mine and he in his, 
 in iron authority above us. I greet over it but, against 
 my will, I admire it, for it is disconcertingly English. 
 I find it hard to explain the difference. In the home of
 
 A LETTER FROM LONDON 527 
 
 freedom I am less free than I have ever been. In other 
 countries the whole point of discipline is to civilise the 
 emotions, but in England there are no emotions allowed 
 at all. The whole point of civilisation is lost sight of 
 altogether. Even the most charming and delightful 
 people have no communication with each other. Their 
 savage feelings are not tamed and controlled but crushed, 
 and the result is a profound melancholy and a dull heavi- 
 ness. Coming from happy and intelligent people to an 
 atmosphere of religion if a moral code is a religion 
 perhaps I am unjust. Perhaps, like you, I ought to ad- 
 mire the English character and delight in English oddity, 
 but we Scots have been educated for generations and 
 we can understand the Continental peoples better than 
 these islanders. We are able to have some glimmering 
 of the meaning of civilisation and will not attempt to live 
 civilised lives in barbarous conditions and with barbarous 
 aims. If we are forced to do so, as we are in our own 
 country, we take refuge in metaphysics, or, like some 
 whom I could name, in hypocrisy. 
 
 "There: my adventures are done, my life has taken 
 its shape : a little black-gowned governess whom nobody 
 heeds. I am content. Some day I shall retire and live 
 unheeded in those Blue Mountains of ours at which we 
 used to gaze so longingly. Little did we dream what 
 lay beyond them! Immediately beyond lay the Greigs: 
 farther on Thrigsby and farther still London. How 
 different from the free open world of our imaginations ! 
 And yet, could we have imagined anything more wonder- 
 ful? Would you have anything different? I suppose 
 you would. But how? You would have people less 
 stupid than they are? The world would be a dreadful 
 place without its fools. You think the ugliness and 
 cruelty of Thrigsby unnecessary. How can you tell?
 
 528 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 You say yourself that you cannot leave the place. It 
 must therefore have some meaning for you, even if it is 
 only the meaning of raw energy. I may be wide of the 
 mark but I think there is in you a strain of the hope and 
 impulse that were felt in England in the great days of 
 Shelley, Keats, Byron and Wordsworth. It is absurd to 
 think that could die altogether or indeed at all. London 
 as I see it, Thrigsby as you see it, seem to be a complete 
 denial, but are they really anything of the kind ? When 
 I consider the children here I often think that they 
 are more right by instinct than they will ever be again 
 by knowledge. Now your instinctive idea was Napoleon, 
 and you will not tolerate anything that contradicts that 
 idea, which means, not conquest, but liberty and civilisa- 
 tion. A German friend of mine says, and I think he is 
 right, that the English do not understand or desire any- 
 thing but comfort and independence, which are to them 
 indispensable adjuncts of liberty and they would rather 
 forego liberty than them. The poor flock to the towns 
 because they can be more comfortable and independent in 
 them than they can be in the country : or they think they 
 can. (I suppose it is warmer in a slum than it is in a 
 country cottage during the winter.) In the towns they 
 work to create comfort and independence for people like 
 the Greigs. Incidentally they destroy all that you cher- 
 ish, grace and tenderness, simple and profound feeling, 
 in a word, liberty. But are they not also destroying ideas 
 and habits which were inimical to liberty? And does 
 not such a catastrophe as that which has overtaken them 
 in your Thrigsby make them feel the inadequacy of 
 comfort and independence? It has made you feel that, I 
 know, and what you feel strongly will not others also 
 feel to the extent of their capacity? If not, there must 
 be other catastrophes until their insensibility is broken
 
 A LETTER FROM LONDON 529 
 
 down. Believe me, in Germany and Italy there is the 
 same force stirring. England is an ideal to them. They 
 mistake her independence for liberty and do not realise 
 that she has a harder task than any of them. I have 
 felt since I came to London that the English must 
 know it in their hearts or they could not endure the 
 terrible repression in which they live. They must be- 
 lieve in some future triumph or they could not so harshly 
 contain themselves. It is a great riddle and the answer 
 to it all is Napoleon not the pinchbeck Paris gentleman, 
 but his uncle who was something more than a man, an 
 idea. It is active and almost articulate in you, and you 
 care about it more than about anything else. But the 
 English will not let it be active or articulate in their 
 life until they have ensured their comfort and their 
 independence. Perhaps they are right and probably they 
 will force others to emulate them. Live abroad and 
 you will appreciate comfort when you return home. 
 Meanwhile one suffers. The suppression of the idea 
 (and in the modern world there is only one idea Lib- 
 erty) means the suppression of art and religion. It 
 has choked the poetry that I used to hope you would 
 one day find in yourself, with the result of making you 
 look for poetry in life a pure and almost abstract emo- 
 tion. The amazing thing is that you have found it and 
 that makes me very anxious to meet your wife. You 
 have never given me a very clear idea of her except that 
 . she is beautiful. Tibby I know, Fanny Shaw I know, 
 Sophia and Selina Leslie are admirably drawn in your 
 letters, but Catherine is mysterious. I suppose she is 
 and must be so to you, and it is only tiresome and old- 
 maidish in me to want everything clear-cut and precise. 
 Very unreasonable too, for I could not desire for you 
 what is valuable in my own life which is quite easily
 
 530 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 pared down to two relationships, with you and with 
 one other. Everything else seems vain and pretentious, 
 unreal, shadowy, easily forgotten. But nothing con- 
 nected with those two relationships can be forgotten. 
 They live in me and I in them and I would not change 
 place or times with anyone, not even to be Helen of 
 Troy or Cleopatra. No romance was ever more excit- 
 ing than my quiet little existence and I think getting out 
 of bed in the morning as great an adventure as the dis- 
 covery of America. In the first place it means seeing the 
 light of day again and in the second it means letters. 
 A real letter is a revelation, a communication from the 
 unknown. Think what your letters have been to me, the 
 letters you wrote to me in Rome when I was so unhappy. 
 I was able to live in the life of the family, to share with 
 you the torment of the process of disintegration, the 
 inexplicable collapse of the fabric of its authority, the 
 assertion of your will, setting desire above accomplish- 
 ment. 
 
 "You have often envied me, comparing Thrigsby, in 
 your droll way, to Noah's Ark, with the animals two by 
 two, and myself as the dove sent out to explore the 
 flooded face of the earth. I can only report that the 
 flood has not subsided and now you yourself are to go 
 out to the New World. Frankly I don't think you will 
 discover anything different. The flood has not subsided 
 and will not subside. How can it when there are people 
 like you and me who care for nothing except such 
 freedom as they can find, and find it in the simple love 
 of the few people who are accessible to us? We may 
 have nothing to show for it but you will hand on more 
 to the next generation than Tom who can only bequeath 
 his fifty or his hundred thousand pounds. Not that I 
 despise Tom. I am very fond of him. As he figures
 
 A LETTER FROM LONDON 531 
 
 in your letters he is a joy for ever, the perfect incor- 
 ruptible. How I long to see them all! I arrived in 
 London with thirty shillings and had to procure work at 
 once. Now I must wait until one year's service entitles 
 me to three weeks' holiday. I shall postpone it until 
 your return from America. Then what a talk we shall 
 have! I shall lie on my bed and you shall look out of 
 the window and it will be as though we were back in 
 Kirkcudbright and once more I shall struggle to cram 
 your big thoughts into my little head. Nothing will have 
 changed, so true is it as Shelley said of Beatrice Cenci 
 that all we do and suffer is 'as the mask and mantle in 
 which circumstances clothe us for our impersonation on 
 the scene of the world.' Above all I shall be able to tell 
 you much that I could never bring myself to write. We 
 shall not be brother and sister then but comrades in love 
 and mind. Good-bye, dearest Jamie. I will write to 
 Catherine to console her in your absence."
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND HER 
 
 LAST scene of all that ends this strange eventful his- 
 tory, the last gathering of the family of the Lawries, 
 the last assertion of its entity before it is swallowed up 
 in the roar of the machinery which is modern England. 
 A week before Jamie was to set sail from Liverpool 
 Margaret fell ill of an internal trouble which had fast- 
 ened upon her many years before and had caused that 
 obstinate abstraction from the life about her which had 
 culminated in her withdrawal from Thrigsby. She knew 
 that she was brought face to face with death, and, as in 
 the case of her husband, she wrestled with it fiercely. 
 She was not prepared to die thinking herself unworthy 
 to go before the Judgment Seat. Her days had been 
 embittered by Jamie's repudiation of his brothers. He 
 had failed, she thought: he had renounced his trust. In 
 her heart she hated Catherine who had ensnared Jamie 
 with her beauty, a terrible culmination to all his wild- 
 ness. She thought of Catherine as an Englishwoman 
 and she despised the English as a people who com- 
 promised in their religion, a wanton and a light people 
 given to pleasure. They had claimed and seduced her 
 eldest son and she thought of the women of Thrigsby as 
 those ladies in the Bible who made a tinkling with their 
 feet and were threatened with scabs. As she lay in her 
 
 532
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 533 
 
 bed Margaret gathered herself up into one violent im- 
 pulse of hatred. She conjured up a vile and wicked 
 word, assumed responsibility for it and struggled with 
 it mosaically. She totted up a list of the Commandments 
 Jamie had broken and, to include the seventh, called his 
 marriage adulterous. It was, at any rate, voluptuous 
 and should be included. She descended into the very pit 
 of misery in this last furious attempt to break down the 
 iron discipline she had imposed on herself, and the 
 limitations she had set to ensure her serenity. The sweet 
 religious melancholy of her expression was ravaged and 
 her eyes burned and glowered. She put forth all her 
 extraordinary physical and moral strength to resist the 
 cataclysm taking place within her and she became 
 voluptuous in her misery, cherishing every fresh pang, 
 every new wave of agony that came over her. She 
 cheated herself in order to cheat the physician, who as- 
 sured her that she would soon be well again. Time was 
 what she wanted: time to quell the revolt and doubt in 
 her soul. For this was no new thing. There had been 
 such struggles all through her life, though never before 
 had there been so terrible an issue. This was final and 
 she knew it. All her desire was for the love of her later 
 life, her love for Jamie, and she could not enter into him 
 because his doings were blasphemous, and could not be 
 contained within the walls of her religious conception of 
 the world. Her love bade her follow him but she could 
 not. She had always pretended that he would come back 
 from his strange courses and be at peace with her and 
 with God. Now she knew that her pretence had been 
 vain and that he had sinned past redemption. She knew 
 him as she knew none other of her children. He was 
 more than flesh of her flesh: he was love of her love. 
 Through him she had a terrible knowledge of the things
 
 534 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 of the earth that surged in upon her saintly knowledge 
 of the things of the spirit. It was her effort now to keep 
 these two kinds of knowledge apart. She desired to be 
 prepared to meet her Maker, but with this hunger for her 
 love and to live in it she knew herself to be unready. 
 Yet she could not keep her love contained. It was 
 passionately concentrated upon Jamie. It knew his love 
 for Tibby, Tibby's for him and it was kindled by it, 
 reaching to a white heat that burned through all his 
 history, coming at last to his marriage and drowning 
 it with flame until there was nothing left but charred 
 embers. Against the idea of Catherine Margaret hurled 
 herself as against the vilest evil. There, there was the 
 destruction of her love and she would not have it. If 
 her love was destroyed she could never make her peace 
 with God. All her life she had kept it pure and it had 
 been a psalm of praise. But now its virtue was gone out 
 from her and for the lack of it she ached. There were 
 times when she believed herself to be already in hell-fire 
 because her love had led her away from God, who to 
 punish her had removed His grace from Jamie and sent 
 him out into the world despoiled and exposed to tempta- 
 tion and the snares of beauty. 
 
 Sometimes she was exhausted and lay with slow tears 
 trickling from her eyes, unable to move even so much as 
 her eyelids. Tibby found her so one evening and was 
 shocked and frightened and stayed with her until she 
 moved. Then Tibby whispered: "You were a long 
 time away, mistress." "Is there only you, Tibby?" mur- 
 mured Margaret. "There were the five of them and you 
 at the table, and now there is only you. Your father 
 was a good friend to me, Tibby." "And you've been a 
 good friend to me, mistress." "Jamie!" murmured 
 Margaret, "Jamie !" "Shall I send for him?" asked
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 535 
 
 Tibby. "No! No! No! I'm very well. I'm going to 
 get better. Jamie was a fine, handsome man." "Aye," 
 said Tibby. "And there were the five of them at the 
 table." "Losh!" muttered Tibby, "she's light-headed!" 
 "I am nothing of the kind," snapped Margaret. 
 "Whose turn is it to come this week ?" "Tom's." 
 "He'll talk to me about my will. I don't want to see 
 him." "Jamie will be gone soon to America." Mar- 
 garet began to weep. She thought of Jamie already gone 
 with no issue to her struggle, and her love leaped within 
 her and tortured her. Tibby, watching her, saw her 
 throat swell, the veins in it stand out, and the skin of her 
 face contract. Tibby was horrified and frightened at 
 the cruelty of life throbbing through the obstinate vital- 
 ity of her old mistress. She was alone in the house. 
 Their last little maid had left them a week before Mar- 
 garet's illness. She could not leave for a moment. She 
 wrote a note to Jamie and sent it down to his house by 
 a neighbour who was going in to Thrigsby. He came 
 out at once prepared to stay if necessary. "Is she dying, 
 Tibby?" "Aye." "Is she happy?" "I think she's in 
 terror. She's been a lonely woman for so long. I never 
 saw a creature suffer so." "Did she ask for me?" 
 "She said your name." "It was Tom she loved best." 
 Tibby looked at him reproachfully, and said: "She de- 
 clared she would not see Tom, in such a queer funny 
 voice I could have laughed, but that it was so sad." 
 "Will the end soon come?" "I cannot tell. She's 
 strong." 
 
 Jamie sat by his mother's bedside for hours before she 
 spoke. He held her thin white hand in his and it 
 took warmth from him. Strange shapeless dream-like 
 thoughts flitted through his mind, mysterious thoughts 
 of women, grotesque and ugly some of them, beautiful
 
 536 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 and inspiring others. It was very slowly that these 
 thoughts began to gather round Margaret and to give 
 him a conception of her as a woman, even as the woman 
 whom he had married. Then with a sudden emotion 
 that shook him to the marrow he thought of her as the 
 woman from whom he had his life. Turning, he found 
 his mother's eyes upon him and he bent to her and kissed 
 her on the lips. It was the kiss of a lover and she drew 
 him down into the depths of her dying life, and still she 
 held his hand in hers. No words were possible for a 
 long time. Darkness came and the stars shone in the 
 sky through the hurrying autumn clouds. The church 
 bells chimed the hours. It was very snug in the little 
 grey room, very snug and warm and time could pass 
 it by. 
 
 "Shall I read to you, mother?" "Yes, Jamie. Read 
 me the story of Ruth." He read the story of Ruth and 
 found when he had done that she had her eyes closed. 
 "Are you asleep, mother?" She made no answer but 
 she was not asleep, she was slyly telling herself that she 
 had fulfilled her love and that God would forgive her 
 because she had loved much. She had taken Jamie away 
 from Catherine and God would be pleased with her be- 
 cause she had conquered that much evil. Catherine, she 
 knew, had never loved him so. Catherine had taken all 
 for her beauty, had taken all but him, whom she had 
 left cold and solitary. "The Lord do so to me and more 
 also, if ought but death part thee and me." Margaret 
 hugged the thought that she had the love of her first- 
 born. It was the whole world to her and she would not 
 renounce it though she knew she was about to die and 
 must go out of the world naked as when she came into 
 it. It might mean damnation and the loss of her im- 
 mortal soul but she would suffer that for this last pas-
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 537 
 
 sion. All her beliefs became pictorial, a matter of golden 
 crowns and white singing angels, and when she came 
 near sleep then all the place where she lay was filled with 
 the glitter of gold and the song of the angels. But she 
 would not let herself sleep, for she thought she might 
 never wake up again and she wanted her love till the end. 
 This was the fiercest conflict. All her life she had fought 
 for Heaven against love. Now she found herself wres- 
 tling with all her might for love against Heaven and 
 never had she been so strong, never so entirely absorbed 
 in her will. Her old terror had been of the future: 
 now she was afraid when she looked back and saw the 
 procession of empty loveless days streaming away from 
 her. The past was appallingly actual to her and it seemed 
 that she must live in it. The spent days moving away 
 seemed to drag her in their wake, down from the heaven 
 of her love. The whole careful structure of her life 
 seemed to crumble, to crack, to be about to come crashing 
 down. Her thoughts rushed hither and thither, patching 
 here and propping there. "Now, now, it is coming," she 
 told herself, thrilled with horror, "and I shall be de- 
 stroyed." 
 
 There were times when her mental life ceased alto- 
 gether and she was absorbed in the physical struggle 
 to retain her vitality. Then she would lie, apparently 
 in a swoon, but in reality crouching and wary, practising 
 an instinctive and most subtle economy of her forces. 
 Victory in that region was easy and had little sweetness. 
 Always when she felt that she had won the mastery 
 she would come back to the greater conflict to preserve 
 her love from death and from the past. She would 
 go back over the whole of her life measuring the right 
 and wrong, but she had no standard wherewith to 
 measure. She could not be interested in any of her
 
 538 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 life except in so far as it had touched her husband's and 
 her son's, and therein had been neither right nor wrong. 
 Fool that she had been not to have known that always. 
 The days would not be spent. They would not be hurry- 
 ing away from her. Her thoughts crept up into her 
 imagination, which darted down upon the hurrying days, 
 claiming those which had contained some love and bid- 
 ding them come back to her. This was a new power 
 and she exulted in it, for it brought a wonderful light 
 into her love and opened up new regions in Jamie's life. 
 She knew now whither he had retired when he had 
 seemed lost to her and she knew that she should have 
 followed him and not have expected him to stay with 
 her in the dreamy, quiet, prosperous days where love 
 was not. She saw herself suddenly going down with 
 him into the strong-room of the bank among the bags o 
 gold and she remembered how awed and impressed she 
 had been and how he had smiled at her. Then she was 
 in such pain that she broke into a dry cackle of bitter 
 laughter. At once Jamie was kneeling by her bedside 
 and held her in his arms to soothe her. She raised her 
 hand and ran her fingers through his hair. "Grey hair 
 you're getting, Jamie, and white hairs in your beard." 
 "Yes, mother, but I'm still a child in your arms." She 
 gave a little crooning cry of pleasure at that. "Don't 
 let me go, Jamie, not yet. I could never let you go, 
 Jamie. All the others went, but I could never let you 
 go." "No, mother." "Are you angry with me because 
 J couldn't let you go?" "O! no, no, no." "I wanted 
 you to be a minister, Jamie, but I couldn't, because of 
 your wicked rages. I wanted to give one son to God." 
 "If God is love then the gift is in the loving." "You 
 wouldn't have liked to be a minister?" "No, mother." 
 "The Bible never had its true meaning for you."-
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 539 
 
 "Not here, mother, not in the kind of life we have to live. 
 The world has changed for us, though it never changed 
 for you." "How is it changed?" she asked almost peev- 
 ishly. "It has become so evil that we need a greater love 
 and a greater God, more affirmation and less denial, more 
 Thou Shalt and less Thou Shalt Not." "I don't un- 
 derstand. There is nothing at all now but you, Jamie." 
 "I shall not leave you." 
 
 She sighed and closed her eyes and went back to her 
 struggle. He began instinctively to understand what 
 was happening to her. She was dying and seeking to 
 triumph over death : she was claiming his love, to be as a 
 little child in his arms. Death had been her enemy. 
 Death had taken her man and condemned her to solitary 
 days and years. And she had accepted the sentence of 
 death until now, when she could suffer it no more. 
 
 From that hour he never left her for a moment but 
 sat absorbed in the effort to live in the little passionate 
 remnant of her life. All that was worthless and trivial 
 in his own being fell away from him and he too was 
 charged with passion seeking that joy which is the human 
 flower of immortality. Life has no power to destroy it, 
 death cannot wither it, for it is itself life and death, the 
 very impulse of immortal beauty wherein all things have 
 their being. In these hours of travail Jamie's imagina- 
 tion won a new freedom and he set the crown upon the 
 fabric of the philosophy which was as necessary to him 
 as air or light. Gone for ever was the idea of a God 
 who had created a rigid system and pronounced it good. 
 Gone was the small idea of love which confines it to 
 the relation of a man and a woman and excludes all 
 else. Gone was the notion of a Fall and a slow and far- 
 distant redemption; gone the myth of the salvation^ in 
 Christ, except in so far as Christ stood for human joy
 
 540 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 through love; gone the separation of good and evil. 
 That only is good which unites and creates : that only is 
 evil which separates and destroys, and good and evil 
 are both necessary. Gone was the idea of external au- 
 thority, gone his respect for everything in the world that 
 had been created in its image, for power won by intrigue 
 and bargaining and hoarded riches. He was no longer 
 a prisoner in the walls built by men in their worship of 
 their false Godhead of power. He was free and open 
 to joy and love. 
 
 Little by little he won Margaret's absolute trust and 
 confidence. It was the strangest wooing. She loved to 
 lie in his arms and they would talk of his father and of 
 the old days in Scotland, and he would tell her of his 
 love for his children and of all his hopes for them and of 
 the great change that was come into the world and the 
 new freedom that future generations would create for 
 themselves. She could not always follow him but it 
 was enough for her that he was opening up his mind 
 to her and into his thoughts she could pour her pro- 
 foundly religious feeling. 
 
 The struggle was over. She lived in love. 
 
 During the evening before she died she bade him call 
 Tibby, and charged him to take care of her all her life. 
 She thanked Tibby for all her kindness and goodness and 
 asked her to take Jamie's hand and to promise that she 
 would never leave him. With tears in her eyes Tibby 
 promised that she would serve him faithfully all her 
 days, him and his children. She seemed to insist on 
 the word "serve" though her eyes belied it and promised 
 him a deeper devotion. 
 
 When she had gone Margaret said : "Tibby is a good 
 woman. I have learned much from her." "I too," 
 said Jamie. Then he felt that the end was near, and he
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 541 
 
 became in spirit as he was when, as a little boy, he used 
 to clamber on her bed and boast and try to make her 
 laugh. He sat at the end of her bed and talked wild 
 nonsense at which she smiled happily, and until the smile 
 faded from her lips he kept it up. Then he was silent, 
 and sat gazing at her. A puzzled expression came into 
 her face, her lips moved and she said : "Love love 
 and God?" and she just stirred her head as though to 
 say that there was no answer. After that she sank 
 back into a torpor and the spirit passed out of her face 
 and it became as a mask. She lay so for hours. Jamie 
 knew she would never wake again. The body seemed 
 unimportant. It had given up its essence. He did not 
 need to stay by its side. 
 
 For the first time during three days he went out and 
 walked back to Thrigsby. He approached it by way of 
 a high hill, surmounting which he came suddenly in view 
 of the sprawling town with its chimneys, steeples, domes 
 and towers. Its careless ugliness moved him profoundly. 
 He had lost all resentment for the ruin that had come 
 upon him in its chaos. If it destroyed, its energy would 
 make good. "Comfort and independence." If that was 
 what they were after, they would soon weary of it. 
 They would soon be surfeited. 
 
 It was comfortable and beautiful to return to Cath- 
 erine and the children. Here was another kind of love, 
 good, pleasant, and jolly: love captured and shaped and 
 released from its agony. He was free of all trace of 
 impatience with Catherine and astonished her with his 
 gentle tenderness. He told her that his mother was 
 dying and she said : "She was a saint if there ever was 
 one ."_"It is her wish," said Jamie, "almost her last, 
 that Tibby should come and live with us." "I shall be
 
 542 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 very glad," replied Catherine, "for she is so good with 
 the children." 
 
 When Jamie returned to his mother's house he found 
 Mary there, wee Mary, a strange little dry figure in black 
 with a face too old for her years and lit up by mis- 
 chievous grey eyes. "I came at once," she said. "I am 
 glad I am in time." "She won't know you." "No. 
 But I was fond of her and admired her and it would 
 have seemed cruelly wrong to come after all these years, 
 only to find her dead. I actually prayed in the train that 
 she might be alive. Tibby says you were with her to the 
 last and that she was very happy. She looks so." Jamie 
 bade her be silent. There was yet life in the body and 
 he thought that Margaret might still be aware of them 
 though she could give no sign. The doctor had said 
 she might live for hours in that coma. If that was liv- 
 ing, what was death? And what died? Margaret had 
 never been so living to him. He seemed to possess all 
 her life, to be absolved from the divisions that had 
 separated them. Death might have the still white body. 
 That which had stirred in it, the desire and the will, 
 remained. He felt wonderfully happy and not at all 
 sad. Grief he had none. Death also was a fulfilment. 
 Nothing in him was shocked, nothing repelled. "Would 
 it be different," he suddenly asked himself, "if it were I 
 who was dying? How could it be different? She was 
 better than I, a stronger and a nobler spirit. There is 
 nothing in my life that I value more than her. There 
 is nothing that I value for its own sake. If it were I 
 it could not be different." "What are you thinking, 
 Jamie?" asked Mary. He told her, and she pursed up 
 her lips. "I am afraid," she said, "because I know that 
 it must some day be I." "It is nothing," he muttered. 
 "That," replied Mary, "is what is so terrible." "I mean,
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 543 
 
 it ends nothing. It is only a moment in being, which 
 has no end." "Is that what you believe?" "Yes." 
 "I couldn't. I want some compensation." "Compensa- 
 tion for the wonder of living?" "No, for failure in it." 
 "Surely then, death is compensation enough." "I 
 wish she would speak or make some sign."- -"She is 
 dead," said Jamie, for even as his sister spoke he knew 
 that it was so. 
 
 Mary knelt by the bedside and Jamie stood towering 
 above her. Suddenly Mary broke into sobs and he 
 caught her up in his arms and carried her away. On 
 the stairs he met the old woman who had been called in 
 to make all decent for the dead. 
 
 Downstairs Mary controlled herself and she clung to 
 Jamie and said : "What I mind so fearfully is that some- 
 thing has gone with her that I never knew."- -"And 
 I," he said, "never knew it till last night. All those years 
 it was denied and crushed, sacrificed wickedly to un- 
 worthy things. That that is why I hate the world as 
 we have made it. The true loveliness of every one of us 
 is denied." Mary's tears rained down. She clung to 
 her brother and implored him never to let her go, never 
 to keep his love from her. 
 
 There came a sharp rat-tat at the door. It was Tom. 
 Tibby admitted him and showed him into the room. 
 consider," he said, "that I ought to have been informed 
 of this days ago." "Everything was done," answered 
 Jamie, "in accordance with her wishes."- -"At least," 
 said Tom, "I claim the right to take charge of the ar- 
 rangements." "Certainly." Tom grunted and went up- 
 
 "Is that," asked Mary, "what Thrigsby has made of 
 Tom?" "To-morrow," replied Jamie, "I will show you 
 what Tom has made of Thrigsby. He is a maker of
 
 544 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 modern England and he is proud of it." "But he was 
 fond of her." "He will grieve more than any of us."- 
 "He is terrible," said Mary. 
 
 All three brothers and the two sisters were present at 
 the funeral which Tom had arranged perfectly, even to 
 wine for the lawyers and the epitaph for his mother's 
 grave : 
 
 HERE LIES 
 
 MARGARET KEITH LAWRIE 
 
 The beloved wife of THOMAS LAWRIE, A.M. (Edin.) 
 of Carsphairn N.B. 
 
 She . had . no . thought . but . for . her . children 
 
 No . ambition . but . for . her . sons 
 She . lived . to . serve . Almighty . God 
 
 And . did . good . works 
 She . died . in . the . love . of . Jesus . Christ 
 
 A . sainted . woman 
 
 A . mother . blessed . in . the . love 
 
 Of . her . children. 
 
 The wings of angels touched above her head, 
 And from her life was evil banished. 
 
 Margaret had managed to save two thousand pounds 
 out of her small income, and this hoard except for fifty 
 pounds she left to her grandchildren. "Good," said 
 John, when the will was read. Tom was flushed and 
 sulky : "At least," he said, "the expenses of the funeral 
 should be borne by the estate." "Not at all," replied 
 John. "I think it should be borne by us three equally." 
 
 Then began a squabble into which Jamie was not to be 
 drawn. He was thinking of the body of his mother 
 being lowered into the ground. With her, it seemed to 
 him, went all that had bound them together. What 
 had he to do with hard, angry Tom, slighted because
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 545 
 
 his childlessness debarred him from participation in his 
 mother's estate? John and Maggie from their sojourn 
 in the South of England were already foreigners. They 
 had adopted other manners, almost another speech. 
 Only Mary was left and it seemed that the family was 
 buried with Margaret. Already the lustre was gone 
 from the Keiths and the Greigs and the name of Lawrie 
 could cast no spell, for where was their achievement? 
 They had exploited the fag end of a tradition. Tom and 
 John were rich, but to what end ? Their riches served no 
 purpose : they enslaved many and freed none. "We are 
 as separate," said Jamie to Mary, "as though we were 
 at the ends of the earth. We have worshipped and 
 served a thing that had no being, a thing that could be 
 dropped into a hole in the earth." "Not I," said Mary. 
 -"Even you, for you expected wonders from me merely 
 because I was a Lawrie and the eldest of them. But I am 
 a poor man and a failure and glad to be so." "What 
 are you talking about?" asked Mary. "The donkey's 
 hind leg," replied Jamie with a great laugh, "for we have 
 already talked it off. Dear old Tom is a joy for ever 
 and we have been very unjust to him." 
 
 Mary's Hon. and Rev. had allowed her only three 
 days as ample time in which to bury her mother. She 
 had therefore to return after a vain attempt to make 
 friends with Catherine who distrusted her and disap- 
 proved of her ease and intelligence. It was no good. 
 Jamie could not help at all for life for him had stopped 
 momentarily. His mother's death had chilled him and 
 removed him from the conduct of ordinary life. It was 
 nothing to him that Catherine and Mary could not under- 
 stand each other. Mutual understanding seemed to him 
 so rare and high mystery that it was not to be looked for 
 in common life. Why should Catherine and Mary com-
 
 546 THREE SONS AND A MOTHER 
 
 prehend each other? They shared no purpose. Mary's 
 life was in the minds of intellectual men. She was a 
 puzzle even to himself. Catherine's pleasure lay in sim- 
 ple household things, and she was a puzzle to him also. 
 Everything was a puzzle to him for the change in him, 
 the consummation of so many dreams and hopes, was so 
 sudden and violent that he looked for everything else to 
 be changed also. And when he looked, nothing was 
 changed. Catherine was as she always was, and he could 
 swear that wee Mary had not altered by a line or a 
 thought since she used to do his school tasks for him. 
 "A born governess," he said, and was pleased at hitting 
 her off with a phrase. 
 
 It was only when Tibby came to the house that he 
 began to thaw into life again, and with fresh eyes to see 
 new beauty in Catherine and a wonder of loyalty in wee 
 Mary. Then it seemed to him that nothing was gone 
 from him, that his life was full indeed and fair of prom- 
 ise, and he took up the task of interpreting between 
 Catherine and Mary, wifehood and spinsterhood. But 
 here was another failure for Catherine marked his tender 
 sympathy with Mary and. his keen interest in all her 
 thoughts and projects and was jealous. 
 
 Mary had marked the change in her brother when 
 Tibby came to the house and her thoughts were deep. 
 She left Thrigsby sad at heart. Jamie saw her to the 
 station. She was to travel down with John and Maggie 
 and, at the last moment, Tom turned up to say good- 
 bye. The train steamed out, Mary and Maggie waved 
 their black-edged handkerchiefs until they were out of 
 sight. As they turned away Tom said : "John is getting 
 quite fat. He tells me he is thinking of getting mar- 
 ried again. I call it disgusting. O! Agnes told me to 
 ask you to dinner before you go." "Thanks," said
 
 MARGARET GATHERS HER FAMILY ROUND 547 
 
 Jamie, "but I think Catherine will not be able to spare 
 me." "Agnes will be sorry. How long will you be 
 away?"- -"Six months. Perhaps a year." "And then?" 
 
 -"I don't know." "I should think you might do well 
 as a journalist. If you like I'll speak to Macalister at 
 my club. He's editor of The Daily Express, you know." 
 Jamie whacked on the ground with his stick : "Tom !" 
 he cried, "will you understand once and for all that I do 
 not wish you to interfere in my affairs or even to think 
 about them." "As you please," said Tom. 
 
 They came to the bottom of the station slope and there 
 they parted. 
 
 Two days later Jamie was in Liverpool, by the river 
 where long ago he had found romance and relief from 
 the torment of the black city, the wide river and the sea 
 beyond, with great ships coming and going. He had not 
 been on the water since his first coming from Scotland. 
 Now he boarded a vessel and an hour later she was 
 towed out of the river and soon was out on the wide 
 sea. The land fell away and was lost. The moon came 
 up in the west, a comical red moon with a merry face 
 and a wisp of cloud across it for a moustache. He stood 
 on deck with the wind blowing cold through his hair 
 and beard and gazed up at the moon, which set him 
 tingling with such a vague hungry longing as he had not 
 known since he was a boy and in love with Selina Leslie. 
 The face in the moon reminded him of Mr. Wilcox as 
 Dogberry. The longing in him grew into passionate 
 hope and he told himself that he was going towards the 
 New World where there had been wars of liberty.
 
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