>" , )( 
 
 9 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 BEQUEST OF 
 
 Alice R. Hilgard 
 
/ <r"L^W/ 
 
THE OTHER SIDE 
 
THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 BEING CERTAIN PASSAGES IN 
 THE LIFE OF A GENIUS 
 
 BY 
 HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL 
 
 HODDER & STOUGHTON 
 
 NEW YORK 
 GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 
 
Copyrighty 1910 
 By George H. Doran Company 
 
 GIFT 
 
 i 
 
 \\'( 
 
 
 
Vift 
 
 TO 
 
 THE MEMORY OF 
 MY WIFE 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 FACE 
 
 Prologue 3 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. The Vicar Entertains Misgivings . . 37 
 
 II. Concerning Mary Pignerol 53 
 
 III. The Fleshpots of Egypt .... 67 
 
 IV. In the New Forest 87 
 
 V. Solomon's Garden ..... 98 
 
 VI. Which Introduces Some Celebrities . . 121 
 
 VII. David Crosses the Rubicon . . .135 
 
 VIII. "The Peer and the Peri" . ... 148 
 
 IX. The Waters of Marah .... 164 
 
 X. At the Archdale Arms . . . .174 
 
 XI. David Asks Questions .... 191 
 
 XII. In the Month of May .... 208 
 
 XIII. David Sees with Detachment . . . 217 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 XIV. On the Other Side 223 
 
 XV. The Soul of a Child 244 
 
 XVI. Mary's Voice 252 
 
CONTENTS 
 BOOK m 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVII. The Conditions 267 
 
 XVIII. The Creed of a Happy Man ... 285 
 
 XIX. Mollie Picks Up Stitches .... 297 
 
 XX. Mollie Sees Two Roads . . . .312 
 
 XXI. In the Garden 325 
 
 XXII. Through the Mists 333 
 
 XXIII. The Awakening 346 
 
 XXIV, The Heavenly Note .... 353 
 
"And, in order to teach men how to be satisfied, it is 
 necessary fully to understand the art and joy of humble life 
 this at present, of all arts and sciences, being the one most 
 needing study. Humble life, that is to say, proposing to 
 itself no future exaltation, but only a sweet continuance ; 
 not excluding the idea of foresight, but wholly of foresorrow, 
 and taking no troublous thought for coming days : so, also, 
 not excluding the idea of providence, or provision, but 
 wholly of accumulation ; the life of domestic affection and 
 domestic peace, full of sensitiveness to all elements of cost- 
 less and kind pleasure ; therefore, chiefly to the loveliness 
 of the natural world." John Ruskin. 
 
THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 WHICH DESCRIBES A LEAP IN THE DARK 
 
 DAVID was singing to himself, pianissimo, while 
 he put away the scores used at the afternoon 
 practice. Sebastian Fermor, tired after a long 
 day's work, listened with half-shut eyes and a faint smile 
 upon his face. Centuries ago so it seemed he had 
 sung like this child, with freshness and spontaneity. 
 Each note was articulate and produced without effort: 
 a result of training. But the quality which challenged 
 attention was an indescribable sweetness: a pene- 
 trating delicacy of tone, so sublimated of grossness 
 and yet so vital, so dominant, that it could be heard 
 above the voices of the full choir and the thunders of 
 the organ. When enthusiastic spinsters acclaimed 
 the boy's voice as "heavenly," the adjective appeared 
 inevitable. And during many years Fermor had 
 laboured to produce this "heavenly note" upon the 
 organ by mechanical means. Those interested in such 
 matters know what Fermor has done for that instrument, 
 but his achievements were built upon failure. He had 
 sought for a pearl of transcendent beauty, and so search- 
 ing had found half a dozen gems of moderate lustre. 
 
 3 
 
4 PROLOGUE 
 
 From beneath his eyelids he looked at David. 
 Insensibly the lines upon his plain impassive face 
 softened. A stranger with any powers of observation 
 would have jumped to the conclusion that a father 
 was gazing fondly at his son. Nor would this have 
 evoked surprise, for the boy was so beautiful that the 
 spinsters aforesaid apprehended his premature decease. 
 Miss Rachel Callow, whom we shall meet presently, 
 had said to her intimate friend, Caroline Jubber, 
 the Vicar of Sherborne's daughter: "We cannot 
 hope to keep the darling long!" Between the darling 
 and these too fond ladies, Fermor had interposed his 
 own personality. He disliked sugar, being a dispenser 
 of salt. And when he discovered that the boy had a 
 sense of humour, so rare in choristers, he felt easier 
 in his mind. Once, after the nauseating experience 
 of seeing the darling hugged by a dozen well-meaning 
 but foolish virgins, more or less befuddled by too strong 
 tea and emotional religion, he had said austerely: 
 "Don't let these women spoil you, David!" Where- 
 upon, to his amusement, the urchin had responded 
 with a wink of the eye and a gesture familiar to stew- 
 ards upon Channel boats. But when Fermor laughed, 
 the boy assumed the senior's austerity and said: "I 
 suppose, sir, it's rot to talk of being spoiled. One 
 spoils oneself, doesn't one?" And to this, Fermor 
 replied: "Yes." 
 
 As he gazed at the boy, he was reflecting that the 
 face matched the voice. Each had the "heavenly" 
 quality. The eyes, in particular, set far apart and 
 
PROLOGUE 5 
 
 shaded with thick dark lashes, exhibited the tint of 
 a rain-washed sky, the true cobalt, impossible to repro- 
 duce as a pigment because of its perfect clarity. The 
 brow, finely developed, added splendour to the eyes. 
 Fermor, within five minutes of meeting David, had 
 recognized perceptive faculties, and an intelligence 
 which dazzled because it seemed to be concentrated 
 upon what appealed most strongly to himself Art. 
 Without training, without experience, without the 
 environment which is, perhaps, better than training 
 or experience, the child revealed the artist. 
 
 Meanwhile, Fermor was considering physical rather 
 than mental attributes. David's colouring was red, 
 white, and blue: Angelus et angelus. Translating an- 
 gelus as messenger rather than angel, Fermor had 
 come to believe that the child had a message to deliver. 
 And, if so, what ? Of that he was not certain, although 
 he asked the question often. He had no suspicion 
 that it was about to be answered within a few minutes. 
 
 The lower part of the face held his glance. The 
 symmetry of nose and chin and mouth, the modelling 
 of the cheeks, the texture of the hair, indicated sensi- 
 bility and refinement, but the lips a thought too full 
 distracted attention from a chin obstinate rather than 
 strong. For the rest, the body was slender, but finely 
 proportioned. 
 
 A messenger of the Most High ! 
 
 Detesting phrases, abhorring artificial sentiment, 
 Fermor had condensed a score of nebulous specula- 
 tions into those six words. The boy was charged with 
 
6 PROLOGUE 
 
 a message, and he carried his credentials upon his 
 face. 
 
 At this moment, Fermor's eyes closed. And, 
 instantly, the notes of the child's voice penetrated 
 to the core of his being. David kept on singing the 
 same theme, as if obsessed by it. The theme did not 
 appeal to Fermor; it was melodious and sugary, 
 somewhat reminiscent of Gung'l or Strauss. The 
 odd thing was that Fermor had never heard it 
 before. 
 
 "What's that?" he asked. 
 
 "It's mine," said the boy. 
 
 He came forward, smiling. 
 
 " It's mine," he repeated. " Do you think it pretty ? " 
 
 "It's pretty enough, too pretty, for that matter. 
 You've been listening to a barrel organ." 
 
 "I was down by the river this morning, and it came 
 into my head. I can't get it out. I didn't know I 
 was singing it. Did it disturb you ?" 
 
 "No. Sing it again!" 
 
 The boy laughed and obeyed. Fermor stood up. 
 
 "We'll see what Tweedledee says to it." 
 
 Tweedledee was the name of the ancient piano 
 which stood open day and night in Fermor's room. 
 Opposite to it was a harmonium, known as Tweedle- 
 dum. Fermor played the theme, simply at first, 
 and then with variations. He tried common time 
 and waltz time. When he played waltz time, the 
 boy danced. Fermor left the piano. 
 
 "Sing some other things of your own!" 
 
PROLOGUE 7 
 
 "I can't. They come and go. I shall have for- 
 gotten this by to-morrow. ' 
 
 "I shan't," said Fermor. "And look here, when 
 these tunes come to you, you run to me, and I'll write 
 'em down --just for fun," he added hastily, having 
 a nightmare vision of the delicate head swelled to 
 monstrous proportions. He made a gesture of dis- 
 missal, and the boy went to the door. There, he 
 paused shyly, fidgeting with his hands and feet. 
 
 "Mr. Fermor?" 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Am I going to London ?" 
 
 Fermor frowned, sensible that the question asked 
 daily for ten days could not have been answered 
 before. Now, he replied with finality: 
 
 "No." 
 
 The boy danced, his eyes radiated joy and thanks- 
 giving. 
 
 "Hooray! I am glad." 
 
 "Why are you glad?" 
 
 "Because I shall stay here with you." 
 
 "There are thirty years between us. You like to 
 be with me ?" 
 
 He spoke gravely, trying to measure this immense 
 gulf, and, measuring it, to bridge it with words. The 
 boy's voice, as he answered, was as grave as the man's. 
 
 "I would sooner be with you, sir, than with any 
 one else in the world." 
 
 Fermor was sensible of an emotion so poignant 
 and yet so delightful that he flushed. The boy's 
 
8 PROLOGUE 
 
 sincerity bridged the gulf. The pair met as equals 
 upon friendship's highway. And yet an immediate 
 difficulty presented itself. The boy's confession of 
 friendship demanded a response, an acknowledgment 
 of an affection hitherto suppressed. 
 
 "I have the same feeling for you, David," said 
 Fermor slowly. "I wish that you were my son." 
 
 "I've never thought of you as a father." 
 
 He spoke in a hard voice. Fermor took his hand, 
 and held it firmly. The boy's father had beaten him. 
 
 "Yes, yes; we are friends, pals. Let's leave it at 
 that." 
 
 The boy smiled joyously, and went his way. 
 
 When he had gone, Fermor wrote down the air 
 which the child had sung. Having dated it, he put 
 the sheet of music into an envelope. Upon this he 
 wrote: "First sample of ore from a promising mine." 
 Then he filled his pipe and went back to his chair, 
 where he sat for half an hour, thinking of the boy and 
 his future. While he was thinking, the simple, pretty 
 little air, so charmingly phrased, so delicately articu- 
 lated, went flitting through his head, the accompani- 
 ment of his reflections. It became the medium through 
 which the "message" was delivered. The boy might 
 become a great composer. The possibility fired this 
 quiet, self-effacing man, who realized that his interest 
 in others was too lukewarm. 
 
 For some weeks a crisis had impended. Now it 
 was passed. The boy had been offered a place in a 
 
PROLOGUE 9 
 
 great London choir, and with it a liberal education. 
 He was an orphan, dependent upon an aunt who 
 belonged to the shifting population. At any moment 
 she might leave Sherborne, taking the boy with her. 
 In brief, the London offer was too good to be refused 
 unless Fermor adopted the boy. 
 
 He had told himself that he must look well before 
 he leapt into what the judicious might call a perilous 
 experiment. But, perhaps, from the first he had 
 known that he would leap, and that the marrow of 
 the matter was the expediency of speech or silence 
 concerning it. Of late years a habit of silence had 
 imposed itself between Fermor and the people amongst 
 whom he lived and laboured. Sherborne spoke 
 slightingly of the Abbey organist as odd. The la- 
 dies whispered to each other that he must be the hero 
 of some romantic tale. Undoubtedly, one of their 
 sex had treated shabbily a man whose chief claim 
 to consideration was that he played the organ 
 "divinely." The more sentimental interpolated ro- 
 mance into his music, which we will hasten to say 
 was severely classical and ecclesiastical. A certain 
 voluntary was pronounced by Miss Rachel Callow to 
 be an autobiography. She was positive that Fermor's 
 youth had been stormy, " une jeunesse orageuse" as 
 she put it. Caroline Jubber, a woman of common 
 sense, making allowance for the fact that dear Rachel 
 fancied her French accent, admitted that Mr. Fermor 
 might have undergone bludgeonings. But the Vicar, 
 her father, who had coached Fermor at Oxford and 
 
io PROLOGUE 
 
 never lost sight of him since, denied this. The ladies 
 were unanimous that Dr. Jubber was too discreet to 
 tell all that he knew, and the phrase so often on his 
 thin lips affirming his quondam pupil to be "one of 
 the best" was salted and peppered in a dozen primly 
 furnished drawing-rooms. 
 
 We will say at once that Fermor had no story, and 
 that his youth had been exasperatingly blameless. 
 There were moments when this oppressed him. He 
 was a cadet of an ancient and impoverished Wessex 
 family. A grandfather had distinguished himself 
 at Trafalgar. One of the Fermors was said to have 
 sailed the Spanish Main with Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 In his robuster flights of fancy, our friend imagined 
 that latent in him lay a buccaneering strain. But 
 this refused to exhibit itself to a conventional world 
 even in his music. His father, some-time leader of 
 the Philharmonic Society, had married late in life 
 the daughter of an eminent organ-builder. When 
 we add that Fermor was brought up to believe that 
 John Sebastian Bach was the greatest man that had 
 ever lived, we begin to get a better understanding 
 of him. Before he was out of his teens, he was inti- 
 mately acquainted with the works of Purcell, Boyce, 
 and Tallis. And even at Oxford he spent more time 
 with the old masters of ecclesiastical music than he 
 did with the young misses who captivated his fellow 
 undergraduates. 
 
 Physically ill-equipped for adventures in any field 
 except that of Art, he had vaguely understood before 
 
PROLOGUE ii 
 
 he was breeched that he was not so strong as other 
 boys. Imperfect sight had made him a duffer at 
 games; and his doctor had warned him that he could 
 not undertake any violent form of exercise with impu- 
 nity. Into Art he was driven under pressure of his 
 father's ambition rather than his own. He had asked 
 permission to enter the organ-building establishment, 
 where, indeed, he spent some of the pleasantest hours 
 of his life. After leaving Oxford his "Office for the 
 Holy Communion," set to music in the key of D, aroused 
 an expectation which succeeding compositions never 
 justified. To be candid, his work was lacking in 
 originality, and he knew it. He could write fugues 
 that an amateur might mistake for those of John 
 Sebastian; but a critic had said there was more Bach 
 than bite in them. As a distraction from composi- 
 tion, he fell in love with the mechanism of the instru- 
 ment, and at the time we make his acquaintance 
 had patented two notable improvements. Surplus 
 energy was expended upon the study of Gothic 
 architecture; he had written two rather remarkable 
 papers upon the correlation of colour, form, and 
 sound. 
 
 Till he was forty an invalid mother stood between 
 him and marriage. He provided a home for her, he 
 played piquet with her every evening; he submitted 
 smilingly to her tantrums. But when she died, he 
 continued his celibate life, refusing invitations as before, 
 discouraging, almost with rudeness, the advances of 
 mothers with marriageable daughters. 
 
iz PROLOGUE 
 
 Presently, the Vicar bustled in. Dr. Jubber exuded 
 reform from every pore of his skin. And he scrubbed 
 other folk's minds as vigorously as he scrubbed his 
 own face. He was strong, and he exulted in his 
 strength. He greeted Fermor in a deep vibrating 
 voice, which poor old Tweedledee attenuated as if 
 with a sigh. 
 
 "Are we going to keep little David Archdale?" 
 
 "I am." 
 
 The short crisp answer from a man whose darling 
 sin, perhaps, was irresolution, took some of the wind 
 from the Vicar's bellows. He sat down, staring at 
 Fermor, and began to fill his pipe. Fermor and he 
 were very old friends, but each was capable of mis- 
 understanding the other: a fact which added zest to 
 their intercourse. 
 
 "When you came in," continued Fermor, in the voice 
 of a man who has never known what it is to feel fit 
 at the end of a day's work, "I had just definitely 
 decided to adopt the child." 
 
 "Bless my soul!" ejaculated the Vicar. 
 
 "And if you are not in too great a hurry, I should 
 like to talk the matter over." 
 
 "By all means. Isn't this a leap in the dark, 
 Fermor ?" 
 
 "Yes. That makes it exciting." 
 
 "Exciting?" The Vicar stared at his organist, who 
 had been his pupil. In a sense he was trying to visu- 
 alize a man whom he had not met before. 
 
 "My life has been so unexciting. I am not com- 
 
PROLOGUE 13 
 
 plaining, but to you I can admit that I hanker after 
 
 excitement." 
 
 "Well, well, well!" 
 
 "You are astonished. It is almost as if we had 
 changed places. You told me the last time you were 
 here that a quiet life was beginning to charm you. It 
 is beginning to bore me." 
 
 The Vicar cleared his throat, signalizing that he 
 was clearing his decks for action. 
 
 "My dear fellow, I am your senior by fifteen years. 
 I have a wife and seven children. If you want excite- 
 ment, marry! Why not?" 
 
 Fermor laughed, holding up his hands. 
 
 "I want excitement in small doses. And I have 
 a singular prejudice against marriages of conven- 
 
 ience." 
 
 "Pooh, pooh! You underrate yourself. However, 
 I merely indicated a short cut to excitement. What 
 do you mean by adoption ?" 
 
 "Everything humanly possible. The boy has gifts 
 denied to me. I have something which may be useful 
 to him. He may accomplish my ambitions. I feel 
 that I could begin again with him. And I want to 
 begin again." 
 
 "But this means, if I know you, self-effacement." 
 
 "Pilots are not self-effacing persons. You are a 
 sky-pilot, and I've never seen you look so happy as 
 when you've come ashore after steering some cranky 
 craft into harbourage." 
 
 "Tut, tut!" said the Vicar. 
 
i 4 PROLOGUE 
 
 "I am speaking to you as I could speak to no other 
 man. My disabilities have been a burden to me. 
 I have always felt out of it: a looker-on. To-day, 
 now that I am comparatively free, I should like to 
 mix more with men and women. I know that I am 
 standing in a circle which is diminishing, and that I 
 am hemmed in with walls of my own building. You 
 have done your best to rescue me, but even you have 
 failed. This boy will soar Oh ! I use the word 
 advisedly and he will carry me with him." 
 
 "I see, but- 
 
 "You can say exactly what is in your mind." 
 
 "If you should be disappointed ? Take this 
 boy up - 
 
 " But he is going to take me up." 
 
 " There you beg the question. Personally, I think 
 he is a fine little fellow, with a voice which has materi- 
 ally increased our collections, but if you take him 
 up and he does not take you up if he should let you 
 down ? What then, my friend ?" 
 
 Fermor hesitated. 
 
 "It's ten to one on .the boy," he said drily. "And," 
 he shrugged his shoulders, "if the thing was a cer- 
 tainty, where would be the excitement?" 
 
 "You feel a strong interest in him ?" 
 
 There was a pause. When Fermor spoke his voice 
 was not quite steady. Perhaps, in that one moment, 
 he computed the sum total of those blessings which 
 had not been vouchsafed to him. 
 
 "I wish he were my own son." 
 
PROLOGUE 15 
 
 "What is his feeling toward you ?" 
 
 But Fermor answered evasively: "He likes to be 
 with me." 
 
 The Vicar rose. 
 
 "Obviously the matter is settled. I shall watch 
 the experiment with keen interest and sympathy. 
 You have your work cut out. The Devil will fight 
 hard for that youngster." 
 
 "Why do you say that?" 
 
 The Vicar answered drily: "Because I knew his 
 father. This will be a wrestling match between hered- 
 ity and environment. I predict plenty of excitement, 
 not now, but later." 
 
 "So be it," said Fermor. 
 
 Within a few minutes, he found himself walking 
 with slightly accelerated pace toward a row of build- 
 ings situate in a part of Sherborne known as Cold 
 Harbour, where David's maternal aunt, Miss Vawdrey, 
 occupied genteel lodgings. Many abbey towns to 
 which in the past the faithful made pilgrimage have 
 Cold Harbours. Here, as the name implies, the poorer 
 pilgrims found chill entertainment, a crust of bread 
 and a glass of fair water. The small house, wherein 
 Miss Vawdrey had found rooms, faced a high red-brick 
 wall, carefully constructed to hide from the vulgar 
 eye a charming house and garden. Sitting at her win- 
 dow, David's aunt was able to admire the beautiful 
 tone of the bricks, and to reflect, possibly, that she 
 was and must remain outside such pleasaunces as it 
 enclosed. She painted miniatures badly, but her 
 
16 PROLOGUE 
 
 prices were extremely moderate; and she never exas- 
 perated her clients by exacting long sittings. A photo- 
 graph sufficed her, which she reduced to miniature 
 size with the help of a neat apparatus designed for 
 that purpose. Fermor reminded himself that Miss 
 Vawdrey might refuse to part with her nephew, 
 although gossip said that he was regarded by her as 
 an encumbrance. She belonged we have observed 
 - to our floating population. To remain in one 
 place meant sinking. In a town the size of Sher- 
 borne, rich in the possession of many well-to-do families, 
 Miss Vawdrey might count upon exploiting at least 
 fifty clients. When she left a good "pitch" she was 
 wise enough never to return to it. We have her own 
 word that, despite ill fortune, she remained a perfect 
 lady. 
 
 Fermor rang the bell, which tinkled cheaply, as if 
 it were sorry for itself. David opened the door, smil- 
 ing seraphically when he saw his friend. But when 
 Fermor asked for Miss Vawdrey, the imp winked - 
 thereby ceasing to look like an angel and whis- 
 pered - 
 
 "She's cross as two sticks/' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I told her I wasn't going to London, and she said 
 that she would have something to say about that." 
 
 Fermor nodded, writing himself down an ass. Of 
 course, he ought to have spoken to the aunt first. Now, 
 with the perversity of an injured woman, she might 
 interpose obstacles. 
 
PROLOGUE 17 
 
 The boy led the way out of a narrow dismal hall 
 into a small sitting-room, characterized by Miss Vaw- 
 drey as the Studio. In the bow window, upon a 
 table covered with red plush, were samples of her 
 art, neatly and inexpensively framed. A cottage 
 piano, back to the wall, stood opposite to a fireplace 
 in which a crinkled cascade of tissue paper modestly 
 revealed itself to the wondering eye. No flowers were 
 to be seen except those upon the carpet. The furni- 
 ture, too large for the room, and bought at public 
 auction, was depressingly solid. Fermor told himself 
 that it would endure for ever. Chromo-lithographs 
 hung upon the walls. The boy, watching his friend, 
 and vaguely conscious of a fall in the temperature, 
 said hopefully: "Rather a jolly room, isn't it?" 
 
 Through the window, Fermor could see the insur- 
 mountable wall. He heard the boy saying: "Perhaps 
 it doesn't look very jolly to you, but if you'd seen the 
 rooms we had at Dorchester !" 
 
 "Please tell Miss Vawdrey that I am here." 
 
 Upstairs, the lady was adding a few touches to her 
 toilet. She had seen Fermor approaching, and it 
 was barely possible that he had come to commission 
 a miniature, or to pay a fellow-artist a belated visit. 
 Being what is euphemistically called a fine woman, 
 she was sensible that she ought to appeal to a rather 
 under-sized man. With deft fingers, she produced 
 an impression of artistic negligence. Upon a billowy 
 bosom, which an admirer had once compared favour- 
 ably with that of Clyde, she pinned a bunch of violets; 
 
i8 PROLOGUE 
 
 her hair presented an appearance of ordered disorder; 
 she was careful not to remove the pinafore in which 
 she painted. 
 
 Then, smiling graciously, she descended. 
 
 Fermor greeted her stiffly. Miss Vawdrey prided 
 herself upon being a daughter of Bohemia, and, in 
 duologue with what she called "understanding per- 
 sons," allowed herself a liberty of speech likely to be 
 mistaken by Philistines for licence. 
 
 "Pop off, David !" she commanded, with a wave 
 of an arm whose sleeve terminated at the elbow. 
 
 David vanished, but at the door he paused and 
 winked for the third time on that memorable after- 
 noon. The winks indicated a full acceptance of pal- 
 ship, and as such tickled the humour of our quiet 
 friend, but they revealed also, startlingly, the nature 
 of the relations between aunt and nephew. They 
 said plainly: " You'll have larks with this rum old 
 girl, and probably ructions !" 
 
 "Can I offer you a cigarette?" said Miss Vawdrey. 
 
 "No, thanks," said Fermor, glancing helplessly 
 about him. His eye rested upon a large framed 
 miniature. 
 
 "David's father," said Miss Vawdrey. "A very fine 
 man aristocratic looking, if I may say so." 
 
 "Very," murmured Fermor. 
 
 "When my poor sister died," she continued, "I 
 promised to be a mother to David." 
 
 "I want to speak to you about him, Miss Vawdrey." 
 
 "Dear, dear! I hoped you had come about a 
 
PROLOGUE 19 
 
 miniature. I should esteem it an honour to do your 
 head, Mr. Fermor. Your eyes, you know, are very 
 remarkable. I always say what I think. Positively, 
 your eyes have haunted me." 
 
 Our unhappy friend blushed. His eyes were 
 remarkable. They were gray, finely shaped, and 
 heavily lidded, the lids half hiding the irids, except 
 upon rare occasions. This physical peculiarity gave 
 to the face a dreamy, suffused expression. The 
 delicate arch of the eyebrow might have belonged to 
 the poet Shelley. 
 
 "Dr. Jubber, I believe, laid before you the London 
 offer ?" 
 
 "Yes, he did," the lady replied tartly, "and he 
 seemed to take it for granted that I should jump at 
 
 it." 
 
 "It's an offer that one could hardly decline unless 
 something better presented itself." 
 
 Miss Vawdrey's face hardened. 
 
 "Not an hour ago, David raced in here to tell me 
 that he was not going. I have hardly been treated 
 with courtesy, Mr. Fermor." 
 
 "I apologize. It's entirely my fault. Something 
 better has turned up, and, very indiscreetly, I hinted 
 as much to the child. Pray forgive me!" 
 
 "Not another word, I beg." 
 
 "The something better is this: a person of moderate 
 means wishes to adopt David. He will charge himself 
 with the boy's education, start him in some profession, 
 and eventually provide for him." 
 
20 PROLOGUE 
 
 "Indeed? Do I know this person, Mr. Fermor?" 
 
 "He is talking to you." 
 
 "You want to adopt David ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Miss Vawdrey said majestically: 
 
 "Neither Dr. Jubber nor you seem to have con- 
 sidered me. I am the child's guardian, and his near- 
 est living relation. For two years I have supported 
 him. You talk of taking him from me as if it were 
 a foregone conclusion that I should give him up." 
 
 Fermor, for the first time, raised his eyelids. His 
 glance was penetrating and disconcerting, as any 
 member of the Abbey choir could have testified. 
 
 "Dr. Jubber and I took for granted that you, as 
 the boy's guardian, would consider what was best 
 for him. When I engaged him to sing, you admitted 
 that you were unable to pay anything toward his edu- 
 cation. He has attended, I believe, the National 
 School. You made me understand that your inability 
 to afford a more liberal education was a grief to 
 you." 
 
 "It is." 
 
 "Then again, the exercise of your own profession 
 takes you from town to town, and each year the boy's 
 expenses will increase." 
 
 "Unless he contributes something toward his own 
 support." 
 
 " By singing in paid choirs ?" 
 
 "By singing in public concerts. I'm not a fool, 
 Mr. Fermor, and I happen to know that people are 
 
PROLOGUE 21 
 
 raving about this boy. He's a draw. He's worth 
 money, perhaps a lot of money." 
 
 "Within three years at most, probably before, his 
 voice will break." 
 
 "Of course. But in three years he might earn 
 enough to pay for even a better education than you 
 could give him." 
 
 Fermor was silent. 
 
 "He's clever and handsome. He might make a 
 hit on the stage." 
 
 She wriggled slightly beneath his steady glance, 
 and then continued defiantly: "His mother was 
 an actress. Perhaps you disapprove of the stage ? 
 Is your offer made out of pity ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " You are almost a stranger to me." 
 
 "But not to the boy." 
 
 "David likes you. But he likes everybody who 
 is kind to him, and most people are kind to him. If 
 you adopt him, and, mind you, I don't say that I shall 
 let him go, what do you expect to get out of it ?" 
 
 "It's not easy to answer that question, Miss Vaw- 
 drey. I may get disappointment." 
 
 "If he grows up like his father, you will." 
 
 She spoke trenchantly. Fermor smiled, remember- 
 ing what the Vicar had said. A fight quite other 
 than what he had anticipated was already on his 
 hands. And the excitement of it began to thrill his 
 too stagnant pulses. He said with dignity - 
 
 "If I have treated you with any lack of considera- 
 
22 PROLOGUE 
 
 tion, I am sincerely sorry. I have a personal interest 
 in the matter, how personal I am not quite able to 
 measure. I think I see in this child the makings of 
 a genius. Long ago, I presumed to believe that I 
 might do something myself, something worth while, 
 but it has been ordered otherwise. I should like to 
 see another profiting by my mistakes, avoiding the 
 pitfalls which I could point out, reaching the goal 
 which I shall never attain. If you will allow me, 
 I shall try to make the running for David." 
 
 Her eyes fell. She was a hard woman, soured by 
 the struggle to earn her bread, and sensible that for 
 her, as for the man opposite, the colour of life was 
 turning gray. She raised her head slowly, and saw 
 the wall, to her the symbol of a mean and spiteful 
 exclusiveness. Past the dingy little house, which she 
 must soon leave for another just like it, or even more 
 dreary, hurried the foot-passengers: men and women 
 returning home after the day's work. For the most 
 part they walked wearily, looking neither to right nor 
 left, intent upon their own thoughts. Suddenly, she 
 turned to Fermor, sitting silent before her. 
 
 "You are an artist/' she said abruptly. 
 
 He made a deprecating gesture. 
 
 "Once I thought so. I call myself, to-day, an 
 
 artisan." 
 
 " I am an artisan, you are an artist. To me, a true 
 artist is one who would make sacrifices for Art, who, 
 at a pinch, would subordinate his own ambitions for 
 Art. I was never like that. And I never shall be. 
 
PROLOGUE 23 
 
 Heavens! That I should confess it to you! Well, 
 you have made an appeal to the miserable atom in 
 me that is still artist. You can have the boy." 
 
 "Thank you. I shall try to justify the sacrifice 
 on your part." 
 
 She laughed flippantly. 
 
 " My cards are face up on the table. I am not sorry 
 to be relieved of a tedious responsibility. But I did 
 want to get my knife into you and the Vicar. You've 
 been too honest for me. All the same, I warn you 
 that David is not the little angel which you and some 
 idiotic women seem to think him." 
 
 Fermor laughed. 
 
 "Seriously, Miss Vawdrey, do you suppose that a 
 humble person like myself would presume to under- 
 take the care of an angel ?" 
 
 "Seriously, Mr. Fermor, I think you are buying a 
 pig in a poke, instead of a chorister from the heavenly 
 choir. The boy's father was clever, good-for-nothing, a 
 reckless sensualist who thought he married beneath 
 him when he took my pretty sister from the boards 
 of a provincial theatre. Fortunately for David, he 
 is dead, as you know. I keep his miniature for busi- 
 ness purposes, but it always reminds me that David may 
 turn out like him. Well, do you wish to amuse yourself 
 by telling the kid that you want to adopt him?" 
 
 "That is for you to decide." 
 
 "I'll send him to you to-morrow." 
 
 "At eleven?" 
 
 "At eleven." 
 
24 PROLOGUE 
 
 Next day, Fermor woke early and went for a stroll. 
 He lingered for a moment beneath the yew trees in 
 the Abbey Close, and paused again when he came 
 to the Lady Chapel, carefully examining some of 
 the stones beneath the escutcheon of Edward VI. 
 These stones, which were crumbling away because 
 they had been improperly laid by careless masons, 
 always exasperated him. Set with the right surface 
 exposed to the destroying elements, they would have 
 presented as firm and youthful a complexion as other 
 and far older parts of the Abbey. He frowned, mut- 
 tering to himself while he strolled on through the 
 narrow passage which leads to Abbot Mere's Conduit 
 and thence into Cheap Street. At the Conduit he drank 
 some water, not because he was particularly thirsty, 
 but for the sentimental reason that so many stout 
 masons and good monks had slaked their thirst at the 
 same fountain. Then, more briskly, he mounted the 
 quaint, narrow, winding street of ancient houses built 
 of all sizes and at all angles. Fermor had a kindly 
 glance for Elizabethan, Jacobean, Georgian, and 
 Victorian. He loved bricks, he adored stone, and he 
 was not too contemptuous of time-mellowed stucco. 
 The fact is he permitted himself to stare at human 
 habitations, whereas he was too shy to scrutinize closely 
 the people who dwelt in them. His interest in houses 
 was inspired by his interest in people, but he told him- 
 self that he did know a lot about architecture and very 
 little about architects, considering mankind as the 
 builders of themselves and their dwelling-places. 
 
PROLOGUE 25 
 
 David's adoption was the daring expression of a crav- 
 ing to know more. 
 
 Having reached Green Hill, he returned home by 
 Back Abbey, where he was certain to meet boys running 
 or crawling to early school. Many of them he knew; 
 and he was pleasurably aware that he enjoyed a mild 
 popularity amongst them. They capped him, a salute 
 punctiliously acknowledged. Occasionally, the more 
 ardent confided some secret joy or trouble, which 
 flattered him enormously, although he was painfully 
 aware that he did not quite rise to the high level of 
 these artless outpourings. Full of sympathy for youth, 
 and young himself inasmuch as what was fresh and 
 clean and enthusiastic appealed to him irresistibly, 
 he could never overcome his detestable shyness. He 
 said less than might warrantably be expected, because 
 he desired to say so much more. 
 
 In the quadrangle he paused again, watching the 
 boys streaming into the rather fusty class-rooms 
 beneath the library. Long ago he had come to the 
 conclusion that public-school life given present 
 social conditions was a necessary evil. Most boys 
 muddled through; and at the end, in nine cases out 
 of ten, it was a nice matter to adjust loss and gain. 
 And a thousand times at least he had asked himself 
 the question: "What should I do with a boy of my 
 own?" 
 
 Now he had a boy of his own. 
 
 He sat down near the Cloisters. Upon a gargoyle 
 hard by was a raven. He stared inquiringly at 
 
26 PROLOGUE 
 
 Fermor, with his shining head on one side. Fermor 
 took a box from his pocket and extracted three 
 small cubes of raw beef. The raven flapped 
 down beside him and ate his breakfast, allowing 
 Fermor to scratch his head, a privilege extended 
 to few. 
 
 The boys had disappeared, but from the open 
 windows came the hum of voices. Fermor looked 
 upward. It was early May, but April still lingered 
 on earth and sky. The heavens were full of small 
 fleecy clouds, white as the lambs in the meadows which 
 border the Yeo. They seemed to be browsing upon 
 azure fields, unwilling to move, yet conveying in their 
 passivity the instinct of motion. The sun floating 
 lazily upward was faintly obscured by filmy vapours. 
 During the night there had been a touch, no more, 
 of frost. Upon the grass in the landscape shimmered 
 innumerable tiny crystals, each cut more perfectly 
 than any brilliant. To a lover of colour and form, 
 the general effect was superlative. And to Fermor, 
 colour and form could be transmuted into sound. 
 The subtle vibrations which produced the one trans- 
 posed themselves into the other. But, in his case, 
 the magical change introduced harmonies with which 
 he was familiar. Nothing original came to him. 
 For instance, the ephemeral effects of this May morn- 
 ing were set to Mendelssohn's "Bee's Wedding." 
 Fairies seemed to be playing upon muted strings. 
 Again, when he turned his eyes toward the huge square 
 tower of the Abbey, the aerial strains of the poet 
 
PROLOGUE 27 
 
 melted away, and one of Boyce's stately anthems 
 pealed upon the silence. 
 
 Then he thought: "What will these things whisper 
 to the boy ?" 
 
 And it would be his lot to set these things forth, 
 to exhibit them to young eyes and an eager mind. 
 Not an object in earth and sky, from the filmy veil 
 of mist melting in the sun to the immemorial stones 
 of the Abbey, but had its message: its Jubilate, its 
 Te Deum, and its Miserere. 
 
 He rose up, smiling, his plain face transfigured by 
 the faith that a triumph withheld from itself might be 
 vouchsafed to another. 
 
 At eleven, to the minute, David appeared in Fermor's 
 room. Miss Vawdrey, with possibly an ironic sense 
 of the situation, had imposed a white sailor suit fresh 
 from the wash. Perhaps she had taken particular 
 pains to enhance the commercial value of goods which 
 exposed for sale or hire elsewhere might have brought 
 a snug sum to herself. Fermor, however, paid little 
 attention to clothes. He liked children to be clean, 
 at any rate in the morning, and he abominated badly 
 made boots. 
 
 "Got a new song this morning?" he asked. 
 
 " No. I say, sir, what's up ? Auntie won't speak, but 
 I'm so excited I don't know what to do. And I ought 
 to be at school. Why did she rig me out in this suit ?" 
 
 " Because you are going for a walk with me. Where 
 shall we go ? Up or down ?" 
 
28 PROLOGUE 
 
 As he put the simple question, he attached an absurd 
 importance to the child's answer. 
 
 "To Jerusalem Hill. Let's get as high as ever 
 
 we can/ 3 
 
 "Right! And we'll take something to eat." 
 
 "That just settles it." 
 
 "Settles what?" 
 
 "You said yesterday that we were going to be pals. 
 I've thought of nothing else. It blew my new song 
 bang out of my head. Well, it's easy enough to talk 
 about being pals. But I wondered how you were 
 going to prove it. This proves it." 
 
 They set forth, Fermor carrying a fishing creel 
 wherein to stow the luncheon, which David selected 
 with evident appreciation of the good things to be 
 found in a tuck-shop. Curious to test the child, he 
 said: 
 
 "You have a free hand! Buy whatever you like." 
 
 " But what do you like, sir ?" 
 
 "I eat everything which is set before me. So did 
 St. Paul." 
 
 "Do you think St. Paul liked sausage rolls ?" 
 
 "We must ask the Vicar. Oatmeal cake, some 
 fresh butter, and a cream cheese will nourish me 
 sufficiently till tea-time." 
 
 They set forth to climb the slopes, leading to the 
 Lovers' Walk. As soon as they had crossed the rail- 
 way, David slipped his hand into Fermor's. No other 
 action, no word, could have so foreshadowed the 
 significance of their future relations. Then he reflected 
 
PROLOGUE 29 
 
 with an odd pang of jealousy, that this might be a 
 habit. He remembered the aunt's tart words: " David 
 likes everybody who is kind to him." 
 
 "You have lots of friends, David ?" 
 
 David considered the question before he replied - 
 
 "They say so." 
 
 "Now what do you mean by that ?" 
 
 "People call 'emselves my friends, and they think 
 that settles it. Miss Callow says I'm her darling. It 
 makes me sick. And Miss Jubber asked me to spend 
 an afternoon with her, but she talked the whole time 
 to somebody else, and I had to amuse myself with 
 
 her parrot. I tried to to He stopped suddenly, 
 
 shaking with laughter. 
 
 "What did you try to do?" 
 
 "If we're pals I must tell you. I tried to teach 
 it to say 'damn,' but, by Golly! it could say it already. 
 Fancy a parrot living in the Abbey Close saying 
 'damn'!" 
 
 " My sense of what is fitting reels at the thought of 
 it." 
 
 "Auntie says that nearly all women are rotters. 
 Auntie is a oner to say what she thinks, but she wouldn't 
 speak a word this morning. Never saw her so queer. 
 And of course I knew she was bottling something up." 
 
 "I'm going to unbottle it, when we get to the top 
 of the hill." 
 
 "I have the funniest kind of squirmy feeling in my 
 inside." 
 
 At the summit of Jerusalem they sat down beneath 
 
30 PROLOGUE 
 
 an immense fir, flanked, lower down the hill, by two 
 glorious beeches now in full leaf. The oaks and 
 thorns were out also, but the prudent ash, with a mem- 
 ory as green as its unborn foliage of late May frosts, 
 displayed bare branches against the tender skies. 
 Below stretched a wide expanse of turf; to the left 
 the wooded slopes ran sharply into the park, and 
 beyond, palely blue, rose Ham Hill, whose quarries 
 had furnished the Benedictines with the stones of which 
 their Abbey Church was built. In the middle of the 
 picture stood the Castle, enbosomed in trees, the mel- 
 low tints of its curious gray stucco shining softly in 
 the sun. Beyond was the town, dominated by the 
 Abbey, whose massive tower had looked down upon 
 generations of men. 
 
 "A princely domain!" exclaimed Fermor. 
 
 "Rather hard luck that it belongs to one man." 
 
 Fermor smiled, thinking of the high wall in front 
 of Miss Vawdrey's lodgings in Cold Harbour. 
 
 "You have great possessions too," he said quietly. 
 
 "I, sir?" 
 
 "Assuredly. You are one of the lucky few, David. 
 You have health, strength, good looks, and, perhaps, 
 genius. In my opinion you are richer than the Squire, 
 even if he does own seven and twenty thousand acres 
 of land in Dorest. Also you are young." 
 
 " It's jolly to be young," said David. 
 
 He lay back amongst the bracken spikes just begin- 
 ning to uncurl their pale green fronds. Behind, in 
 the beeches which Pope planted, a couple of pigeons 
 
PROLOGUE 31 
 
 were cooing. From the top of these lordly trees might 
 be seen Glastonbury and Alfred's Tower. Beyond 
 lay Sedgmoor and Severn's silver sea. 
 
 Fermor recalled the men of Wessex, the kings and 
 statesmen and bold explorers. Alfred must have had 
 something of David's Saxon beauty. And then, like 
 homing doves, his thoughts flew to the Abbey, and he 
 wondered whether the boy at his feet would live to set 
 forth in music what Ramsam and Bradford had 
 enshrined in stone. Now that the great moment 
 had come, he funked it. How would the child receive 
 his astounding communication ? Certain carefully 
 prepared phrases which might soap the ways whereon 
 his offer would slide into David's mind took fright 
 and vanished. He was only conscious that spring 
 was abroad in Wessex and that David was a boy who 
 might become a great man. Presently, he said hesi- 
 tatingly : 
 
 "If you shut your eyes you can hear the grass grow." 
 "I don't want to hear the grass grow. I'm fright- 
 fully excited because you're going to unbottle Auntie." 
 "Your aunt is leaving Sherborne." 
 "Then I shan't stay here. How beastly!" 
 " You would like to stay here without her ? " 
 "Auntie is not a bad sort, but I bore her. I'm 
 in her way. I'm a nuisance. I made certain I should 
 be sent to London because that would save her a lot 
 of time and bother and money!" 
 
 "You thought that out by yourself?" 
 
 "Yes. I can't pretend with you. I mean, I mustn't. 
 
32 PROLOGUE 
 
 Last night, before you came, when I told her I wasn't 
 going to London, she got awfully cross, because we 
 both thought they didn't want me. Do they want me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And I'm not going?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And Auntie is going?" 
 
 "Within a month." 
 
 "Then what's to become of me ?" 
 
 "A crusty old bachelor wants to adopt you." 
 
 "Golly! It's you. Quick! Say it's you." 
 
 "Yes it's I." 
 
 The child flung himself into Fermor's arms. 
 
 " Oh !" he exclaimed. " It's too splended it's won- 
 derful it's just right it's the bestest thing that 
 ever happened." 
 
 "I believe it is," said Fermor. The child's emotion 
 unmanned him, the child's kisses seemed to touch 
 some chord in his heart. He heard the "heavenly 
 note" for which he had sought so patiently. And 
 then everything that had been denied expression, 
 the myriad emotions of which the human mind and 
 body are capable, thrilled into music. He understood 
 that he had come into the world for this moment, that 
 the child was his, and had acclaimed him joyously, 
 with a conviction which swept doubt to the void. His 
 heart seemed to stop beating, as if it, also, had paused 
 to listen to celestial harmonies. 
 
 "Are you ill ?" said the boy anxiously. 
 
 Fermor smiled. 
 
PROLOGUE 33 
 
 "I have never felt better or happier. But a queer 
 thing happened. I heard a new song." 
 
 "A new song? You must write it down, as you 
 wrote down mine yesterday." 
 
 Fermor laughed. 
 
 "It was a wonderful song, but it's gone." 
 
 "Where do you think it came from ?" 
 
 Fermor gazed gravely into the boy's eyes. 
 
 "From the other side," he answered. 
 
BOOK I 
 
 'Once more I behold the face of her 
 Whose actions all had the character 
 Of an inexpressible charm, expressed; 
 Whose movements -flowed from a centre of rest, 
 And whose rest was that of a swallow, rife 
 With the instinct of reposing life; 
 Whose mirth had a sadness all the while 
 It sparkled and laughed; and whose sadness lay 
 In the heaven of such a crystal smile 
 That you longed to travel the selfsame way 
 To the brightness of sorrow. For round her breathed 
 A grace like that of the general air, 
 Which softens the sharp extreme of things, 
 And connects by its subtle invisible stair 
 The lowest and highest. She interwreathed 
 Her mortal obscureness with so much light 
 Of the world unrisen, that angels 9 wings 
 Could hardly have given her greater right 
 To float in the winds of the Infinite" 
 
 35 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 
 
 THE audience gathered together to listen to 
 David Archdale's first recital, after his 
 appointment as organist of Sherborne Abbey, 
 filled more than half of the nave. The townsmen 
 knew that the young man was succeeding Sebastian 
 Fermor, who had retired after five and twenty years 
 of service. Few were aware that Fermor's retirement 
 was voluntary, and that, on tendering his resignation, 
 the Vicar had entreated him to remain. His improve- 
 ments in the tremulant, the coupling arrangements, 
 and the pneumatic pistons, and the pitch of perfection 
 to which he had trained the choir was now part of the 
 history of Sherborne. To lose such an organist, 
 although he was being replaced by a more brilliant 
 musician, distressed the Vicar unduly. To make 
 matters worse, it was improbable that young Archdale 
 would be content to remain in Sherborne. He was 
 only twenty-three years of age, and had attracted 
 attention as a composer of tonal poems of originality 
 and vigour. Dr. Jubber, now nearing his three- 
 score years and ten, loved music, and knew not a 
 little concerning the lives of musicians. Admitting 
 that David was the genius which Fermor believed 
 him to be, nothing could be more certain than his recog- 
 
 37 
 
38 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 nition as such by the world. Like Mendelssohn, 
 Mozart, Meyerbeer, Spohr, and many others, he had 
 begun to compose as a child. Fermor had envelopes 
 full of what he called "refractory" ores. They were 
 refractory inasmuch as they defied reduction. Fermor, 
 a purist, who held that music was capable of express- 
 ing more than the emotions of an individual, abom- 
 inated cheap and redundant effects. And within 
 two years of his adoption of David, he had realized 
 the perils and seductions of a premature and facile 
 success. Till now, his influence over the young fellow, 
 his will stronger than his pupil's and, greatest reason 
 of all, his self-effacing love and tenderness for one 
 whom he regarded as a son, had kept Archdale a willing 
 captive in a quiet town. To-day might inaugurate 
 a new era. The Vicar, leaning back in his stall, sen- 
 sible of impotence mocking experience, told himself 
 that the flight which, years before, he had predicted, 
 was likely to begin. 
 
 Halfway down the nave sat Fermor. He had 
 changed little during the passage of thirteen years. 
 Shy, reserved, awkward he would remain till he died, 
 but his face was informed with serenity. He looked 
 a happy man, a harvester of sheaves, content to count 
 them and to reflect that his husbandry would fill 
 empty mouths. He shared none of the Vicar's fears 
 concerning David, for a reason which will appear 
 presently. He gazed placidly at David's present and 
 future, perceiving both by the rosy glow of the past. 
 Had he not leapt valiantly into a dark gulf and, on 
 
THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 39 
 
 landing, discovered himself in a sunny garden filled 
 with sweet smelling herbs and flowers ? The child 
 who had leapt with him, so joyously and confidently, 
 had surpassed expectation. 
 
 By Fermor's side was a young woman. Several 
 times during the recital she touched Fermor's arm 
 and glanced into his face, at if an understanding 
 existed between them, an entente founded upon esteem 
 and affection. David was playing a composition 
 of his own, presented for the first time to an audience, 
 but familiar in every phrase to Fermor and his com- 
 panion. The theme was ecclesiastical, elegiac, and 
 Gothic, interpreting the meaning and message of the 
 great house of God wherein it was heard. Doubtless 
 the frivolous would condemn it as too austere. Here 
 and there the composer had introduced modulations 
 and dissonants, as if to emphasize the finite discord 
 ever obtruding itself into the infinite and divine. The 
 opening was intentionally chaotic, presenting the 
 architects confronted with shapeless rocks and vast 
 timbers. Through this, thinly at first, trickled the 
 theme, developed in accordance with the swelling 
 ideas of the Saxon and Norman builders. The orna- 
 mentation in the second movement, the addition of 
 colour, was conveyed with a breadth and distinction 
 which almost equalled the finished work of Bradford 
 and Ramsam. Fermor nodded approvingly, gazing 
 upward into the roof of the Choir, where the delicate 
 shafts and panelling soar into the finest Perpendicular 
 
40 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 fan-vaulting in existence. The general effect of the 
 Abbey Church interior is that of incomparable fresh- 
 ness as Fermor reminded himself which had been 
 miraculously preserved by thick plaster. In the middle 
 of the nineteenth century, when the plaster was care- 
 fully removed, the beautiful Ham stone looked as if 
 it had been newly taken from the quarry. Fermor 
 liked to reflect that in men as in buildings fine tracery 
 may be overlaid. Had it not been so with him ? Till 
 his adoption of David, the delicate tissues of mind and 
 soul were concealed beneath an ever-thickening mask 
 of indifference and impassivity. David Archdale had 
 chipped the plaster from Sebastian Fermor. 
 
 The third movement began: illustrating the House 
 Beautiful, a sanctuary for quick and dead. Into 
 the spaces of the nave a miserere quivered, as if from 
 the ambulatory, where the Saxon kings, Ethelbert 
 and Ethelbald, lie at rest. The girl pressed Fermor' s 
 arm and smiled. To her, death meant the passing 
 to an ampler life, a passage so easy, involving so little 
 change, that, apart from the pangs of dissolution, it 
 ought to be no more dreadful than falling asleep. 
 To her, also, the miserere drew tears for the living - 
 those left behind. And faintly blushing, she prayed, 
 "O God! Let me go first!" The wish had hardly 
 been aspirated, when the solemn largo began to melt 
 into an adagio, so melodious, so pregnant with the 
 suggestion of renascence and vernal change, that the 
 girl asked herself if it were possible that only a moment 
 since she had confronted smilingly the leaving of a 
 
THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 41 
 
 world so fair. She heard the lark and the nightin- 
 gale, and in her nostrils was the fragrance of woods 
 and fields. Once more, beneath her breath, as her 
 bosom rose and fell, she entreated: "O God, let me 
 live long if it be Thy will!" 
 
 After the recital Fermor asked a few friends to drink 
 tea with him. For many years he had occupied a 
 cottage in the Abbey Close, next to the Vicarage, at 
 the end of the delightful semicircle which begins with 
 the Almshouses. The gray stone of it was half con- 
 cealed by ivy and climbing roses. From its square 
 Jacobean windows one could see the West front of 
 the Abbey, the yews and lindens of the Close, and the 
 quaintly broken line of roofs to the right of the South 
 Transept. 
 
 The long, low room, half library, half music-room, 
 was panelled in old oak, not black, but golden with 
 age, and immaculate of stain or varnish. The furni- 
 ture was of oak, also simple and solid. A few 
 mellow mezzotints hung upon the panels, and there 
 were many books, and an ancient fireplace. Tweedle- 
 dum and Tweedledee faced each other as of yore. 
 Upon a blackboard a diagram in chalk illustrated an 
 elementary principle of counterpoint. 
 
 At the tea-table presided the girl who had sat beside 
 Fermor in the Abbey. She was not remarkable in 
 any way, and yet men and women looked at her with 
 interest. She spoke of herself as a " back-seater." 
 Fermor and she had many mild jokes upon the subject. 
 
42 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 In public, Mary Pignerol was always overshadowed 
 by her father, Professor Pignerol, the natural science 
 master of Sherborne School, a French-Anglophile, 
 who had married an Englishwoman and settled in 
 England. Many of us have heard him lecture. He 
 spoke English well, being an ardent hunter of the 
 mot juste, as Miss Callow observed. He stood talk- 
 ing to David at the end of the room. Mary kept 
 house for him and mothered her younger brothers 
 and sisters. Mrs. Pignerol was dead. The Professor, 
 admittedly the most popular man in Sherborne (al- 
 though for a dominie he was understood to hold 
 extraordinary views), belonged to the Society for 
 Psychical Research; and it was whispered that at one 
 time in his life he had been on intimate terms with 
 the late Madame Blavatzky. More, he never hesi- 
 tated to draw comparisons between France and Eng- 
 and, not always to the advantage of the latter, but 
 his breezy laughter whistled to the wind any suspicion 
 of offence. 
 
 Mary could hear him talking about music to David 
 Archdale and the group surrounding them. 
 
 "Your work to-day was fine, David, but, like some 
 of our good Vicar's sermons, over the heads of the 
 people. The English have no imagination, but they 
 are ridiculously sentimental. They adore the tinkle- 
 tinkle melodies, which the boys whistle in the streets. 
 If you want to sell your muffins, ring the tinkle-tinkle 
 bell." 
 
 Mary leaned forward, smiling, to catch David's 
 
THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 43 
 
 answer. He had a beautiful speaking voice, with the 
 diapason quality. Nevertheless, Fermor's hope that 
 he might become a great singer had never fructified. 
 
 " How do you know that I want to sell my muffins ?" 
 
 " If you don't, it is well." He turned to Miss Rachel 
 Callow. "I am so wise. I see so much. When I 
 was David's age, I too wanted to sell muffins, and I 
 too rang my tinkle-tinkle bell." 
 
 "And now?" demanded Miss Callow sharply. 
 
 "Ah! I am a philosopher now. An evangelist. 
 I preach to my silly pupils who laugh at me the gospel 
 of work. Look at Mary!" 
 
 Everybody did so immediately, to Mary's confusion 
 She sat still, smiling and blushing. 
 
 "That child," said the Professor, solemnly, "is the 
 busiest woman in Sherborne, and the happiest. Look 
 at her!" 
 
 "Dear father, please!' 
 
 " But, my child, consider yourself, for the moment, 
 an object lesson. You are adorable when you blush, 
 isn't she, David?" 
 
 "Yes," said David. 
 
 "We will admit," continued the Professor, "that 
 my Mary has enjoyed the privilege of having me for 
 a father, and " 
 
 He stopped suddenly, as the Vicar entered the room, 
 followed by a striking-looking woman, whom nobody 
 present had ever seen before. Everything about her 
 was on a large and expensive scale. Her hat, her 
 sables, her complexion proclaimed that money was as 
 
44 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 silver in the days of Solomon. Under the hat flashed 
 a pair of bright, slightly prominent eyes, of a Van 
 Dyck brown tint, shaded by short thick black lashes. 
 
 This was the famous Mrs. Stormont, Felicia Stor- 
 mont, who boasted that she had revived in London 
 the French salon. 
 
 "I insisted on coming/' she said, in a clear, pleasant 
 voice, to Fermor. "And, of course, I always have 
 my own way. I'm the most persistent woman in Eng- 
 land. Please introduce me to your wonderful son." 
 
 Fermor hastened to obey. The discreet use of the 
 word "son" warmed his heart. Indiscreet persons 
 spoke of his adopted son, till, in truth, he had come 
 to hate the qualifying adjective. 
 
 "I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Archdale," 
 said the smiling stranger. "Surely this is Professor 
 Pignerol." 
 
 "At your service, Madame." 
 
 "I have heard you lecture. You are writing a 
 book reconciling science with religion ?" 
 
 "I am," the Professor admitted. 
 
 "Science is coming round, but religion holds back. 
 We must have a talk together." With a gracious 
 nod, she turned from the Frenchman to David, who 
 looked slightly shy and ill as ease. 
 
 "You will get me a cup of tea, won't you ? I have 
 so much to say to you." 
 
 David brought the tea, and a chair. He felt rather 
 tongue-tied, but instinct told him, reassuringly, that 
 she would talk for two. 
 
THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 45 
 
 "You are a genius/' she began. "I discovered that 
 for myself. By the way do you ever go to London ? " 
 
 " Hardly ever." 
 
 "Dear me! I was hoping that I could persuade 
 you to dine with me next week, to meet a few people 
 who would interest you." 
 
 "You are very kind, Mrs. Stormont." 
 
 "Don't say that! And pray don't imagine that I 
 should ask you to play, or anything of that sort, but 
 you will permit a middle-aged woman to remark 
 that a young man should see something not to be 
 found in Sherborne." Her eyes, scintillating with 
 interrogation, met his. He laughed and blushed. 
 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 " There is no * perhaps' about it. I predict, with 
 confidence, that you are going very far, but you must 
 be advertised. Advertisement, to-day, accomplishes 
 more for genius than adversity. To be sure, you can 
 know nothing of the latter ?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 " I should like to introduce you to half a dozen men." 
 She named three of them. u You will admit that they 
 are worth knowing." 
 
 " I should be frightened out of my life." 
 
 "It's so charming of you to say that. I've been 
 rather abrupt, but my host at the Castle enjoined me 
 not to keep his horses waiting. You will come to see 
 me ? Stormont Lodge, opposite Hyde Park, on the 
 right side." 
 
 "I'm sure of that." 
 
46 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 She gave him an approving little nod, and, 
 sinking her voice, said softly: "I don't think 
 you will be very badly frightened. Where is the 
 Professor?" 
 
 She rose as she spoke, adding in her ordinary tone: 
 "You will come ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I'm at home every Thursday to my acquaintances, 
 but my friends get a warmer welcome on Sunday." 
 
 Within five minutes, she had disappeared, leaving 
 behind her a phosphorescent wake, which illuminated 
 queerly some stolid faces. The Professor said son- 
 orously: 
 
 'That woman Heaven help her! is suffering 
 from an incurable disease!" 
 
 "What?" exclaimed Miss Callow. 
 
 "Restlessness. She opens her door wide to the 
 living and the dead." 
 
 "The dead?" 
 
 The Professor always shocked Miss Callow, but 
 she told everybody that his conversation was so 
 stimulating. 
 
 "Certainly, the dead. This good lady is too hos- 
 pitable. She entertains, unawares, the thought-forms 
 of thousands of chatterboxes, whose physical bodies 
 have long ago disintegrated." 
 
 Miss Callow carried this stimulating hypothesis 
 home with her; and at her departure others took 
 leave. David slipped away with Mary Pignerol. 
 The Vicar, Fermor, and the Frenchman were left: 
 
THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 47 
 
 all friends, and each sensible that the other possessed 
 attributes lacking in himself. The Professor sur- 
 veyed Dr. Jubber with twinkling eyes. 
 
 "Well," he said. "What have you to say for your- 
 self? To drop that explosive into our quiet pool 
 was abominable." 
 
 "Tut, tut! A very kind woman!" 
 
 "She asked David to her house, exacted a solemn 
 'yes' from him. And I tell you it's a pest-house. 
 She will infect him." 
 
 "My dear Pignerol, you and Fermor cannot dry- 
 nurse David for ever. In the Abbey, this afternoon, 
 I was thinking with a certain misgiving upon what we 
 three had done." 
 
 "Be lucid!" commanded the Professor. 
 
 Fermor, in his chair, nodded, filling his pipe. The 
 Vicar, erect upon the hearthrug, accepted the challenge. 
 
 "We have taken part in a delightful and exciting 
 experiment: the fashioning of a genius. Fermor, 
 of course, has done the hard work." 
 
 " It was easy to me. David took to music from the 
 beginning, but," he glanced at the Vicar, "his Latin 
 and Greek, and," he smiled at the Professor, "his 
 French and Science !" 
 
 " He will never be a scholar," said the Vicar 
 solemnly. 
 
 " Or a man of Science," added the Professor. " Jub- 
 ber is right. These doctors of divinity are nearly 
 always right, except when they talk about divinity. 
 Our work has been supplementary, but we have joined 
 
48 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 together in protecting the boy against the assaults of 
 the world, the flesh, and the devil." 
 
 "And so far we may congratulate ourselves upon 
 being successful/' 
 
 "So far?" 
 
 'The time has come when our work is going to be 
 tested. We have three strong wills. David has not 
 a strong will. Because of that we have succeeded in 
 imposing upon him our ideas and ideals/' 
 
 "Quite true," assented Pignerol. He held up his 
 hands with a comical gesture. "Bon Dieu! what 
 luck for him!" 
 
 The Vicar frowned. 
 
 "I wish I were as conceited as you, my good 
 Professor." 
 
 "Cher maitre y you are a dignitary of the Church 
 of England, and I am a psychologist, who, for grievous 
 sins committed in previous existences, am constrained 
 to teach physics to pudding-witted boys. To-day, 
 I value myself and my influence highly. I am no 
 longer the miserable sinner I used to be ten thousand 
 ages ago. And the force which flows through me is 
 divine. I were a blasphemer to deny it. You, my 
 poor friend, handicap the same force which emanates 
 from you by pretending that you are a worm. Master 
 David is enormously in our debt. He will never know 
 it in his present incarnation, or be able to measure it." 
 
 Fermor took his pipe from his mouth. 
 
 "What are your misgivings, Jubber?" 
 
 "For one thing, I am certain that I shall soon be 
 
THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 49 
 
 without an organist. Perhaps, then, we shall persuade 
 you to come back. That is a personal matter, but it 
 drives home the fact that we cannot keep the boy here. 
 And we three have supplied him with so much of what 
 our friend calls force that I wonder what will happen 
 when it is withdrawn." 
 
 "Why should it be withdrawn ?" 
 
 "Speaking for myself, it is certain that I also shall 
 be leaving Sherborne soon." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. The Frenchman, 
 with irrepressible sympathy, jumped up and pressed 
 the Vicar's hand. 
 
 "Ah!" he exclaimed. "It was not easy for you 
 to say that. But, over there, you will have oppor- 
 tunities of which you cannot dream." He continued 
 enthusiastically: "The force will be intensified, 
 provided - He hesitated. 
 
 "Provided?" 
 
 " Provided that the boy remains recipient. Our 
 influence is not subject to time and space. Love is 
 active. It would affect David as potently if he were 
 walking about Mars instead of walking with Mary. 
 But he, I grant you, can interpose obstacles. And 
 so far, he had not been seriously attacked by the 
 elementals." 
 
 The Vicar made a grimace. 
 
 "You ask me to be lucid, and you talk this 
 jargon !" 
 
 "Then I will say that your personal Devil, who, 
 to me, is represented by billions of evil thoughts, has 
 
50 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 not found this room a happy hunting-ground. And 
 I'm sure that he prefers to play the deuce outside the 
 Abbey. The longer we can keep David as he is, the 
 better. That's why I hated to see the snake in our 
 little Eden. However, he must fight, but we have 
 trained him, and sharpened his weapons, and we ought 
 not to question the ultimate issue. By apprehending 
 disaster, we help to bring it about. I should call 
 myself a false friend, if I did not believe that David, 
 no matter what the fight may be, will conquer in 
 the end." 
 
 "Amen," said the Vicar. 
 
 " David is with Mary," said Fermor. 
 
 Simultaneously, the three men burst into laughter. 
 
 " Is it to be settled this afternoon ?" asked Pignerol. 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Then you must come up this evening to crack a 
 bottle of champagne. Are you sure, Fermor?" 
 
 " Reasonably so." 
 
 "I feel easier in my mind," said the Vicar. "I had 
 forgotten Mary. Yes, yes, I feel much easier." 
 
 He went away with Pignerol. Fermor sat still, 
 smoking and thinking. To teach an ardent pupil 
 an art dear to oneself is indeed easy and pleasant, 
 but to face public opinion and conventions sanctified 
 by a thousand years is not easy. The Vicar, for 
 instance, commended a public-school education, and 
 had, at his own wish, coached David for an entrance 
 scholarship at Sherborne. Upon the eve of the exam- 
 ination, Fermor discussed the matter with the boy. 
 
THE VICAR ENTERTAINS MISGIVINGS 51 
 
 He remembered his astonishment when David said 
 explosively : 
 
 " I loathe the idea of going to school here." 
 
 Fermor sympathized with this declaration. He, too, 
 had loathed his school days. But David was neither 
 shy, nor awkward, and was physically able to hold his 
 own. 
 
 "Why ? Give me your reasons." 
 
 "In the first place, boys bore me. Most of 'em 
 are beasts, particularly choristers. I like grown-ups. 
 By making me your pal, you've rather spoilt me for 
 school. 
 
 "This is serious." 
 
 " Isn't it ? I can think of nothing else." 
 
 "I must talk it over with Professor Pignerol." 
 
 "I like him awfully. Of course, if you and he decide 
 that I must go, I shall try to grin and bear it." 
 
 Pignerol, with a Gallic sense of detachment, asked 
 for time. 
 
 "I believe," said he, "that the boy is a remarkable 
 exception, and that his instinct is not at fault. If you 
 decide to bring him up at home, upon lines different 
 from what we have seen here, I shall be enormously 
 interested, and I'll help with his education. So will 
 the Vicar, I'm sure, although we must expect violent 
 protest from him. As you know, I'm bringing up 
 my children in defiance of cut-and-dried standards." 
 
 Next day the Professor added a few more words: 
 "David is to be a great musician. The three of us 
 are agreed upon that. Songs come buzzing into his 
 
52 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 head, and then you write 'em down. For his age, 
 he seems to have an amazing appreciation of what is 
 beautiful. Public-school life is levelling, and it abhors 
 the supernormal. David is not abnormal, but super- 
 normal: a distinction you understand. In brief, if he 
 were mine, and if I were you, I should keep him under 
 my own eye and thumb." 
 
 Accordingly, David did not go to school. And, 
 eventually, the Vicar admitted that Fermor had done 
 the wise thing. The boy responded to the attention 
 that was given to him. Three men, strong, unselfish, 
 and highly cultured, formed themselves, so to speak, 
 into a syndicate for the development of a genius, and 
 they represented respectively, faith, hope, and love. 
 Pignerol had the faith which removes mountains; 
 the Vicar hoped that all would be well, but at times 
 entertained misgivings; Fermor loved his adopted 
 son with a devotion never too sentimental, or foolish, 
 or blind. He saw to it that the boy played with com- 
 panions of his own age; he treated symptoms of swelled 
 head with judicious doses of chaff; he taught him to 
 recognize humbug and insincerity at a glance, to dis- 
 tinguish the "porcelain clay" of human kind from cheap 
 imitation; and, lastly, the things which no man can 
 teach he left to a little girl, to Mary Pignerol. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 CONCERNING MARY PIGNEROL 
 
 MARY was some six months younger than 
 David. The death of her mother and the 
 fact that she was the eldest child had 
 developed largely maternal instincts. Whereas David 
 had been protected with a subtle intelligence from the 
 moment of his adoption, so Mary, ever since her eleventh 
 year, had protected others: a labour of love which had 
 made her a happy and healthy woman. Other factors 
 had contributed to bring about a result so satisfactory. 
 The Professor did not overstate the care when he 
 pointed out that it was a privilege to be his daughter. 
 He adored his children, after a fashion that in a Briton 
 might be stigmatized as gushing, but in a Frenchman 
 as expansive. He treated them as equals; he entered 
 with zest into their occupations; he took for granted 
 that they were interested in his. Heart and mind were 
 open to them day and night. 
 
 This remarkable family lived in a charming house. 
 Now that Science is beginning to take belated notice 
 of psychic phenomena, we may hope, in the near future, 
 to understand with some degree of precision why cer- 
 tain habitations are admittedly malefic, and others as 
 admittedly the contrary. The Professor had accumu- 
 
 53 
 
54 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 lated a mass ef evidence bearing upon this subject, 
 and was prepared to demonstrate that misery and vice 
 infect a house and a neighbourhood as virulently as 
 smallpox or the plague. Old Mr. Podmore, of Thomas 
 Podmore & Son, Real Estate Agents and Auctioneers, 
 delighted to relate his first experience with the French- 
 man, who, on arrival, had fallen in love with a pretty 
 cottage at the bottom of the town. Rent, situation, 
 accommodation, garden were so exactly what was 
 wanted that the matter seemed settled, when, quite 
 to the confounding of Thomas Podmore, the Professor 
 had asked for information concerning the outgoing 
 tenants. Learning with dismay that a notorious 
 drunkard and evil-liver had died in the cottage, after 
 making the lives of his unfortunate wife and children 
 as wretched as possible, Louis Pignerol declared the 
 place to be unholy ground, and to him and his taboo! 
 Ultimately, he had taken upon a long lease a stone 
 house on Green Hill, inhabited during five and 
 twenty years by two dear old maiden ladies, whose 
 names had become a synonym in Sherborne for 
 unaffected piety, crochet-work, and a mellow soul- 
 sufFusing serenity. 
 
 Behind the house was a garden: Mary's particular 
 pleasaunce, always spoken of by the Professor as the 
 Paradise of Inexhaustible Delights. It approached 
 perfection because of a sane simplicity so ordered that 
 visitors were impressed with the fact that further 
 improvement was impossible. Children proclaimed it 
 "Just right!" Need it be added that Pignerol and his 
 
CONCERNING MARY PIGNEROL 55 
 
 family left care without the garden ? They entered it 
 for rest and recreation. It was open to their friends 
 upon terms understood and unexpressed. Sherburnians 
 might laugh at Louis Pignerol as being "queer," but 
 they respected the sanctuary from which the mean and 
 false and pretentious were resolutely excluded. No 
 unsightly roofs or chimneys could be seen from any 
 part of it. Occupying not more than two acres of 
 ground, it was bounded on the east and west by high 
 walls hidden behind trees and shrubs, and on the south 
 by a superb, closely clipped yew hedge. In the days 
 of the spinsters the garden had been remarkable for 
 an old-fashioned primness and formality. The yew 
 hedge was cut square; all paths were straight; the flower 
 beds were laid out in geometrical patterns. Pignerol 
 and Mary, labouring year after year with patience 
 and enthusiasm, had transformed straight lines into 
 gracious curves. The yew hedge now presented an 
 undulating surface of dark shining foliage against which, 
 in contrast, stood out lilac, laburnum, flowering thorn 
 and maple. At one end of the hedge a magnificent 
 horse-chestnut and at the other a feathery Lawson's 
 cypress made a frame for the tower of the Abbey. 
 When the sun reached the west the pinnacles would 
 glitter against the soft green slopes of Honeycomb 
 Hill. 
 
 An ample lawn sloped from the house to a terraced 
 tennis ground. Near the middle of the slope was a 
 sun-dial with Spinoza's inscription, Bene agere et 
 laetari, supported by a leaden amorino Love laugh- 
 
56 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 ing at the flight of Time. Elms, beeches, oak, fir, and 
 cypress stood like sentinels between the lawn and the 
 town, but on the lawn itself were no trees except a 
 superb cedar of Lebanon, a weeping ash, and a tall 
 acacia. To the left a variegated maple shone with 
 silvery radiance upon the ilex and copper beeches which 
 hid the wall. Here and there trellises of climbing 
 roses, jasmine, and wistaria, bordered by flowering 
 shrubs, broke judiciously the formality of the garden, 
 and, while revealing the beauties particular to each 
 bed, challenged interest and curiosity in the parts of 
 the garden which they so cunningly obscured. No 
 weed, you may be sure, could be found in the sanctuary, 
 but the strip of ground between the yew hedge and the 
 tennis court had been left as a wilderness of waving 
 grasses bespangled in springtime by daffodils. 
 
 Into this garden David and Mary entered. Here 
 they played together as children. Upon the lowest 
 branch of the mulberry tree, near the tennis court, 
 David, when a ripe twelve, had asked her to be his 
 wife. 
 
 In silence they sat down upon a low stone bench 
 under the cedar. The back of the bench was curiously 
 carved, representing two griffins apparently trying to 
 swallow the forked ends of their tails. Mary said that 
 she never sat upon it without reflecting that even for 
 griffins it was no easy matter to make both ends meet. 
 
 David looked at her and smiled. He was in no 
 hurry to speak; he knew that she was content to wait 
 till he did speak. 
 
CONCERNING MARY PIGNEROL 57 
 
 This particular corner of the garden had an enchant- 
 ing atmosphere of seclusion and privacy, but even here 
 sounds from the outside world penetrated: the rattle 
 of wheels, the roar of passing trains, the gay peal of 
 wedding chimes, and the solemn note of Great Tom, 
 the three-ton bell which Cardinal Wolsey had presented 
 to the Abbey. During term-time the laughter of innu- 
 merable boys fell tinkling upon this quiet spot, and 
 often the fifes and drums of a regiment marching 
 through the town reminded those at peace that war 
 had been and must be again. 
 
 "I am organist of Sherborne Abbey Church," said 
 David slowly. 
 
 "Yes," said Mary. The smile on his face was 
 demurely visible on hers. She knew that their golden 
 hour had come. Pride had waited till there was some- 
 thing more to offer than protestations of fidelity. 
 She respected this, although not quite able to under- 
 stand it. When his hand touched her hand, she thrilled. 
 Their eyes met, with no shadow to obscure that first, 
 long, penetrating glance. Each sighed, drawing closer 
 together, in a communion of the spirit, in an ecstasy 
 of emotion, of life renewing itself in life. Maid and 
 man saw the dear image in the other's eyes, which to 
 each represented the incarnation of what is noblest and 
 most lovely. Such a moment comes not to all, and 
 it means to the few a revelation of the Highest. 
 
 In the garden there was silence. The sun had sunk 
 beneath the horizon, but the glow still lingered. Spring, 
 with tender fingers, touched the buds upon the trees. 
 
58 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 A million tiny blades of grass were piercing the tumid 
 earth awakened after the long, rejuvenating sleep of 
 winter. In every living thing the sap was flowing. 
 
 Fermor, that same night, listened smiling to the old 
 story, knowing that Mary had taken his place, and 
 yielding it ungrudgingly, rejoicing because what had 
 been denied to him was given in such brimming measure 
 to his son. When David finished, he said quietly: 
 
 "Of all the women I have known, Mary is the one 
 I picked out for you. She is without guile." 
 
 Something in his tone arrested the young man's 
 attention. He looked into Fermor' s face. 
 
 " Did you pick out Mary for me ?" he asked wonder- 
 ingly. 
 
 Fermor nodded. 
 
 "The Professor and I came long ago to the con- 
 clusion that nothing could be more appropriate. 
 I suppose Mary is telling him ?" 
 
 "Yes. We agreed to break our wonderful news, 
 which is so stale, at exactly the same moment. Mary 
 is now sitting on the Professor's lap, with her arm 
 around his neck and her lips at his ear, and of course 
 he is saying, ' Fermor and I long ago settled this affair.' ' 
 
 Fermor laughed. 
 
 "We have been blind," said David, and he laughed 
 too, feeling the pressure of the hand that had led him, 
 step by step, to the right woman. " But, father, when 
 did you guess ?" 
 
 "Ten years ago." 
 
CONCERNING MARY PIGNEROL 59 
 
 "Ten years ago, I asked Mary to marry me!" 
 
 "The Professor and I worried over that a little." 
 
 " I remember his taking me aside when I was fourteen 
 and in a sort of way putting me on my honour to stop 
 kissing her." 
 
 "He didn't want you to cheapen your own goods." 
 
 "I never kissed her again till to-day." 
 
 Fermor went out, and appeared a moment later in 
 cap and cape. 
 
 "Where are you going ?" 
 
 "Lovers are not only blind, but stupid. Of course 
 I am going to climb Green Hill to drink Mary's health 
 and yours in a glass of champagne." 
 
 "You and the Professor arranged that this after- 
 noon ?" 
 
 "Yes. Come on!" 
 
 "Don't tell me that the Vicar will be there ?" 
 
 "I should not be surprised." 
 
 In the Professor's room, Mary was standing opposite 
 to her father, and insisting upon her unworthiness 
 to become the wife of a genius. Louis Pignerol would 
 have none of this self-depreciation, conscious that it 
 cast a slur upon himself. 
 
 "Ma mignonne" he said, "let us have done with 
 this imbecile talk." 
 
 "I am so insignificant," said Mary desperately. 
 
 "It is true you might be larger," her father admitted, 
 " but for me the outside is nothing nothing at all." 
 With a wave of his hand, he seemed to despatch 
 Mary's small body to some unconsidered limbo. 
 
60 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Your mind, my darling, and above all your inner 
 mind, makes you David's superior." 
 
 "I shall be furious if you say that. And I wish to 
 goodness I knew what my inner mind is." 
 
 "You will in time, my child. For the moment you 
 must take your father's word that it is of fine quality. 
 And now I am going into the cellar to bring up the 
 champagne. You will instruct our faithful Babette 
 to take some glasses into the dining-room; the others 
 will be here directly." 
 
 "One moment, dear. David says we shall be very 
 poor." 
 
 " Poor ? You will begin with 250 a year six 
 thousand, two hundred and fifty francs. Name of a 
 pipe! what more do you want? Your mother and I 
 began with much less." 
 
 "I'm not a bit afraid, but I don't think David will 
 be contented." 
 
 "If he isn't, I shall have to speak to him very 
 seriously. Kiss me, Marykins, and skedaddle!" 
 
 Mary laughed. She ordered the glasses to be sent 
 into the dining-room, and then she ran upstairs to 
 peer into her looking-glass. 
 
 For those of us who cannot behold inner minds, it 
 is heartrending to admit that Mary had not a single 
 beautiful feature. Her eyes were bright, of a clear 
 blue-gray in tint, but too small; her nose had a skyward 
 tilt to it; her mouth, filled with excellent teeth, had 
 been described by a cheeky young brother as a hole 
 in her face. The chin, round and well developed, 
 
CONCERNING MARY PIGNEROL 61 
 
 indicating strength of character, might have been 
 considered masculine, had it not displayed a delightful 
 dimple. And at the left corner of her mouth, whenever 
 she laughed and she laughed often another dimple 
 seemed to play hide-and-seek with fugitive wrinkles 
 on the nose. Brown hair, with a natural wave in it, 
 growing low upon a wide brow, a pale complexion, 
 and delicately formed ears completed a whole which 
 was summed up by the Sherborne spinsters as "nice- 
 looking." Her figure, as has been said, was small 
 and slender. Of adventitious aids to beauty, she 
 wore with distinction simple little gowns which she 
 made herself, having an allowance of thirty pounds a 
 year. 
 
 She grimaced in the glass and then, smiling cheer- 
 fully, picked up a photograph of Archdale. Seeing 
 her at that moment, even the cheeky young brother 
 would have said that she was beautiful. She looked 
 as she had appeared to David in the garden : the " Primal 
 Fair," as Plato says, "not made after the fashion of 
 gold, or raiment, or those forms of earth whom now 
 beholding thou art stricken dumb, and fain, if it were 
 possible, without thought of meat or drink, wouldst 
 look and love for ever." 
 
 David's photograph did him justice, although Mary 
 would have contradicted this. He was tall and finely 
 proportioned; and his head was magnificent what 
 the head of a musician ought to be. The brow chal- 
 lenged attention by virtue of its width and frontal 
 development; beneath it shone the eyes of a child, 
 
62 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 limpidly blue, and with a curious far-seeing quality. 
 Other features indicated sensibility rather than strength, 
 although the strength might come in time. It was 
 still the head of a boy. 
 
 Mary replaced the photograph and descended to 
 the drawing-room. Upon the walls hung a few prints 
 in colour. Glazed bookcases, filled with well-bound 
 books, stood beneath these. The furniture, of the 
 best Empire period, had belonged to the Professor's 
 grandfather, Marshal Pignerol, a cousin of the famous 
 engineer who at Angers instructed Wellington in the 
 science of fortification. The carpet, a genuine 
 Aubusson, faded and threadbare, but still exquisite in 
 tone, was even older than the cabinets and writing- 
 table. Madame Recamier had stood upon it, and 
 Mirabeau, and, possibly, le petit Caporal himself. 
 
 It was characteristic of our Professor that, under- 
 rating these treasures, he refused to sell them. He 
 admitted, with reluctance, that he had been extrava- 
 gant in the binding of books. And in and out of season 
 he denounced luxury and all things, indeed, which 
 titillate unduly the senses. At the same time, he had 
 little tolerance for teachers who would exclude from 
 the food of mankind flesh of mammals, birds, fish, and 
 every liquid which contains alcohol. Upon the phy- 
 sical plane, he contended, physical pleasures should 
 be enjoyed. The Pignerols lived simply, but no one 
 had eaten badly cooked food in their house or drunk 
 bad wine. Well-nourished and cautious Britons might 
 be called upon to taste some succulent fungus, with 
 
CONCERNING MARY PIGNEROL 63 
 
 a terrifying Latin name, but they were never offered 
 leathery omelettes. 
 
 Almost immediately, Fermor and David came in, 
 and soon afterward the Vicar, who, cornered by 
 Mary, admitted that he alone had not been quite 
 sure. 
 
 "We feel," said David ruefully, "that we have not 
 been free agents." 
 
 "Puppets," added Mary. 
 
 After this, they went into the dining-room, and the 
 Professor delivered a speech, which was impromptu, 
 and yet, in a sense, a digest of the Pignerol philosophy 
 and experience. While speaking, he used many ges- 
 tures, and when excited, his grizzled hair seemed to 
 stand out like a mane. Upon his rugged, kindly face 
 smiles flashed with electrical scintillation. 
 
 " My dear friends," he said, " this is a very great wine, 
 and we must make the most of it, sip it, inhale its bou- 
 quet, and not gulp it down as if it were small ale. I 
 bought it expressly for this occasion. . . ." 
 
 David, sitting next to Mary, whispered: "The last 
 straw!" 
 
 The Professor, with a gesture exacting silence, con- 
 tinued: "The manufacture of champagne is a com- 
 plex process of which you will find a full account 
 in any encyclopaedia, but I call your attention to the 
 fact that only picked grapes are used, not one imperfect 
 berry is allowed in the vat, and the quality of these 
 grapes varies, as you know, according to climatic 
 conditions which we need not particularize to-night. 
 
64 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 My point is: the curious correlation between the pro- 
 cesses which go to the making of a perfect wine, and 
 the processes, even more complex, which are likely to 
 bring about a perfect marriage." 
 
 The cheeky young brother murmured : " Hear, hear!" 
 
 "Tats toil" said the father. 
 
 " In the production of the best champagne, my dear 
 friends, both black and white grapes are used : the black 
 representing, let us say, the robuster male type. Where 
 there is excess of the darker berry we find a richer 
 and more golden wine. And the finest quality comes 
 from the first pressing. But the sparkle, the life, the 
 bubbling vitality is due to the presence of sugar. 
 Remember that, you two! Englishmen like their wine 
 and their wit and their wives a thought heavy and dry. 
 Englishwomen of age and experience tell young girls 
 to suppress feeling, to simulate coldness; in a word, 
 to withhold the sugar. My Mary will not make that 
 mistake. She is full of sweetness, of natural gaiety 
 and force. Hold up thy head, my dear little hen! 
 Whence comes this force ? I will tell you. It is every- 
 where. We can help ourselves freely. The very young 
 and pure, unknown to themselves, are saturated with it. 
 And with every act of self-denial that force increases; 
 with every act of self-indulgence, it diminishes. 
 Used unworthily, for mere greed's sake or personal 
 ambition, it will raise the humblest man to the apex 
 of that pyramid we call worldly success. Used nobly, 
 for the amelioration of lives less happy than our own, 
 it will raise us to the very throne of God. 
 
CONCERNING MARY PIGNEROL 65 
 
 "My friends, I speak from my heart, which is 
 brimming over to-night, for I am gaining a son, who 
 for many years now I have loved and esteemed. Of 
 all of us here, he has been the most richly endowed. 
 To him has been vouchsafed the supreme gift of 
 harmony. We heard him this afternoon, transposing 
 into sweet sounds the story of our magnificent Abbey 
 Church. He is as yet a student, at work upon still 
 life. Soon he will concern himself with real life, and 
 it may be that he will prove himself capable of express- 
 ing in immemorial music the hopes and fears, the 
 joys and sorrows, of a mighty nation. My friends, 
 let us drink to David and Mary." 
 
 "To David and Mary," repeated the Vicar and 
 Fermor. 
 
 Before the lovers parted that night, they had a few 
 words together. 
 
 "I go to London the day after to-morrow," said 
 David. 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To buy a ring," he whispered. 
 
 "Oh! David, aren't the shops here good enough for a 
 poor organist ? " 
 
 "Not good enough for you." He kissed her ear. 
 " I've been saving up for years and years." 
 
 "You, too, made sure?" 
 
 "Didn't you?" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 "What an open secret it has been!" 
 
66 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "I have had a letter from the almighty Lorimer, 
 asking me to call upon him." 
 
 Lorimer was the head of the great firm who had 
 published the tonal poems, and was not given to wasting 
 his time or that of others. 
 
 "I suppose it means something." 
 
 " It may mean a lot. Mary, now that you are mine, 
 I have become ambitious. I have a hankering for 
 cheques." 
 
 " Don't you ever dare to lay the blame of that on me ! " 
 
 " Mary ! What flashing eyes ! " 
 
 Her voice trembled as she answered: "I am afraid 
 of money coming between us." 
 
 "When I want it to spend on you ?" 
 
 "I shall be quite happy without money. I have 
 never had money, nor has father. Don't hanker after 
 cheques to give to me. Promise that?" 
 
 "But cheques mean recognition. If it is true that 
 I have something to say, it ought to be said to an 
 audience." 
 
 Mary hesitated. She had not inherited the Pro- 
 fessor's powers of speech, and she realized that David 
 would have the better of any argument upon this par- 
 ticular theme. And the full understanding of how he 
 felt made protest seem so ungracious, although instinct 
 confirmed the conviction that her lover, because of his 
 love for her, might confound shadow for so she had 
 been taught to regard material things for substance. 
 When she felt his kisses upon her lips, she thought: 
 
 "The nightingale sings to his mate, unconscious that 
 the world is listening." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 
 
 DAVID bought Mary's ring at a famous shop in 
 Bond Street, selecting a square tourmaline 
 surrounded by tiny brilliants. The stone 
 was parti-coloured: a green exterior very translucent, 
 with a red nucleus. As he came out of the shop, a 
 lady seated in a victoria beckoned. It was Mrs. 
 Stormont, very vivacious, and conveying the idea of 
 perpetual motion, although sitting still. She laughed 
 gaily, holding out her hand. 
 
 "You are coming to see me?" 
 
 David explained that he was in town for twenty- 
 four hours only. 
 
 "What are you doing this evening, Mr. Archdale ?" 
 
 " I don't know yet." 
 
 !< This is really a coincidence. I have a dinner party 
 to-night, and not half an hour ago I got a telegram from 
 a tiresome man to say that he was in bed with 'flu. 
 Will you take his place ? It will be charming of you. 
 There! It is settled, is it not?" 
 
 "You are very kind." 
 
 "Eight-fifteen." 
 
 He raised his hat and walked away, while she 
 reflected: "What a face! What nice manners!" 
 
 David walked on down Bond Street till he came to 
 
68 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 the great house of Lorimer. Its size and importance 
 impressed him disagreeably. In the retail department 
 he beheld many young men with apparently very little 
 to do. Upon all sides were shelves full of sheet music: 
 enough to supply a universe; upon the counters were 
 stacks of popular songs. About these hovered half a 
 dozen women. David asked if the Chief was accessible. 
 
 "Have you an appointment?" 
 
 " Mr. Lorimer invited me to call. My name is 
 David Archdale." 
 
 "Certainly. I'll see if Mr. Lorimer is disengaged." 
 
 During the clerk's absence David picked up a cata- 
 logue of publications, in which he discovered his own 
 name. At once a sense of being "out of it," which 
 already had made him regret his acceptance of Mrs. 
 Stormont's invitation, gave place to a more sanguine 
 emotion. After all, he was "in it." The time would 
 come when slightly supercilious young men, in irre- 
 proachable frock coats, would no longer ask his name 
 in this establishment. After a minute or two he crossed 
 the big room to look at the pianos. A civil middle-aged 
 clerk struck a few chords, and from his rather thin lips 
 trickled a rivulet of specialized information, and then, 
 remarking David's interest, he said: "Are you a 
 musician, sir?" 
 
 " I'm the organist at Sherborne Abbey Church." 
 
 "Indeed. Not, not, surely, Mr. Fermor?" 
 
 "He has just resigned." 
 
 "We expected great things of Mr. Fermor. But, 
 if I may say so, he never found his public." 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 69 
 
 "Perhaps he did not search for it." 
 
 "Quite, quite. It is necessary nowadays to search." 
 
 The first clerk appeared. His manner seemed to be 
 slightly less supercilious. 
 
 " Mr. Lorimer will see you, sir. This way, please/' 
 
 They passed through a green baize door and up 
 a staircase. On the landing they met a short, rather 
 squat man, with a white pasty face and a thick black 
 beard. The clerk whispered into David's ear: 
 
 "Mr. Isidore Schmaltz." 
 
 "The composer?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 David stared. The clerk added solemnly: "We 
 have sold three hundred thousand copies of his new 
 song." 
 
 A moment later, he experienced another shock. 
 Mr. Lorimer presented the appearance of a prosperous 
 stockbroker. He was large, of sanguine complexion, 
 slightly bald, and irreproachably dressed. His small 
 eyes, very bright, with many humorous lines at the 
 corners of them, blinked when he saw David. 
 
 " I'm glad to meet you," he said. " Do you smoke ? " 
 The smell of tobacco smoke was rather strong, but not 
 unpleasantly so. 
 
 "I smoke a pipe," said David as he took a chair. 
 
 "A whisky-and-soda, Mr. Archdale?" 
 
 "No, thank you." 
 
 Lorimer picked up an ivory ruler and began to 
 balance it upon his forefinger. David felt that he also 
 was being weighed, and that more than he had antici- 
 
7 o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 pated might hang upon this interview. At any rate, 
 Lorimer was civil. 
 
 " You are a very young man/' said Lorimer thought- 
 fully, staring at the ruler. 
 
 "Twenty-three/* 
 
 "I should like to speak plainly to you." 
 
 "Please do so." 
 
 "You have enormous talent, perhaps more. But 
 you are still one out of a multitude knocking at a closed 
 door. Other things being equal, the door opens to the 
 man who knocks loudest. Did you see Schmaltz ? 
 You did. He knocked loudly." 
 
 "You allude to his military marches?" 
 
 " Not altogether. He is a wonderful puller of strings, 
 with a nose ! You remarked his nose?" 
 
 " I saw a large nose." 
 
 " Which would do credit to a prize pointer. He has 
 followed that nose faithfully, and pulled all strings 
 available at the same time. His best work is not 
 comparable to your tonal poems." 
 
 "Oh!" said David. 
 
 "And yet, unhappily, the public will not buy your 
 tonal poems." 
 
 " I have other things." 
 
 "Mr. Archdale, have you any influential friends?" 
 
 " If you had asked me that question the day before 
 yesterday, I should have replied ' None/ but it happens 
 by an odd coincidence that I am dining to-night with 
 Mrs. Stormont, who has kindly expressed a wish to help 
 
 me." 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 71 
 
 " Mrs. Stormont, of Stormont Lodge ? You are very 
 lucky. Schmaltz in former days would have paid a 
 good round sum to dine at Stormont Lodge." 
 
 "But I don't understand." 
 
 "You will, you will." Lorimer laughed good- 
 naturedly. "Well, back your luck. Do you play the 
 piano ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Offer to play to-night." 
 
 " But, Mr. Lorimer, I couldn't." 
 
 "Teh tch! Mrs. Stormont gives concerts. She 
 could, if she liked, make your reputation. Don't 
 misunderstand me! Mrs. Stormont couldn't force a 
 duffer down London throats, but you are not a 
 duffer. Be civil to her, and come to see me 
 again." 
 
 David understood that he was being dismissed, and 
 yet, from a business point of view, nothing had been 
 accomplished. He took leave, feeling depressed, but 
 determined that he would not offer to play the piano 
 at Stormont Lodge. 
 
 "If Mary doesn't care," he reflected, "why should 
 I ?" But somehow he did care. It was intolerable 
 to think that the door might remain shut, and unthink- 
 able to force an entrance by Schmaltzian methods. 
 He seldom used strong language, but he murmured 
 to himself, twice: "Damn Isidore Schmaltz." The 
 critics had done this, mercilessly, without, seem- 
 ingly, any prejudice to the famous writer of popular 
 songs. 
 
72 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 David dressed for dinner early, and, the night being 
 fine, chose to walk to Stormont Lodge. As he walked, 
 he was conscious that the women he met stared at him, 
 and some smiled brazenly. One minx said "Hello, 
 angel!" and David blushed, warm with indignation 
 and pity. Suddenly, he told himself that he loathed 
 London, and sighed for a magical carpet upon which 
 he might be transported to Sherborne. He saw 
 Fermor, sitting down to dine alone with Mary. This 
 had been arranged. After dinner, Fermor would 
 smoke in his chair by the open fireplace, and Mary 
 would sit upon a stool near him, gazing into the embers, 
 listening to Fermor' s tales of the past, and out of them 
 constructing new tales for the future. 
 
 At Stormont Lodge the sight of a butler and three 
 tall footmen brought an acute spasm of distress, and 
 David wondered whether this was perceptible to them. 
 The great house seemed strangely quiet and empty. 
 
 "Am I the first?" he inquired, and the butler 
 answered suavely: "Yes, sir." 
 
 As he ascended the stairs, his feet sank into a thick 
 pile carpet, and he noticed a slightly oriental smell, 
 which was very pleasant but strange. The next 
 moment his hostess was receiving him. 
 
 "You will take such a pretty girl in to dinner," she 
 said, giving him a friendly smile, "but you mustn't 
 fall in love with her, for she's snapped up. In fact, you 
 are here instead of her fiance, Sir Edward Montagu, 
 who has the wonderful collection of Nankin china." 
 Then, perceiving that David had never heard either 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 73 
 
 of the man or his china, she added, smilingly: "Sir 
 Edward's father was old Lazarus, the pawnbroker, 
 so keep off that grass." 
 
 David laughed, fascinated by a charming manner, 
 and just then a tall, thin, cadaverous man entered the 
 drawing-room. 
 
 "My husband Mr. Archdale, the composer// 
 
 Mr. Stormont held out rather a cold limp hand. 
 'This east wind is beastly," he said. 
 
 Other guests began to arrive, and a buzz of chatter 
 vibrated through the room. David had time and 
 opportunity to glance at his surroundings. Never had 
 he seen so many beautiful things gathered together in 
 a private house. And they were arranged with con- 
 summate taste, with a judicious nicety of selection, in 
 itself an art. But not a person present seemed to look 
 at the porcelain, or furniture, or pictures. They 
 stared at each other, pleasantly or boldly, and David 
 wondered whether the background was taken for 
 granted as being the stage-setting in which they moved 
 habitually. His host, seeing him alone, sauntered up 
 to him. 
 
 "Have you been here before ?" he asked. 
 
 "Never," said David. 
 
 "Forgive my askin'. Such a lot of 'em come and 
 go, that I get dazed. Never could remember faces 
 or names. Let me see, you're the new member for 
 Bilton-on-Tees, aren't you?" 
 
 "I'm an organist," said David, smiling. 
 
 Mr. Stormont stared and nodded. 
 
74 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 " Yes, yes," he muttered. '' You are to be the English 
 Beethoven. I remember now." 
 
 David, somewhat confused, said somewhat hastily: 
 
 "Are those Chelsea figures ?" 
 
 Mr. Stormont shook his head. 
 
 "I don't know. I believe we have some Chelsea, 
 or is it Swansea? You must ask my wife. Lord! 
 what a crowd, but, thank heaven! they don't expect 
 me to talk to 'em/' 
 
 Above the chatter, David had heard the butler 
 announcing the names of the guests. Certainly the 
 company was worthy of its setting. Men distinguished 
 in art and science and politics brought their wives 
 and daughters to Stormont Lodge. 
 
 "They all do something," whispered the melancholy 
 host. "I wish they didn't, because, you see, I'm 
 expected to remember what they've done, and I get 
 'em mixed up, as I did you." 
 
 He shambled oft to greet a cabinet minister. David 
 caught the eye of Mrs. Stormont. She gave a beckon- 
 ing nod, and a moment later the young man was being 
 introduced to Miss Evelyn Kerr-Stuart, who looked 
 him over rather coolly, as if he were a newly discovered 
 animal. David felt tongue-tied. The girl said nothing 
 and Mrs. Stormont, whose kindly tact would have 
 eased the situation, was talking to a Serene Highness. 
 David, wishing that the earth would open and swallow 
 him up, stammered out: "This east wind is beastly," 
 and the girl languidly answered : " I have not been out 
 all day." Then, taking pity upon his confusion, she 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 75 
 
 added: "There are worse things than the east wind. 
 I have been writing letters to people who have sent 
 me wedding presents. Simply awful." 
 
 She spoke as if bored to tears and tired out, but she 
 looked childishly young and pretty, certainly not more 
 than eighteen. Round her slender neck was a single 
 string of immense pearls. David wondered whether 
 they could be real. 
 
 They went down to dinner. 
 
 In the dining-room another surprise awaited David. 
 Mrs. Stormont was one of the first to introduce the 
 practice of placing her guests at small tables. The 
 effect was that of a smart restaurant. In the hall, 
 a string band played softly. Each of the small tables 
 had its scheme of decoration, the flowers matching 
 exactly the shades upon the candles. The walls of the 
 immense room were in comparative darkness, but half 
 a dozen portraits were vividly illuminated. 
 
 "Is that a Velasquez?" asked David. 
 
 " Yes, that's the famous one," replied the girl. 
 
 "He's unmistakable, isn't he?" 
 
 " Is he ? They are playing that waltz of Schmaltz. 
 I adore Schmaltz, don't you? How stupid of me! 
 Of course you don't. You compose yourself." 
 
 " Is that a reason for taking for granted that I cannot 
 admire the work of others ?" 
 
 " Rather," she laughed cynically. :t Jolly good din- 
 ner." She handed the menu to David, adding: "They 
 do you awfully well here." 
 
 Four other persons sat at the same table: all 
 
76 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 young and nice-looking. Miss Kerr-Stuart nodded to 
 them. 
 
 "Hullo, Jimmie! Hullo, Tommie! Is that you, 
 Bunchie ? Haven't seen you for ages. By the way, 
 I was commanded to introduce Mr. Archdale, who 
 is a composer. I asked him if he adored Schmaltz." 
 
 "We heard you," said Tommy gravely. "Since 
 your engagement you have taken to shouting." He 
 looked pleasantly at David, and added: "She thinks 
 herself a personage." 
 
 Miss Kerr-Stuart flipped a pellet of bread at him, and 
 said, with finality: "So I am." 
 
 David felt a little easier. These strangers seemed to 
 accept him without question. Evidently, they wished 
 to be friendly. The young man addressed as Tommy 
 was the new Member for Bilton-on-Tees, and one of 
 the most active and enterprising of the younger politi- 
 cians. Jimmie, he discovered, was a popular actor, 
 and about to appear in a new play. This afforded 
 a topic of general conversation. 
 
 "They're advertising you," said Miss Kerr-Stuart. 
 
 " I insisted on that. Name in electric light outside 
 the theatre. Down in the contract, by Jove!" 
 
 "Good play?" 
 
 "Can't say. I've a thumping part." 
 
 "Who wrote the play?" asked David. 
 
 To his amazement nobody knew, except Jimmie, and 
 from his tone it was evident that he thought the play- 
 wright a negligible quantity. The young lady addressed 
 as "Bunchie" asked demurely: "Is it true, Jimmie, 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 77 
 
 that you and Flora are not on speaking terms ?" She 
 turned to David as she spoke, adding, for the stranger's 
 benefit: "Flora Templeton is his leading lady." 
 
 "We've made it up. She's a little devil and no 
 mistake. I choked the life nearly out of her at yester- 
 day's rehearsal, and, to-day, she was all smiles. What 
 she wants is a good hiding!" 
 
 "How illiterate you mummers are," said the girl 
 who had not yet spoken. "You mean, I suppose, 
 that she needs a good hiding." 
 
 "Mark up one for Kate!" exclaimed the Member 
 for Bilton-on-Tees. 
 
 Jimmie growled out: "You be hanged!" 
 
 "Seen 'The Breadwinners'?" 
 
 "Went the first night," replied Jimmie. 'That 
 fellow Barton is impossible. He wore a pair of boots 
 I wouldn't be found dead in, and he kept stuffing his 
 handkerchief into the pocket of his trousers." 
 
 David, conscious that his pocket-handkerchief was in 
 precisely the same place, betrayed the fact to Kate, 
 who said crisply: "Mr. Archdale agrees with me, 
 that keeping your handkerchief in your trousers-pocket 
 is not an unpardonable sin." She smiled sympatheti- 
 cally at David, adding: "Mr. James Travis keeps 
 his up his sleeve. He keeps nothing else up there." 
 
 "Two for Kate!" proclaimed the Member for 
 Bilton-on-Tees. 
 
 Kate Melbury had written a remarkable novel: 
 "The Torch." She was small, and much more simply 
 dressed than the other girls. Her face, neither pretty 
 
78 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 nor plain, had fascination, because of its fastidiousness. 
 David liked her at once. He noticed that she ate and 
 drank sparingly, whereas the others gobbled up every- 
 thing set before them, with astonishing swiftness and 
 appetite. Miss Melbury continued sweetly: 
 
 "Mr. Barton gave us a magnificent performance." 
 
 " Provincial," said Jimmie. " Sort of thing that goes 
 down in Manchester, my dear Kate." 
 
 "One for Jimmie," said the M.P. 
 
 Miss Melbury, it seemed, had bloomed into public 
 notice at Manchester. 
 
 "P0x," said Jimmie, appealingly. "I want to eat." 
 
 The dinner was not too long, and admirably served. 
 Presently, Miss Kerr-Stuart engaged David in more 
 intimate talk. Perceiving his qualities as a listener, 
 she prattled of herself. 
 
 " I am going to be married next month, as I daresay 
 you know." 
 
 "So am I, Miss Stuart." 
 
 He regretted the admission, as it fell naturally from 
 his lips. The girl stared and laughed. 
 
 "But you're awfully young." 
 
 "Are you very, very old ?" 
 
 She answered the implied question with candour. 
 
 "A girl must marry when her big chance comes. A 
 man can afford to wait. Have you snapped up an 
 heiress?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I see." She sank her voice. "It's a romance. 
 You look romantic. A propos, what have you written: 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 79 
 
 songs waltzes musical comedy ? Or grand 
 opera?" 
 
 " Principally ecclesiastical music. I'm an organist." 
 
 Her expression of stupefaction made him laugh. 
 
 " An organist ? What must you think of - - us ! " 
 
 " I think you have been very nice to an outsider." 
 
 "You must think us so frivolous and ribald. Do 
 you?" 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 "Well, we are. It seems quite odd your being here. 
 If I'd known, Yd have tried to behave myself. That's 
 too late now. You wear a surplice ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm sure it's very becoming." Then she laughed. 
 
 "What is the joke, Miss Stuart?" 
 
 "I was trying to picture my old young man in a 
 surplice. How funny he would look. Tommy, dear, 
 how do you think Edward would look in a surplice ?" 
 
 "Don't, Evie. I can't bear to think of it. What 
 put this nightmare thought into your head ?" 
 
 "Mr. Archdale. He wears one." 
 
 Everybody stopped thinking, staring at David with 
 varying expressions of astonishment and amusement. 
 Jimmie, whose intelligence was slightly fuddled by 
 much champagne, said gaspingly: " He's not a parson ?" 
 
 "Let us be perfectly calm," said Evie. "Mr. Arch- 
 dale plays the organ, and he writes fugues and things." 
 
 " He has written two tonal poems of great distinction,' 
 said Miss Melbury. " If you were not all of you so 
 ignorant, you would know that." 
 
8o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 She smiled once more upon David, with a tilt of her 
 small chin, as if to say: "We two are superior to these 
 duffers." At the same moment Mrs. Stormont rose, 
 and the ladies swept out of the room. As Kate Melbury 
 passed David she whispered: "Mind you come and 
 talk to me afterward." 
 
 Most of the men gathered round the biggest table 
 which formed a circle in the middle of the room. 
 Coffee and cigars were brought in. A tall, distinguished 
 man approached David. 
 
 "Mrs. Stormont has been telling me about you," 
 he began, easily. " And I wondered if you were any 
 relation to Jack Archdale, who was in the Cavalry." 
 
 "My father." 
 
 "You don't say so. I am General Denison. I 
 knew your father very well indeed. Is he forgive 
 the question! still alive ?" 
 
 "He died when I was a child." 
 
 "Urn. He was one of the handsomest men in the 
 
 S* 
 ervice. 
 
 David held his tongue. For many years he had not 
 thought of his father, except as a vague but terrifying 
 shadow upon the screen of memory. His aunt, Miss 
 Vawdrey, was dead, also, and of other relations he 
 knew little or nothing. But this sudden mention of 
 the dead man by a distinguished general supplied 
 the missing link between people who seemed to belong 
 to another planet and himself. It established a tele- 
 pathy. He felt for the first time an attraction, and an 
 interest not easy to analyze. General Denison talked 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 81 
 
 on, discursively, in a tone of friendly intimacy, which 
 penetrated David's reserve, and evoked answers to 
 half a dozen questions. Obviously, this gallant warrior, 
 whose name was a household word throughout the 
 empire, regarded Jack Archdale's boy as an equal. 
 Hitherto, David had been made to realize that his 
 social position, as the adopted son of an organist, was 
 somewhat lower than that of the Sherborne parsons 
 and dominies, and a rung higher, not more, than the 
 principal tradesmen. The magnates of the county had 
 ignored his existence. This had been accepted by 
 David as natural and convenient. Fermor had been 
 the first to make plain to the boy that social distinc- 
 tions in Dorset are arbitrary and inevitable. 
 
 David joined the ladies in the drawing-room with 
 a more assured bearing and a smile which became 
 him very well. He found Kate Melbury upon an 
 ottoman in the corner of the room. As he sat down, 
 she said with a faint blush: "I have a confession to 
 make. I know nothing about your tonal poems. 
 Mrs. Stormont happened to tell me just before dinner 
 that you had written two. I wanted to make the 
 others sit up/' 
 
 David murmured: "I have not read 'The Torch." 
 
 She said volubly: "Isn't this a menagerie? I 
 come here to get copy, although, of course, Mrs. 
 Stormont is a dear, and most awfully kind. I used 
 to be frightened and quite amazed at what I saw and 
 heard, but now - 
 
 "It seems natural?" 
 
82 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "I don't say that. It seems natural to them. At 
 first I thought it was theatrical, unreal, but it isn't. 
 This is their life. And, mind you, you meet the vital 
 people here, and every man has an axe to grind." 
 
 " But why don't they grind their axes at home ?" 
 
 "What a question! I put it to myself once. That 
 was when I first came up from Manchester, before I 
 went on my own." 
 
 "You are on your own?" 
 
 "I'm twenty-eight, although thank goodness! - 
 I don't look it. Yes; I have a nice flat near Sloane 
 Square. You must come to see me. Will you name 
 a day for luncheon ?" 
 
 "I am returning to Sherborne to-morrow. Do you 
 live entirely by yourself?" 
 
 "Of course. My father is a Manchester cotton- 
 spinner. He was very stuffy at first, but I made myself 
 so disagreeable he was quite glad to let me go. I 
 wouldn't go back to the old life for a million a year. 
 You'll feel the same about Sherborne some day." 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "You will, you will. They are all asleep in the pro- 
 vinces. If you want to live, you must come to London. 
 Hullo! Here's Evie Kerr-Stuart coming to disturb us." 
 
 Evie approached and said in a shrill voice: "We 
 want you to play, Mr. Archdale. Mrs. Stormont never 
 asks her guests to do parlour tricks, but you will play, 
 won't you ? to please me. Do!" 
 
 "I'd really rather not," said David. He looked 
 from one girl to the other. Kate Melbury said de- 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 83 
 
 cidedly: "Take my tip, and get it over. Sooner 
 or later, you'll be nailed. Why not now ?" 
 
 David got up rather stiffly. 
 
 "I'll do my best, Miss Stuart. Where is the piano ?" 
 
 "Piano? Mrs. Stormont has a lovely organ, and 
 the most delightful music-room in London." 
 
 She flitted from group to group, saying: "Mr. Arch- 
 dale is going to play. He has written some marvellous 
 tonal poems quite, quite wonderful." 
 
 "This is very kind of you," said Mrs. Stormont. 
 
 She led the way into the next room, which was 
 empty, with the exception of a grand piano and an 
 organ. The guests followed, chattering in slightly 
 subdued tones. 
 
 "What shall I play, Mrs. Stormont?" 
 
 "Something of your own, please: an improvisation." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 Once more Evelyn Kerr-Stuart flew round the room, 
 whispering: "He is going to improvise. I do think 
 him so handsome, don't you?" 
 
 David sat down, rather flustered, and looked at the 
 instrument: a very fine one. And in his mind he could 
 hear nothing but Mr. Stormont's melancholy voice 
 saying: "This east wind is beastly." And at the other 
 end of the big room people were whispering: "His 
 tonal poems are exquisite, really gems, you know." 
 Not a person present had heard them, but that made 
 no difference. Each felt that he ought to have heard 
 them. 
 
 David began to play. Because he was young and 
 
84 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 handsome and a stranger, his audience was courteous 
 enough to be silent, but the prelude was bald and 
 commonplace. He was playing to people who heard 
 the best and were intolerant of anything mediocre. 
 One by one they began to whisper and talk, till the 
 room was buzzing with prattle. David heard them 
 and set his teeth. He knew that he had made a bad 
 start. 
 
 "They shall stop talking," he said to himself. 
 
 And then, he forgot everything save the fact that he 
 was seated at a fine organ, with a mind aflame with 
 emotions which he could transpose into sound. 
 
 Five minutes later, the babbling voices droned away 
 into silence. In that wonderful language, which alone 
 expresses adequately all that the human heart is capable 
 of feeling, David was telling Mrs. Stormont's guests 
 the story of his life, culminating with the scene in the 
 garden, when Mary promised to become his wife. 
 He was hardly conscious of this, but he did know that 
 at the supreme moment when failure and humiliation 
 impended, he had seemed to be transported to Sher- 
 borne and had heard in his ears Mary's soft voice, and 
 those other innumerable voices the choir invisible 
 of birds, and soughing trees, and running water, and 
 sweet bells, and children's laughter which, ever 
 since he could remember, had resolved themselves 
 for him into melody and harmony. 
 
 The theme began simply and quietly in G minor, 
 for David was thinking of two children, walking hand 
 in hand through a garden whose beauty slowly revealed 
 
THE FLESHPOTS OF EGYPT 85 
 
 itself to their wondering eyes. Delicately, with the 
 restraint of a true artist, he reproduced that beauty 
 in a succession of harmonious combinations, and then, 
 holding the key-note while he changed the stops, he 
 altered the tempo, quickening the pace of the children 
 into a joyous dance, fairylike in its variety and melodic 
 charm, a dance of Spring leaping to meet Summer. 
 And interwoven with the principal theme were sub- 
 sidiary embellishments: the amorous sigh of the west 
 wind as it fertilized the purple flower-buds of the elm, 
 the whirring of insects' wings, the haunting cry of the 
 cuckoo all melting at last into a brilliant finale 
 in the major key: the triumph of Love. 
 
 When he left the organ he was very pale, hardly 
 conscious of what he had done or of its effect upon 
 his audience. And for a moment those present looked 
 at him in silence, with a certain awe, touched to issues 
 different from those which habitually engrossed them, 
 perceiving, as through a veil, the Other Side, the 
 Undiscovered Country, whither each was going: some 
 reluctantly, many indifferently, but all inevitably. 
 
 Her Serene Highness clapped her hands, and the 
 spell was broken. 
 
 "You are wonderful, wonderful," said Mrs. Stor- 
 mont. "Let me present you to the dear Princess." 
 
 Half an hour later, David took his leave, flushed 
 with triumph and excitement. 
 
 "You must come to live in London," said Mrs. 
 Stormont. 
 
86 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 He smiled happily. 
 
 "That is quite impossible." 
 
 The great lady frowned, but her voice was still 
 pleasant as she murmured: "What keeps you in 
 Sherborne ?" 
 
 He hesitated, but the bright inquisitive eyes seemed 
 to command the truth. 
 
 "What keeps me ?" he repeated. "Gratitude and 
 love." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN THE NEW FOREST 
 
 THE honeymoon was spent in the New Forest, 
 in a small inn upon the high moorland. 
 Each day the lovers wandered through a 
 fairyland of vernal loveliness, ever seeking new paths 
 to new beauties, and then returning to favourite spots 
 to find them changed by sun and shower, inhaling the 
 freshness and fragrance of Arcadia, talking eagerly, 
 but often silent, as the mystery of life and love encom- 
 passed them. At night, they fared forth again, unable 
 to resist the call of the forest. 
 
 Upon the eve of their return to Sherborne, they stayed 
 out late. The moon shone at the full, playing hide- 
 and-seek with a score of cloudlets. The air was soft and 
 mild, heavy with moisture, for much rain had fallen 
 during the day. Whenever the moon appeared, the 
 landscape was revealed with silvery clarity; when she 
 slipped behind a cloud, trees and moor became obscure, 
 and the lovers seemed to be alone in an immeasurable 
 void. After a long silence, Mary said: 
 
 "David, in the Abbey, when you played your 
 miserere, upon the day when you asked me to marry 
 you, I prayed that I might go first." 
 
 Instantly, she felt his arms about her, strong arms 
 likely to hold fast whatever they hold dear. 
 
 87 
 
88 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 "Then I prayed that I might live, that we might 
 both live for a long time." 
 
 "Dearest, it is reasonable to expect that we 
 shall." 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I have a conviction to-night that I shall go first, 
 and that I shall go soon." 
 
 There was no fear in her voice, but a strange wonder 
 and awe. 
 
 "Isn't this morbid?" 
 
 "Oh, no. We have never talked of death, you and 
 I, but it used to be the subject of many talks between 
 father and me. He believes in reincarnation." 
 
 "Do you?" 
 
 "I am not sure. That is where father is so wonder- 
 ful. He never imposes his beliefs upon others. He 
 says that we must search for our creeds, and build 
 them up, humbly but hopefully. I hope that we are 
 given other chances, innumerable chances, that we go 
 on and on till we are absorbed in the Power which 
 created us." 
 
 "The Vicar would call you a heretic." 
 
 "Perhaps. His sermons used to muddle me dread- 
 fully." 
 
 "Me too," David admitted. 
 
 "Then Father began to explain them. He blames 
 the churches for ignoring evidences of Christianity 
 which stare us in the face to-day. He says that 
 
IN THE NEW FOREST 89 
 
 Christ's miracles took place, because similar miracles 
 are now performed." 
 
 "Does he believe in the Resurrection?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Does he believe that there can be communication 
 from the Other Side?" 
 
 "It never stops, night or day." 
 
 "Do the spirits of the departed come back ?" 
 
 Mary quoted two lines: 
 
 " Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep." 
 
 "Whose lines are those?" 
 
 "Milton's." 
 
 "Of course. But he was writing of angels, not of 
 the spirits of the departed." 
 
 "Father says that Milton must have believed that 
 the dead come back, or rather that some disembodied 
 spirits never leave the earth. In Comus, you remember, 
 he speaks of shadowy forms in churchyards, Moth to 
 leave the body that it loved.' ' 
 
 David remained silent. He had been baptized and 
 confirmed into the Church of England, and during 
 thirteen years had attended some thousands of services 
 in Sherborne Abbey. The repetition of the same 
 prayers, the reiteration of the same doctrine, and 
 dogma had made small impression on his mind. 
 Fermor was no theologian, and acutely sensible 
 of his inability to explain the doctrine, let us say, 
 of Eternal Punishment to an intelligent and inquisitive 
 boy. When, long ago, the Vicar had said in his 
 
9 o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 masterful way, "You leave David to me. I'll make 
 a Christian of him/' Fermor had consented willingly 
 enough. Pignerol also, partly out of curiosity and 
 partly out of respect, had allowed to the Vicar a free 
 hand. It was his part to teach French and science to 
 David, and over and over again, observing the boy 
 closely, he had said to himself: "I shall not interfere. 
 It is well with the child. That jumps to the eye. It 
 is very well with him." 
 
 The time has come to admit that it was not altogether 
 well with David, in the spiritual sense of the word. 
 The essential difference between him and Mary as 
 they stood together in the moonlight, speaking for the 
 first time quite openly of the Life beyond, was this: 
 Mary had been taught from a child to search for spirit- 
 ual truths, and to sift, intelligently, the evidence con- 
 cerning them. Whereas the Vicar, upon a notable 
 occasion, had instructed David to mistrust a too 
 active and speculative mind, Pignerol, acting quite 
 as conscientiously, had recommended his little daughter 
 to accept nothing which her reason rejected. 
 
 "The things which you cannot understand, my 
 Marykins, are many. Give your mind to what it does 
 understand, and, day by day, the mysteries shall be 
 revealed to you, till all is clear." 
 
 Accordingly, she had exercised her intelligence upon 
 ground solid beneath her, the rock of her own tiny 
 experience: and as she grew, she saw farther and more 
 clearly to an ever-widening horizon. 
 
 It had been otherwise with David. 
 
IN THE NEW FOREST 91 
 
 After a long pause, David spoke in a troubled 
 voice : 
 
 " Mary " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I have always put the thought of death from 
 
 me/ 3 
 
 "Ah! I have wondered why you have avoided it. 
 But it came out in your miserere." 
 
 "Yes, it had to as a protest." 
 
 She took his hand, pressing it maternally. In 
 return, he gripped her so fiercely as to hurt her. 
 
 " Let us face it together," she whispered. 
 
 "If we could, but one must go first. Mary, I - 
 I I don't share your father's beliefs. They are in 
 the air." He made a gesture. 
 
 "They are certainly not of the earth," said Mary. 
 
 "I hate spiritualism and vapouring about reincarna- 
 tion. It seems to me such rubbish, such a waste of time. 
 Your father, for instance, has chucked away fame and 
 fortune in the pursuit of these shadows." 
 
 "He never cared for fame and fortune." 
 
 "But it seems to me he ought to have cared." 
 
 "David!" 
 
 " I think your father one of the very best, but he is 
 unsound." 
 
 "Gracious! What an expression to use about him. 
 He's sound to the core." 
 
 "His views are unsound." 
 
 "Have you tested them?" 
 
 "Tested them?" 
 
92 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Something in her tone, a faintly derisive inflection, 
 arrested his attention. 
 
 " Yes. It is easy to test a man's views, if he expresses 
 them honestly." 
 
 "How? Do you suppose I've time to waste over 
 what he calls psychic phenomena?" 
 
 "A man's views are not tested by reading what he 
 has read. His meat might be poison to you. Father 
 says there are many roads which lead to the truth." 
 
 "But how am I to test his views ?", 
 
 "By their effect upon him. Father's views, as you 
 call them I prefer the word thoughts have made 
 him tender, kind, brave, and unselfish." 
 
 "But, Mary, Sebastian Fermor is that too, and his 
 thoughts are not the same as the Professor's." 
 
 "Are you sure of that? He has not travelled to 
 them along the same path; but I've often thought 
 that those three men, Father, Mr. Fermor, and the 
 Vicar, although they may differ about small things, 
 think very much alike about great things. Each has 
 lived and loved and worked, and this is the supreme 
 test not one of them is afraid to die." 
 
 The moon came out, resplendent, flooding the moor- 
 land with light. David seized Mary and gazed into 
 her upturned face, as if searching for some assurance 
 that she would not leave him. 
 
 "Mary," he said. "I wish I had your faith in 
 the unseen. I used to be afraid of the dark. When 
 I was a small boy, I had to have a night-light in my 
 bedroom. Perhaps the light means more to me than 
 
IN THE NEW FOREST 93 
 
 to most men. My music comes to me when I see the 
 light. In the dark there is silence. If the light 
 ever failed if I went blind - I know that my music 
 would leave me. I have spoken to father about it, and 
 he says there is a scientific explanation for this. The 
 vibrations which produce colour produce sound. 
 Mary, if you went, it would be very dark." 
 
 "If I left you," she said steadily, "it would be 
 because it was best for you and me." 
 
 "Nobody ever loved his wife as I love you." 
 
 "David, I like to hear you say that, but love, real 
 love, is the same, the one thing that never changes and 
 never can change. What flows into our hearts to-night 
 has flowed into millions of hearts before and will flow 
 into millions again." 
 
 "What faith you have I" 
 
 "Surely you have faith, David ?" 
 
 "I have faith in myself." 
 
 " You have faith in prayer ?" 
 
 Again he held her closely to him, so that she divined 
 his fear lest what he was about to say might drive them 
 apart. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought to have told you this before. I 
 I did not dare. Mary, prayer seems to me a sort of 
 impertinence." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 The exclamation indicated incredulity, not indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 "If there is meaning and sincerity in the words 
 'Thy Will be done/ how can we, worms that we are, 
 
94 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 dare to even suggest to Omniscience what we want ? 
 Mary, don't despise me, but I only believe in prayer 
 as a sort of thanksgiving." 
 
 "That is something." 
 
 "I have stuck to our church, because it seems to me 
 better than nothing, because I should have made the 
 Vicar and father very unhappy if I had left it. But 
 its teaching leaves me cold and unconvinced." 
 
 "You must talk to father." 
 
 " I would sooner talk to you." 
 
 She hesitated, humbly sensible of her own limitations, 
 and slightly confounded, also, because she and David 
 seemed to have changed places. Heretofore, in the 
 discussion of nearly all subjects, David had uncon- 
 sciously laid down the law. He could talk well upon 
 what kindled his imagination. His knowledge of art, 
 exclusive of music, was remarkable in so young a man, 
 and his intimate association with Fermor, the constant 
 friction between a healthy, expanding intelligence and 
 a mind finely matured, essentially philosophical and 
 sympathetic, had produced some remarkable results. 
 David was summing up these results when he affirmed, 
 modestly enough, that he had faith in himself. 
 
 Mary began slowly, feeling her way. 
 
 " I can't think of you as a worm. And you don't 
 think yourself a worm either." 
 
 "No I don't." 
 
 " I am to try to explain to you what faith and prayer 
 are to me, and this is the first time that I have put into 
 words what I feel. Well," she laughed softly, " I have 
 
IN THE NEW FOREST 95 
 
 faith that the words will come, and I am praying hard 
 that they may be the right words. One cannot have faith 
 without prayer, and prayer without faith is mumbling. 
 If you have faith in yourself, David, you must believe 
 also in prayer, for prayer is the desire to receive some- 
 thing without us. I suppose a burglar prays quite uncon- 
 sciously when he is breaking into a house. He hopes 
 that the night will be dark, the dog asleep, and the loot 
 handy. Father would say that the successful criminal 
 owes his success to faith and prayer, faith in his own 
 strong will, and the desire to break through all barriers." 
 
 "And who answers the criminal's prayer ?" 
 
 "The powers of evil." 
 
 "I believe in evil and good: that is about as far as 
 I can go." 
 
 "If that is a conviction, you are on the right road. 
 If you believe also that the choice between evil and 
 good is ours, you are past the first milestone." 
 
 "Yes, I can believe that." 
 
 "David, your faith is greater than you think. The 
 people with whom one can do nothing are those who 
 seem to take a ridiculous pride in boasting that they 
 know nothing. If you believe in good, how are you to 
 attract that good to yourself? If you believe in evil, 
 how are you to repel that evil ? The only answer is 
 by faith and prayer. You say that prayer is an imper- 
 tinence. Is a child impertinent when it prays that 
 Santa Claus may fill its stocking ? Father uses only 
 one form of prayer: he asks that power may be bestowed 
 upon him to use for the benefit of others. Just now you 
 
96 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 spoke of fame and fortune. I believe firmly that these 
 would have come to him, had he prayed for them." 
 
 "Do you mean to say he despises fame and money 
 and everything which these include ?" 
 
 "Oh, dear, no! But he is satisfied that they are not 
 for him. He believes that you will become famous, 
 David." 
 
 "Does he, really and truly?" 
 
 "I have heard him say so, emphatically." 
 
 "And you, Mary, do you believe in me, too?" 
 
 "But, of course." 
 
 "You speak so, so unenthusiastically. Surely 
 you want me to arrive, to make an enduring mark ?" 
 
 "To make an enduring mark yes." 
 
 "You say that so oddly." 
 
 " I am afraid of hurting you. And yet, I must be 
 honest, for both our sakes. The greatest success the 
 world could give to you would be nothing to me unless 
 you dedicated it to the glory of God." 
 
 As she spoke the darkness once more overshadowed 
 them, and she was thrillingly conscious that her husband 
 was not quite so near to her. The irrevocable word, 
 the verdict above appeal, which had come flaming from 
 her soul, lay between them, like Sigurd's sword. She 
 heard him sigh, and her eyes filled with tears, as she 
 prayed that his heart might be opened, and that 
 Heaven's healing dew might fall upon it. She had 
 hardly finished, when he said sorrowfully: "Mary, 
 pray that your faith may be given to me, and swear 
 this " 
 
IN THE NEW FOREST 97 
 
 His voice became vehement and insistent. 
 
 "What am I to swear?" 
 
 "You believe that there is communication between 
 the living and the dead ?" 
 
 "Father believes it. He says that the evidence he 
 has sifted is mostly tainted by fraud and inaccuracy, 
 but enough that is genuine remains to prove it incon- 
 testably to him/' 
 
 "And you?" 
 
 "David, I don't know. That is still mystery." 
 
 " I want you to pledge yourself to come back at once, 
 if you go first. If I have the most shadowy glimpse 
 of you, I shall believe in a future life. And I pledge 
 myself to come to you, if I am taken." 
 
 She answered after a pause: 
 
 " I will come back, if I can. I swear that." 
 
 "I swear the same." 
 
 Then he kissed her, straining her to him in a passion 
 of revolt against the law which binds husband and 
 wife together with the knowledge, and therefore with 
 the intention, of rending them asunder. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 SOLOMON'S GARDEN 
 
 DURING the year that followed, the petty cares 
 and worries which attack young married 
 people with limited incomes did not spare 
 David and Mary. David found the choir rebellious 
 because so young a man had been set in authority 
 over it. The Vicar was failing in health, and the 
 withdrawal of his vigorous influence produced an 
 atmosphere of unrest and confusion. Moreover, 
 between Mary and her husband were tiny tempera- 
 mental differences which time alone can adjust. David 
 told himself now and again that Mary hardly seemed 
 to realize the importance of his music, and Mary, 
 for her part, wished that dear David would not buy 
 large legs of mutton when he was enjoined to buy 
 small ones. But the misunderstandings which did 
 arise always vanished beneath kisses and laughter. 
 
 By the luck of things a cottage in Sherborne, within 
 a stone's throw of the Abbey, happened to be vacant. 
 It stood in its own garden, a long, low, narrow, two- 
 storied building, built of stone and roofed with stone 
 tiles encrusted by soft mosses and lichens. The front 
 was covered with ivy and ampelopsis, out of which, 
 brilliantly white, gleamed a double row of square, 
 mullioned windows. Upon each side of the door 
 
 9 8 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 99 
 
 were big green tubs filled with white daisies, and the 
 knocker of the door was a delicately-modelled woman's 
 hand emerging from a frilled cuff. Above the door 
 was a rather curious baldachin of carved wood, orna- 
 mental rather than useful. Small as the house was, 
 it boasted a gravel sweep, and flanking this stretched 
 a path of broad gray flag-stones worn by the passage 
 of innumerable feet. The front garden was semi- 
 circular in shape, and bounded by a low fence, over 
 which one could see a pretty lawn, an ancient yew 
 tree, and some pollarded limes. Behind the house, 
 quite out of sight, was another tiny garden, less than 
 half an acre of ground, bounded on three sides by a 
 crumbling wall with a heavy coping. Under the wall, 
 and running along two sides of it, trickled a rivulet 
 of water down the middle of a ditch choked by weeds 
 and nettles. When Mary saw this ditch, she clapped 
 her hands. 
 
 "What a drain!" said David, nose in air. 
 
 "David, I shall make this our sanctuary." 
 
 "Good Heavens! How?" 
 
 " You'll see, if you live for one more year." 
 
 "You can do nothing with such a beastly place." 
 
 "Oh! can't I?" 
 
 From the first it had been understood that Fermor 
 would not join them. They saw him daily; he dined 
 once a week with them; they dined as often, or oftener, 
 with him. 
 
 Before six months had passed Mary confessed to 
 Fermor that a genius might, on occasions, be a nuisance. 
 
ioo THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 David would remain in his room, skipping luncheon, 
 and emerge pale and anxious, unstrung by toil and 
 fasting. Twice he worked the whole night. 
 
 "It's so silly of him," said Mary to Fermor. 
 
 "My dear," he patted her hand, "that is how 
 Beethoven produced the great Sonata in B flat, the 
 ' drangvollen Umstanden' which we practical folk 
 cannot understand." 
 
 "Did you go on like this ?" 
 
 "No." Then he added with a twist of the lip, 
 "I never wrote a great sonata in B flat." 
 
 One morning David announced that he had destroyed 
 his score. 
 
 Even Fermor, the purist, the indefatigable refiner 
 and reducer, raised his voice in protest. Mary stamped 
 her foot. 
 
 "It was no good," said David savagely. "I shall 
 begin again upon different lines." 
 
 "On a still larger scale?" 
 
 Irony lurked beneath her soft voice, for David had 
 written his oratorio in full score, for an immense 
 orchestra and organ. He laughed at her rueful face. 
 
 "This time we'll call it a cantata." 
 
 "I've a name for it: 'Kindly Light.'" 
 
 "Not bad, but why?" 
 
 She made a tiny grimace. "Because it leads you 
 on and on and away from me." 
 
 " Mary you're joking. Nothing could lead me 
 away from you." 
 
 She laughed, not quite whole-heartedly, and, next 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 101 
 
 day, when David found himself alone with Fermor, 
 he said, wonderingly: "Is is possible that Mary 
 grudges the time I spend at my music?" 
 
 "She'd be inhuman if she didn't." 
 
 "Father, once or twice when I've been late for 
 dinner, she's been rather short with me." 
 
 "Serve you right." 
 
 "But it's my job." 
 
 "And a poor job too, my boy, if it keeps that little 
 dear waiting for dinner, feeling her heart grow as cold 
 as the dishes she has prepared for you." 
 
 " I must be more punctual, but Mary cross ! 
 It's unthinkable." 
 
 "There may be a physical reason." 
 
 "Eh? What?" 
 
 "The usual one." 
 
 "Heavens! But she'd have told me. It can't be." 
 
 "She'd say nothing, if she thought it would distract 
 you from your work." 
 
 " By Jove 1 I believe you're right. What a thought- 
 less beast I've been." 
 
 He rushed tempestuously out of the room. Fermor, 
 looking out of his window, could see him tearing 
 through the Abbey Close. He smiled and nodded 
 to himself. 
 
 Meantime, David arrived so red and breathless 
 that Mary, not expecting him for several hours, experi- 
 enced rather a shock. 
 
 "What has happened?" 
 
 "Nothing. Except that I'm a stupid ass. I rushed 
 
102 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 down to tell you so. I'm going to turn up punctually 
 at meals for the future." 
 
 "David, you didn't race here to tell me that." 
 
 "Also I want to ask a tremendous question." 
 
 Then, as he kissed her tenderly, she began to 
 divine the nature of his question, and blushed. He 
 whispered it into her ear, and she nodded, hiding her 
 face upon his shoulder. Fermor had guessed rightly. 
 
 "Mary, you didn't think I put my work first?" 
 
 "No, but I wanted you to give your whole mind to 
 it, and if I was cross about your being late for dinner, 
 it was for much the same reason. You ought to keep 
 yourself as fit as possible." 
 
 "I'm going to look after you and you'll look after 
 me, and we'll present the world with masterpieces." 
 
 After this, as if to make amends for any seeming 
 neglect, he devoted himself to her. When Fermor 
 said, "How is the cantata getting on?" he replied 
 briskly, "Hang the cantata! Do you think Mary 
 would be the better for a change of air ?" 
 
 "No; she has had a change of air. She looks 
 blooming." 
 
 "She does too much, father." 
 
 "Is that why you do too little? Get back to work 
 and don't fuss." 
 
 September was drawing to a close, when the Vicar 
 died. About a week before the end, he sent for David. 
 The once strong robust man looked curiously thin 
 and frail, as he sat huddled up in his armchair, but 
 the eyes had lost little of their fire ana vitality. 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 103 
 
 "David/* he said quietly, "I have something on 
 my mind. When your dear father adopted you, I 
 told him that I would make a Christian of you. 
 To-day, looking back with a clearer vision than I 
 used to have, I know that vicars do not make Chris- 
 tians. It was a presumptuous thing to say. And I 
 fear me that on more than one occasion I evaded ques- 
 tions you asked me, or answered them peremptorily. 
 Forgive me, my boy!" 
 
 "Sir, if I am not the Christian you would have me 
 to be, it's my own fault." 
 
 The Vicar pressed his hand. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear David, and God bless you!" 
 
 In February Mary's child was born, a strong, healthy 
 girl, curiously like Mary from the first. David insisted 
 that she should be christened Mary, and then and 
 thereafter he spoke of her as the Marionette, and whim- 
 sically chose to regard her as the medium for advice 
 offered to a young and too giddy mother. 
 
 "Marionette," he would say, staring into the baby's 
 eyes, "I wish you would speak seriously to Mary. 
 I caught her rolling the lawn this afternoon," or " Mari- 
 onette, please tell Mary that I'm sorry I forgot to order 
 the fish," or, "Marionette, you will be delighted to 
 hear that your illustrious grandfather, Professor 
 Pignerol, honours us with his company at dinner 
 to-morrow night." 
 
 His interest in the baby astonished Mary. Oddly 
 enough, before the child's birth, when she was fash- 
 
io 4 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 ioning tiny garments and weaving into every stitch 
 tender thoughts of motherhood, she never once visual- 
 ized David as father. Indeed, she had come to regard 
 him as a child, the eternal youth, importunate in his 
 demand for the care and sympathy which she lavished 
 upon him so generously. Once she spoke of this. 
 
 "I can hardly believe you are baby's father/' 
 
 David laughed. 
 
 "Do you hear that, Marionette? This woman 
 whom we are both so awfully afraid of, is getting her 
 knife into me. She hints, the sly creature, that I'm 
 not fit to be a father. And, of course, she's right. 
 Marionette, she is always exasperatingly right. We're 
 only pals, you and I. Remember that, my young 
 chick." 
 
 Fermor alone knew that David's joyous mood was 
 the natural reaction after a season of terrible anxiety 
 cunningly hidden from Mary. David had not been 
 able to dismiss from his mind her words spoken at 
 the end of the honeymoon: "I shall go first, and I 
 shall go soon." The presentiment festered that she 
 would go when the baby came. And when it did 
 come, Fermor, who stayed with David during one 
 interminable night, whispered to Pignerol: "He 
 suffered her pangs. He was beside himself with 
 pain." 
 
 Before the baby was a year old, another season of 
 storm and stress set in. David was obliged to give 
 music lessons to eke out an income too small for a 
 family of three. What time was left he devoted to 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 105 
 
 the cantata, now nearly finished, but, as a whole, 
 unsatisfactory. It contained passages of great beauty, 
 but Fermor knew that it was uneven and weak in 
 design. The tone-colouring and certain remarkable 
 effects of light and shade could not conceal an inherent 
 lack of strength and solidity. Comparing as Fermor 
 did David's work with the Kirchen-cantaten of 
 Bach, it was impossible to overlook the fundamental 
 difference between the two composers. Also, the 
 labour involved in its full orchestration was prodigious. 
 Popular composers, to-day, allow others to orches- 
 trate their scores: an expensive business. Neither 
 Fermor nor David had a penny to spare. 
 
 Accordingly, we behold David overworking himself 
 and neglecting proper exercise of the body, which 
 revenged itself by declaring war on the mind, opening 
 a tedious campaign with a sharp attack of indigestion. 
 Hitherto David had enjoyed high health, an immunity 
 from aches and pains which expressed itself in the 
 texture of his skin, in the radiant careless glance of 
 his blue eyes. Seeing him pale and thin, the Professor 
 said: 
 
 "My son, you are foolish. Work is the salt of 
 life and justifies existence, but overwork is like cayenne 
 pepper. It corrodes the delicate tissues, and ulti- 
 mately destroys them. Be reasonable ! You are young 
 and strong, you have an adorable wife and child. 
 Fortune has come to you with both hands full. Write 
 a Jubilate, and, inasmuch as you are still one of the 
 green things of the earth, praise the Lord!" 
 
106 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "I am working for your daughter." 
 
 "Pouf-f-f!" The Professor snapped his strong 
 fingers. "Your Marykins and your Marionette are 
 as wise as you are unwise. They are perfectly happy 
 with simple things. The only cloud in their sky is 
 the cloud which they perceive in your eyes." Then 
 be quoted the following quatrain: 
 
 " The happiest heart that ever beat 
 
 Was in some quiet breast 
 That found the common daylight sweet 
 And left to Heaven the rest." 
 
 An additional cause of annoyance was the appoint- 
 ment of a new vicar. Why vicar and organist 
 instinctively disliked each other it is impossible to 
 explain. Doctors of the Church ought to rise superior 
 to petty failings, but Miss Rachel Callow maintained 
 that the new vicar was jealous of David Archdale, 
 and perhaps he was. 
 
 We must pass quickly over months of anxiety and 
 heartburnings: the trials and tribulations so common 
 to young married people, so petty as almost to elude 
 description, and yet in their cumulative effect so disas- 
 trous to peace and happiness. The day came when 
 David realized with poignant self-reproach that he 
 alone had been responsible for a domestic malaise 
 which a little common sense would have put to flight. 
 Overwork and the sense that he was not doing justice 
 to himself, that his music, when laboriously written 
 down, fell far short of what he had conceived it to be, 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 107 
 
 made him irritable and nervous. The baby was cutting 
 her big teeth and very fretful at night; Mary, strug- 
 gling valiantly against conditions of which she had 
 no experience whatever, became oppressed with the 
 fear that David would break down. If he did, if he 
 lost his position as organist, their condition would be 
 lamentable. Nevertheless, David always found a 
 smile upon her face when he came home, and she swore 
 that she would keep on smiling till her heavens fell. 
 
 David misinterpreted these pathetic smiles; and 
 Mary, admittedly, may have made a blunder in avoid- 
 ing reference to his work. She perceived that such 
 mention excited him and ended in a sleepless night. 
 David, poor fellow, brought himself to believe that she 
 was indifferent to his music, that it bored her ! 
 
 We must introduce into this gloomy picture a shaft 
 or two of light. There were delightful moments, 
 when the fountain seemed to be unsealed, when delicious 
 harmonies flowed into David's head, and were hastily 
 transcribed. He then became again the joyous youth, 
 the delightful companion, the perfect husband. 
 
 "I know it's fine," he would say. "This will 
 astonish that fat Lorimer, confound him!" 
 
 And Mary would reply: "Yes, yes, it's perfectly 
 splendid." 
 
 They had been married more than three years, 
 when Mary was constrained to admit to herself that 
 nothing short of a worldly success would restore to 
 her the David of the honeymoon, who had seemed the 
 best husband in the world. She listened, not without 
 
108 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 a pang of jealousy, to his monologues with the baby. 
 He talked to the child with unmistakable candour. 
 
 "Marionette, we are having hard times. We are 
 both cutting teeth, but we'll have such larks presently. 
 And I promise you that you shall hear my songs sung 
 by the greatest singers in the world. And I shall 
 present to you Madame Albani and Madame Patti, 
 and I shall say: 'Here is my particular pal, who 
 listened patiently to me when I was poor and 
 unknown/ 3 
 
 Mary reflected: "He thinks that I do not listen 
 patiently/' 
 
 After this, she began to pray that the success he 
 craved would be his. And so praying, she knew 
 that she was unfaithful to her principles, and cutting 
 adrift from her father's teaching, for the success which 
 David coveted was the acclaim of the multitude. The 
 Professor had embodied this in an epigram: "The 
 applause of the few ascends to Heaven, the applause of 
 the many rings loudest in Hell." 
 
 Fermor was a great comfort to her. His reserve, 
 his discretion, his delicacy in not asking questions, 
 and his quiet humour lightened the dark moments. 
 Mary had nicknamed him "The Looker-on." He saw 
 all of the game, but never interfered. His faith in 
 David remained constant. 
 
 " My dear," he would say serenely. "I even I - 
 have been through this mill. It ground me out small, 
 it may grind out David big. We cannot alter him 
 to fit our rule-of-thumb." 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 109 
 
 "We have not even tried to alter David; he has 
 altered himself. The wise Looker-on must have seen 
 that it is a big worldly success which his son wants." 
 
 "It is so natural." 
 
 But Mary shook her head. 
 
 "Not natural in your son." 
 
 "But he is not really mine. The fight between 
 heredity and environment, which the Vicar predicted, 
 is now beginning." 
 
 "Beginning?" 
 
 Fermor nodded, watching the smoke from his pipe 
 dissolve in the air. So his ambitions had dissolved 
 leaving the latter half of life clear. Mary continued: 
 
 "When we first married, he told me that if he could 
 please you he was satisfied and happy. Now he wants 
 to please that odious Mr. Lorimer." 
 
 "Lorimer is an excellent fellow. Cheer up, Mary! 
 All will be well." 
 
 Mary kissed him and laughed. 
 
 "I've never let myself go to anybody except you, 
 my dear Looker-on." 
 
 "Well, well, come and explode on my premises 
 whenever you like." 
 
 After interminable delays and innumerable altera- 
 tions, the cantata was finished. Immediately, David 
 seemed to recover his health and high spirits. Con- 
 vinced that Lorimer would undertake its production, 
 he bought a new piano without paying for it. He 
 was almost angry when Mary hinted deprecatingly 
 that nothing was certain on this planet. 
 
no THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Dearest, ycu have no faith in me." 
 
 "I have I have, indeed, the very greatest faith." 
 
 "I should really believe that, if you told me that 
 you had prayed for my triumph." 
 
 "I have." 
 
 "From the bottom of your heart ?" 
 
 "From the bottom of my heart, with all my mind 
 and soul and strength." 
 
 "What a blessed little woman! I've been thinking 
 of what we shall do. I shall take an unholy joy in telling 
 the Vicar to find another organist. We must have a 
 nurse, and a pony cart, and, perhaps, a parlour-maid." 
 
 "You are travelling at a prodigious pace." 
 
 "The Marionette shall own a gorgeous pram, and 
 a pelisse lined with the best white satin." 
 
 "These are castles in Spain." 
 
 "In France, only just across the Channel. If we 
 had a larger house, we could entertain a little." 
 
 "Gracious! You make me dizzy." 
 
 And then the thunderbolt fell, crushing the unhappy 
 man into a quagmire of misery and disappointment. 
 Lorimer wrote to say that he had submitted the score 
 to half a dozen of the ablest musicians in the kingdom. 
 They were unanimous in regard to its great merit, 
 awarded unqualified praise to David's contrapuntal 
 skill and his astonishing mastery (for so young a man) 
 over the technical difficulties; but, with one exception, 
 they agreed that the cost of production would be 
 enormous and prohibitive. Lorimer offered to pub- 
 lish separately some of the solos. 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN in 
 
 "Never," said David, in grim despair, "never!" 
 
 Fermor said grimly: "The first fruits of genius 
 often fall from the tree. Try again !" 
 
 "I can't!" said David. 
 
 Two days of dreadful silence followed. Mary gazed 
 at him, unable to speak, fearing to say too much or too 
 little. Upon the evening of the third day she could 
 stand the suspense no longer. 
 
 "David," she said, entreatingly, "say something 
 anything. Your silence is breaking my heart." 
 
 Her voice seemed to arouse him. He came to her, 
 took her head between his hands, and said brokenly: 
 
 " My God ! That I should have dared to marry you !" 
 
 "Dared?" she gasped. 
 
 He gazed at her with a terrifying detachment, while 
 the sweat broke upon his forehead. 
 
 "I told you I had faith in myself. It's gone, gone! 
 Do you think I should have asked you to marry me to 
 remain the wife of a tu'penny-ha' penny organist?" 
 
 "Dear, I asked for nothing better. I am content. 
 We love each other. Nothing else matters." 
 
 He kissed her and burst into tears, terrible grinding 
 sobs which shook them both. She sank into a chair, 
 and he knelt at her feet, his face buried in her lap. 
 While the paroxysm lasted she prayed with a fervour 
 and faith so intense as almost to transcend conscious- 
 ness that she might be able to comfort him and wean 
 his mind from the contemplation of his wounds. And, 
 as she prayed, her fingers smoothed his hair with a 
 caressing touch. 
 
ii2 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 She remembered afterward that her faith had been 
 supreme at this crisis in their lives; she had never 
 doubted that her prayer would be answered. The 
 sobs ceased, the convulsed limbs grew still. Presently 
 he lifted his head and met her tender glance. 
 
 "My wife," he whispered. "Can you ever forgive 
 me?" 
 
 After this, during eighteen months, David and Mary 
 were as near to perfect happiness as it is given to mortals 
 to be. David laid aside worldly ambition, and devoted 
 himself to the choir, his pupils, his family, and his 
 garden. 
 
 The plot of ground behind the house had become 
 Mary's joy and delight. She had collected a number 
 of broken paving-stones with which she made a winding 
 path along the ditch. In the ditch, cleared of nettles 
 and weeds, she had placed rocks; and about these 
 were planted saxifrages and ferns. Upon each side 
 of the paving-stones grew grass not clipped too short, 
 in which bloomed the cousins of the iris and narcissus 
 in Pignerol's wilderness. Masses of forget-me-nots, 
 with tulips rising out of them, fringed the rivulet. 
 Upon the side of the path opposite the ditch David 
 had thrown up a small embankment. Here, acan- 
 thus spread its beautiful spinous leaves; tall holly- 
 hocks looked down upon poppies and primulas; 
 Canterbury bells quivered in the midsummer breeze; 
 feathery plumes of spirea illumined the blue of lark- 
 spur and cornflower. And within this enchanted 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 113 
 
 border was the holy of holies. Discovering that the 
 aged fruit trees were past bearing, Mary turned them 
 into a natural trellis for all beautiful vagabonds. The 
 sanctuary was a bower of roses in which Mary sat 
 planning new improvements. 
 
 At first, David had taken but little interest in this 
 tiny pleasaunce, but insensibly he became infected with 
 Mary's enthusiasm. She talked of it, using her father's 
 phrases, as a tabernacle. David laughed, but he 
 promised to leave care without the garden. 
 
 "Cares," said Mary, "are tares. I really believe 
 that if we worried and squabbled, the roses wouldn't 
 smell as sweet, and the lavender would refuse to 
 grow." 
 
 She lavished the same love upon the humblest herbs 
 as she gave to the stately lilies, engrossed with the 
 difficulties of nourishing feeble and sickly plants. 
 When they became strong and vigorous she gloated, 
 maintaining that everything and everybody was 
 intended to grow to fullest stature. 
 
 Her absorbing interest in things of simple and 
 costless pleasure communicated itself to David. The 
 doctor, at the time of David's physical breakdown, 
 had prescribed two hours' work a day with a spade 
 or hoe. David played Muscle to Mary's Mind. 
 
 And then, quite suddenly, his mighty inspiration 
 descended upon him. 
 
 For a year he had never spoken of his cantata, nor 
 had he undertaken any original composition. Fermor 
 made no protest, realizing that the great masterpiece 
 
n 4 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 would come in the fulness of time, and that a period 
 of incubation was inevitable after the drangvollen 
 umstanden which had culminated in the failure of 
 the cantata. 
 
 David and Mary were alone in the garden. Pignerol, 
 however, had just left behind some of the Pignerol 
 philosophy. 
 
 "I am glad," he had said, "that you never speak 
 of your flowers by their jaw-breaking Latin names. 
 Name of a pipe ! Isn't Love In Idleness good enough ? 
 And Heartsease, and Sweet William God bless 
 him and Canterbury bells, and that adorable rose 
 which does so well with me, Felicite perpetuelle? To 
 me, mes enfants, these dear familiar names are not 
 the least of a garden's charms, because they scent the 
 imagination is it not so ?" 
 
 And Mary had laughed, saying: "Snapdragon 
 will never be called antirrhinum in this garden." And 
 then Pignerol had added with solemnity: "You are wise 
 children. You have discovered the great secret of the 
 flowers; you are rinding the common daylight sweet." 
 
 When he had gone, David sat down, letting his eyes 
 wander over this tiny domain which enshrined so 
 many delightful hours; every flower seemed to scent, 
 as Pignerol put it, his imagination. Mary sat beside 
 him, and laid her hand upon his. At her touch, he 
 seemed to hear a strain of music, the "heavenly note," 
 of which Fermor and he had so often talked. And 
 then, excitedly, he sprang to his feet and exclaimed: 
 
 " Mary it has come !" 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 115 
 
 "What, David ?" 
 
 "My wonderful idea. I knew it would come. I 
 wrote the cantata in the wrong spirit. But this," 
 he began to pace up and down, "this is the real thing. 
 It's exactly right. I know it, I know it!" 
 
 Mary said demurely: "I hope what you know 
 will declare itself in the fulness of time." 
 
 David slipped his arm round her waist and kissed 
 her. Then he fetched the Marionette, who was roll- 
 ing about on the tiny lawn, where Mary had sowed 
 some sweet-smelling herbs amongst the grasses. The 
 child smelt of thyme and chamomile as her father 
 picked her up. 
 
 "Now," said David very solemnly, "I am going to 
 tell you two angels that the privilege of your society 
 has not after all been wasted on me. I am going to 
 write a soul-awakening oratorio, and I shall call it 
 'Solomon's Garden/ It is to be the garden of love and 
 wisdom. And every blessed flower and herb shall 
 turn its sweetness into music for me. There!" 
 
 He laughed triumphantly. The child laughed too, 
 and clapped her hands. Mary said softly: "Awake, 
 
 north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon 
 my garden, that the spices thereof may flow out." 
 
 "Where is that from ?" asked David. 
 
 "From the 'Song of Solomon'." 
 
 "That shall be the opening recitative. Mary, 
 
 1 wrote the cantata myself, but we shall do this together. 
 You shall write the words." 
 
 He could talk of nothing else; and next day the 
 
ii6 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 work was begun. Fermor was almost as excited as 
 David. Love, not ambition, had at last inspired the 
 boy whom he had trained to be satisfied with nothing 
 except the best. He too quoted the Canticles: 
 "Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the 
 floods drown it." 
 
 Afterward, David often wondered why this par- 
 ticular work came so easily to him, almost without 
 effort on his part. He told Mary that he was inspired; 
 and Pignerol's daughter had no difficulty in believing 
 this to be so. He worked in the garden, and then 
 would rush excitedly to the piano, calling upon Mary 
 and the Marionette to follow. Then he would play 
 and hum his themes, punctuating them with incessant 
 questions addressed to the mother and child. If he 
 suffered, it was from a too copious flow of ideas. The 
 perplexity of right selection made him frown, but 
 invariably the final decision was left to the sprites 
 who work when mortals sleep. These sprites became 
 very familiar spirits indeed to David and Mary, who 
 called them by the names of birds and flowers; as a 
 rule, the nightingale was allowed the last word. 
 
 Fermor told himself twenty times a day that all was 
 well. He, too, entered into this partnership with a 
 zest and excitement which so Pignerol said made 
 him look ten years younger. And he helped inde- 
 fatigably with the orchestration and the setting of the 
 words of the Canticles to music. His enormous 
 experience and his intimate knowledge of the great 
 anthems were invaluable to David. But often he 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 117 
 
 trembled when he tried to compute what the cost of 
 production would be. The ever-sanguine David 
 prattled of the Albert Hall and all the stars, who were 
 to sing gloriously together. And yet Fermor dared 
 not attempt to clip the wings of an aspiration which 
 he feared might be soaring too high. Genius, he 
 reflected, if it be of the sublimest order, ought to 
 manifest itself in the loftiest endeavour. Neverthe- 
 less, magnificently as the oratorio was conceived and 
 treated, perhaps its most amazing characteristic was 
 simplicity. Incomparably the finest solo was the one 
 which began "Come, my beloved, let us go forth into 
 the field; let us lodge in the villages." In a word, 
 the inner meaning of the music illustrated the eternal 
 principle that happiness and wisdom may be found 
 in a humble field, provided always that it is blessed 
 by the Lord. 
 
 One day, when Fermor ventured to hint that Lorimer 
 might with propriety be consulted, David burst out 
 vehemently: 
 
 "I am writing this to satisfy you, not that fat 
 tradesman." 
 
 And Fermor, gazing steadily into David's blue 
 eyes, perceived that this was the truth, and, as he 
 pressed David's hand in acknowledgment of what 
 was implied, he told himself that life had given to him 
 no moment of keener pleasure and pride. 
 
 " Solomon's Garden " was more than half done, when 
 the smiling, complacent Mr. Guillaume Boileau sud- 
 
ii8 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 denly appeared in Sherborne. He would like a chap- 
 ter to himself, but he is not entitled to it, although 
 we are all aware for he has told us the tale so often 
 that he made David Archdale. 
 
 Mr. Guillaume Boileau, at the time when he appeared 
 in Sherborne, was not yet recognized as the great 
 star of musical comedy. In the eighties, musical 
 comedy was beginning to dispute the supremacy of 
 comic opera. Boileau, however, had already achieved 
 reputation as a light tenor. He was the son of a 
 Sherborne solicitor of the name of Drinkwater. As 
 Bill Drinkwater, he had sung in the Abbey choir, 
 side by side with David, in those early days when 
 David's solos materially added to the collections. 
 Bill had been possessed of a fair voice, not comparable 
 to David's. But, later, Bill's tenor was acknowledged 
 to be a marketable commodity, whereas David's 
 baritone was not. Drinkwater being an impossible 
 name on a concert programme, Bill had sought for 
 something more attractive, and David had suggested 
 Guillaume Boileau as euphonious and a literal transla- 
 tion. Bill had been most grateful. 
 
 Boileau came to Sherborne to sing in a concert, 
 at which David accompanied him. After the concert 
 Bill Drinkwater dined with his old friend, and, allowing 
 for a reasonable amount of swagger, made himself 
 agreeable. Now that he is, admittedly, the best- 
 dressed man on the stage, one hardly dares to mention 
 that he wore a dinner-jacket, coming into fashion 
 just then, and a white satin tie. He amused Mary 
 
SOLOMON'S GARDEN 119 
 
 by addressing her as "dear lady," and David as "old 
 man." Upon the third finger of his left hand shone 
 a diamond ring. 
 
 After dinner he sang some songs. David praised 
 the singer, not the songs. 
 
 " You like my songs ?" said Boileau. 
 
 " They' re sweetly pretty." 
 
 " Sweetly pretty ? I should jolly well think they 
 are. There's only one man in England can write 
 songs like 'em Isidore Schmaltz." 
 
 " I know another," said David. 
 
 "Who is he?" 
 
 "He is talking to you. I used to make just such 
 lollipops when I was a kid." 
 
 "Old man, you'll forgive my saying so, but that's 
 
 rot." 
 
 "They are knocking about somewhere in a big 
 envelope." 
 
 "I have it," said Mary. "The Looker-on gave 
 it to me when we married. He labelled the envelope 
 'Ore from a promising mine.'" 
 
 "I expect they'd give you a fit if you heard 'em 
 now," said Boileau. 
 
 "Shall I fetch them, for fun ?" asked Mary. 
 
 "No," David answered lazily. 
 
 " Ah ! I thought he'd funk the test." 
 
 "He doesn't!" Mary replied indignantly. "I will 
 fetch them." And she ran out of the room. 
 
 She had difficulty in finding the envelope, and twice 
 as she remembered afterward she was on the 
 
120 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 edge of abandoning the quest. When she handed 
 the envelope to her husband, he looked at it, smiling, 
 recalling the joyous youthful days. Out of a dozen 
 sheets of music, he selected one, and went to the piano. 
 As he sat down, he half turned, staring at the popular 
 tenor, who was sprawling back on his chair, with a 
 patronizing smile upon his too complacent face. 
 
 'This," said David, "was written when I was fifteen, 
 and it's prettier than anything you've warbled yet." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 WHICH INTRODUCES SOME CELEBRITIES 
 
 DAVID played the accompaniment, whistling 
 the air. Boileau jumped up as the last 
 chord was struck. 
 
 "By Jove!" he gasped. " It's exactly what I want. 
 Play another!" 
 
 David played half a dozen, introducing variations. 
 
 "You're a wonder," said Boileau. "Will you let 
 me have these for a week ? I'll show them to a pal 
 who writes my words. Then, if you'll take his words 
 and set them properly, I'll sing 'em." 
 
 "You are very kind," said David. 
 
 "Kindness be damned! Excuse me, Mrs. Arch- 
 dale! This husband of yours can't realize that he has 
 a little gold mine under his nose. Now, look here, 
 both of you! I'm not a great musician, never was, 
 but I know what the British Public wants, and I give 
 it to 'em, hot and hot. I cater for the man in the 
 street, because I'm a man in the street myself. And 
 the songs I sing go! In Lorimer's you'll see 'em 
 tumbling over each other to buy the latest. This 
 stuff of yours, old man, is better than Schmaltz by a 
 long sight." 
 
 "Thanks." 
 
 "Evidently you don't believe me. All right, wait 
 
122 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 a year! And if you'll take my tip, which I suppose 
 you won't, chuck this church music, and concentrate 
 on songs. Gad! I never heard such tricky little 
 melodies. Play 'em again!" 
 
 David played them again. 
 
 Next day Monsieur Guillaume Boileau returned to 
 London, taking David's songs with him. Curiously 
 enough, the popular tenor's enthusiasm and admira- 
 tion aroused no response in David. However, when 
 he told Fdrmor what Boileau had said, the man of 
 experience laughed. 
 
 " He is probably right." 
 
 "Those tinkling melodies: sugary trash! I wouldn't 
 let him hear them, if we were not so confoundedly 
 hard up." 
 
 "Everybody likes sugar in some form or another." 
 
 A week passed, and then David received a peremp- 
 tory telegram: "Come up at once. Lonmer must 
 see you.' 9 
 
 Lorimer welcomed him warmly with a cordial shake 
 of the hand and the emphatic remark: "Now you are 
 coming into your own." Boileau, who was present, 
 introduced Mr. Tom Merryweather, the song-writer 
 and librettist. 
 
 "Take a good look at Tom," urged Boileau. 
 
 David obeyed. Merryweather smiled deprecatingly. 
 
 "There's not much to look at," he murmured. 
 
 This was uncomfortably true. Merryweather 
 might have passed as an apothecary with a diminishing 
 business. 
 
SOME CELEBRITIES 123 
 
 "Tom," said Boileau, "looks rather tired. He 
 overworks himself signing receipts for cheques on 
 account of royalties. What did you make with the 
 'Laundrymaid,' old man? Tell David. It'll give him 
 an appetite for lunch." 
 
 Merryweather shrugged a thin pair of shoulders. 
 In his pale, clean-shaven face a pair of gray eyes 
 twinkled lazily. 
 
 "I made much more than the hussy was worth," 
 he said. 
 
 "That's rot," said Lorimer emphatically. "A thing 
 is worth what it will fetch in the open market, neither 
 more nor less. Let's get to business." 
 
 Within ten minutes the business was despatched. 
 Merryweather agreed to write three lyrics for three 
 of the songs. Boileau undertook to sing them upon 
 the first opportunity. Lorimer, as publisher, bought 
 the world's rights. A few minutes later, Boileau and 
 David were standing in Bond Street, taking leave of 
 Merryweather, who refused luncheon upon the plea 
 of an impaired digestion. 
 
 " He'd sacrifice half his royalties if he could eat 
 lobster," said the late Mr. Bill Drinkwater. 
 
 Taking David's arm, and pressing it, Boileau 
 began to walk toward Piccadilly. David perceived 
 that his companion, who was slightly overdressed, 
 glanced complacently at the foot passengers. Some 
 of these turned to look twice at a face rapidly becoming 
 familiar to all London. David heard the women 
 whispering to each other as they strolled by: "That's 
 
i2 4 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Guillaume Boileau." Boileau heard them also and 
 smiled even more complacently. 
 
 "You know, old man, without bragging, it's jolly 
 lucky for you that I was there this morning. I made 
 Lorimer do the square thing by you. He'd have 
 pinched you if I hadn't told him that you were my 
 particular pal." 
 
 Again he pressed David's arm affectionately, and 
 set his hat, a top-hat, shiny and curly of brim, at a 
 knowing angle. 
 
 "We're on the make," he continued, "but some of 
 us don't want to hog it all. I feel like a bottle of fizz 
 for lunch." 
 
 At a famous restaurant, David's name as a com- 
 poser of popular songs was toasted. The room was 
 full of people, and David noticed that his companion 
 seemed to be upon intimate terms with some of the 
 youngest and prettiest women present. Near Boileau's 
 table sat two "dashers," the celebrated Daffy-down- 
 Dilly and a friend. They greeted the tenor gaily; 
 and he at once introduced David, adding: 
 
 "In the musical comedy which Tom Merry- 
 weather is now writing, Miss Daffodil and I have 
 the leading parts. Can't you two darlings sit at our 
 table?" 
 
 "We have nearly finished," said Miss Daffodil, 
 demurely. She glanced at David out of the corner 
 of a pair of eyes which had captivated thousands of 
 men, young and old. Indeed, the town had prostrated 
 itself at her pretty feet ever since her appearance in 
 
SOME CELEBRITIES 125 
 
 the "Laundrymaid." Also, she was clever, and of this 
 David was to have proof immediately. 
 
 Boileau, in a not too discreet whisper, explained 
 to David that Daffy was engaged to the eldest son of 
 a noble marquis, and that she behaved with exemplary 
 propriety. 
 
 "You whisper too loud," murmured Miss Daffodil. 
 
 "Pooh!" said Boileau. "Don't be a humbug, Daffy! 
 You want the world and his wife, particularly the wife, 
 to gobble up the fact that you are a good little girl." 
 
 David, not altogether at his ease in this high society, 
 glanced at other tables. He was struck by the general 
 air of prosperity. 
 
 "What a jolly crowd," he whispered. 
 
 ' Jolly ? I believe you. Of course they come 
 here to celebrate. And they share the Irish gentle- 
 man's conviction that it's wise to make the most of 
 life because one is sure to be a long time dead. Waiter! 
 A bottle of Pommery, same I always have." 
 
 "Out, Monsieur" 
 
 During the excellent luncheon that followed, Boileau 
 expounded his philosophy to a wondering organist, 
 who tried to recognize in the speaker some resemblance 
 to the boy who had sung in the Abbey choir. Failing 
 in this, he recalled the dinner at Stormont Lodge, and 
 launched a question: 
 
 "This is successful London, eh ?" 
 
 "Right you are! They want the best, and get it." 
 
 "Do they?" 
 
 "You bet your life, old man. And now you've 
 
126 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 tasted blood, you'll want it. At this blessed moment 
 my poor old daddy is sitting down to resurrection 
 pie. Have another glass of fizz ?" 
 
 "They can't be all as jolly as they look." 
 
 " As for that, we get the habit of looking jolly. And 
 it pays. Don't forget that! Grins are worth money 
 in this little village. Daffy couldn't help grinning in 
 that hat, could she ?" 
 
 "Grin and wear it!" 
 
 "Fine! You'll do, David. I think I shall call you 
 Dave. I say, Daff, do you think this young man here 
 looks like a David or a Dave ?" 
 
 "I shall call him Dave with the smallest en- 
 couragement." 
 
 "Consider yourself encouraged," said the ardent 
 Boileau. " If you're very nice to him, he may write 
 you a song." 
 
 Instantly David perceived a flash of rather cold 
 hard light in the pretty eyes gazing into his. 
 
 "You write songs ?" 
 
 "He is writing three songs for me," said Boileau 
 solemnly, "that will be played by every barrel organ 
 in the kingdom within six months." 
 
 "Gracious!" exclaimed Miss Daffodil. "Better 
 have your coffee over here." 
 
 She beamed upon David and insisted that he should 
 sit beside her. Boileau ordered some old brandy. 
 The ladies ordered the same, and found it so extra- 
 ordinarily mild that they took, each, a second glassful. 
 Presently, a tall young man, conspicuously dressed 
 
SOME CELEBRITIES 127 
 
 as if about to go rat-catching, entered the restaurant 
 and approached Miss Daffodil. 
 
 "It's my young man, Bingo," she said, with a 
 smile that was not quite natural. 
 
 My lord sauntered up. His eyes were small and 
 slightly furtive. He nodded coolly and said : " Come 
 on, Daffy!" 
 
 She hesitated, with a tiny frown just visible upon 
 her forehead. Then, swiftly making up her mind 
 to be agreeable, she said with a gay laugh: "All 
 right. You won't mind my running away, dear?" 
 She glanced at her friend, who nodded. " Mr. Boileau 
 will take care of you. Waiter, my bill!" 
 
 " I'll pay the bill," said Bingo stolidly. 
 
 " No, no," protested the young lady. 
 
 But when the bill was presented, Bingo masterfully 
 insisted. David saw him stare at the total, biting his 
 lips and scowling. 
 
 "Done yourselves jolly well," he growled. 
 
 "When I ask a friend to lunch, I always give her 
 the best." 
 
 "Do you always have two glasses of brandy?" 
 
 There was an instant's pause, and then David, to 
 his amazement, heard Daffy's soft voice raised in indig- 
 nant protest. 
 
 "Two?" 
 
 " Two, each, at half a crown apiece." 
 
 Daffy laughed, turning to Boileau. 
 
 "The stupid fellow has charged us with your extra 
 brandies." 
 
128 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "So he has," said the genial Boileau. "Here, you 
 silly ass, you've made a mistake. Two of those 
 brandies are mine see ?" 
 
 " Out, Monsieur." 
 
 A moment later, Bingo and Miss Daffodil left the 
 restaurant together. 
 
 "Clever as they make 'em!" said Boileau, with 
 real enthusiasm. 
 
 "Never knew her without a gilt-edged lie handy," 
 admitted the friend. 
 
 Next day, David returned home. He told Mary 
 what had passed with a derisive smile upon his face, 
 And then, to the Marionette, who was looking up at 
 him adoringly, he remarked: 
 
 "You ought to be a proud girl. The barrel organs 
 in London are going to play your daddy's songs." 
 
 Alone with Fermor and Mary, he spoke with vehe- 
 mence and acrimony: 
 
 "I asked Lorimer about ' Solomon's Garden. 5 I 
 actually played to him 'Come, my Beloved!' and 
 hang him he was as cold as Greenland's icy moun- 
 tains. He hinted that I was off my head and that he 
 wouldn't help to make me madder than I was. But 
 he raves about those rotten songs. All right, if they 
 do go, I'll produce 'Solomon's Garden' myself." 
 
 "Urn!" said Fermor. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "I hope I shall live to see your oratorio produced, 
 but it seems to me I daresay I am wrong that you 
 
SOME CELEBRITIES 129 
 
 can't expect to capture two publics. If you establish 
 a demand for what is played on street organs, you 
 will have to meet it, and continue meeting it. In a 
 word, you can't serve two masters." 
 
 "The public I wish to serve won't listen to me, 
 according to Lorimer." 
 
 Fermor' s eyes twinkled. 
 
 "Let us admit, David, that it would cost a very 
 large sum of money to listen to you. Lorimer was 
 willing to publish the solos in the cantata." 
 
 "To share the fate of the tonal poems. Father, 
 I can't work up as you tried to do. It would kill me. 
 If Boileau is right, and he seems a shrewd fellow, 
 I shall make pots of money, and then I shall go back 
 to the work I love." 
 
 "If you can," said Mary in a low voice. 
 
 He turned upon her sharply. 
 
 " If I can ? Didn't one of those Barbizon artists 
 paint chocolate boxes for bread and butter?" 
 
 "True," replied Fermor, "but only for bread and 
 butter. I understood that Boileau was going to boom 
 you." 
 
 "Why shouldn't your songs be published anony- 
 mously?" said Mary. 
 
 "By Jove!" said David. "What a splendid idea! 
 Why, of course. Isn't she a clever little woman, 
 father?" 
 
 "It might be done," said Fermor. "But would 
 Boileau and Lorimer and Merryweather hold their 
 tongues ? " 
 
130 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 " I shall write to them to-night." 
 
 Accordingly, it came to pass that the songs were 
 published anonymously. The first was a colossal 
 success, even as Boileau had predicted. It was sung 
 all over the world, and turned into a waltz. The two 
 that followed immediately were nearly as popular. 
 David was obliged to stop work upon his oratorio, 
 but he opened an account with a London bank, into 
 which began to trickle a steady stream of gold. 
 Nevertheless, he remained at Sherborne apparently 
 unchanged. Only Fermor and Mary divined that 
 his work in the Abbey had become drudgery. 
 
 Finally, another of Lorimer' s telegrams summoned 
 him to London. But before the publisher could 
 explain what he wanted, David burst out: "When 
 are you going to produce 'Solomon's Garden' ? " 
 
 Lorimer raised his thick eyebrows. 
 
 "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "you're not weaving 
 ropes out of that sand, when you've mountains of 
 flax in sight ? Tom Merryweather wants you to do 
 a musical comedy with him, and Williams, Taffy 
 Williams, is coming here in half an hour. He's pre- 
 pared to sign an agreement this afternoon. This 
 may mean twenty thousand pounds to you. Let us 
 talk then of oratorios." 
 
 David felt the blood rushing into his head. 
 
 Lorimer, eyeing him keenly, continued talking. 
 We can guess what he said, and how cleverly he said 
 it. At the end he added: 
 
 " By the way, isn't it time to come out of your shell ?" 
 
SOME CELEBRITIES 131 
 
 "No," said David. 
 
 "As you please, but, of course, the secret can't be 
 kept much longer/' 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because you'll have to rehearse at the Jollity." 
 
 Evidently, Lorimer was taking for granted that the 
 agreement with Williams would be signed that after- 
 noon. Merryweather and Boileau, who arrived 
 together, took the same view. Boileau and Daffy- 
 down-Dilly were to be assigned the principal parts. 
 Daffy, it seemed, had broken her engagement with 
 Bingo on the ground that she did not love him. This 
 astonishing fact, judiciously paragraphed, brought 
 much grist to the Jollity mill. 
 
 Then the great man arrived. 
 
 Taffy Williams, at this date, was universally 
 acclaimed as the inventor of musical comedy. And, 
 to-day, he admits modestly enough that he cannot 
 tell how musical comedy came to be. Like Topsy - 
 it growed. He alone would seem to have grasped the 
 essential truth that you cannot give too much of a 
 real good thing to the British Public. He was the 
 first to count the laughs night after night during the 
 first week's run of a piece; he insisted upon the repeti- 
 tion of gags and funny business; he subordinated plot 
 to playing the fool, consequence to inconsequence, 
 and matter to manner. The axiom was established 
 that ends the shapeliest in the kingdom -- justify 
 means, and indeed create them. What the peerage 
 owes to him, the peerage has recorded. Restaura- 
 
i 3 2 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 teurs, barristers, solicitors, tradesmen, and ten thou- 
 sand others regard Taffy Williams as one of the world's 
 greatest benefactors. 
 
 He impressed David as a kindly man and, in a 
 sense, singularly modest, speaking in a deprecating 
 tone, and giving to others credit for the colossal suc- 
 cesses already achieved. 
 
 "I syndicate talent," he said. "I'm always on the 
 lookout for something fresh and clean." 
 
 "He scours the music halls," explained Boileau. 
 
 Williams nodded, exhibiting a melancholy smile. 
 
 "Have you arranged anything, gentlemen?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "It's all cut and dried," asserted Boileau. 
 
 "We have not had a word from Mr. Archdale," 
 said Lorimer. "And he refuses to come out of his 
 shell." 
 
 Seeing David rather confused and at a disadvantage, 
 Merryweather said pleasantly, "I think we can 
 work together." 
 
 "Oh, yes," David admitted. 
 
 " My plan is simple. I am not a composer, or course, 
 but I know what Williams wants." 
 
 " As well as any man living," growled Taffy. 
 
 " I say to you, Mr. Archdale 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, call him David, and have 
 done with it," interrupted Boileau." 
 
 Merryweather continued suavely: "I say, there- 
 fore, let me pass judgment upon your work on Mon- 
 days, Wednesdays, and Fridays; and you slate mine 
 
SOME CELEBRITIES 133 
 
 on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Neither 
 is bound to accept the suggestions of the other, but 
 each is bound to listen civilly. When we've done our 
 little best, Williams has a last word. I warn you that, 
 lamb-like as he appears now, he is a tiger at rehearsal." 
 
 "I must take time to think this over," said David. 
 
 Everybody stared at him. 
 
 " Time ? " repeated Boileau. " Good Lord ! " 
 'This means," said David, "a burning of ships." 
 
 "Ships?" echoed Boileau. He appealed helplessly 
 to Lorimer. "What does he mean ?" 
 
 "Mr. Archdale," said Lorimer, with becoming 
 gravity, "has almost finished a very fine oratorio: 
 words and music." 
 
 "Might use some of the music," said Williams 
 hopefully. " Got a bit of a swing, I daresay." 
 
 "Quite impossible," said David stiffly. 
 
 Lorimer continued with bland dignity, although 
 inwardly sensible that he was skating over thin ice: 
 "Gentlemen, Mr. Archdale is a genius." 
 
 Everybody said "Yes" and "Hear, hear." 
 
 "Being a genius," continued Lorimer, in an easier 
 tone, " he has fixed his eyes upon the stars." 
 
 " Same here," said Williams, " but stars come expen- 
 
 sive in oratorio." 
 
 " I offered to publish his solos in a cantata separately, 
 but Mr. Archdale wouldn't allow it. He demanded 
 an immense production, and I told him quite frankly 
 it was impossible. And it is impossible to-day. Why ? 
 Because as yet Mr. Archdale has no public. But let 
 
i 34 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 him be known all over England and America as the 
 composer of a popular musical comedy, and then - 
 well, if he is still set upon the production of his ora- 
 torio I'll engage a hundred fiddlers, but I must have 
 a name behind such a production which will fill the 
 Albert Hall before a note of the music is heard." 
 
 "Ab-solutely sound!" exclaimed Boileau. 
 
 "If Mr. Archdale won't be persuaded, Schmaltz 
 remains/' said Williams heavily. "He was at me 
 last night." 
 
 Boileau rose impatiently. 
 
 "Well there it is, David. Take it or leave it! 
 I'll just say this: no man of your age ever h?d such 
 a chance before." 
 
 "Never," said Lorimer, with emphasis. 
 
 David rose also, with a hunted look in his fine eyes. 
 
 "I return to Sherborne to-night. To-morrow you 
 shall have a wire from me - - Yes or No. I have 
 others to consider besides myself, but I'm sincerely 
 grateful to you for making me this offer. Good 
 afternoon." 
 
 He went out quickly. Williams lit an enormous 
 cigar. 
 
 "The answer will be 'Yes,'" he murmured lazily. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 DAVID CROSSES THE RUBICON 
 
 NOTHING is more instructive than the proper 
 understanding of the relation between small 
 causes and great effects. One begins, in 
 time, to wonder if the two antithetical adjectives are 
 not synonyms. For instance, it is probable that David 
 Archdale's answer to Lorimer would have been 'No' 
 had not the vicar's nephew happened to be spending 
 a few days with his uncle. This young man was an 
 excellent fellow, but indiscreet. Also he had a re- 
 markable memory for faces, and David's face was 
 one not easily forgotten. Uncle and nephew were at 
 the railway station when David returned from London. 
 
 "Who is that ?" said the nephew. 
 
 "My organist, David Archdale," replied the Vicar 
 stiffly, for the question was asked too often to be quite 
 agreeable to the autocrat of the Abbey. 
 
 The nephew laughed and whistled. 
 
 16 Your organist, is he ? Trips up to town eh ? 
 Well, the last time I saw Mr. David Archdale, he was 
 having luncheon at one of the smartest restaurants 
 in London with two Jollity girls." 
 
 "Impossible," said the Vicar. 
 
 From his uncle's frigid tone the nephew realized 
 that he had "given David away." Immediately he 
 
 3S 
 
136 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 made matters worse by adding ingenuously: "Of 
 course; I have made an absurd mistake. Your organ- 
 ist has a double." 
 
 The Vicar dropped the subject. But he told him- 
 self that it was his duty to ask a question. Accordingly, 
 next morning, he sent for his organist, and said 
 abruptly: 
 
 " Mr. Archdale, is it true that you were seen, some 
 time ago, at one of the London restaurants, with two 
 girls from the Jollity Theatre?" 
 
 "Quite true," said David. 
 
 To another man he would have explained the circum- 
 stances. And we must admit that David owed an 
 explanation to his chief, but the Vicar's face was set 
 and hard, the face of a judge who has prejudged an 
 offender. David's silence, moreover, barbed the words 
 that followed. 
 
 "Obviously, Mr. Archdale, you think that this is a 
 matter which does not concern me?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " I am sorry you take this line with me." 
 
 The slightly offensive emphasis on the pronoun 
 indicated threats of punishment. And the Vicar's 
 manner was unconsciously that of a social superior. 
 More, since the death of Dr. Jubber, David's visits 
 to the vicarage, in an unofficial capacity, had ceased. 
 The Vicar's wife and daughters, worthy, well-meaning 
 women, had been heard to declare that "poor Dr. 
 Jubber had really made an absurd fuss about his 
 organist." We shall not cite a score of petty slights, 
 
DAVID CROSSES THE RUBICON 137 
 
 mere pin-pricks, but irritating to a sensitive man, which 
 David to do him justice had tried to forget. 
 Very deliberately he said: 
 
 " I have tried to do my duty as organist, but I resent 
 your question. I consider it impertinent." 
 
 " Impertinent, sir ?" 
 
 David smiled. The Vicar was scarlet with rage 
 and indignation. 
 
 "Yes," David continued. "It makes it impossible 
 for me to continue in my present position. I resign 
 
 now." 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 "Now, sir. If you care to apologize, and ask me 
 as a particular favour to you to continue my duties 
 till you find my successor, I shall accept the apology 
 and remain with you, reluctantly, a little longer." 
 
 The Vicar gasped. 
 
 "You can go, sir. I shall not apologize, and I 
 anticipate no difficulty in finding another organist." 
 
 Mary could not help laughing when she heard this 
 story, but Fermor winced. And Fermor had not yet 
 been told of Lorimer's offer, which, presently, was 
 laid before him. Then David added: "I have wired 
 an acceptance to Lorimer." 
 
 "Then the Rubicon is crossed ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 There was an instant's pause. David heard Fermor 
 suppress a sigh, but the quiet face remained serene, 
 the quiet voice said kindly: "I shall see the Vicar and 
 offer to take your place. Poor man! His organist 
 
138 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 drinking old brandy with two Jollity girls! You were 
 rather hard on him." 
 
 "Pompous, tyrannical ass!" 
 
 "Come, come!" 
 
 "David," said Mary, "I suppose everybody will 
 know now that you wrote 'In Cowslip Time' and 
 'When Cuckoos Call'?" 
 
 " I didn't write the idiotic words." 
 
 "Will this take us from Sherborne?" 
 
 "Why should it?" David answered vaguely. 
 
 Fermor glanced at him. At that moment he real- 
 ized that the boy he loved was cutting loose from his 
 moorings. Suddenly he thrust out his hand. 
 
 "Wherever it takes you, David, carry \*ith you my 
 belief that it will be well with you in the end. You 
 were intended to be a conqueror. If the Rubicon 
 lies between the victory I desired for you and the easier 
 triumph within your grasp, so be it. I shall be content 
 if you profit by the losing of my prayers." 
 
 "What ever happens, I shall finish 'Solomon's 
 Garden'." 
 
 Two very pleasant months followed. Sherborne 
 acclaimed the composer of "In Cowslip Time," and 
 David was entreated by many young ladies to inscribe 
 his name in dainty albums. The Dorchester Chronicle 
 published an interview with the talented young com- 
 poser, and announced the forthcoming musical comedy. 
 Accommodating gentlemen wrote to David offering 
 to lend him money upon no security other than his 
 note of hand. 
 
DAVID CROSSES THE RUBICON 139 
 
 "The scoundrels believe in me," said David. "I 
 shall buy you a pearl necklace, Mary." Then he added 
 seriously: " Your prayers were answered, you see." 
 
 "Yes," said Mary, smiling. 
 
 Pignerol was philosophical. 
 
 "Our David has chosen the facile success," he 
 remarked to Fermor. " He will be the English Strauss, 
 not Beethoven. It's a secret grief to you, my friend, 
 but to me, look you, all is well, provided he remains 
 simple and clean and kind. That alone matters." 
 
 Fermor hesitated. 
 
 "If he is satisfied- -" 
 
 "Yes, yes; that, of course, is most important. He 
 looks radiant; the golden youth, I call him." 
 'The gold comes in, but these jingling tunes - 
 
 "If they make tired folk dance, let us rejoice." 
 
 The tunes, as Fermor called them, came to David 
 in battalions. The only difficulty was that of selection. 
 Upon this also the Professor had whimsical theories. 
 
 "You are the vehicle, David, for the expression of 
 pretty songs composed by musical children who died 
 young." 
 
 "I believe there is something in it. Where do they 
 come from ?" 
 
 " My dear boy, all that is good and fair is indestruc- 
 tible substance, although protean. You are in it and 
 of it. Well, help yourself, take all you can absorb; 
 wallow, my young friend!" 
 
 "I never felt so fit in my life." 
 
 Soon afterward, Tom Merryweather spent a fort- 
 
140 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 night in the cottage, bringing with him the book 
 entitled "The Peer of the Peri/' David had received 
 a scenario some weeks before. The book appalled 
 him, although he recognized its cleverness. 
 
 "Terrible rot," admitted Merryweather, "but that's 
 what's wanted. Taffy Williams is delighted with it." 
 
 Then David played his songs. 
 
 Some of these were delightfully lyrical, but, to his 
 amazement and disgust, Merryweather selected the 
 most jingling. His standard seemed to be: "Can a 
 boy whistle this after hearing it once ?" 
 
 An affirmative answer settled the matter. 
 
 David said to Mary that he had never passed such 
 a disagreeable morning. However, in the afternoon 
 a pleasant incident occurred. He had played over 
 his songs, when he remembered a waltz which had 
 floated into his head while he was telling a fairy story 
 to the Marionette. David had come to grief over 
 the story, which was condemned as silly by his daugh- 
 ter. And then he had laughed and said: "I can't tell 
 it, Marionette, because the pixies have been interrupt- 
 ing, but, by Jove, I can play it." 
 
 So saying, he had rushed at the piano, and, an instant 
 later, the child was dancing to measures which the 
 critics submitted afterward to be such stuff as fairies' 
 dreams are made of. And, curiously enough, he had 
 not thought of introducing this exquisite trifle into the 
 musical comedy. He played it to Merryweather 
 because that wise man had said carelessly: "We ought 
 to have some sort of a fantastic dance in here." 
 
DAVID CROSSES THE RUBICON 141 
 
 When he had finished, Merryweather jumped up, 
 as Boileau had done, wildly enthusiastic. 
 
 " We're all right," he affirmed. " Fancy keeping that 
 up your sleeve. Why, man, the whole world will dance 
 to the most haunting, bewitching thing I've ever heard." 
 
 "Is it?" said David, genuinely amazed. 
 
 " Lord! You are a genius at this game." 
 
 After much argument, David was persuaded to 
 introduce the theme of the waltz into his overture, and 
 thereafter, subtly but unmistakably, it pervaded the 
 whole comedy. 
 
 "Don't play it to a soul!" counselled Merryweather. 
 
 When the librettist returned to town, David suf- 
 fered a reaction. Setting Tom's words to music, 
 laboriously conning every syllable, he could not bring 
 himself to believe that the British Public would listen 
 to such irrelevant nonsense, such crude jokes, such 
 vulgar how that adjective rasped him! twaddle! 
 And, crowning humiliation! at the last moment, when 
 he bade Merryweather good-bye, the little man had 
 said, with a twist of his lip: 
 
 "Of course, you must be prepared for torture at the 
 rehearsals. Taffy will have his gang sitting in judg- 
 ment on us. And he'll cut and slash like a Malay 
 running amuck. I'm thin enough as it is, but I always 
 lose a stone over rehearsals." 
 
 The rehearsals began six weeks before the produc- 
 tion, and David and Mary and the Marionette went 
 up to London, taking modest lodgings in Bloomsbury. 
 They dined with Lorimer, and after dinner the wonder- 
 
i 4 a THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 ful waltz was played. Lorimer, whom David had 
 deemed incapable of enthusiasm, seized Mary and 
 whirled her round the room. 
 
 "I couldn't help it," he explained. "You're a 
 wizard." 
 
 Next day the head of the house of Lorimer des- 
 patched a long cablegram to New York, which inspired 
 an offer from the greatest of American managers 
 to buy Transpontine rights. When this offer was 
 accepted, Lorimer said to David: 
 
 "We've got a gold mine, I do believe." 
 
 Meantime the rehearsals as Merryweather had 
 predicted were testing to the last strand David's 
 patience and good temper. A score of times, at least, 
 he was tempted to walk out of the theatre and never 
 return to it, but always Merryweather would whisper 
 softly: "Be calm! Taffy pays the piper, and we 
 must hop to his piping." 
 
 Taffy insisted upon Schmaltz being called in to write 
 two songs. David protested. 
 
 " It's all right," said the wise Merryweather. " The 
 public likes to see Schmaltz's name on the programme. 
 Taffy has called upon Nokes to furnish the words. 
 Nokes gets his little screw here, week in and week out, 
 and he must do something." 
 
 "The confounded thing is turning into a hotch- 
 potch." 
 
 "We have our agreement, and Taffy's spending a 
 fortune upon the production. You'll have pots and 
 pots to invest. Let your mind dwell on that." 
 
DAVID CROSSES THE RUBICON 143 
 
 Boileau and Daffy-down-Dilly said much the same 
 thing in words even less academic. 
 
 "It's a knock-out/' said the leading man. "That 
 waltz, Dave, will hit 'em fair on the point. All London, 
 not to mention New York, will be down and out." 
 
 "Look here, Dave," said the leading lady. "You 
 don't seem to know a good thing when you see it. 
 Taffy Williams says you're ungrateful. He's coining 
 money for you." 
 
 "But I don't want the money!" 
 
 "Oh, Dave, come off! That's too thin." 
 
 Everybody called him Dave ! 
 
 Upon the eve of the production, Mary and he dined 
 at Stormont Lodge, and sunned themselves in the 
 smiles of many distinguished persons. Mary, for the 
 first time, wore a gown fashioned by a great dressmaker, 
 and, anticipating critical glances and supercilious 
 smiles, was forced to admit that the swells had been 
 most kind. In her way, she was as great a success as 
 David. Her dimples, her freshness, and delight in 
 the beautiful pictures and furniture enchanted Mrs. 
 Stormont. 
 
 " You're the most delightful pair in the world," she 
 said. 
 
 Driving to their lodging after this memorable dinner, 
 David said gaily: "What part of London shall we 
 live in?" 
 
 "David, are you thinking of leaving Sherborne?" 
 
 "Aren't you?" 
 
i 4 4 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "But father and the Looker-on ?" 
 
 "We'll keep the cottage, and spend the summer 
 there/' 
 
 "Two houses ?" 
 
 " Certainly. Mary, dear, you had a success to-night. 
 The woman who made this gown must make lots of 
 others. Mrs. Stormont whispered to me that she 
 backed dimples against diamonds any day." 
 
 "Mrs. Stormont says too many nice things." 
 
 "She knows of a maisonette quite close to her, look- 
 ing over the park." 
 
 "If you talk like this before the piece is pro- 
 duced " 
 
 He laughed, and kissed her. 
 
 The dress rehearsal was an unforgettable experience. 
 From beginning to end everything and everybody 
 seemed to exhibit a "cussedness," which so David 
 was assured indicated that all would go well at the 
 premiere. It lasted from five in the afternoon till 
 nearly midnight; and many well-meaning persons, 
 more or less connected with the musical comedy world, 
 deemed it to be their duty to offer advice to the great 
 Taffy. To David's amazement, Taffy listened, per- 
 spiringly and eagerly, to the increasing resentment of 
 producer, composer, librettist, scene-painter, stage- 
 manager and the smaller fry: every man of whom 
 believed that what he had done would command 
 success. Of this seething syndicate Merryweather 
 remained calm and cool and indifferent. His indif- 
 
DAVID CROSSES THE RUBICON 145 
 
 ference amazed David, worn out by the physical effort 
 of conducting. 
 
 "Taffy is always like this," said the little man. 
 "He's cutting some of our best stuff, but, bless you, 
 he'll put it back. You see, to-night, he doesn't care 
 a hang about us; he wants to find out what the public 
 thinks." 
 
 "But everybody is in a boiling rage except you." 
 
 "A stir-up does 'em no harm. They'll play for all 
 they're worth to-morrow. You sit tight and smile." 
 
 "I can't," groaned David. 
 
 However, at supper afterward, he received many 
 congratulations. Lorimer, the host, was positive that 
 the elfin dance would carry the town off its feet. Taffy 
 came in late, well pleased with himself, and inordi- 
 nately thirsty. 
 
 "This drives men to drink," he observed to Mary. 
 
 "And women too," whispered Mary. 
 
 She had noticed that Miss Daffodil and the second 
 leading lady were drinking much champagne. To 
 her horror, Taffy said authoritatively: 
 
 "You little dears have had enough drink. It's no 
 good my telling you it's bad for your morals, but per- 
 haps you'll listen when I swear that it will ruin your 
 complexions. Off you go to by-bye ! And mind you 
 turn up sober to-morrow, or there'll be trouble." 
 
 Miss Daffodil tossed her head as she refilled her 
 glass. Obviously, she was furious with the omnipotent 
 one, and was heard to say that she would tell him what 
 she thought of him presently. Taffy went on talking 
 
146 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 to Mary, pouring into her ears a torrent of explanations 
 and criticisms, which she tried in vain to absorb and 
 understand. Around her a battle of chaff was raging, 
 and with every wish to play her small part she was 
 sensible that she was "out of it" and never could be 
 "in it" -except under protest, the stronger because 
 suppressed. And the scene was as unreal as anything 
 she had just witnessed at the Jollity: an absurd and 
 vulgar travesty of life. Then she heard Taffy's voice 
 saying: 
 
 "You're a good listener, Mrs. Archdale." 
 
 "I'm a back-seater always was." 
 
 "But you'll have to take a front seat from now on." 
 
 She replied with a smile, inwardly quaking. The 
 friendliness of these people made escape impossible. 
 She wondered whether she would be called "Polly!" 
 David, masquerading as "Dave," was hardly recog- 
 nizable. With dismay, she heard him talking and 
 laughing too loudly, acclaimed as "one of the boys!" 
 Taffy whispered : 
 
 "You owe me an awful lot. I rescued Dave, and 
 he knows it." 
 
 "But, Mr. Williams, musical comedy is not his line." 
 
 "My dear, dear lady!" 
 
 "He looks upon it as a means to an end." 
 
 "What end? The West End?" Taffy laughed 
 loudly at his small joke. 
 
 "If he makes money, he will produce his oratorio." 
 
 At this Taffy exploded. But, perceiving the expres- 
 sion upon Mary's face, he became quiet and insistent. 
 
DAVID CROSSES THE RUBICON 147 
 
 He assured Mrs. Archdale that he was a man of sense 
 with a nose for sniffing out talent. He quoted Lorimer 
 in support of the contention that David was now doing 
 his appointed work. "Oratorio? Good Lord!" Mary 
 murmured confusedly: "It is magnificent." Taffy 
 replied rudely: "Moody and Sankey," adding crush- 
 ingly: " They '11 take nothing else from him after 
 to-morrow night. You mark that." 
 
 Later, alone with her husband, she realized that for 
 the moment he was obsessed by the possibility of failure. 
 
 "Nobody knows," he said, "which way the cat will 
 jump. The thing's a gamble. Of course they've 
 rubbed it into me that I'm risking nothing." 
 
 "Nothing?" 
 
 "No money. Not one of them, not even Merry- 
 weather, thinks of anything else." 
 
 "David, dear," she pressed his arm, "for the last 
 time I must tell you that the money is nothing to me. 
 I'm afraid of it. I want you to succeed, but if success 
 means hobnobbing with these people, I'm not sure that 
 I wouldn't prefer failure." 
 
 "Failure? A second failure? It would kill me." 
 
 She heard his voice sob in his throat. Then he 
 continued vehemently: "Do you suppose that I like 
 these rowdy suppers any more than you do ? I wanted 
 to go to bed. Never felt so dog-tired in all my life. 
 Lorimer insisted, insisted on your coming too. It's 
 part of the game." 
 
 "That's it. I feel as if it is a sort of game, not real." 
 
 "It will be real enough to-morrow." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 "THE PEER AND THE PERI" 
 
 ONE describes "The Peer and the Peri" quite 
 adequately as an up-to-date transcript of 
 "Pygmalion and Galatea," with the scene 
 laid in Montmartre. DafFy-down-Dilly played the Peri, 
 a model in a sculptor's studio. Boileau, as the Peer, 
 a young art amateur, falls in love with a marble statue 
 of the Peri, having never seen the original. The 
 sculptor, the funny man, perpetrates a practical joke 
 upon his noble patron. The statue is delivered, but 
 the model has taken its place upon the pedestal, and 
 in due time descends from it, a charming flesh-and- 
 blood young woman. How DafFy, in the course of 
 the second act, turns out to be a maiden of high degree 
 may be left to the imagination. Plot in musical comedy 
 is of no account whatever. 
 
 The curtain rose upon a crowded house. In addition 
 to the usual first-nighters, might be seen well-kno%vn per- 
 sons lured to the Jollity in search of a sensation. Every- 
 body knew that the composer had been an organist, and 
 the fact whetted interest and curiosity. The somebodies 
 told the nobodies that a new star was about to rise above 
 the horizon. Mrs. Stormont brought friends who were 
 enthusiastic in pronouncing "When Cuckoos Call" the 
 most beautiful song that had ever been written. 
 
 148 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 149 
 
 The box upon the prompt side of the stage was oc- 
 cupied by a much bediamoned struggler for Royal 
 recognition. Gossip whispered that the lady had be- 
 come a Roman Catholic because, as an earthly reward, 
 certain great houses, and notably a ducal one, are 
 thrown open to rich converts. An old bachelor, who 
 attained social eminence by not dissimilar methods, 
 affirmed that she had taken a passage to the Cape and 
 back for no less worthy reason than the fact that a 
 Serene Highness was announced as a passenger upon 
 the same boat. Mrs. Stormont marked her smiles, 
 her anxiety to be recognised by the right people, her 
 inability to even see the wrong sort from whom in 
 salad days she had indiscreetly accepted invitations. 
 By her side yawned her son, a fluffy, callow youth, 
 who rode to hounds in terror of his life, because that 
 also was the "right thing." The brave fellow con- 
 fessed to his mother that the Lord only knew how he 
 suffered when he was out! One of the daughters a 
 chip, indeed, from the old block had secured a hus- 
 band by fainting opportunely upon a sheet of ice in 
 front of a house whose owner refused to call upon 
 parvenus. The son of that house had carried the lovely 
 burden into the sacred precincts, where to-day she 
 reigned as mistress. In the box opposite sat Mary, 
 Sebastian Fermor, the Professor, and the Professor's 
 family. David, of course, was conducting. 
 
 The overture aroused expectation. Merryweather 
 had entreated that it should not be too good. Stage 
 effects, he contended, must be cumulative. But David 
 
150 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 felt to his finger-tips that the audience thrilled when 
 he introduced the elfin theme, although it was merely 
 a faint and elusive shadow of the real dance. Taffy, 
 in his box, with a couple of the Jollity directors beside 
 him, said oracularly: ;( That's going to do the trick." 
 Ten minutes later, Daffy tripped on. She smiled 
 her famous picture post-card smile and began to 
 sing. 
 
 This song scored the first success of the evening. 
 The words were idiotic, but the music was delightful 
 to any ear save that accustomed to the best. The 
 Professor applauded, exclaiming, "How pretty!" and 
 repeating the phrase as if nothing more could be said. 
 Fermor thought of the solos in "Solomon's Garden." 
 Across the theatre, Taffy might be seen gesticulating, 
 promising better things to come to his directors. In 
 the stalls the critics sat blandly impassive. Their 
 faces hardly relaxed when the funny man appeared. 
 This was the illustrious Tommy Trout, discovered by 
 Taffy Williams in Leeds, and by virtue of his trans- 
 cendent gifts able to command an income equal to 
 that of the Bishop of London. Those in the cheaper 
 parts of the house began to laugh before he opened his 
 mouth, a reception which visibly impressed the direc- 
 tors, who had complained of the exorbitant salary 
 exacted by Tommy. 
 
 "He's worth every penny of it, and more too," said 
 Williams. "And, mind you, he'll be funnier and 
 funnier every night. We've given the little beggar a 
 free hand." 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 151 
 
 However, at the end of the first act, no tremendous 
 success had been achieved. In the foyer, veterans 
 like old Wrest and Thelluson and Bagshot were 
 gathered together, with the youngsters around them, 
 greedily picking up such crumbs as might fall from 
 august lips. 
 
 "It's coagulated piffle !" said Wrest, twisting his 
 grizzled mustache, "but it'll go for about eight 
 months." 
 
 "Tommy is a scream as usual," said one of the 
 youngsters, interrogatively. 
 
 "As usual," repeated Wrest savagely. "And that's 
 why the idiots love him. He rubs in his old jokes so 
 hard that the stupidest person in the audience sees 
 them. Pah!" 
 
 Meantime, David was in his wife's box listening 
 to the Professor, who was optimistic and enthusiastic. 
 
 " It's first-rate of its kind," he asserted. " It supplies 
 a legitimate demand. Confound intellectual snobbery! 
 The men who produced this piece are as clever as any 
 in England. Allans done, we come here to laugh, my 
 Marykins. Is it not so, mon vieux ?" 
 
 He appealed to Fermor, who nodded. 
 
 " Let us take life as it is. I shout bravo Strauss!" 
 
 He laughed genially, and clapped David on the 
 shoulder. 
 
 Just then Williams entered the box. David intro- 
 duced Fermor, and, as the others stopped talking, Wil- 
 liams said in his peculiar, grumbling, nasal tones: "I've 
 seen Wrest. We're all right if that dance comes off." 
 
152 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 As everybody except David stared at him, he added 
 significantly: "She's not so drunk as I thought she 
 
 was." 
 
 "Who is drunk ?" demanded the Professor. 
 
 Taffy explained, without sparing anybody's feelings. 
 When he stopped there was an odd little silence, during 
 which David realized that he was blushing, because 
 he could see into the minds of his wife and Fermor. 
 The Professor saved an awkward situation with his 
 cheery laugh. 
 
 " After all," he said, with a shrug of his broad shoul- 
 ders, "she sings like a nightingale. My poor Dave, 
 what you must have suffered!" 
 
 " What we have all suffered," said Williams. " When 
 things are running smoothly I shall go to Buxton and 
 let my suppressed rage ooze out of me. It's worse 
 than gout." 
 
 He took David by the arm and led him away. In 
 the passage outside, Mary could hear him swearing. 
 
 "What a life!" exclaimed the Professor. "Name of 
 a pipe! What a life! " 
 
 The curtain went up, and the young men began to 
 straggle back into the stalls. Whisky and cigarettes 
 had stirred them to a beautiful enthusiasm. The 
 performance of the now famous sextet was "warming," 
 as Taffy put it. And then came the dance. 
 
 At once, the fascination of the opening bars pro- 
 duced a significant silence. Nobody was on the stage 
 but the Peri. She stood listening, waiting for her 
 lover, while moonbeams flickered upon her. Boileau 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 153 
 
 entered on tiptoe, stepping in time to the music, which 
 was so faint as hardly to be audible. Daffy, seeing 
 him, put her finger to her lips. For a minute at least 
 they remained motionless, spellbound by the magic 
 of the music. Hardly perceptibly, swayed to the 
 rhythm of the waltz, with the wide stage between them, 
 they glided forward. In the moonlight, their forms 
 became shadowy and colourless. David lifted his 
 hand, and the muted strings of the violins became 
 absolutely mute. And then the haunting, intoxicating 
 strain seemed to pronounce a benediction. Daffy 
 stood with arms at her side, as Boileau, taking her head 
 between his hands, began to dance. They moved 
 backward and forward, noiselessly, the man gazing 
 into the girl's face, which gradually relaxed, revealing 
 the eternal surrender of beauty to youth. Immediately 
 the tempo quickened. A sight of satisfaction quivered 
 from the audience. Probably not a person present but 
 felt a thrilling of the pulses. Wrest described the 
 dance as a triumph of vibration. It bore the same 
 relation to ordinary dances which statuary bears to 
 painting. Not flesh and blood, but immaculate 
 spirits seemed to have been materialized out of atten- 
 uated and sublimated sounds. 
 
 In silence the dancers vanished. 
 
 Those present will never forget what followed. 
 Simultaneously, with deafening and overwhelming 
 violence, the house roared its applause. Men and 
 women stood up and shouted. From the gallery 
 came a fog-horn note of delirious excitement. 
 
154 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Williams said to his directors, imperturbably, "This 
 means a dazzling success." 
 
 Six times the dance was repeated. 
 
 After the curtain fell, the enthusiasm was even more 
 amazing. The audience refused to leave the theatre 
 until it had glutted its satisfaction upon everybody 
 connected with the production. Taffy cunning 
 Welshman arranged that David should appear last. 
 He faced the huge crowd very pale, but smiling. To 
 shouts of "Speech! Speech!" he replied with a 
 nervous bow. The Professor, falling back upon his 
 native tongue, kept on repeating: " Le brave gar f on! 
 Le brave garfonl Bravo, mon fils, bravo!" Again and 
 again the audience clamoured for him, and then, when 
 the curtain fell for the last time, the assembled com- 
 pany behind the scenes poured upon his stricken head 
 congratulations and thanks. It was a great moment, 
 hardly supportable when Taffy appeared leading 
 Mary. The stage hands raised a cheer for Mrs. 
 Archdale. Her face, dimpled with delight but with 
 tears rolling down her cheeks, revealed the one thing 
 needful. David kissed her, and the stage hands 
 cheered again. Taffy wiped a heated brow. 
 
 " Let us go to supper," he said. 
 
 Upon the morrow, every critic affirmed that David 
 Archdale had come to stay. The mightiest journal 
 in the world proclaimed thunderously his right to 
 style himself "Master of Melody." The paper with 
 the largest circulation headed two columns with " Fame 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 155 
 
 and Fortune for David Archdale," and the explanatory 
 line "An organist comes into his own!" At the 
 Jollity, the advanced booking eclipsed all previous 
 records. To mark this memorable "first night" with 
 red, Daffy-down-Dilly announced her intention of 
 taking the pledge: a resolution which went, alas! to 
 the paving of Hades. 
 
 Fermor returned to Sherborne with the Pignerols. 
 In the train the Professor said, with many chucklings: 
 
 " Our dear genius has discovered a gold mine. What 
 will he do with it ?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied Fermor. 
 
 A fortnight later, the Archdales came back to the 
 cottage. David said with a gay laugh: "By Jove, 
 how small it looks!" 
 
 Next morning, they sat in the garden and talked of 
 the oratorio. That must be finished at once. Noth- 
 ing else was possible. Nevertheless, throughout the 
 week that followed, constant interruptions prevented 
 David from adding anything but a few bars to the 
 score. Then business connected with the musical 
 comedy summoned him to town. He rushed home to 
 say that he had secured the maisonette commended by 
 Mrs. Stormont, because, for some months at least, he 
 must be within touch of Williams and Lorimer. After 
 the season, he would be able to give undivided energy 
 to his best work. Fermor acknowledged that "Solo- 
 mon's Garden" exacted undivided energy; but he 
 refused David's invitation to share prosperity, affirm- 
 
156 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 ing that he could never leave his shabby lodgings. 
 Alone in them he played a fugue of Bach. A presenti- 
 ment overwhelmed him that the oratorio would not be 
 finished. 
 
 Mary, meanwhile, was whirled off her feet by this 
 springtide of fortune and popularity. Many things 
 engrossed her: the furnishing of the maisonette, the 
 entertaining of new friends, and the being entertained 
 by them. Life seemed to have become a toboggan 
 slide. David and she went flying through the air so 
 swiftly that she was hardly conscious of anything 
 except pace. This unaccustomed sense of speed 
 made her dizzy, for she knew that she had outstripped 
 the fond plans and aspirations of yesterday. Was it 
 possible that she had dreamed away idle hours think- 
 ing of a rosy future when she might be able to afford 
 a parlour-maid and a pony-cart ? Shortly after the pro- 
 duction of "The Peer and the Peri," David came home 
 carrying a large bag full of sovereigns, which he emptied 
 into her lap, explaining gaily that it was hers, the 
 first-fruits of success, and adding that a shower of 
 increasing copiousness might be expected every week 
 for a couple of years at least. The musical comedy 
 was about to be produced in New York, Paris, Vienna, 
 and Berlin ! 
 
 At the end of July they returned to the beloved 
 garden. Many admitted reluctantly that it did not 
 look quite the same. Alien hands had watered her 
 roses. David declared that he could smell damp 
 corduroys! Two London servants turned up con- 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 157 
 
 temptuous noses when they saw the pantry. More- 
 over, continuous rain drenched the month of August. 
 David began work upon "Solomon's Garden," but to 
 his dismay the former inspiration seemed to be lacking. 
 Music came to him, the music of "The Peer and the 
 Peri": tinkling melodies which drove him distracted. 
 And then Tom Merryweather arrived with a scenario 
 entitled "The Belle and the Tiger/' which Lorimer and 
 Williams insisted must be set to music by David. He 
 refused again and again, but strong wills overpowered 
 him. Finally as Fermor had foreseen he laid 
 aside the score of the oratorio, saying that he would 
 return to it as soon as the second musical comedy was 
 finished. All over England bands and barrel organs 
 were playing "The Peer and the Peri" waltz. 
 
 After Christmas the Archdales went back to London. 
 The Marionette was now nearly seven years old, and 
 quite able to appreciate the change in her environment. 
 Mary began to perceive symptoms of swelled head. 
 A Royal Academician asked leave to paint the child's 
 portrait, and during the sittings put too many choco- 
 lates into a small stomach and a superfluity of flattery 
 into a small mind. 
 
 "She's getting spoiled," said Mary. 
 
 "She's a perfect darling," David replied. "Every- 
 body says so." 
 
 "I wish they wouldn't say it to her face." 
 
 "Pooh! Sugar is good for children." 
 
 "It has agreed with you, David." 
 
 "You look upon me as a child ?" 
 
158 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 She nodded, smiling. He had remained the golden 
 youth, appealing irresistibly to maternal instincts. 
 Often Mary felt years older than he, and at such times 
 she wondered what would happen to him if she were 
 taken away. Quite unconsciously he made multi- 
 farious demands upon a wife who pleaded that nature 
 had intended her for a "back-seater." To please him, 
 she wore smart gowns and accepted dozens of invita- 
 tions. To please him, she pretended that all was 
 well, when every bone in her body ached. 
 
 One night, at the end of the following season, he 
 noticed that the bodice of her gown did not fit very 
 tightly. 
 
 "Are you thinner?" he asked. 
 
 "A little," she replied. 
 
 He asked other questions, and became alarmed. 
 She must consult a supreme authority. Mary en- 
 treated him not to fuss, but, next day, he made an 
 appointment with a specialist in Harley Street, and 
 took her to the great man himself. 
 
 "Your wife needs a rest, Mr. Archdale." 
 
 David mentioned that they were about to return to 
 Sherborne. 
 
 "If I were you I should go to Spa instead. The 
 chalybeate springs are rich in iron. The local man 
 will prescribe. There is nothing to be alarmed about 
 nothing." 
 
 Alone with Mary, David said anxiously, "I can't 
 account for this." 
 
 "We've been going so fast, David, and I'm a slow 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 159 
 
 coach. I've been trying to keep pace with you, and 
 I suppose I can't." 
 
 "We'll be ofF to Spa at once." 
 
 After some discussion, it was decided to leave the 
 Marionette with her grandfather. The Archdales 
 intended to be absent at least six weeks, and perhaps 
 longer. David talked gaily of a second honeymoon; 
 and Mary, you may he sure, was delighted to discover 
 that he really wished to be alone with her. Since his 
 wonderful success there had been moments when 
 jealousy lacerated her. Not that David was beguiled 
 by prettier or cleverer women, but, insensibly, a shadow 
 had crept between them, the old shadow of infinitesimal 
 differences of temperament and taste. She saw that 
 side of her husband which justified his being called 
 Dave by Daffy-down-Dilly and Boileau and scores of 
 others. She asked herself: "Is he my David or their 
 Dave?" Mrs. Stormont answered the question when 
 she said: "That wonderful husband of yours, my 
 dear, is a man of many facets." 
 
 Such women as Mary can fight gallantly against a 
 concrete jealousy, but an abstraction paralyzes them. 
 The thought rankled that one day he might exact more 
 than she could give. Her talents of thrift, patience, 
 serenity, and the pleasure she had found in small things 
 seemed to be hidden in a heap of gold. Secretly she 
 grieved because she had only one child. She yearned 
 for a son who would have resembled his father. The 
 Marionette was a facsimile of herself. Once she had 
 said to David: 
 
i6o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Are you vexed because I do not give you a son?" 
 
 David laughed and kissed her. 
 'What an idea! It's never entered my head." 
 
 "It's in my heart always." 
 
 "We may have half a dozen sons. But to me there 
 will be one Mary and one Marionette." 
 
 Fermor came up to London to bid them good-bye. 
 It happened that David was obliged to go out after 
 dinner, and Fermor and Mary were left alone. They 
 said little, but each was conscious that David's absence 
 was significant, the more so because for business reasons 
 he had been obliged, much against his will, to leave 
 them. His empty chair became a detestable void. 
 And in Fermor's kind eyes Mary seemed to read a 
 pathetic protest against the fate which takes ruthlessly 
 away, and leaves nothing behind but empty chairs. 
 What had Fermor suffered when David left him ? 
 
 "Are you lonely ?" she asked. 
 
 " Sometimes," he answered, pressing the hand which 
 she had slipped into his. Then he added gravely: 
 " I am lucky in having pleasant memories." 
 
 " If you could have come to London " 
 
 " My dear, that was impossible for me." 
 
 "I shall tell you a secret; there are moments when 
 London seems impossible to me." 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 His distress convinced her that if she understood 
 him, he was far indeed from understanding her. 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "I dislike noise and excitement." 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 161 
 
 "I thought, I hoped, I made sure that you would 
 find it such fun." 
 
 "Fun!" 
 
 "David revels in it." 
 
 "Yes. I try to be glad that it is so. Prosperity 
 has fattened him; I'm skin and bone. Of course I'm 
 a fool. I can say to you, dear Looker-on, that I've 
 worn myself out running after David instead of sitting 
 at home. You see, I wanted to share his fun, even 
 if it wasn't fun to me." 
 
 "Yes, yes." He sighed and then spoke reassuringly: 
 " You will come back strong and well, and David's fun 
 will be fun for you." 
 
 "And if I should not come back?" 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 " If it is right, as father says, to think of what may 
 happen, it is right, surely, to speak of it to a friend. 
 The mention of death distresses David; he regards 
 death as darkness, a blotting-out. To me it is just 
 the opposite light. You must know that this world 
 would become very dark to me, if " 
 
 "If " 
 
 "If, through ill-health, or or incompatibility of 
 tastes, I was not able to share David's life. None of 
 the married people we know here are united. Most 
 of them seem to be drifting farther and farther apart. 
 I would sooner die than have that happen to David 
 and me." 
 
 Fermor gazed at her in silence. She perceived 
 that he had taken her seriously, that he was 
 
162 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 incapable of hurling cheap banalities at her head. She 
 continued : 
 
 "The inevitableness of it seems so cruel. Is it 
 the price that must be paid for a great worldly 
 success ?" 
 
 "Yes," Fermor replied with finality. "I have 
 always interpreted that text about the rich man and 
 the eye of the needle as applicable to the heaven that 
 is on earth, the heaven that lies about us, the heaven 
 in which we have played as children. Into that heaven 
 it is difficult indeed for the rich to go." 
 
 "We are rich, and we shall be richer. The money 
 pours in from the uttermost ends of the earth. I believe 
 there are thirty companies playing* The Peer and the 
 Peri'." 
 
 With an effort, Fermor confronted thirty companies 
 piling up mountains of gold for David. 
 
 "Is it really as bad as that?" he murmured. "Has 
 he said anything about finishing 'Solomon's Garden* ?" 
 
 Mary fidgeted. 
 
 "I don't think he can finish it now." 
 
 "I knew it." 
 
 " 'The Belle and the Tiger' is already roughed out." 
 
 "Well, well, circumstance is too strong for most of 
 us. Meanwhile, nothing matters except your health. 
 Smile and grow fat." 
 
 " I shall do my best. And if anything should happen 
 to me, you'll keep an eye on Marionette. Don't let 
 people spoil her." 
 
 " I should do my best," he answered evasively. 
 
"THE PEER AND THE PERI" 163 
 
 Fermor accompanied them as far as Dover on the 
 following day. And he stood upon the Admiralty pier, 
 watching the swiftly receding boat till it became a blur 
 of smoke upon the horizon. He wondered afterward 
 why his eyes had lingered on Mary rather than on 
 David. The contrast between them had hurt him. 
 He was sensible of a conviction that the stronger 
 physically and intellectually had taken something from 
 the weaker which could never be given back. Dom- 
 inating this conviction was the realization of Mary's 
 spirituality, so much more vital than that of her hus- 
 band's, which long ago Fermor had recognized as her 
 superlative possession. As he turned his face from 
 the sea he muttered: 
 
 " My God! If she should not come back!" 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE WATERS OF MARAH 
 
 THE Archdales spent a delightful month at Spa. 
 Within a fortnight roses and dimples came 
 back to Mary's cheeks. Once more the 
 Professor's dictum, that prayers were answered if one 
 prayed hard enough, was abundantly demonstrated. 
 Mary had prayed that David might be wholly hers, 
 and throughout this month he hardly left her side. 
 Together they made expeditions to Franchimont, 
 the Cascade de Cou, Malmedi, and Sart. And then, 
 one night at table d'hote, some stranger began to talk 
 enthusiastically of the Ardennes. To go there after the 
 cure, or not to go, became a question to be settled by 
 the toss of a coin. Neither David nor Mary wished to 
 leave Spa. They were happy and comfortable in their 
 hotel. Ultimately they went reluctantly, because they 
 had elected to abide by the verdict of chance. 
 
 The stranger had commended a certain pension, 
 a picturesque cottage standing in a pretty garden, in 
 which David was destined to pass the happiest and the 
 most wretched hours of his life. Upon arrival, he 
 declared that Arcadia had been found, that the forest 
 would inspire a symphony of soughing pines and 
 whispering grasses. He hummed airs which flitted in 
 and out of his head, and then played them upon a 
 
 164 
 
THE WATERS OF MARAH 165 
 
 jingly piano which stood in the sma/1 salon. He 
 became again the purist and enthusiast. The spacious- 
 ness and silence enchanted him. He sent for the score 
 of "Solomon's Garden" and swore that he would not 
 leave the Ardennes till it was finished. So engrossed 
 did he become in his work that he hardly noticed the 
 curious langour which seemed to have fastened itself 
 upon Mary. 
 
 The truth burst upon him with stunning violence. 
 She had contracted typhoid fever. 
 
 At the end of a second week, Fermor arrived, bringing 
 with him a Brussels doctor, a man of international 
 reputation. The infection was traced to a cup of milk, 
 drunk by Mary at a farm near the Chateau of the 
 Quatre Fils d'Aymon. David remembered that he 
 had suggested milk as being safer to drink than water 
 from the shallow well in the middle of a farmyard. 
 It was torment to reflect that the peasants at the farm, 
 ungainly, stupid, with heavy animal faces, should dare 
 to live when Mary lay a-dying. For, after the twenty- 
 first day, it became, humanly speaking, certain that she 
 must die. 
 
 "Can nothing be done?" 
 
 Fermor shook his head. 
 
 "If if a miracle happened, she could never get 
 really well; she would be miserably weak as long as 
 she lived a wreck." 
 
 David felt the pressure of Fermor' s hand, and was 
 unable to return it. He felt also the sympathy of one 
 who had been as father and mother to him flowing 
 
i66 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 toward him and over him, but not through him. He 
 knew that Fermor would have laid down his life, gladly, 
 if he, the tired man, could have been taken and the 
 young vigorous woman left. But such knowledge 
 turned his heart to ice. 
 
 "I persuaded her to drink that milk." 
 
 " My son, put such thoughts from you for ever." 
 
 "If I could - 
 
 He spoke apathetically. Something seemed to have 
 snapped within him. Fermor dared not look at his 
 face. 
 
 There was no parting, no last words. Toward the 
 end, David, remembering Mary's fervent belief in 
 prayer, fell upon his knees beside her bed and entreated 
 Omnipotence to stretch forth his hand. And, in answer 
 to his supplication, a sigh of protest seemed to flutter 
 from Mary's lips, and her thin hands lying motionless 
 upon the counterpane moved spasmodically, as if she 
 were pushing life from her. David rose from his knees. 
 
 She died at two in the morning, passing easily to 
 the other side. An hour afterward, when David saw 
 her again, a soft smile lay upon her face. When 
 David saw that smile, he locked the door. She had 
 promised to return, if return were possible. . . . 
 
 He said in a whisper: 
 
 "Mary." 
 
 The draught from the open window may have made 
 the flame of the lamp flicker, but David thought that 
 the smile upon his wife's face had changed. It seemed 
 
THE WATERS OF MARAH 167 
 
 to express derision. Outside, the stars twinkled as 
 derisively. 
 
 He went to the window. She would come if 
 she came, and already the doubt tormented him - 
 not from the emaciated body abandoned and about 
 to decay. Across the mountains, black against the 
 luminous sky, through the pines which were singing 
 her requiem, she would bear the celestial message of 
 everlasting life. Out of incorruption his Mary would 
 rise from the dead. 
 
 Upon just such a night they had stood together upon 
 the high moorland of the New Forest, bride and groom. 
 He could see her face, her radiant eyes, the dimples 
 in her cheek. And, even then, in the springtime of 
 youth and happiness, some instinct had told her that 
 she would be the first to go. 
 
 He saw her again as the little girl to whom he had 
 plighted troth beneath the mulberry tree. She had 
 been his first love and his only love, dearer to him than 
 all the women who had ever lived. 
 
 Because of that she would come back. 
 
 Presently, he knelt down, still gazing beyond the 
 trees at the point where the highest mountain defined 
 itself against the horizon. She had never failed him; 
 would she fail him now, when he wanted her with a 
 yearning so intense that his own spirit seemed to be 
 upon the point of leaving the flesh ? 
 
 The soughing of the pines was as the soft murmur 
 of tiny waves breaking upon the sands of time. 
 
 How long did he kneel there? He never knew. 
 
i68 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Fermor, waiting in apprehension upon the other side 
 of the locked door, was counting the minutes, not daring 
 to articulate the skeleton fear that obsessed him. 
 
 When at last the door opened and David stood before 
 him, the fear that lay cold about his heart began to 
 take a monstrous form. 
 
 David passed without word or glance. Fermor 
 followed swiftly. They entered the small salon whose 
 tall windows opened upon the garden. 
 
 "David?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 The men faced each other. David stood near the 
 piano. Upon the top of it lay the score of the oratorio. 
 
 " Two things are left to you," said Fermor slowly. 
 
 "What things?" 
 
 "Our love and your work." 
 
 "My work!" 
 
 He saw the sheets of music, seized them, and was 
 about to tear them to pieces, when Fermor took them. 
 
 "Do you propose to tear up our love?" 
 
 David answered coldly : " Mary has not come back." 
 Then, in the same chill monotone, but speaking swiftly, 
 he added: "I was a fool to believe she would. They 
 never come back. Not one, not one." 
 
 "Christ came back." 
 
 "What a fairy tale! Mary is dead and I am dead!" 
 
 "You will live again in Mary's child." As he spoke, 
 Fermor realized that David had forgotten the existence 
 of his daughter. Then, with inspiration, he added: 
 "As I have lived in you." 
 
THE WATERS OF MARAH 169 
 
 " What do you say ? " He struggled to grasp Fermor' s 
 meaning. "Am I to understand that you have felt 
 what I feel ?" He stared at the quiet face, so familiar 
 and so little changed. Then he continued: "You 
 never married; you never loved a woman." 
 
 "That is true," Fermor replied with austerity. 
 " But I loved love. Before you came, I can remember 
 telling myself that I was dead, that the years could hold 
 nothing more for me. My ambitions, not strong and 
 vital like yours, had become ashes; my health had failed; 
 I stood alone, drinking the dregs of disappointment. 
 And they poisoned me. I have never spoken of it. I 
 did not think it was possible to speak of it, even to you." 
 
 "And I made you live ?" 
 
 The tone was incredulous, but some quality, hitherto 
 absent, animated it. 
 
 "You raised me from the dead. You will never 
 understand that, it's impossible that you should, until 
 you live in and for another." 
 
 "I lived for Mary." 
 
 " My poor David, are you sure of that ?" 
 
 "I cannot live without her." 
 
 His voice became again hard and defiant. He 
 glanced at the open window. Fermor could see what 
 was in his mind. 
 
 "Because Mary is not permitted to return, you are 
 thinking of following her. David, you will not find 
 her that way." 
 
 " How can you know ?" 
 
 "I do know." 
 
1 7 o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 He spoke with authority, tightening his grip upon 
 David's hand. In a different tone, using the pleasant, 
 never didactic inflections which years before had made 
 David not only willing but eager to obey him, Fermor 
 continued : 
 
 "You are an honourable man. You pay your debts. 
 You owe me something." 
 
 " Everything everything. Even Mary." 
 
 "Do you realize that your self-destruction would 
 kill me?" 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "It is true." 
 
 David said in a low voice: "I have been mad." 
 Then, with impatience, he added: "Will you come 
 with me ? I must walk. I must breathe fresh air. 
 I am choking." 
 
 He hurried out, followed by Fermor. Side by side 
 and in silence they took the open road, which to the 
 left descended sharply, and to the right ascended as 
 sharply to the crest of a high hill. Years before, 
 upon the morning when Fermor adopted David, the 
 choice between the hill and the plain had presented 
 itself. Now, as then, David chose the hill. Fermor 
 recalled that ascent to Jerusalem: he could hear the 
 child's joyous laugh and feel the small hand thrust 
 confidingly into his own. It was morning, then, and 
 summer was chasing spring from the landscape. 
 Now, it was night and autumn. In the chill air hung 
 the faint but unmistakable odour of decay. The 
 leaves were falling from the trees. 
 
THE WATERS OF MARAH 171 
 
 David walked fast, and Fermor kept pace not without 
 effort. But, suddenly, David paused and said with 
 compunction: "I have been rushing along without 
 considering you. Forgive me!" 
 
 Fermor was in the mood to give to these simple words 
 a wider and deeper application. He replied gaspingly: 
 "Let me take your arm." 
 
 Did David perceive that Fermor was deeply moved ? 
 The younger man's consideration at such a moment 
 seemed to be a divinely inspired answer to some sorrow- 
 ful questions. From the day of his adoption till the 
 day when the Archdales left Sherborne, the relations 
 between these two had been amazingly satisfactory. 
 How dear and soul-sufficing are the tiny acts of love 
 and thoughtfulness which a grateful child can offer 
 to a devoted parent! How tragic it is to see these 
 withheld! David had not withheld such sweet obla- 
 tions, and again and again Fermor had laughed to 
 himself, reflecting that the Vicar had suggested the 
 possibility of his "being let down!" 
 
 To-night, the possibility so scorned had taken place. 
 David had torn Fermor' s heart. He had shewn that 
 he could "do" without Fermor. But he had con- 
 fessed afterward that he was mad. 
 
 Arm in arm, they reached the crest of the hill. 
 
 The world about and beneath lay without form and 
 colour; dawn was at hand. In the east, a soft silvery 
 radiance floated up behind the hills, accentuating the 
 stern rigidity of their black gloom, the solemnity of 
 their everlasting loneliness. Nowhere, in Namur, 
 
172 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 do the mountains rise to a height greater than two 
 thousand feet, and for the most part they present 
 wooded and rounded contours, distinctively pastoral 
 and Arcadian. Only here and there a sharp peak 
 breaks the graceful curves, giving to the landscape 
 the mountain note of passion and power. The general 
 expression is that of undulation and harmony. And 
 this, quite unconsciously, had been embodied in 
 David's oratorio. He had seized, with true artistry, 
 the flowing lines ever rising and falling in curves 
 which possessed a common vanishing-point, and this 
 subtle, rippling effect of form he had transposed into 
 sound. But now, in the dark hour which precedes 
 dawn, all was obscure. The breeze passed, leaving 
 the singing pines silent. Out of the gorge below 
 ascended the plaintive cadence of water escaping 
 from confining rocks. 
 
 David stood still. 
 
 "Perhaps," he whispered, "Mary will come now. 
 Pray, pray that it may be so." 
 
 Fermor felt David's arm rigid as iron against his 
 own. At the moment he believed that Mary might 
 come back, that her spirit could hardly resist such 
 passionate importunity. Surely time and place pre- 
 sented tremendous claims. David and he stood far from 
 human habitations, above the fret and fury of fleshly 
 desires, alone and together in a communion of the spirit. 
 
 But Mary did not come. 
 
 Beyond the hills the light increased, and colour 
 began to inform it, opaline at first, a scintillating, 
 
THE WATERS OF MARAH 173 
 
 crystalline admixture of ineffable tints. The edge 
 of a cloud caught a crimson ray and held it captive. 
 Gold glittered upon the crest of the most distant peak. 
 
 Fermor said to David: 
 
 "I beheld the mountains, and, lo, they trembled, 
 and all the hills moved lightly.' ' 
 
 David, haggard and dry-eyed, answered hoarsely: 
 'The world is alive, but my Mary is dead." 
 
 "She lives/' said Fermor, almost with violence. 
 "Can you look at that and doubt?" 
 
 He pointed to the sun, rising in stainless majesty: 
 the ever-recurrent miracle, the sublime assurance of 
 Man's resurrection. The myriad rays streamed upon 
 the awakening earth; changing the meanest and dark- 
 est objects into things of beauty and glory. Moss and 
 lichen, fern and leaf, tiny pebble and vast boulder, for- 
 est, mountain, and stream, became, each in its degree, 
 organic parts of a transcendent whole. And over 
 land and sky brooded the peace that passes man's 
 understanding only because he is engrossed with his 
 own works, great or small, and blind to the works of 
 God, and to the gospel which each reveals. 
 
 David made no answer. The sun shone upon his 
 face, white and hard as marble, upon his clenched hands, 
 upon his rigid form, upon his tearless eyes in which 
 defiance and despair seemed to smoulder dully. 
 
 "Leave me, please," he said. 
 
 Fermor obeyed in silence, knowing that the worst 
 could not happen, but knowing also that the best, 
 the supreme opportunity, had come and gone. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 
 
 THREE months after Mary's death, David 
 returned to London, looking to the discern- 
 ing eye older and thinner. The "Peer and 
 the Peri " was still running at the Jollity with undimin- 
 ished vigour and popularity. The "profession" received 
 him with effusion, tempered by sympathy; and this 
 cordiality to which he responded made him real- 
 ize that he belonged to a world which works (and 
 sometimes weeps) in order that others may laugh. 
 Hitherto, he had felt that he was in this world, but not 
 of it. Between Sebastian Fermor's adopted son and 
 such persons, let us say, as Boileau, Williams, and 
 Daffy-down-Dilly stretched an Atlantic of differences, 
 waves upon which he had tossed, feeling at times 
 uncomfortably sea-sick. He had told himself that 
 wide oceans must be crossed in life's journey, and 
 then, like many another philosophic traveller, thought 
 of the good dry land whereon he would walk upright. 
 Without extenuation, let the fact be set down that 
 David chose the baser sort to be his companions. In 
 the same spirit of indifference and recklessness Captain 
 Archdale had so chosen before him. It is easy to know 
 the baser sort, and difficult to escape from them. 
 David might have found friends amongst the best, 
 
 174 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 175 
 
 but he was aware that this would demand an effort. 
 The second-raters, good, bad, and indifferent, accepted 
 him upon his own terms. They wanted him and told 
 him so: an insidious form of flattery. Also, they 
 were accessible at all hours. David was suffering from 
 insomnia. Had he been wise, he would have compelled 
 sleep by exhausting his body with hard physical exercise. 
 Instead, he joined a couple of clubs crowded with 
 cheery, thirsty fellows till three in the morning. One 
 night, the craving for sleep drove him to the use of 
 drugs. Under their influence he had a vision of 
 Mary, a Mary with horror in her eyes. When he 
 became himself, he pitched the drugs out of the window. 
 After this experience he hoped that Mary might come 
 back in his dreams, with some whisper of solace and 
 encouragement. Such happiness was denied to him. 
 In a few dreams he had, she remained incalculably 
 distant, unapproachable. He consulted, with a sense 
 of disgust, certain mediums, through whom "communi- 
 cations" were transmitted, but the messages, trite, 
 crude, and more than once offensively vulgar, might 
 have come from a housemaid, never from Mary. He 
 admitted that there were phenomena in connection 
 with these seances which seemed inexplicable, although 
 hardly more so than the avowed "tricks" of Messrs. 
 Maskelyne and Devant. And he was assured that he 
 came to darkened "parlours" in the wrong spirit, 
 which was not so. He was seeking the truth, but 
 he sought it in the wrong place. 
 
 At the end of a few years he had accepted a material 
 
176 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 creed, the creed of his innumerable acquaintance. 
 Sleep and health came back to him, and with them 
 an increased appetite for work and the results of work. 
 The "Belle and the Tiger," which succeeded the "Peer 
 and the Peri," enjoyed a colossal success. It became 
 impossible for David to enter a restaurant without 
 hearing one of his compositions. Regimental bands 
 played his marches; Young England, male and female, 
 warbled his songs; his waltzes were inscribed upon 
 every ball programme throughout the world. There 
 were "David Archdale" ties and collars and cigars and 
 roses ! 
 
 Universal recognition not only tickled agreeably his 
 vanity, but became in time as necessary as bread or 
 wine. 
 
 And, meanwhile, amongst a motley company of 
 actors, singers, dancers, writers, and painters, of whom 
 it might be said that each lived, as joyously as possible, 
 in and for the passing hour, the daughter of Mary was 
 changing from a child into a woman. 
 
 Of course, she had ceased to be the Marionette. We 
 meet her now as Mollie, a young lady who, for 
 several years, and by many hundreds of persons, 
 had been made to understand that she held an 
 unassailable position in the heart of her father and 
 his friends. 
 
 David adored her. 
 
 Everybody knew it, and took advantage of it. A 
 "chorister" out of a job at the Jollity Theatre 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 177 
 
 was certain to be engaged if she was clever enough 
 to approach David through Mollie. Students of singing 
 and dancing were sure of the popular composer's atten- 
 tion, if Molly chose to play their accompaniments. 
 A discreet present to Mollie was paid for ten times 
 over by David. 
 
 Mollie remembered vividly the night when her 
 father had come back, looking so white and thin. She 
 was staying at the time with the Professor, hitherto 
 regarded as a "jokey" man, full of quips and sur- 
 prises, and with large bulgy pockets in which might be 
 found chocolate and acidulated drops. Being then 
 but seven years old, the shock of her mother's death 
 had made only a temporary impress. Moreover, the 
 Professor habitually spoke of death as a change for the 
 better. Very tenderly, he had explained to the child 
 that the mother, although invisible, was still alive. In 
 a score of ways he appealed to a sensitive imagination. 
 He bought a bottle of scent for her, and explained that 
 flowers lived again in perfume, although, as blossoms, 
 they had vanished. He possessed many objects made 
 by Mary. He showed each to the child, saying: "The 
 hands that made this are gone, but the love which 
 guided the hand remains. We can forget the love, 
 but even then it is there, waiting for us to remember 
 it." By such talk, death was presented without terrors. 
 And there had been no funeral to arouse, with its 
 barbaric trappings of woe, nightmare imaginings of 
 a beloved body buried in the cold earth. Mary lay 
 in the English cemetery at Spa. But when the child 
 
1 78 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 saw her father, instinctively she realized that something 
 tragic had taken place. He arrived late, when she 
 was in bed. But she heard his step upon the stairs, 
 and with a glad cry rushed to meet him. She had 
 expected to be smothered with kisses, the kisses 
 which so she said to her grandfather had been 
 growing for three months. David picked her up, and 
 held her at arms' length, staring into her eyes, searching 
 for the Mary who had vanished, trembling with fear 
 lest what he sought might once more elude him. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he muttered. "Mary is there, a part 
 of her at any rate." 
 
 "Daddy, what's the matter? How odd you look!" 
 He did not answer, but kissed her hungrily, straining 
 her to him, and presently, as he sat beside the bed, 
 holding her hand, she perceived that tears were rolling 
 down his cheeks, and that he was unaware of this, for 
 they fell unheeded upon his coat, while he talked 
 lightly of his travels and a rough passage across the 
 Channel. For the first time in her life the child peered 
 beneath the obscuring veil of words and saw sorrow 
 masquerading as mirth. And with this vision came 
 the realization that her father was "pretending," 
 hiding, or trying to hide for he had failed miserably 
 his true self. With the tears welling into her own 
 eyes, she wondered: 
 
 "Why does daddy laugh when he wants to cry?" 
 But, unhappily, she was too frightened to ask 
 aloud a question which might have broken down 
 barriers. 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 179 
 
 Behold the child a young lady of seventeen! You 
 will note at once the resemblance to the mother. But 
 whereas Mary had been merely " nice-looking," Mollie 
 was a beauty. She flew the red, white, and blue, 
 inheriting from David the fine texture of skin, the 
 delicate features, the nicely proportioned form. She 
 had her mother's brown hair, but, brightening it delight- 
 fully were golden threads of the same tint and quality 
 as the curl which Fermor cut from David's head the 
 day after he had adopted the child. Her eyes were 
 azure; her hands and feet were slenderly fashioned. 
 
 Fermor often wondered how it came to pass that 
 with parts so different the whole should resemble the 
 mother so startlingly. Mollie had Mary's ways: 
 tricks of gesture and expression. Mary seemed to 
 reveal herself in the child's glance, in her smile, in 
 dimples reproduced with absolute fidelity, most of all 
 in her voice. 
 
 Never forgetting his promise to Mary, Fermor tried 
 to "keep an eye" on Mollie. But he had promised 
 more than he could perform. And his eyesight, in 
 more senses than one, was failing. He defined with 
 difficulty those objects only which were close. Mollie 
 in London, surrounded by hosts of friends, became 
 a whirling blur revolving at such a high rate of speed 
 that by the mere exercise of centrifugal force she 
 unconsciously discarded influences alien to her vigor- 
 ous personality. 
 
 Long ago, David had left the maisonette for a 
 "mansion" in Portland Place, a fine old house with 
 
i8o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 stately rooms admirably designed for the exercise 
 of a lavish hospitality. Mrs. Stormont christened it 
 "The Archdale Arms." She remained David's friend, 
 although she complained of the people she met at his 
 house. Opening wide her own doors to everybody in 
 London, irrespective of birth or money, who represented 
 credentials of talent or intelligence, she had, at the same 
 time, displayed marvellous discrimination in excluding 
 the humbugs and the ill-bred. 
 
 We meet her again in David's drawing-room, upon 
 the eve of MolhVs eighteenth birthday. Her hair is 
 gray, her figure rather more massive; otherwise she 
 is unchanged. 
 
 "Definite purpose fires your eye," said David, as 
 they shook hands. 
 
 "Quite right. I have come to talk to you about 
 Mollie." 
 
 "My weak spot." 
 
 " Exactly. I have always regretted, David, that you 
 didn't marry again. For that matter, it's not too late. 
 I'm sure Kate Melbury would have you." 
 
 "Kate and I are still pals, although I see little of 
 her." 
 
 "That is your fault. Kate is fastidious. She abom- 
 inates most of your friends as much as I do." 
 
 David shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "You assume an indifference which ill becomes a 
 father." 
 
 "Perhaps it is assumed." 
 
 "Oh ho!" 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 181 
 
 "When Mollie comes out there must be some 
 weeding/' 
 
 " If you wait till then, my dear man, it will be too 
 late. And it's rubbish to talk of Mollie's coming out. 
 She is out. She has always been out. I've come here 
 to insist upon Mollie's coming-in." 
 
 "A finishing school?" 
 
 " If you like to call Stormont Lodge that, I shall not 
 be offended. Lend her to me for a year." 
 
 David uttered a gasp of surprise. 
 
 "Lend you my Mollie for a year?" he repeated 
 incredulously. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "This is very kind of you." 
 
 "It is wonderfully kind. I suppose I've got a 
 conscience somewhere, and it pricks me whenever 
 I look at you. There are moments when I wonder 
 what your life would have been if I had not med- 
 dled with it. I did meddle deliberately. And the 
 result Well, it has not turned out quite as I 
 expected, nor, I fancy, as you expected." 
 
 "That's true," said David gloomily. 
 
 " You have climbed to the top of the tree, but " 
 
 " It's the wrong tree." 
 
 "It might have been a mountain peak. Now, can 
 I speak with absolute candour?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You have a daughter whom you have done your 
 best to spoil. Don't interrupt me! You imagine 
 that the feeling between you both is the real right thing, 
 
182 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 but it isn't. You believe your love to be unselfish. 
 Nothing of the sort. Unless I am making a criminally 
 unintelligent blunder, Mollie is and has been to you 
 not a young girl of human clay, but a sort of lay figure 
 upon which you have draped a robe of samite. It 
 makes you feel good to look at your dear little saint, 
 and it pleases you enormously to exhibit her to the 
 multitude, as if she were Our Lady de Bonnes 
 Nouvelles exalted above the heads of the unwashed 
 and the infirm." 
 
 "But- 
 
 " I am wound up, and I must finish. I have 
 rehearsed this scene; I'm word perfect. You have 
 never really entered into Mollie's life; she has never 
 entered into yours." 
 
 "What exaggeration!" 
 
 "Test my statement. Do you talk to her of your 
 work, your cares, of your health, of what you believe 
 or disbelieve ?" 
 
 David was silent. 
 
 " Does she tell you, day by day, her changing views 
 of life ? Does she whisper to you her troubles, her 
 girlish hopes and fears ? Can you name her favourite 
 hero, her cardinal virtue, her besetting sin ? Could you 
 write out a synopsis of her character and tastes and 
 disabilities ?" 
 
 "I love her devotedly and she loves me," he replied. 
 " We are always happy together. That is my test." 
 
 "Are you together much ?" 
 
 "Not as much as I could wish." 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 183 
 
 "Will you lend her to me?" 
 
 "Ha-ha! I have you now. You talk of tests. 
 Mollie is so happy here that she wouldn't go. Your 
 offer is the kindest in the world, but horses wouldn't 
 drag Mollie from Portland Place." 
 
 "My horses shall do so, if I am given the chance. 
 Let Mollie decide." 
 
 "All right. It's courting a rather humiliating 
 refusal. You can offer lures - 
 
 "Lures?" She interrupted him sharply. "I can 
 teach the child what she will never learn in this house." 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " The difference between a gentleman and a bounder. 
 Don't frown! You think she knows that much at 
 least. Well, she doesn't. How should she ? And, if 
 she finds out, she's quite likely to prefer the bounder." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Keep cool! The bounders I meet here are clever. 
 That's why you ask them. But the gentlemen, my 
 friend, are rather dull. They come to be amused by 
 your clever bounders. I want to show Mollie some 
 clever gentlemen." 
 
 David stared at her shrewd, masterful face. She 
 was a woman of the world, a woman of experience. 
 Also, she looked at this moment portentously serious. 
 Hesitatingly, he admitted that he had not given suffi- 
 cient thought to the future, that perhaps she was 
 right. 
 
 "Upon these matters I am always right," said Mrs. 
 Stormont. 
 
1 84 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "All the same Mollie will refuse to leave me." 
 Mrs. Stormont smiled, much to the irritation of 
 David. It seemed to him that she was mocking at 
 the thing he held most sacred his love for Mary's 
 daughter. Mrs. Stormont, of course, was a cynic, 
 altogether a kindly one, and habitually she railed 
 against sentiment, which so she contended blinded 
 and confounded the majority of her countrymen. 
 But it would be fatuous to question her worldly wis- 
 dom, and he realized with a shock that the gentle- 
 men who came to his house were dull. Men of dis- 
 tinction dropped in and dropped out. As a rule 
 they came without their wives. Since Mary's death, 
 David had prided himself upon the fact that his house 
 was a hotel for men of talent. And indeed he had been 
 extraordinarily kind to the strivers and strugglers, 
 particularly generous to young musicians and actors. 
 From such seed as "fivers" slipped into emaciated 
 hands, and innumerable dinners warming the cockles 
 of chilled hearts, he had reaped an immense popularity, 
 which in turn warmed him. With a sigh, and a slightly 
 defiant glance, he continued: 
 
 "You can ask Mollie here and now, before 
 
 me." 
 
 "So be it." 
 
 When the girl entered, she kissed Mrs. Stormont, 
 and then, crossing to her father, stood by his chair with 
 her hand resting lightly upon his shoulder. David 
 smiled confidently, anticipating a small triumph. He 
 felt grateful to his old friend, but really she seemed to 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 185 
 
 have misapprehended the nature of the tie which 
 bound a father to a daughter. Poor dear woman! 
 She was childless. That accounted for so much. He 
 was still smiling when he said: 
 
 "Mrs. Stormont has come here to see you." 
 Mollie crossed to Mrs. Stormont. A slight frown 
 flickered across David's forehead. There are moments 
 when the tinest action or gesture or even the inflection 
 of a word becomes stupendously significant. David 
 had never noticed that this was a trick of Mollie's, 
 this graceful flitting from one person to another, this 
 bird-like fluttering to the call. 
 
 "I want your father to lend you to me for this 
 
 season/ 3 
 
 "How awfully kind of you," said Mollie. 
 
 She bent down and kissed Mrs. Stormont's cheek. 
 David winced. Suddenly he reflected that Mollie 
 had always been too free with her kisses. True, 
 she was very affectionate, but kisses if regarded as 
 coin available for the payment of debts of kindness - 
 ought to be apportioned carefully. He saw that 
 Mollie's delicate hand rested upon Mrs. Stormont's 
 shoulder as confidingly as it had rested upon his own. 
 And she looked down upon the shrewd, genial, massive 
 face with beaming eyes. 
 
 "Would you like to be presented by me, child ?" 
 
 David stirred in his chair, leaning forward. 
 
 " I should love it," exclaimed Mollie, enthusiastically. 
 "Oh, Daddy, isn't it a wonderful surprise?" 
 
 "Yes," said David with a laugh, "it is wonderful! 
 
186 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 You can run away," he continued. "I'll settle the 
 details with Mrs. Stormont, but she wished to hear 
 from your own lips whether you were really keen 
 about it." 
 
 "Of course, I'm keen," said Mollie. 
 
 She ran gaily from the room, and David rose and 
 went to the window. Outside, a barrel organ was 
 playing the now hackneyed waltz out of "The Peer and 
 the Peri." This incident can hardly be termed a 
 coincidence. The organari, and in particular those 
 who came from Ireland, were scrupulous in rendering 
 tribute to the Caesar of musical comedy. If David 
 happened to be at home, it was accepted as such, 
 and suitably acknowledged. 
 
 David flung open the window and looked out. The 
 man at the organ was very dark; he supported a red 
 silk fazzoletto on his head; in his ears were small gold 
 rings. 
 
 "Is that you, Barney ?" 
 
 "It is, sorr," replied a rich Corkian voice. 
 
 David flung the man a shilling. 
 
 "Take that, cross the road, and play my waltz in 
 front of Mr. Isidore Schmaltz's house." 
 
 David closed the window, and turned to see an 
 astonished pair of eyes. 
 
 "When I'm hit hard," he murmured, "I like to 
 touch up somebody else. Puerile eh?" 
 
 "You are very human," murmured Mrs. Stormont. 
 Then, she put out her hand and added gravely: "I 
 am sorry, but you mustn't blame Mollie. You have 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 187 
 
 left her too much alone; and she is ambitious; and 
 she wants and needs change." 
 
 When Mrs. Stormont had gone, David said to him- 
 self, passionately: "My God! Why does Mary's 
 child fail me?" 
 
 Why had Mollie failed him ? 
 
 We have tried to show two sides of David's character. 
 Like many artists, he was governed by his affections 
 and ambitions. His best music, which the world had 
 never heard, expressed what was best in him. The 
 music acclaimed by millions expressed what was 
 second-best, and everything below that strength 
 and weakness. Perhaps the essential difference 
 between the music of "The Peer and the Peri" and 
 "Solomon's Garden" was this: the musical comedy 
 set forth sparklingly David's emotional side, his sense 
 of colour and form, his joy in life and light, and his 
 remarkable genius in being able to transpose his 
 feelings into sound; the oratorio, on the other hand, 
 expressed this, and much more. For in its composition 
 David had soared above himself, above ordinary life, 
 into an empyrean of selflessness truly infinite and divine. 
 
 "Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my 
 garden, that the spices thereof may flow out." 
 
 This, Mary's suggestion for the opening recitative, 
 indicated David's original attitude, his appeal to what 
 was without rather than within. All great music, 
 all enduring literature, everything, in short, which is 
 destined to live, must possess and exhibit a quality 
 
188 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 which even the illiterate are constrained to recognize 
 as unearthly and from hence. 
 
 Fermor knew this, and knew also with conviction 
 that David's genius, if beguiled from higher to lower 
 things, would build upon shifting sand instead of 
 solid rock, and that in time the sand must engulf both 
 work and worker. 
 
 Did David know it ? 
 
 Not yet. 
 
 He was afloat upon a high tide, with every stitch 
 of canvas set to a spanking breeze. With the full of 
 wind and tide he would find himself upon the Goodwin 
 Sands of a facile success, sinking into it, choked by it - 
 derelict! 
 
 And, already, signs were not wanting to show that the 
 tide was flowing less freely, that the wind was beginning 
 to fail. The critics were still kind, but they complained 
 that Archdale's later work fell short of his own standard. 
 Two musical comedies in succession, produced at enor- 
 mous expense, were taken off at the end of a six months' 
 run, much to the discontent of the Jollity Board of 
 Directors. His songs, waltzes, and marches were 
 still immensely popular, but a new star was rising in 
 Hungary and according to Lorimer likely to 
 shine with even greater brilliancy than David Archdale. 
 Isidore Schmaltz, meeting David at the rising star's 
 premiere, quoted malevolently: 
 
 " So have I heard on Afric's burning shore 
 Another lion give a grievious roar, 
 And the first lion thought the last a bore.'* 
 
AT THE ARCHDALE ARMS 189 
 
 David had laughed. Jealousy, which rends so 
 many artists, never lacerated him. Always he had 
 been ready to praise the work of other men, and to 
 perceive what was best in it; a generous gift denied to 
 most musicians, who too often are self-absorbed and 
 vain. Perhaps he was jealous of himself, and secretly 
 exasperated because his first musical comedy was 
 held to be his best: the high-water mark by which 
 subsequent productions were measured. In fine, so 
 far as ambition was concerned, we must admit dis- 
 appointment, and an inordinate appetite to taste once 
 more a superlative triumph. 
 
 What of his affections ? 
 
 During many months after Mary's death the power 
 of loving seemed to have been taken away. He 
 could analyze love with detachment, and place an 
 inestimable price upon it, because he had lost it. 
 For a season even Fermor and Mollie became negligible 
 quantities. He could no longer think of them as his, 
 although it is likely that he clung to the conviction that 
 he remained theirs. This conviction fortified him, 
 when he was tempted to drown misery in wine, or in 
 the company of light women. Had he been vicious 
 as a young man, he must have fallen to the depths, 
 but vice repelled him. The possibility of buying love 
 seemed the horror of horrors, an unthinkable abom- 
 ination. 
 
 Later he had thought more than once of a second 
 marriage. But inevitably he compared the dead wife 
 with her possible successor, to the disadvantage of the 
 
THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 living woman. Comparing, also, his married life with 
 that of his many friends, he could not escape the con- 
 clusion that he had been amazingly fortunate; and he 
 told himself reluctantly for he was still young and 
 ardent that an unhappy marriage would not only 
 be a disaster in itself, but would stain the record of 
 the first. 
 
 We find him, therefore, while still under forty-five, 
 concentrating his affections upon his daughter, and 
 his ambitions upon a triumph which would eclipse 
 that memorable first night of the "Peer and the Peri." 
 
 Why had Mollie failed him ? 
 
 He was unable to perceive that the fault lay with 
 himself. He had gratified childish whims; he had 
 lavished upon her material things and the tenderest 
 caresses. He would have died for her, had such a 
 sacrifice been demanded. In fine he had given so 
 much that she was beginning to hanker after what was 
 not in David's power to bestow: a triumph in Mayfair. 
 Moreover, it was true that he did not know either her 
 favourite hero (which modesty may have prevented 
 him from naming to Mrs. Stormont) or her besetting 
 sin (whose existence he may have questioned). There 
 are thousands of just such fathers in the world's greatest 
 city. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 
 
 WHEN Mollie left her father's house, a vacuum 
 was created. David had just cut loose from 
 Taffy Williams; although a comedy of his 
 was still running at the Jollity Theatre. The pressmen, 
 with that indifference to fact which distinguishes and 
 some time extinguishes them, affirmed that the separa- 
 tion was amicable. But everybody knew that a row 
 had taken place. 
 
 David, indeed, was tired of Taffy and his methods. 
 He contended that the British Public was tired also, but 
 this according to Merryweather remained to be 
 demonstrated. 
 
 At this crisis in David's life, the choice between great 
 and small once more presented itself. Freed from 
 shackles which had fettered him not the less because 
 they were golden, he was in a position to take up his 
 early aspirations, and to give them a run so to 
 speak with money which he had desired to earn for 
 that purpose. To produce "Solomon's Garden" at the 
 Albert Hall, to submit it as a magnificent answer to 
 critics who contended that he was unable to write any- 
 thing of better quality than "The Peer and the Peri" 
 might secure a colossal triumph, and a niche in the 
 Temple of Fame. But the possibility of a failure as 
 
 191 
 
IQ2 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 colossal terrified him. He belonged to a famous club, 
 the Buskin, and was one of its most popular members. 
 The Buskin prides itself upon infallible judgment 
 concerning everything connected with the theatrical 
 world. And certainly the collective wisdom of its 
 representatives is not to be gainsaid. Men like old 
 Wrest and Thelluson, who were writing dramatic 
 criticism when the Bancrofts played at the Haymarket 
 Theatre, had laid down axioms which permeated 
 club talk and thought. These, for the most part, were 
 negative and pessimistic, such as: "The public does 
 not know a good thing when it sees it," or, "The 
 public goes to the theatre to be amused, not to be 
 instructed/' or, "The best work of this generation may 
 be accepted by our grandchildren." Sometimes, after 
 luncheon, under the influence of the best tobacco and 
 the club's old brandy, there might be found a few 
 enthusiasts who thought more kindly of the Public, 
 but these, newly joined members as a rule, were soon 
 talked down if Wrest happened to be present. The 
 old man exploited a remarkable memory. He inun- 
 dated you with lamentable details concerning fine 
 work that had failed, of men hounded to poverty and 
 suicide because they were ahead of their times. Every 
 word was trenchant. Whenever he finished, there 
 was a brisk demand for fresh cigars and more drinks, 
 to clear the pea-soup fog settling down upon a company 
 of which each man, in his line, might reckon himself 
 successful, and in his soul more or less sensible that 
 under happier conditions he might have done better 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 193 
 
 work. The motto of the Buskinites was "Hold fast to 
 substance, beware of shadow!" The most distinguished 
 members, barristers, actors,' dramatists, novelists and 
 painters, writhed uneasily thinking of Christmas bills. 
 Convention and fashion had enthralled them. Harring- 
 ton, for instance, the Royal Academician, admitted 
 with genial frankness that a diminution of income was 
 the only skeleton in his closet. Late one night, alone 
 with David, he burst out: 
 
 "I despise my work. Once I dominated it: now 
 it dominates me. I'd like to tackle something big, 
 but I haven't the pluck. I tried a dash upward some 
 years ago, and, O Lord! what a cropper I came! 
 But in my little soul, David, I knew that the best I had 
 ever done was in that much-abused picture. It had 
 stuff in it: imagination, faith, courage." 
 
 David listened, thinking of "Solomon's Garden," long 
 ago buried beneath musical-comedy scores. He knew 
 that he was conspicuous as a shining example of a man 
 of talent who gave to his public exactly what it wanted 
 in allopathic doses. Then he said: 
 
 "I wrote an oratorio once." 
 
 "You?" Harrington roared with laughter . 
 
 "Yes. It was like your picture. It had 'stuff' in 
 it. I may produce it yet." 
 
 Harrington stopped laughing. He liked David, and 
 his hand pressed his friend's arm as he whispered 
 confidentially : " My dear fellow don't ! That picture 
 of mine cut my income in half for two years. And 
 the Missus reminded me I'd just sent Tommy to 
 
194 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Eton; and little Effie was coming out. I couldn't 
 get away from that, my boy eh?" 
 
 Very few Buskinites did get away from "that," 
 except upon the wings of postprandial fancy. 
 
 Soon after Mollie left him, David travelled down to 
 Sherborne. His visits to Fermor had become less 
 frequent as the years passed. Fermor was now an 
 old man; and he had always looked at life with tired 
 eyes. Often his serenity exasperated David. The 
 difference between them was hardly to be bridged 
 except by gratitude, and, as Fermor smilingly refused 
 substantial gifts, gratitude could only be expressed 
 in words. Fermor had said once: 
 
 "Give me as much of your company as you can, 
 David. I ask for nothing else." 
 
 "If you would live with me, father?" 
 
 "In London? My dear boy, that is impossible." 
 
 Upon arrival, David told Fermor that he had cut 
 loose from Taffy Williams and the Jollity directorate. 
 
 "And what are you going to do?" 
 
 "I don't know. I've rushed down here to ask for 
 advice. I want to talk to you and the Professor. I'm 
 tempted to produce "Solomon's Garden." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "Of course Lorimer calls me Humpty-Dumpty. 
 I funk a fall. What do you feel about it, 
 father?" 
 
 "David, you know what I feel about it." 
 
 "It's still unfinished. I hate to tell the truth even 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 195 
 
 to you, but after Mary's death I couldn't finish it. I 
 haven't looked at the score since." 
 
 "You think you could finish it now?" 
 
 "I think so. I wonder what the Professor would 
 advise." 
 
 "Consult him." 
 
 'The dear old man and I haven't much in common." 
 
 "Is that his fault?" asked Fermor. 
 
 David did not answer. Between himself and the 
 Professor affection bloomed bravely, although it lacked 
 the tender leaves of sympathy and confidence. David 
 held his father-in-law to be "unsound" -the adjective 
 which long ago had provoked protest from Mary - 
 because Pignerol refused to reckon as complete a life 
 other than that of domestic affection and peace. Like 
 Fermor, he had refused to accept anything from a 
 rich son-in-law except his company. David had begged 
 to be allowed to pay for the keep of a carriage. 
 
 "A carriage ? A horse ? To carry me from a home 
 where I am perfectly happy?" 
 
 'To carry you to a home where you are perfectly 
 happy." 
 
 " My brave David, you are a good fellow, but it's 
 my object to banish care from my life. Our brother, 
 the horse, is a beast of burdens, but he imposes burdens 
 -quoi?" 
 
 After tea, David walked up the hill. He found 
 Pignerol in his garden busily engaged in bedding out 
 certain plants which formed an old-fashioned star at 
 one end of the lawn. Year after year, this bed was 
 
196 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 reproduced with fidelity, because originally it had 
 been set out by Madame Pignerol. In the centre was 
 a cypher, an 'L' and an 'M' intertwined: the initials 
 of the Christian names of husband and wife. The 
 Professor allowed none to interfere with this labour 
 of love and sentiment. He and his believed that 
 Madame Pignerol assisted also in spirit. 
 
 "How is the book getting on?" said David, after 
 the first greetings. 
 
 " It is not yet finished. Saperlipopette! What would 
 you ? Two thousand years have failed to reconcile 
 Science with Religion. Do you expect me to do it 
 in ten days ?" 
 
 "But you have been twenty years at it." 
 
 "I may be twenty more. I see you staring at these 
 ropes. The big elm is under sentence of decapitation." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "It serves him right. He is all for outward show, 
 that fellow. How he spreads himself, the peacock! 
 But his roots are contemptible. I have no respect for 
 the elm. He stands for what I despise. We chop 
 off his swollen head to-morrow." 
 
 "You look wonderfully well," said David. 
 
 "I am well; there is nothing wonderful about that. 
 It would be wonderful if I were ill. But you are 
 pale and thin." 
 
 "I am worried." 
 
 "I should think so, up to your neck in London 
 clay. Heaven be thanked, I have found my right soil 
 and so will you. It's a thousand pities, rnon enfant, 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 197 
 
 that you are so so unscientific. You might learn 
 much from what you despise as little. Has it ever 
 struck you that vagabond seeds blown hither and 
 thither by the wind infallibly find the soil most likely 
 to nourish them ? You are not as clever as a seed !" 
 
 David made no reply. 
 
 "Perhaps you are a gilded marigold, a marsh 
 marigold. He flourishes in slimy, poisonous soil." 
 
 "I'm a fool," said David vehemently. "I can't 
 make up my mind, and I want you and father 
 to make it up for me." 
 
 Pignerol made a grimace. And, as David talked, 
 he grimaced again, shaking his head and shrugging 
 his shoulders. Ultimately, he presented the spectacle 
 of a stout, red-faced, white-haired philosopher astride 
 a fence. When David finished he growled out: 
 
 " Mon fils, it is not easy to stand in your shoes, and 
 evidently you cannot abide my slippers. I am glad 
 to hear you have parted from the worthy Taffy, but he 
 has left his mark on you. He hung the tinkle-tinkle 
 bell around your neck." 
 
 David exploded for the second time. 
 
 "Damn the tinkle-tinkle bell, and all the other 
 bells!" 
 
 "Don't get excited! You lose force with your 
 'damns!' It's an act of criminal extravagance to 
 squander force. Let us talk reasonably. Why do 
 you wish to produce your oratorio?" 
 
 " Heavens ! To justify myself. To prove that I am 
 what I was intended to be." 
 
198 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Can you write another * Solomon's Garden'?" 
 
 "Another? Time enough to discuss that when the 
 first has been accepted." 
 
 "Accepted? By whom?" 
 
 "By the public, of course." 
 
 "And if the public does not accept it ?" 
 
 "That is what is bothering me." 
 
 "Our good Fermor says it is magnificent. I am not 
 a musician. I don't know." 
 
 David hesitated. About his best work he was still 
 modest. 
 
 "It's all right, I believe. One never knows." 
 
 "One always knows. Everything that I have done 
 which is good, I know. Often I have been doubtful 
 about what is indifferent or even bad. But the good 
 Bah! that jumps to the eye from the bottom of the 
 wise soul!" 
 
 "I meant that one never knows whether others will 
 recognize it as good." 
 
 "That is what you are after, hem, recognition. 
 But you have had it already, pressed down and 
 running over." 
 
 "Slopping over." 
 
 "My son, you puzzle me." 
 
 Beneath his kind, quizzical eyes, David blushed, 
 beginning to have a belated vision of himself as the 
 philosopher saw him, knowing also that evasion 
 would be futile and foolish. He answered rather 
 defiantly: 
 
 "I want an enduring success." 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 199 
 
 "And if it is denied, would you accept failure philo- 
 sophically?" 
 
 David shrugged his shoulders. Pignerol laughed and 
 took his hand, patting it paternally. 
 
 "I cannot advise you, mon fils." 
 
 After leaving Green Hill, David paid a visit to the 
 cottage in Westbury. Long ago he had sold the lease 
 of it, and, since his wife's death, had not been near 
 it, because it held tormenting memories of a great 
 happiness which might have been even greater had he 
 but realized how soon it was coming to an end. For 
 a similar reason he could not bring himself to speak 
 of Mary to Mollie. And he was glad that Mary's 
 body lay in a remote grave, inaccessible to a busy man. 
 Of the sentiment which attracts the quick to what is 
 left of the dead he had no understanding. He dared 
 not think of what her coffin held, except to regret that 
 the dear flesh had not been cremated, and the ashes 
 flung to the sweet, cleansing winds. 
 
 He paused at the gate where Mary had stood a 
 thousand times awaiting his return with a welcoming 
 smile. They had painted it together in the hope of 
 saving a few pennies; and Mary had insisted upon the 
 best paint. It would have been cheaper in the end to 
 have employed a mechanic, for Mary had spoiled a 
 gown, and he had upset his pot of paint. 
 
 Above the gate was a sign: "To let." 
 
 David pushed open the gate, glanced at the front 
 garden, which, being exposed to the public view, 
 
200 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 was kept in tolerable order, and then, skirting the 
 cottage, entered the small plot behind the house. Alas ! 
 a wilderness of weeds brought tears to his heart and 
 eyes. Not a sign of narcissus or hyacinth or tulip 
 could be seen. David had paid for the bulbs by doing 
 without tobacco for six months; and after this 
 tremendous act of self-denial the hyacinths had not 
 come up. Rats consumed them! Mary laughed 
 because she was so afraid of crying, tears being bad for 
 tender plants. The purchase of an expensive rat- 
 trap brought about the capture of one rat, who looked 
 so sleek and guileless that Mary allowed it to escape. 
 Such trifles turn memory into a playground or a torture- 
 chamber. David wandered round the plot. Of the 
 beloved roses only briars remained. David could 
 remember the names of the roses, and the exact spot 
 where each had bloomed. The ditch was once more 
 filled with docks and nettles, although here and there 
 a forget-me-not still struggled for existence. The 
 gnarled, twisted, weather-beaten apple trees remained: 
 the bare bones that Mary had arrayed so gloriously. 
 
 David flung himself down in the grass. 
 
 Lying there, he heard Big Tom strike the hour. 
 The vast bell had been recast twice, but its note re- 
 mained sweet after its purification by fire. He had 
 listened to that bell for more than twenty happy years. 
 
 He tried to analyze this period of happiness, to place 
 his finger upon this or that determining cause. At 
 the club, speaking of his boyhood to men who had 
 hunted and shot and travelled, the remark had been 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 201 
 
 frequent: "I say, Archdale, you must have had a devil- 
 ish dull time of it. Eh what?" But he had not 
 been dull. The simplest pleasures had sufficed him. 
 
 Why? 
 
 The boy might have answered the question: the 
 man groped as one partially blind stretches out tentative 
 fingers, knowing that what he seeks is within reach 
 but hidden from him. 
 
 Could such simple happiness be resurrected ? 
 
 He recalled some lines of Longfellow which, long 
 ago, Mary had repeated to him: 
 
 " Not in the clamour of the crowded street, 
 Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, 
 But in ourselves, are triumph and defeat." 
 
 He told himself that he might have been happy if 
 Mary had come back with the assurance, however faint, 
 of a life beyond. Pignerol was happy in his fool's 
 paradise, because he believed firmly that his wife 
 remained near him. He planted out that absurd 
 star which disfigured the lawn because he was 
 certain that it pleased Madame Pignerol! Wasn't 
 this fancy running riot, barking at common sense and 
 common experience ? 
 
 Presently, he picked a few forget-me-nots, and went 
 his way, with one glance backward at the windows 
 of the cottage now shuttered and barred: dead eyes 
 in a dead house. Upon it, and the garden, and his 
 own heart, was inscribed the saddest of all words: 
 Ichabod. 
 
202 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 After dinner, alone with Fermor, he mentioned for 
 the first time that Mollie was under Mrs. Stormont's 
 wing. Till this moment no one had or could have 
 suspected the poignancy of his feelings, which he had 
 hidden beneath an assumed gaiety. At the club, 
 David said, " My little girl is going to be polished 
 up by Mrs. Stormont," and Tom, Dick, and Harry 
 replied, "The best woman in London to do it." 
 
 "Mollie has left you," said Fermor; "for how long ?" 
 
 "I suppose for a year. Mrs. Stormont will present 
 her and take her about." 
 
 "That worldly old woman!" 
 
 "It's most awfully good of her." 
 
 "Is it going to be awfully good for little Mollie ?" 
 
 An awkward silence followed. 
 
 "Did she want to go?" asked Fermor. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Did you want her to go?" 
 
 "I wanted her to go, if she wanted to go." 
 
 "David, surely you can be candid with me. This 
 news distresses me as much as it astounds. Mary's 
 daughter with Mrs. Stormont! Mary's daughter in 
 training for a fashionable marriage! Mary's daughter 
 taken away from her own father, and hawked about 
 Mayfair." 
 
 Fermor let himself go so seldom that his words, 
 when he did speak with authority, became impressive. 
 Instantly, they fired David. He jumped from his 
 chair, pale and excited, trembling with suppressed 
 passion. 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 203 
 
 "I didn't want her to go. I could have sworn that 
 she would have refused to go. I boasted of it to Mrs. 
 Stormont. I dared her to tempt the child. Heavens ! 
 She needed no tempting. She jumped at the chance. 
 Father, it nearly broke my heart, but I have some 
 pride. I let her go without a word. If she hankers 
 after what Mrs. Stormont can give her, let her have it." 
 
 "No," said Fermor sternly. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right. Think what you like of me, 
 call me a fool, a sentimental idiot, but believe that I 
 loved that child, and curse it she flies off at the 
 first whistle. And mind you, that clever old woman 
 bombarded me with shattering truths. She accused 
 me of filling my house with the wrong people, with 
 bounders and Bohemians. But I swear I meant to 
 clear 'em out." 
 
 "Why did you let them in ?" 
 
 "Ah! Why?" 
 
 David walked to the fireplace. Fermor, gazing at 
 him with softening eyes, saw once more the impulsive, 
 generous boy whom he had loved so tenderly, and who 
 had left him when the world whistled. And now, 
 David in his turn was pierced by the same barbed 
 shaft. 
 
 "My poor boy, I know exactly how you feel." 
 
 David turned. His perceptions, as a child, had 
 been extraordinarily acute, although Mary's death 
 seemed to have dulled them. 
 
 "Father, were you very sore when I left you ?" 
 
 "Not when you went to Mary; I wished that above 
 
204 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 all things. But when you ceased to give me your 
 confidence, when you went away in that sense I was 
 very sore." 
 
 He spoke reluctantly, as if the truth were dragged 
 from him, but, so speaking, he smiled with a kindly 
 but ironic sense of a situation more eloquent than 
 any words. For he saw that the scales had not yet 
 fallen from David's eyes, although his vision was less 
 blurred. 
 
 "Let us talk it out," said David. 
 
 The phrase evoked pleasant memories. In the good 
 old days, man and boy had talked out most things. 
 By the fender stood the armchair in which Fermor 
 sat and smoked. In a corner was David's stool long 
 unused. David fetched it, placed it near the arm- 
 chair, and laughed. 
 
 "Let us talk it out," he repeated. 
 
 "Is there anything more to say?" Fermor inquired. 
 
 "Everything I've bottled up for nearly ten years." 
 
 Again the boy was speaking, using a boy's words 
 in the deep tones of a man. Familiar gestures, delicate 
 inflections, the poise of the fine head, served to remind 
 Fermor that the youth in David was still alive and 
 less changed than he had feared. 
 
 " I am dazed," said David. " I have lost my bearings, 
 Listening to the opinions and judgments of other 
 men, my own seem to have vanished. The Professor 
 made me squirm this afternoon, as he used to do when 
 he caught me assuming knowledge of a subject upon 
 which I was really ignorant. He looked at me as if 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 205 
 
 he knew that I did not know myself. Of course, 
 if he's right, or half right, in his amazing ideas, why, 
 then I'm all wrong. Mary once said that people 
 travelled to the truth along different roads. She said, 
 I remember, that you and the dear old Vicar and the 
 Professor were approaching a common centre from 
 opposite points." 
 
 "We were seeking a common centre/' said Fermor. 
 
 From his higher chair he looked down upon David. 
 The face was still young and handsome, but on it was 
 printed the story of the past ten years. Time takes 
 what is in a man's heart and writes it, indelibly, upon 
 his countenance. 
 
 "I don't quite know what I've been seeking, but 
 I do know what I've found: disappointment, bitterness, 
 boredom. By Jove, I'm like the Professor's elm. 
 Everybody thinks me a splendid tree, but my roots 
 are contemptible. Perhaps in a different soil Or 
 if I chopped off my own swollen head " 
 
 Fermor filled his pipe, waiting and wondering. 
 Presently David continued: 
 
 "If I had chosen different friends Well," he 
 laughed drearily, "there was a reason of sorts behind 
 the invitations to bounders. Savages drive away 
 devils by beating tin cans. Perhaps I thought that 
 noise, a rowdy crowd, would drive out my blue devils. 
 And they were kindly, easy folks to get along with 
 but now " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " I should like to be alone with you for a bit. Let's 
 
206 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 go abroad in my car. Fresh air, change of scene, and 
 your companionship will clear my wits. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 "I should like it of all things." 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "The invitation is as welcome as the dews of bte 
 
 summer." 
 
 "Just you and I. And we'll put the clock back. 
 I'll pretend that I'm a kid again, and you shall spank 
 the nonsense out of me. When can you start?" 
 
 "As soon as you are ready." 
 
 They talked together for a couple of hours, with 
 a map of France spread upon a table between them. 
 Fermor, an enthusiast upon the subject of Gothic 
 architecture, had never seen, except in his dreams, the 
 twin spires of Chartres Cathedral. And there were 
 ancient organs to be examined, and possibly ancient 
 scores mouldering away in worm-eaten chests. Fer- 
 mor' s eyes sparkled when he spoke of these; his voice 
 became stronger. 
 
 "How keen you are!" said David. "Why did you 
 not propose this trip before ?" 
 
 "I was waiting for you," replied Fermor, simply. 
 His quiet tones held an attenuated note of triumph, 
 as if, all along, he had known that David would come 
 back. Before he went to bed, he unlocked a desk, 
 and drew from it a sheet of paper upon which he had 
 scribbled a sonnet. Not for the world would he have 
 shown his verses to David or Pignerol or any of his 
 friends. He read them now with a pleasant smile 
 
DAVID ASKS QUESTIONS 207 
 
 upon his face, with an expression of satisfaction, 
 such as might be seen upon the face of a minor prophet 
 whose tentative predictions have been verified by 
 kindly Time. The sonnet had no merit, save that 
 of setting forth an affection and faith which had never 
 failed. As such, it is printed here: 
 
 To DAVID ARCHDALE: 
 
 To me thou art a child of tricky Spring 
 
 Of April, rogue of months, now dark, now fair, 
 Whose sunbeams, dancing in the illusive air, 
 Flash promise of the gold Time may not bring. 
 
 And so, dear vagabond, spread wide thy wing 
 
 While April smiles. Glad youth must leave dull care. 
 Seek honey-scented meadows. Frolic there! 
 Be innocently happy. Taste thy fling. 
 
 When Spring sends tears instead of laughter, when 
 Dark cloud, ar rain, or snow, or hail impend, 
 When fine, fair-weather folk abandon thee, 
 
 Forlorn and sad, David, remember then 
 
 One who remains, though days are drear, a friend, 
 Constant while life shall last. Fly home to mel 
 
 Fermor tore the sheet of paper into small bits, and 
 flung them into his basket. His smooth brow was 
 slightly puckered as he murmured to himself: 
 
 "Has David comeback?" 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 IN THE MONTH OF MAY 
 
 DAVID and Fermor went abroad in the lusty 
 month of May, when "all herbs and trees 
 renew a man." The migrant birds had 
 invaded England, and every copse was a-flutter with 
 nest-builders and a-thrill with melody. Upon the eve 
 of departure David dined at Stormont Lodge. He 
 had a few words alone with his hostess, but he said 
 nothing out of consideration for her feelings which 
 might lead her to believe that Mollie would be called 
 home upon his return from France. To his dismay, 
 Mrs. Stormont spoke confidently of an early marriage. 
 
 "Henry Middleton is paying her attention." 
 
 "That dull fellow!" 
 
 Middleton was a famous publicist and administrator. 
 
 " He's one of the best, and rich beyond the dreams 
 of avarice. And there are others. The young lady 
 can pick and choose. You can take my word for it 
 that she has cleared her pretty eyes of any possible 
 confusion between bounders and non-bounders. I 
 predict triumphs. The little baggage is as ambitious 
 as her father." 
 
 David replied rather violently: 
 
 "I want her to marry for love." 
 
 Mrs. Stormont smiled discreetly. She had not 
 
 208 
 
IN THE MONTH OF MAY 209 
 
 married for love, but she reckoned herself none the 
 worse for that. David glanced across the room to 
 a sofa whereon Mollie was enthroned with three men 
 in attendance. 
 
 "She can hold her own," said Mrs. Stormont. 
 
 David stared at Mary's child, seeing her for the first 
 time with critical and jealous eyes. She sparkled; 
 there was no doubt of it. He heard her silvery laughter, 
 and wondered whether it rang true. For so young a 
 girl she seemed amazingly at ease. She had assumed 
 a freakish, not quite natural air. 
 
 "Is Middleton here?" he asked. 
 
 "David, how ignorant you are! He's making a 
 remarkable speech in the House." 
 
 David rose to take his leave. He had hardly 
 exchanged half a dozen phrases with Mollie, but as he 
 crossed the room she sprang from the sofa and flitted 
 up to him. 
 
 " Are you going ? We must have a tiny talk in the 
 hall." She slipped her hand upon his arm and laughed 
 gaily. But, as soon as they were alone she said, 
 poutingly, "How solemn you look!" 
 
 David wanted to ask the question upon his tongue's 
 tip: "Have you missed me? Are you homesick?" 
 Instead, rather stiffly, he muttered, " How do you like 
 this?" and waved an all-embracing hand. 
 
 "I'm having a gorgeous time. Everybody is so 
 kind. The Prime Minister was here yesterday, and 
 he talked to me seriously as if I were a woman, which, 
 of course, I am." 
 
2io THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 The sense that he had treated her as a child too 
 long pierced him, but he pinched her cheek and said 
 lightly, "Don't be in too great a hurry to escape from 
 childhood." Then he added, " And don't be a moth!" 
 
 "A moth?" 
 
 "Glare and glitter seem to attract you." 
 
 She replied airily, "They do," but he perceived 
 that she was puzzled, because hitherto he had 
 offered everything except advice. She lifted her 
 head and kissed him. He returned her kiss with 
 ardour. 
 
 "I wish I was taking my Marionette with me." 
 
 "It would be great fun." 
 
 "It might be more than that." 
 
 "Daddy, I can't make you out to-night. Why are 
 you running away from London when everything is 
 just at its very best ?" 
 
 "The nightingale is singing in the country." 
 
 "And Melba at Covent Garden." 
 
 "I prefer the nightingale." 
 
 Perhaps at that moment she divined that all was not 
 well with him, for she squeezed his hand and her voice 
 was very soft as she whispered: "Do you hate to 
 leave me ?" 
 
 "Isn't it going to be the other way about? Mrs. 
 Stormont prepared me for a son-in-law." 
 
 Mollie's cheeks were a warmer pink as she replied 
 hastily: "I believe you are jealous. I love you, Daddy; 
 I only like other men." 
 
 With this assurance in his ears he went away. 
 
IN THE MONTH OF MAY 211 
 
 Twenty-four hours later, Fermor and he crossed from 
 Southampton to Havre. David appeared to be in high 
 spirits and very anxious to exploit the excellencies of 
 his new motor, a forty-power car of the best French 
 manufacture. Freed from the restrictions of the 
 English roads, he drove fast along the smooth wide 
 highways. When Fermor suggested less speed, David 
 replied that he was outstripping care. And for the 
 first week it seemed as if he had succeeded. His 
 pleasure in being once more alone with his oldest 
 friend delighted Fermor. They lingered in Rouen and 
 Caen, and then sped south to Chartres. Here they 
 spent four days in and about the cathedral; and here, 
 in the sacristy, Fermor discovered a Mass of Pales- 
 trina's, composed during the most brilliant period of 
 the composer's life, which neither David nor he had 
 ever heard. An old priest, more erudite than most 
 of his fellows, rejoiced in the opportunity of discoursing 
 upon a favourite theme to two English musicians. To 
 him, Palestrina stood for an archetype of the supreme 
 artist, working diligently for a pitiful wage, a prey to 
 domestic afflictions, and yet serenely happy in his 
 fidelity to the great gift entrusted to him. The old 
 priest quoted his dying words concerning work con- 
 ceived and accomplished "to the glory of the Most 
 High God and for the worship of His holy temple/* 
 And then David was reminded of something which 
 he had forgotten; Palestrina's series of motetti to words 
 chosen from the "Song of Solomon." These had en- 
 joyed a tremendous success, and had passed through in- 
 
212 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 numerable editions. Fermor recalled the incident of 
 Palestrina carrying this alabaster box of spikenard and 
 breaking it at the feet of his master, Gregory XIII. 
 The old priest concluded sorrowfully : 
 
 "He wrote the motetti, Messieurs, after the death 
 of his wife, Lucrezia, whom he adored. Perhaps the 
 love that he had for her was poured into them. Who 
 knows ? " 
 
 This incident made a profound impression upon 
 David. He could talk to Fermor of nothing else. 
 Finally he said in a constrained voice: ' 'He wrote 
 his 'Solomon's Garden* after his wife's death - 
 - If we were directed here " 
 
 "We may have been. As we were approach- 
 ing Chartres, as those two spires rose out of 
 the soft haze, I said to myself, 'I have been here 
 before/" 
 
 "How and when, father?" 
 
 "Perhaps in a previous existence." 
 
 "The professor has not infected you with that 
 rubbish?" 
 
 Fermor winced at David's contemptuous tone, but 
 he said quietly: "I have an immense respect for 
 Pignerol's beliefs. And the doctrine of reincarnation 
 appeals to me more as I grow older. There are 
 arguments " 
 
 "What arguments, worthy of the name?" 
 
 "Infant prodigies. Take our own calling. We 
 know the difficulties of composition, of selection, of 
 execution. But many children leap to the point to 
 
IN THE MONTH OF MAY 213 
 
 which I have crawled. Mozart, for instance, and 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Most assuredly." 
 
 "You think that I have lived before, that my music, 
 which has come to me easily, is the outpouring of 
 previous accumulations ?" 
 
 "It is thinkable and even probable." 
 
 "Shall I give Palestrina credit for 'The Peer and the 
 Peri'?" 
 
 "Ah, David, do not joke about that!" 
 
 "Odd that he should have chosen the Canticles. 
 Well, father, this visit to Chartres has settled one thing. 
 I mean to set about finishing my 'Solomon's Garden' 
 as soon as our holiday is over. And I shall dedicate 
 it to you." 
 
 "My dear David!" 
 
 " You have always been my Pope, my papa beato" 
 
 "This makes me very happy." 
 
 " Me too, if you are really pleased." 
 
 "Gregory could not have been more pleased than I." 
 
 A silence followed. Fermor was too moved for 
 speech; David, having pledged himself, was sensible 
 of a reaction: a rigour of doubt shook him. He tried 
 to recall the motif of "Come, My Beloved," but, to his 
 exasperation, the sugary airs of his musical comedies 
 buzzed in and out of his head, to the complete exclusion 
 of strains more austere. He touched Fermor's arm. 
 They were walking together, after dinner, upon the 
 Orleans road. 
 
THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Do you remember 'Come, my Beloved'?" 
 
 "I should think so: your finest bit of work." 
 
 "It's odd, but I can't recall a note of it." 
 
 "I could write down every bar." 
 
 After a pause David said, interrogatively: "The 
 plaster which hid that wonderful work in the old Abbey 
 Church kept it fresh and fine, didn't it ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "If I dared to think that this plaster stuff of mine 
 has in a sense preserved 'Solomon's Garden.' 1 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "You are doubtful of that. All the same, I can 
 bring to the finishing of the oratorio an experience 
 of life which ought to have its value, eh ?" 
 
 Fermor replied rather drily: "Perhaps. I hope so." 
 
 "At any rate, the plaster is to be stripped off. I 
 swear, here and now, by the ashes of Palestrina, that 
 I won't ring again the tinkle-tinkle bell." 
 
 "Thank God!" 
 
 " But I suppose I shall be condemned to go on hear- 
 ing it for a time. It's tinkling now, confound it!" 
 
 "When we return to Sherborne you shall sit in the 
 choir and stare at the roof, and I'll play to you some 
 of Boyce's anthems." 
 
 "The old hunt for the 'heavenly note.' : 
 
 '"Come, My Beloved' has that." 
 
 "Has it?" " 
 
 "I am sure of it." 
 
 "Madame Kirby-Lunn must sing it. There is a 
 velvety smoothness about her voice which is enchanting. 
 
IN THE MONTH OF MAY 215 
 
 Do you know that I'm beginning to feel keener than 
 ever ? A week ago I was only half alive." 
 
 He went on talking, discussing the merits of the 
 great singers and instrumentalists, and saying that he 
 would write a solo for a famous harpist. Fermor 
 replied in monosyllables, wondering whether the dream 
 of a lifetime would come true. 
 
 Presently, they turned, and in the moonlight they 
 saw the vast cathedral, twice ravaged by fire, and yet 
 to-day the finest example of French Gothic art at its 
 zenith : an incomparable illustration of what love and 
 faith may accomplish. 
 
 "David," said Fermor in a low voice. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Human hands will never again raise such a house 
 as this, so nobly planned, so perfect in its proportion, 
 so exquisitely wrought in all its details." 
 
 "It is unlikely." 
 
 "It is impossible. It represents something that is 
 immortal, but something that has passed away from 
 this earth." 
 
 "I suppose we can say the same of sculpture and 
 perhaps painting." 
 
 " But not of music." 
 
 "You believe that?" 
 
 "The greatest music is yet to be written. I can 
 imagine a heaven wherein music is the universal 
 language, capable of expressing whatever there be of 
 beauty and pleasure." 
 
 "I see you conducting a heavenly choir." 
 
216 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "You bring me back to earth. David, I once 
 hoped that you would write the greatest music this 
 world has ever heard." 
 
 "Published by Lorimer! Copyright secured in the 
 United States?" 
 
 "You may do it yet." 
 
 "Urn," said David. Then he added: "I told Mrs. 
 Stormont that I had climbed to the top of the wrong 
 
 tree." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 DAVID SEES WITH DETACHMENT 
 
 THE weather was perfect when they took the 
 road, early upon the following morning. 
 Rain, however, had fallen during the night, 
 more than necessary to lay the thick white dust, and the 
 big car, travelling through a flat uninteresting bit of 
 country at top speed, swerved more than once in turning 
 sharp and slippery corners. David laughed. 
 
 "Sit tight," said he. "Nothing like pace to provoke 
 an appetite." 
 
 They breakfasted at an old-fashioned inn, whose 
 terrace overlooked the Loire. 
 
 "We have entered the garden of France," said 
 David, "le pays de rire et de rien faire, Rabelais's 
 country." 
 
 "No Gothic cathedrals here," said Fermor. 
 
 "Nothing really superb. The farther south we go 
 the farther we get from the perfection of Rouen and 
 Caen and Chartres, but you will like the chateaux." 
 
 Fermor shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "David, I'm sure they'll be musical comedy to me." 
 
 "At any rate we are going to eat, drink, and be 
 merry. Do you think we shall have the pluck to 
 tackle snails? I say, what fun this is!" 
 
 "Yes, yes quite enchanting." 
 
 217 
 
2i8 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "That's the word. The Professor, of course, 
 would tell us that the spell still lingers. The Valois 
 and the Bourbons turned this into a paradise. Their 
 laughter echoes in our hearts." 
 
 "One cannot quite forget the Balafre, and Cardinal 
 Balne's cage and the massacre in the courtyard at 
 Amboise." 
 
 "Father, we have come abroad to put unpleasant 
 thoughts from us. We won't go near Amboise, and 
 we'll keep out of dungeons. After breakfast, we'll 
 find a meadow full of hay, and go fatly to sleep on a 
 haycock. Gar$on! Another pint of this excellent 
 
 wine." 
 
 They sipped their coffee and smoked cigars, while 
 the great river flowed silently by. The landscape was 
 suffused with golden sunlight, and even the tremulous 
 leaves of the willows hung motionless in the lulled air, 
 as if they were drowsily awaiting the kiss of summer. 
 Upon the river one could see where the current swirled, 
 and its surface, although placid, was actively resolving 
 the prismatic beams, and reflecting with indescribable 
 delicacy the infinite graduations of the azure sky. 
 The myriad ripples caused by a passing barge held, 
 each, for a dazzling instant, the image of the sun, and 
 then vanishing slowly were absorbed into the quiver 
 ing blue. "I could finish the oratorio here," said 
 David. "Why shouldn't you and Mollie and I spend 
 the summer near Blois ?" 
 
 Without waiting for Fermor's answer he continued 
 swiftly. 
 
DAVID SEES WITH DETACHMENT 219 
 
 "Is it possible for a man to begin life again when he 
 is my age ?" 
 
 At the end of the terrace, not a dozen yards distant, 
 an ancient thorn, gnarled, weather-beaten, warped 
 to one side, had burst into full blossom. Its whiteness 
 and its fragrance had challenged the attention of the 
 two men, as they sat down to breakfast. Fermor 
 raised his hand and pointed to it. 
 
 "That old May-tree," he said, smiling, "answers 
 your question far more eloquently than an old man 
 can do." 
 
 "What a miracle it is!" David inhaled the perfume. 
 "Father, somebody has said that peace is a 'lullaby 
 word* for decay. Is that true?" 
 
 "Only in the sense of a peace selfishly deaf to every- 
 thing which disturbs it." 
 
 "Jove! How I should like to begin again! 
 Wouldn't you?" 
 
 "I should prefer to go on to a fuller existence else- 
 where." 
 
 'This is good enough for me. I never felt better." 
 
 "You see, I am seventy." 
 
 "In a minute the talk will become morbid. Let us 
 find our hayfield." 
 
 They strolled along the band of the river, till they 
 found what they sought. David flung himself down, 
 and within a minute was fast asleep. Fermor sat by 
 him, gazing at his face, now warm with colour and 
 smoothed by pleasant dreams. Much of the delightful 
 attractiveness of youth lingered upon it, and especially 
 
220 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 the possibilities of youth ever interesting to kindly 
 age whose work is done. 
 
 "Can he begin again?" thought Fermor. 
 
 Then, almost unconsciously, he prayed that it 
 might be so. 
 
 An hour afterward they were on their way to Blois. 
 David had just said, "How well she's pulling," when 
 suddenly a tire burst with a loud explosion and 
 David could remember nothing more except an appall- 
 ing vision of a granite wall racing at them ! 
 
BOOK II 
 
 " God is law, say the wise; Soul, and let us rejoice, 
 For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 
 Law is God, say some: no God at all, says the fool; 
 For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in 
 
 a pool; 
 And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man 
 
 cannot see; 
 But if we could see and hear, this Vision were it 
 
 not He?" 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
 "Amid the mysteries that become the more mysterious 
 the more they are thought about, there will remain the 
 one absolute certainty, that we are ever in the presence 
 of an infinite and eternal energy, from which all things 
 proceed." 
 
 HERBERT SPENCER. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 ON THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 BY WHAT miracle of God's mercy had he 
 escaped injury ? 
 This was the first question that David 
 asked himself after the accident. For the impact 
 must have been tremendous. The motor was running 
 at fifty miles an hour over one of the finest roads in 
 France. And yet, after the smash, David discovered 
 himself standing upon the highway, gazing down 
 upon a mass of splintered wood and iron, all that 
 was left of his magnificent car. He was sensible 
 of no bodily injury, although his vision seemed to 
 be blurred, as if the optic nerve had sustained a 
 shock. The landscape, for instance, appeared to 
 have lost substance. It remained clear, too clear, like 
 a reflection in water. This luminosity registered itself 
 with precision. 
 
 What succeeded effaced it for the time being. David 
 remembered that Fermor had been driving with him, 
 and, as suddenly, he saw huddled up against the wall 
 what seemed to be a mere bundle of clothes. David 
 became overwhelmingly conscious of his own vitality, 
 as he realized that his life had been spared, while 
 Fermor's had been taken. Horrorstruck, he hastened 
 to Fermor 's side, knelt down, called him by 
 
 223 
 
224 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 name, knowing that there would be, could be, no 
 answer. 
 
 Fermor was dead. Death must have been instanta- 
 neous; for the head was terrifically crushed, the 
 body altogether limp, as if every bone in it had been 
 shattered. 
 
 David sank to the ground, sick and dizzy with horror. 
 His father was beyond human help, annihilated. And 
 he, David, remained uninjured, unbruised, sensible only 
 of shock, and that curious luminosity of vision, so keen, 
 so penetrating that he was able to peer beneath a 
 crushed bundle of clothes, and behold a dear body 
 abominably mangled. 
 
 The intense thought came : Why had he been spared ? 
 
 The answer came as quickly. 
 
 His work on earth was not yet accomplished. It 
 had been ordained that he should finish "Solomon's 
 Garden." For the past month this ':ope had been 
 rekindled in his soul. Now, flame-like, it became 
 a blazing, soaring conviction. The future presented 
 itself as a vast snow-clad mountain, a peak such as 
 the Matterhorn, up which he must climb and climb, 
 regardless of risk to limb or life, till he stood at last 
 triumphant upon the glorious summit. 
 
 He never knew, afterward, how long he remained 
 thus, half kneeling by Fermor, in an ecstasy of emotion 
 and sensibility. 
 
 It occurred to him as one of a myriad impressions 
 so vivid and yet so ephemeral that most of them evaded 
 analysis that he might be in a sort of trance in which 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 225 
 
 action, temporarily, was paralyzed and feeling inde- 
 scribably heightened. An interruption, the advent 
 of strangers, however pitiful, would have hurt intoler- 
 ably. He was alone with his living thoughts which 
 winged their way swifter than swallows, swooping 
 from past to future, ascending and descending, imbued 
 with a restless activity which fascinated even while it 
 bewildered. They refused to linger, even for an instant, 
 upon the present, upon the unspeakable catastrophe 
 which had just taken place. 
 
 The fitter of two men had survived! 
 
 With this deduction, fortifying it immeasurably, 
 came the memory of what had passed between Fermor 
 and himself upon that same day. Fermor had admitted 
 that he wished to "go on." David, on the other hand, 
 had experienced a convulsing desire to " begin again/' 
 And if as Mary had maintained so often desire 
 in any form, good or evil, was indeed prayer, why then 
 who could doubt that his passionate supplication had 
 been heard and granted. 
 
 The world, in Maytime, was so young. 
 
 He could hear a lark singing overhead, and its song 
 was a psalm of life, a vital message, something trans- 
 latable. When the flute-like notes melted away, 
 other sounds captivated David's ears, rising and falling 
 in cadence with his thoughts. The grass by the road- 
 side, the leaves upon the trees, the flowers of the field, 
 seemed to echo and reecho the bird's song. The 
 orchestration of it held David enchanted. He told 
 himself not only that he lived, but that life had become 
 
226 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 harmonious and intelligible and in an amazing sense 
 simple. 
 
 The reason of this presented itself. 
 
 His vision had been cleared. For the first time in 
 his life he saw from within and without. 
 
 He rose to his feet. 
 
 The road stretched straight in front of him, but a 
 few yards away there was a curious shadow, a black 
 blot upon the white surface. David stared at it, 
 glancing from right to left. The sun shone in a stain- 
 less sky. Between it and the shadow there was nothing. 
 
 David remained, for a moment, thrilling with an 
 uncanny apprehension. Then he advanced a step 
 or two and paused again horror-struck; for the 
 shadow transposed itself into substance. 
 
 It was a man lying face down upon the road. 
 
 At once he leapt to the conclusion that the car, when 
 it skidded, must have struck some unfortunate foot- 
 passenger standing or sitting beside the granite wall. 
 But, as he approached the body something familiar 
 about its proportions struck an icy chill to his heart. 
 
 In a flash he apprehended the mystery. 
 
 He, David Archdale, had not escaped. Or, rather 
 his escape was stupendously other than what he had 
 deemed it to be. 
 
 Gazing at his own shattered flesh, David realized 
 a sense of detachment, unachievable. For instance, 
 he understood why the landscape had become unsub- 
 stantial, like one of Rowlandson's prints in colour. 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 227 
 
 And with this conviction of the unreality of things 
 which he had reckoned most real such as stone 
 walls came not a perception but rather a discern- 
 ment (for a new sense seemed to have sprung into being) 
 of a force holding him to earth, in defiance of a power 
 essentially different which allured him upward. He 
 asked himself: Was he, a spirit, still subject to the laws 
 of gravitation ? The question was answered later. David 
 passed swiftly from its consideration, for the knowledge 
 that he was a spirit expelled other speculations and 
 permeated his being with a vivid and vital pleasure. 
 We know that in his earth-life he had not been sure 
 of existence after death. He had envied, inordinately, 
 those whose faith had been stronger than his own. 
 And always, he had felt gropingly that life must be 
 immortal and probably Protean, and that the soul, 
 would remain an individuality. 
 
 Now he knew. 
 
 With this knowledge was included other realizations, 
 such as the irrelevance of Time and Space, now no 
 more to be measured with watch and rule than the 
 cardinal virtues. He divined that he was free to leave 
 the spot whereon he stood, or to remain. For the 
 moment he chose to remain. 
 
 But soon a terrible loneliness began to oppress 
 him. What had become of Fermor ? Why was his 
 spirit invisible ? Taking for granted that Fermor, like 
 himself was conscious of a superlative vitality, of a 
 renascence absolutely sublime, it seemed exasperating 
 that they could not at least exchange congratulations. 
 
228 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 He called Fermor by name and looked up. 
 
 Till this moment his attention had been concentrated 
 upon the shattered car, the two bodies lying upon the 
 road, and the familiar yet strangely unfamiliar land- 
 scape. 
 
 As soon as he looked up, he became more conscious 
 of the power holding him to earth. And, whereas 
 he could see with penetrating clarity everything upon 
 the earth-plane, his vision in regard to the planes 
 above was blurred. He gazed into obscuring 
 mists. Nevertheless, gazing upward and yearning 
 with all his strength to pierce the veil, he became aware 
 of a spiritual quickening, and an odd sublimation of 
 the senses, which seemed to be merged into one sense. 
 Although it will be necessary to speak hereafter of David 
 using the senses familiar to us, he himself apprehended 
 that speech, as mortals conceive it, had ceased. Com- 
 munication, in fine, became telepathic. And he dis- 
 covered later that hearing, feeling, taste and smell 
 were exercised by virtue of the will. It was the will, 
 not his vocal chords, which summoned Fermor. 
 
 In a passion of importunity, he besought his father 
 to come to him. 
 
 "I am here." David knew that Fermor was close. 
 
 Presently he heard Fermor's voice, curiously clear 
 and sweet; but to his profound distress he could not 
 see him. 
 
 " I am here," said Fermor. 
 
 "But I do not see you. Can you see me?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 229 
 
 "Is Mary with you?" 
 
 "Dear David, she would come if it were possible." 
 
 "You have seen her?" His voice thrilled with 
 jealous agony. 
 
 "I have. Mary cannot come to you, but you may 
 go to her." 
 
 "When and how?" 
 
 "In the fulness of time. She told me to remind you 
 of what you had written upon the inside of her wedding- 
 ring." 
 
 "I wrote 'For ever and ever.' Does she mean that 
 she is mine eternally?" 
 
 "Or that you are hers." 
 
 "I understand." He added bitterly: "The greater 
 does not repudiate the less ?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Isn't it amazing that we should be here at all." 
 
 "It would be amazing if we weren't. David, my 
 dear son, I must leave you. It is the Law, the same 
 law which tears apart human creatures on earth." 
 
 "Father, you forsake me?" 
 
 The calm, grave voice seemed to be that of a 
 pitying judge, as it replied: "What held you to earth 
 still holds you, and must hold you." 
 
 "Don't go yet!" 
 
 There was no answer 
 
 Later, two peasants approached, heralded by the 
 tinkling bells upon the horses which drew a farm cart. 
 David watched their stolid faces quicken from indiffer- 
 
230 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 ence into interest, from interest to excitement, from 
 excitement to terror. They were clowns of the field, 
 such as Millet painted, but in the presence of death they 
 behaved with dignity and distinction. David's pocket- 
 book, full of banknotes, had fallen from his coat. 
 One of the men replaced it without opening it. The 
 bodies were lifted tenderly into the cart, and covered 
 with a cloth. 
 
 David followed. 
 
 Passing a Calvary, on their way to Blois, the men 
 removed their hats, and kneeling upon the rough 
 stone steps prayed for the repose of the souls of the 
 dead. David could read their simple hearts more 
 easily than he could read his own. He saw clearly their 
 strength and their weakness, and could balance the 
 good and evil in each. He was astonished to discover in 
 these rough fellows, whom, but a short time since, he 
 would have regarded as little higher in intelligence than 
 the big horses they drove, minds free from care as those 
 of children, and a simple faith which redeemed the 
 too gross flesh. The man who had replaced the pocket- 
 book lingered longer upon his knees. He was thanking 
 his patron saint inasmuch as he had resisted the over- 
 whelming temptation to examine the pocketbook and 
 take from it a small sum sufficient to defray some 
 very pressing need. 
 
 "This is a better fellow than I," thought David. 
 
 The peasants had decided to take the bodies to the 
 hospital at Blois, where the authorities would com- 
 pensate them for their time and trouble. Obviously, 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 231 
 
 David's magnificent body impressed them. They 
 discussed him stolidly, as if he were a vast joint awaiting 
 hungry imaginations. One of the two said, with 
 humour: 
 
 "He has had plenty of fine weather, this one." 
 
 And David asked himself if it were true. His own 
 world would repeat with variations the peasant's 
 remark; at the Buskin, after luncheon, when members 
 gathered together, it would be said that Archdale had 
 been highly favoured. Harrington, the painter, would 
 exclaim in his genial voice: "Yes, yes, a fine innings," 
 and old Wrest, belonging to the generation that en- 
 couraged puns, would twist his grizzled moustache, and 
 add: "He made some remarkable scores!" There 
 would be long obituary notices in the papers concerning 
 the most popular composer of the day, and perhaps one 
 paragraph in the Dorchester Chronicle about Fermor. 
 
 And yet, Fermor had soared upward leaving him 
 fettered to earth. 
 
 Able to move horizontally wherever he pleased, 
 David chose to return to England. As he travelled, 
 he met and passed many spirit forms who seemed 
 to regard him with indifference. They were alike 
 not only in form, but in mentality. Without speech, 
 David became aware that they thought and suffered 
 as he did. He noticed also other spirit forms, so 
 shadowy as at first to be imperceptible. There were 
 myriads of these hovering about all human habitations. 
 And they passed in and out of living bodies. David 
 perceived that they were thought- forms; and they 
 
232 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 took shape as he studied them, some being sweet and 
 fair and others grotesquely monstrous. He saw also 
 that certain persons, and in particular very young 
 children, appeared to be automatically receptive of 
 the most beautiful of these thought-forms, and that 
 other men and women were as automatically receptive 
 of the monstrous and unclean. The comedy and 
 tragedy of terrestrial life spread itself before his gaze, 
 leaving nothing to the imagination and arousing in 
 David's mind a tremendous sensibility to the unmis- 
 takable difference between good and evil. With the 
 laying aside of the flesh, there had come a crystalline 
 perception of what artists call "values." For the 
 first time he saw things and people not in perspective, 
 but in isometrical projection. 
 
 Presently a spirit, taller and more imposing than 
 the others, addressed him by name. 
 
 "You know me?" David demanded. 
 
 "I was present at the first performance of 'The 
 Peer and the Peri.' Also you attended my funeral." 
 
 "Yes," said David. 
 
 He recognised a famous soldier to whom a grateful 
 country had paid high honour. 
 
 "You have only just crossed over." 
 
 "How do you know that?" David asked. 
 
 The tall spirit smiled with an expression derisive 
 and inexpressibly sad. 
 
 "Forgive me, but there is an unmistakable odour 
 of earth about new-comers. You will soon lose it. 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 233 
 
 Are you thinking of attending your own funeral? I 
 say don't." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You will hear what your friends say about you." 
 
 "Handsome things were said of you." 
 
 "Fulsome! And now, when one sees clearly, when 
 one knows - 
 
 "What do we here?" 
 
 "Whatever we like." 
 
 "Within limits?" 
 
 "Without limits. That is the tragedy of it." 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 "You will soon find out." 
 
 As he spoke, his smile seemed to David the most 
 dreary and tragic he had ever beheld. The soldier 
 continued in the same impassive, indifferent tone: 
 
 "There are no restrictions and oblivions. If it 
 pleases you to write more musical comedies - 
 
 "Never again!" said David grimly. 
 
 " Or to listen to your own compositions. Your best 
 work ought to interest you, Archdale." 
 
 "It would, if I had produced it." He thought of 
 "Solomon's Garden." 
 
 "So would mine, if I had done it. We meet our 
 lost opportunities and they gibber at us." 
 
 "Is there no way out?" 
 
 " I have found none and yet. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " There are moments when the earth power seems to 
 slacken we are drawn up and then pulled back again." 
 
234 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 As he spoke he vanished. David heard the at- 
 tenuated echo of a mocking laugh, which aroused in 
 him an uncanny curiosity and an unutterable mourn- 
 fulness. 
 
 Not long afterward he was confronted by another 
 shadow, the wraith of a woman he had known intimate- 
 ly. He remembered how much her death had affected 
 him, because she loved life so intensely. To the last she 
 had struggled against an incurable malady, entreating 
 the doctors to save her, to extend the lease of pleasure 
 and excitement. Up to a certain age high health had 
 been hers, and an immeasurable capacity for enjoy- 
 ment. David knew how loathsome disease had been 
 to her; how she resented it in others; how she quailed 
 when she was attacked by it. 
 
 "You?" 
 
 The clear voice, with its subtile and penetrating 
 inflections, had not changed. 
 
 "Yes I." 
 
 " But I reckoned you one of the finer spirits." 
 
 "Just clay" 
 
 "How odd to meet you here!" 
 
 David divined mystery. Very tentatively, remem- 
 bering that the soldier had refused to answer the same 
 question, he said: 
 
 "How do you pass the time?" 
 
 "There are distractions even for us. You will find 
 out. Why haven't you found out ?" 
 
 "I have just crossed over." 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 235 
 
 "Of course. Well- -" She hesitated. And im- 
 mediately he became aware of a desire on her part 
 to help him, perhaps to warn him. At the same 
 moment a certain awe and distress assailed him, a 
 premonition of danger and suffering. 
 
 " You were about to tell me something ?" 
 
 Then she laughed, and her laugh was the same as 
 the soldier's, as poignant and as uncanny. 
 
 " Do you remember my theory that on earth we got 
 What we wanted if we wanted it badly enough ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I used to say that the earth was quite good enough 
 for me. I died protesting against the power which 
 tore me from it. That is why I am here now." 
 
 "You won't tell me what to do ?" 
 
 "I would sooner that others told you. My sense 
 of shame is not quite extinct." 
 
 "Others! What others?" 
 
 She laughed again, and he realised that in a 
 moment she too would vanish. Accordingly he said 
 hurriedly, "Don't leave me! Surely misery loves 
 company." 
 
 "Not here. Not in the sense you mean. And" 
 her voice seemed to sink to a whisper " if you knew 
 what I do now, how I pass the time, you would wish 
 to leave me. Farewell, my friend; pray that we may 
 not meet again." 
 
 She floated from him, leaving him with a sense of 
 desolation and horror so acute that he made no effort 
 to detain her. 
 
236 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 David approached London. The great city had en- 
 ticed him as a flesh and blood entity, and oddly enough 
 it allured him still. He was sensible of a quickening 
 of pulses, of a vibration strange but not unpleasant. 
 The roar of the traffic, the hurrying crowds, the colour 
 and movement excited him. He longed to mix with 
 the quick, to share once more their ambitions and 
 desires. The longing became so overmastering that 
 he entered his club, pausing as usual to ask for his 
 letters, and surprised that the old hall-porter did not 
 bustle out of his box to greet him. 
 
 He ascended the marble steps, and walked into the 
 smoking-room. 
 
 Once more the familiar talk fell upon his ears, the 
 everlasting gossip about men and women he knew, 
 the futile and often fatuous criticism, the "log-rolling," 
 the anecdotes, and the inexhaustible speculation as 
 to whether Tom or Dick would "get there/' And the 
 "there" seemed a pin's point upon the surface of the 
 planet, and the "here," where David found himself, 
 the whole universe. 
 
 Old Wrest sat in his armchair, sipping his coffee, 
 and alternately smoking and biting his cigar. David 
 could hear his words and read his thoughts. And a 
 careful inspection of the inside of Wrest' s mind was not 
 unlike a leisurely walk through a well-swept and 
 garnished public library. Wrest's knowledge of 
 literature was encyclopaedic, but he knew little of men 
 and almost nothing concerning women. During a 
 long life he had sought for and found the finest thoughts 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 237 
 
 of others; he had become an asylum for them. David 
 could see their shadowy forms coming and going, 
 although, for the most part, they seemed content to 
 remain passively where they were, particularly the 
 mid-Victorian ideas, who had survived their usefulness, 
 and were entitled, so to speak, to lie quietly upon the 
 shelf, permitting themselves to be taken out occasionally 
 for an airing. 
 
 Not far from Wrest sat Thelluson, his illustrious 
 rival. If it might be said that Wrest knew everything 
 and even Thelluson admitted that - - Thelluson, 
 with equal truth, might claim to know everybody. 
 He had become a National Portrait Gallery. The 
 methods of the two famous critics were not antithetical 
 but different. Thelluson concerned himself with per- 
 sons actors, authors and dramatists while Wrest, 
 with an ironic contempt for flesh and blood, concen- 
 trated his mind upon ideas, especially those which 
 had escaped the notice of the author whose work he 
 happened to be reviewing. 
 
 David was surprised to find that Thelluson was a 
 much better fellow, kinder, sweeter at core, more 
 generous, than he had deemed him. To both men, 
 the creative gift had been denied, to both life 
 had been a struggle, and each had "arrived" after 
 indefatigable work, the patient, self-denying effort 
 of laborious nights and days. This, then (so David 
 clearly perceived), had been the secret of their 
 influence and power in the particular world they 
 dominated and instructed. A fine humanity informed 
 
238 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Thelluson, an ultra-refined intellectuality permeated 
 Wrest. 
 
 It was well with these veterans, who had mixed 
 so freely with their fellows. They had been in the 
 world always, supremely interested in that world's 
 facts and fancies, but each, after his own fashion, 
 striving to raise the standard of his generation, and 
 sensible that his work, however ephemeral in its out- 
 ward expression, had not been altogether in vain. 
 
 Far otherwise was the case of a man moodily listening 
 to Wrest's remarks about a play freshly imported 
 from America. Henry Newsom was the son of that 
 once omnipotent iconoclast, whose works will never 
 more be read. Henry the Second, as he had been 
 called at Oxford, was a writer of fiction, his father 
 having disposed very uncomfortably of most facts, 
 including a belief in life after death. The late Master 
 of Balliol, and many minor prophets, had prophesied 
 glory and honour for the iconoclast's son. He had 
 come to London covered with the pulverem 01 ym pi cum 
 of Schools. But a "double-first" at Oxford may 
 find himself a person of no importance in Paternoster 
 Row. Wrest contended that Newsom, now a man 
 of thirty-five, had never "found himself." That 
 accounted for everything. He had discovered a fic- 
 titious Newsom, a composite photograph of a dozen 
 great men, to whom, each in turn, he had played "the 
 sedulous ape." His best work was the second-best of 
 Hawthorne, Thackeray, Flaubert and Loti. Wrest's 
 word, "a salad," had damned his first novel. His 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 239 
 
 latest book had been received with the usual comment, 
 that once more the talented author had "just missed 
 
 it." 
 
 David peered curiously into Newsom's mind, and 
 shuddered. The poor fellow was possessed by demons 
 of jealousy, who ravaged him unceasingly, tearing at 
 his entrails ! He came seldom to the Buskin, preferring 
 a smaller club, where his roar was rarely challenged. 
 He said that the sight of men like Harrington and 
 Archdale made him sick, and stigmatized them as 
 charlatans and self-advertisers. Metaphorically, he 
 foamed at the mouth when indiscreet persons prattled 
 of Mr. Hall Caine and Miss Corelli. If style was 
 the man, what in Reason's name were they ? 
 
 David had always believed that Newsom was 
 sincere, and that his comparative failure as a writer 
 was due to the fact that the man was superior, blessed 
 (or cursed) with a mind too fine and too hypersensitized 
 to be appreciated by the subscribers to Mudie's and 
 Smith's. Now, he saw with horror a poseur, poisoned 
 by envy, a helpless prey to the miserable, mean, Comus- 
 rout crew of myriad unsatisfied aspirations, which tor- 
 mented him as they have tormented millions since the 
 world began. Newsom had a charming wife, delightful 
 children, and an income sufficient for his needs, but 
 these blessings were as snowflakes beneath the blazing, 
 red-hot conviction that he would never be acclaimed 
 as other than his father's son. 
 
 Suddenly, the talk turned, and Archdale's own 
 name was mentioned. 
 
2 4 o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Where is he?" said Thelluson. 
 
 "In France/' Wrest replied. 
 
 David considered the ethical propriety of leaving 
 the club, but curiosity restrained him. Also, he 
 was humorously sensible that as an eavesdropper an 
 evil he might overhear concerning himself would fall 
 far short of the real truth, as he saw it with absolute 
 clarity. 
 
 " Archdale is the best fellow I know," said Thelluson. 
 
 "What rot!" sneered Newsom. 
 
 "I know dozens of men whom he has helped." 
 
 "Nothing of the 'humble Allen' about him 
 evidently." 
 
 "Has he ever helped you, Newsom ?" asked Wrest. 
 
 "Of course not. Why?" 
 
 "I thought it possible, as you seemed to have a 
 grudge against him." 
 
 "Against him no; against what he stands for - 
 yes. As for helping people, why shouldn't he ? He's 
 made pots of money out of an idiotic public, and in 
 return he scatters a sort of largesse. Don't talk to me 
 about Archdale!" 
 
 "I won't," said Thelluson, with a grin. "I'll talk 
 to Wrest. You can stick your head under a cushion 
 if you like." 
 
 Newsom stalked from the room. 
 
 " Poor devil !" said Thelluson. " He's not fit to black 
 David's boots." 
 
 David in the flesh would have felt an agreeable titilla- 
 tion at this tribute from a dispenser of salt rather than 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 241 
 
 sugar, but David disembodied smiled sourly, for in 
 Newsom's mind he had recognized many visitors to 
 whom he had extended hospitality. Then he heard 
 Wrest saying quietly: 
 
 "Is David a happy man?" 
 
 "Who can answer such questions?" 
 
 "You pretend to understand men, to read character, 
 to pass judgment. I don't. I can tell you what I 
 think of Archdale's work, but of the real man I know 
 little." 
 
 "I repeat he is one of the best." 
 
 "I take exception to a phrase so hackneyed and so 
 general. What do you mean by the best"? 
 
 "You know well enough, mon vieux." 
 
 "Perhaps. But the 'best' is a big word. Archdale 
 has been endowed with tremendous gifts. If I believed 
 in reincarnation I should be willing to admit that he 
 is 'one of the best/ that, in short, his amazing pre- 
 eminence would indicate how shall I put it ? evi- 
 dence of an accumulation of talents and rewards." 
 
 Thelluson laughed and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "You represent accumulation also." 
 
 "I do I do. It's amazing. And if one knew a 
 little more !" 
 
 They smoked on in silence, while David, who 
 did know the little more, asked himself the question: 
 "Is Wrest right? Have I lived before? And, if so, 
 why am I not conscious of these former lives ?" 
 
 The question became the more interesting, because 
 in his present state he felt intolerably burdened with a 
 
242 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 knowledge and experience too great to have been gar- 
 nered during one lifetime. At last he confronted what 
 he had reckoned to be mere instinct. But with this 
 lifting of the veil, so wide a prospect and intropsect 
 were revealed that he was at a loss to "take in" what 
 he perceived. 
 
 At this moment Newsom rushed into the room, pale 
 and breathless with excitement. His distress was 
 so evident that both Wrest and Thelluson jumped up. 
 
 "What has happened ?" said Wrest. 
 
 "Archdale Archdale!" 
 
 "What of him?" 
 
 " Oh, it's awful awful. And I was speaking 
 against him. He's dead, smashed in a motor accident. 
 The news has just come over the 'ticker.' ' 
 
 He sat down, trembling violently, and covered his 
 face with his hands. 
 
 "Archdale dead?" repeated old Wrest. "I can't 
 believe it." 
 
 Thelluson, without speaking, left the room, but he 
 returned immediately as pale and distressed as Newsom 
 had been. 
 
 "It's only too horribly true," he stammered. "I 
 say, Wrest, what about his daughter ? They'll be 
 shouting the news in the streets within half an hour." 
 
 "No, no," said Wrest. "The last edition of the 
 evening papers is out. But I will 'phone Mrs. Stor- 
 mont. Poor child! My God! what a catastrophe! 
 She adored her father!" 
 
 "David adored her!" said Thelluson. 
 
ON THE OTHER SIDE 243 
 
 And David, since the accident had been so preoc- 
 cupied with his own confounding experience that he 
 had not even thought of his child. 
 
 Why had he forgotten one so dear to him ? Was 
 this the supreme proof of his selfishness ? 
 
 Immediately he was seized with a passionate desire 
 to go to her, to be at her side when the dreadful moment 
 came, to sustain her, to inspire if it were possible - 
 some solace, the assurance that his love for her remained 
 constant, or even greater than it had been. Surely he 
 would be permitted to do that ? 
 
 He saw by the clock that it was late, and that Mollie, 
 probably, was in bed and asleep. They would let her 
 sleep till the morrow. Mrs. Stormont could be trusted 
 to see to that. Then, as he left the room, he heard 
 Wrest saying: 
 
 "Archdale might have accomplished great things." 
 
 His epitaph had been spoken. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE SOUL OF A CHILD 
 
 DAVID passed slowly through crowds composed 
 of quick and dead. The thoroughfares 
 swarmed with spirits darting hither and 
 thither with bat-like movements. Outside the gin-pal- 
 aces, the lowest forms fought for the possession of human 
 bodies, seeking the gratification of appetites inordinate 
 during the earth-life and still unsated long after death. 
 David perceived that the spirit world, upon the plane 
 nearest to earth, is subject to the vices and temptations 
 of earth. The lust of the flesh, in fine, was the 
 right name for that power which he had likened to 
 the law of gravitation. And that lust could only be 
 enjoyed through the flesh, when in possession of 
 the flesh, which so David perceived must be 
 willing to entertain the desires clamouring for 
 admittance. 
 
 At this moment he began to apprehend the miracle 
 of the human will. His eyes pierced beneath the 
 surface of man and things with the penetration of the 
 Rontgen ray. That curious clearness of what was 
 animate and what he had hitherto regarded as 
 inanimate was explained by the fact that he could 
 resolve what he beheld into ultimate atoms. A 
 marvellous light, burning more or less brightly, illu- 
 
 244 
 
THE SOUL OF A CHILD 245 
 
 mined every object upon which his eye rested. By 
 it all secrets were revealed. 
 
 Many, and these not outwardly the most strong, 
 seemed to be immune against the attacks of the vicious 
 thought-forms. David watched with interest a young 
 girl, shabbily dressed, who was walking alone in the 
 direction whither he was going. She was about the 
 age of Mollie, but insignificant in feature and form, 
 with a complexion pallid from lack of nourishing food, 
 and a thin, undeveloped body wearied by overwork. 
 Beside her flaunted a beautiful woman whom David 
 recognized as an erstwhile chorister at the Jollity 
 Theatre. In each the light burned, blazing with incom- 
 parable brilliance in the one, flickering tempestuously 
 in the other. And by its white flame, lo! the poor 
 work girl became transfigured into a dazzling creature; 
 and the flickering spark seemed to change the beauty of 
 the older woman into something loathly and monstrous. 
 
 David understood that of necessity each person must 
 possess an aura, and that its quality and colour must, 
 as inevitably, depend upon the quantity of light within 
 and the power of that light to pierce the gross wrappings 
 of the flesh. 
 
 While perceiving and recording these impressions, 
 David thought with ever increasing pleasure of his 
 own child, into whose white soul he was about to gaze. 
 
 It seemed incredible that he should have been so 
 engrossed with himself and the analysis of his own 
 emotions as to have forgotten this essential part of him, 
 his very flesh that remained. The mere thought of 
 
246 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 seeing her again, of seeing her, moreover, as she was, 
 filled him with delight. The famous soldier he had 
 met and his poor friend why had they not mentioned 
 this supreme interest, this tremendous link between 
 parent and child ? Each had married, each had chil- 
 dren. And neither had spoken of them. 
 
 Leaving Piccadilly, David passed into the Park, 
 upon whose wide, unpeopled expanses of soft turf 
 the stars shone softly. He was in no hurry to reach 
 Stormont Lodge. He wanted to think of his child, 
 to behold her with the lucid detachment and sane 
 judgment with which he had beheld poor Newsom, 
 who, indeed, had moved him to profoundest pity. 
 
 Accordingly, he sat down by the Serpentine upon a 
 bench often occupied by him during his earth-life. 
 It had been his habit, when he first returned to London, 
 after Mary's death, during that abominable period 
 of sleeplessness, to rise early and walk in Hyde Park. 
 Here, many of his most popular songs had been con- 
 ceived. Doubtless their delightful lyrical quality came 
 from the trees, the flowers, the ever-changing skies 
 translucently reflected in the water. But David had 
 never forgotten that "the people" surrounded this 
 vast garden. And we may believe that the popular 
 note, instantly recognized by them, proceeded from 
 them. In David's musical comedies even an untrained 
 ear could mark the rhythm and colour of life as it lived 
 in an immense city. Dominating exquisite trills and 
 cadences was the hum of the vast crowd, now muted to an 
 attenuated whisper, now swelling to a thunderous roar. 
 
THE SOUL OF A CHILD 247 
 
 Beneath the stars, the waters of the Serpentine 
 shimmered with a delicate radiance, reflecting the 
 worlds above, infinitely multiplied, each illuminated 
 by the mystic light of the Divine Mind, each saturated 
 with It and by It. And he perceived that what we 
 call matter is only inorganic in the sense that it receives 
 and transmits the light with difficulty and in varying 
 quantities according to the stage of evolution which each 
 object, whether stone, or tree, or animal has reached. 
 
 With this knowledge of the Divine Mind penetrating 
 all forms from the lowest to the highest, forms in 
 themselves of graduated consciousness and power, 
 came also the knowledge of his own limitations. He 
 knew so much more than he had ever believed it possible 
 to know of the plane whereon he moved, that he became 
 conscious of the infinitely fuller life upon the planes 
 above. And his increasing realization of what was 
 above and beyond aroused the conviction that once 
 he had moved upon these upper planes and had brought 
 from them memories which now lay like shadows upon 
 an undeveloped photographic plate. If he had lived 
 before, if he were destined to live again, this supreme 
 consciousness of an immortal self would quicken upon 
 these planes and nowhere else. Apprehending this, 
 the power which attracted him upward seemed to grow 
 in strength; the earth-dust weakened. 
 
 He told himself, passionately, that he was not as 
 those other spirits whom he had met. Earthly desires 
 and ambitions he was willing to surrender. He would 
 see his child and ascend. 
 
248 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Mollie as he had guessed was asleep when 
 he entered her room. He gazed at a sweet face, half 
 hidden by masses of thick waving hair. Exercising 
 a curious attribute of his disembodied powers of vision, 
 he could perceive at will the outward and the inward, 
 or either separately. Lacking the desire to see, he 
 saw nothing. 
 
 Mollie's room presented a virginal appearance of 
 blue and white. Mrs. Stormont was blessed with a 
 nice sense of what was appropriate; and David per- 
 ceived with complacency that his darling was enshrined 
 in a perfect setting. He was reminded of a pearl, 
 untouched by the hands of men, lying in a shell of 
 mother-of-pearl. A delicate fragrance filled the air, 
 the perfume of some white blossoms of spring. Upon 
 the dressing table lay the ivory brushes, and many 
 other pretty things which he had given to her. By 
 the side of the looking glass was a large photograph 
 of himself. Upon the other side was a portrait of 
 Mary taken shortly after her marriage. Pignerol's 
 genial smile and quizzical eyes, Fermor's gfave, kindly 
 countenance, greeted David familiarly. Each seemed 
 to say: "We are here on guard." 
 
 Between the girl's parted lips, one could just see 
 the small, well-set teeth; her long eyelashes showed 
 as a dark shadow beneath the heavy lids; upon her 
 cheeks glowed the flush of healthy sleep. 
 
 Few fathers could have gazed unmoved at so fair 
 a daughter. And into David's heart there rushed a 
 wave of unutterable tenderness and love, so over- 
 
THE SOUL OF A CHILD 249 
 
 whelming, so vast a surge, that it seemed to obliterate 
 previous sensibilities. He told himself that this was his 
 justification for having lived. His ambitions vanished. 
 The music within him seemed to melt upon a silence, 
 to float from him with a faint sigh of protest. He 
 laughed, thinking of the absurd saw about Art being 
 long and Life short. What was Art but the expression, 
 the necessarily ephemeral expression, of immortal life ? 
 The best art endured throughout a few centuries, 
 merely because it presented life faithfully. 
 
 Which was the greater "Solomon's Garden," or 
 Mollie ? 
 
 He saw that she had been reading before she fell 
 asleep. The book lay upon the counterpane, close to 
 an outstretched arm; her delicate fingers, so like his 
 own, almost touched a turned-down page at which he 
 glanced, remembering with a pang Mrs. Stormont's 
 indictment that he did not even know the name of his 
 daughter's favourite hero. 
 
 Then he read the title of the book, asking himself, 
 wonderingly, if it were possible that his little Mollie 
 was poisoning her mind with such fungus fare as this. 
 
 The novel had enjoyed a vogue, because of its sub- 
 tlety and daring. It dealt with incidents connected with 
 the breaking of the seventh Commandment, and the 
 evil in the book was the greater because, obviously, 
 the sympathies of the writer included the sin with the 
 sinners. David, singularly clean-minded, held too 
 fast, perhaps, to the old-fashioned principle of cherish- 
 ing innocence. The men and women who came to his 
 
250 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 house understood this and respected it. The slightest 
 word likely to offend the sensibilities of a child 
 would have brought upon the speaker a crushing 
 rebuke. 
 
 At once, from his knowledge of Mrs. Stormont, 
 David knew that it was unthinkable to suppose her 
 capable of placing this book in Mollie's hands. Mollie, 
 therefore, was reading it "on the sly." The detestable 
 phrase, festered in a mind dominated by an increasing 
 dread of discovering something worse. He looked into 
 the book, instead of into the heart of the child. Upon 
 every page an appeal to the senses presented itself 
 with diabolical suggestiveness. The writer seemed 
 to be intoxicated with juices expressed from forbidden 
 fruit; he frolicked along the primrose way apparently 
 regardless of the fact that spring was not the only 
 season in the year; he wallowed in sunshine and roses. 
 To David, the author's moral obliquity of vision, his 
 perversity of judgment in regard to what is pure and 
 true, his morbid presentation of vice masquerading 
 as virtue these were revealed as monstrous and 
 unmistakable. David saw fanged rocks beneath the 
 opaline surface of a summer sea. Mollie, of course, 
 was enchanted by the magic of sensuous words and 
 glowing phrases, and blind to aught else. She had 
 heard, probably, that the book was "wonderfully 
 written," and at her age the wonderful appealed 
 immensely. 
 
 Accordingly, we behold the fond father smiling at 
 fear, fortified by the conviction that all things must 
 
THE SOUL OF A CHILD 251 
 
 be pure to the pure. One glimpse into Mollie's mind 
 would put to flight grisly phantoms. 
 
 And yet he hesitated. 
 
 The child's soul was holy ground. His own unworth- 
 iness oppressed him, while the yearning to enter became 
 irresistible. 
 
 Suddenly the girl's physical body seemed to vanish, as 
 if obscured by a mist. David, indeed, perceived a cloud, 
 and remarked that it was dull and opaque. Imme- 
 diately, his quickening intelligence, which seemed to 
 answer questions almost before they were put, explained 
 the nature of this surprising mist. Brief as had been 
 his experience as a disembodied spirit, he had learned 
 that Man upon the earth-plane possesses more than 
 one body, and that each of these can express itself 
 in colour, form and light. He realized that up to this 
 moment, he had been gazing upon the physical body, 
 and that Mollie's mental body had not forced itself 
 upon his notice, partly because he had concentrated 
 his attention upon the dear flesh, and, partly, because 
 the mind may have been absent, wandering in idle 
 vagabondage along dream-paths whither he might 
 not be able to follow. Now, presumably, the mind- 
 body had returned. 
 
 As the mist seemed to clear, although but partially, 
 David saw that this was so. He beheld once more the 
 physical body, slightly relaxed. A soft sigh fluttered 
 from Mollie's lips. Her fingers moved. Her bosom 
 rose and fell. 
 
 Then the father looked deep into his child's soul. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 MARY'S VOICE 
 
 HE BEHELD a wilderness. The bubbling 
 fountain of Youth seemed to be clogged by 
 growths malignantly active. He was re- 
 minded of his visit to the garden which Mary had planted 
 and watered with such solicitude, and which now, neg- 
 lected and abandoned, had become a tangled thicket of 
 nettles and weeds. And, as in the garden he had 
 witnessed the struggle between fair and foul, the 
 higher vegetation fighting desperately against the 
 assault of the lower; so also in the child's soul he saw 
 the same inexorable warfare. What he had transmitted, 
 his own lower nature, was fighting with the higher attri- 
 butes inherited from Mary. And his evil was over- 
 powering her good. The weeds strangling the flowers 
 had been planted in this virgin soul by him. He recog- 
 nized them instantly; selfishness, vanity, pride, and a 
 sensuousness likely, if unchecked, to ripen into sensu- 
 ality, David had not been sensual in the grosser 
 meaning of the word; for, in his case, the senses 
 remained subordinate to the intellect. Love of light 
 and form and colour, passion for sweet sounds and 
 fragrant essences, these had served to minister to his 
 art, and had found expression in the music which so 
 endeared him to the multitude. 
 
 252 
 
MARY'S VOICE 253 
 
 In fine, his art had preserved him from intemperance. 
 
 But Mollie was no devotee of art, although acutely 
 sensitive to art in its Protean manifestations. Part 
 of her charm flowed from a catholic appreciation of 
 and sympathy with the various artists she was con- 
 tinually meeting; nevertheless, like her mother, she had 
 no special aptitudes for the works she admired. 
 
 David understood why the famous soldier and the 
 charming woman of the world had not mentioned their 
 children. They also could he doubt it ? must 
 have stood appalled and tormented in the presence 
 of evil bequeathed to the flesh they had created. 
 
 He saw more. 
 
 He realized a present helplessness to modify condi- 
 tions which his neglect had brought about; he perceived, 
 with anguish, that he had failed abominably both 
 in the lesser work of his hands and brain, and in the 
 infinitely greater task apportioned to the spirit. 
 
 At this moment he knew that he stood in Hell, and 
 that the time was come when his child would join him 
 with the flame of an eternal reproach in her loving eyes. 
 
 He found himself outside Stormont Lodge, upon the 
 broad pavement between the road and the Park. He 
 was conscious only of intense misery and despair, and 
 a confounding weakening of the mental faculties. 
 Suddenly the conviction assailed him that he was not 
 responsible for the evil in Mollie, nor for the havoc that 
 might follow. Every specious argument which has 
 fallen glibly from the lips of atheists and agnostics for- 
 tified this conviction. He told himself, or something 
 
254 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 told him, that existence upon this other side revealed 
 no evidence of a pitying God. Here, as on earth, were 
 the same detestable and incomprehensible injustice, 
 the same insurmountable barriers. Some disembodied 
 spirits, like Fermor, soared upward, but whither and 
 wherefore ? The innumerable many remained upon 
 the plane nearest earth, condemned to linger there in 
 ignorance of what might be above them, wiser in some 
 degree than those hampered by the flesh, but as cruelly 
 hampered by the limitations of the spirit. 
 
 He experienced a devastating desire to curse God, to 
 blaspheme horribly against the unknown Power who 
 had created Mollie and himself. 
 
 It was long past midnight. A few waifs drifted by 
 with the weary, shambling step of those who dare not 
 hasten front ills they know to ills conceivably worse. 
 Above, a pall of darkness seemed to be descending. 
 This affected David with an indefinable terror. He 
 recalled the story of a man imprisoned in a cell which 
 grew smaller and smaller, closing in upon the captive 
 with slow and merciless certainty. Another some- 
 what similar tale presented itself to his tormented 
 memory. He beheld a man lying upon a soft wide 
 bed, the old-fashioned four-poster. And, inch by inch, 
 the heavy canopy above slid down and down an 
 impending horror of suffocation and death. The man 
 in the story, paralysed till the last moment, had escaped. 
 But David could not escape. He seemed to be rooted 
 to the earth, while the darkness encompassed him. 
 
MARY'S VOICE 255 
 
 It began to rain with tropical violence. Within a 
 quarter of an hour the gutters were brimmed with 
 muddy water; the flood poured down with a sullen, 
 continuous roar. A woman miserably clad, holding 
 her baby to her breast, staggered past David. He heard 
 her exclaim piteously, "O my God, my God!" Hard 
 by, crouching beneath the iron palings of the Park, 
 was a child, a hunted wraith of hunger and disease. 
 It coughed unceasingly. And then a magnificent motor 
 purred homeward, scattering mud to right and left 
 of it. David caught a glimpse of a beautiful girl alone 
 in the car. Her eyes were half-closed; upon her lips, 
 red as the feathers of a flamingo, was a complacent 
 smile, as if this favourite of fortune were contrasting 
 her sense of well-being with the misery upon both sides 
 of her. Upon Mollie's face the father had remarked 
 the same complacent smile. Out of the darkness 
 flashed this radiant presentment of rank and fashion 
 and beauty; into the mirk it vanished to the accompa- 
 niment of that almost bestial purr, the soft triumphant 
 note of the machine-made civilization indifferent to 
 the elemental forces from which it was immune. 
 
 At that moment temptation descended upon David 
 like the tons of water which were falling about him. 
 He realised with a consciousness infinitely more intense 
 than anything he had experienced during his earth life, 
 the supreme power of the imagination. The poten- 
 tialities of evil ravaged him. He apprehended the 
 derisive words of the famous soldier, the still more 
 derisive laughter of the woman of the world. 
 
256 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 He had found out what he could do without limita- 
 tion. 
 
 The lusts of the flesh were still his. And he could 
 see to the depths, although no vision of the heights had 
 been vouchsafed to him. 
 
 As the sins of the imagination took possession with an 
 intoxicating enticement, he became once more aware of 
 that tremendous power dragging him downward. And 
 the gratification of appetites hitherto suppressed seemed 
 to be the one thing left, the greatest thing. He could 
 enjoy illimitably those carnal pleasures which he had 
 disdained. He could enjoy them the more because 
 he could share them with others. He knew that he 
 could enter at will bodies ripe and ardent for volup- 
 tuous passions, and, with their passions sated, their 
 bodies enervated, he could abandon them, seeking other 
 habitations in a never-ending quest, with a spirit whose 
 inordinate appetite would but increase for the food it 
 craved. 
 
 The rain ceased falling; the chill darkness fled. 
 Up and down the vast thoroughfare gleamed and 
 glittered the white arc lights, reflected ten thousand 
 times in every pool and puddle upon road and pave- 
 ment. From the windows of the houses facing the 
 Park shone a few subdued topaz-coloured flames of 
 gas and lamp. Above were the stars. Upon the other 
 side of the planet the sun was blazing in stainless 
 skies. 
 
 The struggle, the civil war in David's soul, began 
 
MARY'S VOICE 257 
 
 with the lifting of the darkness. The powers of light 
 arrayed themselves against their enemies. David felt 
 the attraction from above, the tightening of the golden 
 chain. And once more his will, the omnipotent will 
 to choose, manifested itself. An activity of the mental 
 faculties sprang, armed, into being, the instinct to fight 
 became dominant. 
 
 He never knew how long the battle raged, but 
 throughout he was aware of his own responsibility, of 
 his right to direct or misdirect the force within him. 
 And when he was most beset by evil, his failing energies 
 seemed to gather strength from the light which began 
 to transpose itself into sound. In the utter darkness 
 he had heard nothing but the inarticulate roar of the 
 rain, the pitiless chatter and patter of the flood. He 
 heard it still, the monstrous travailing and groaning of 
 evil, but through it and above it, with ever-increasing 
 sweetness, penetrated the finer, attenuated strain. 
 
 Presently some phrase, some haunting cadence, 
 struck David as familiar. Not for some time, how- 
 ever, did he realise that he was listening to his own 
 music, the exquisite recitative in "Solomon's Garden." 
 
 Awake, O north wind; and come, thou south; blow upon my 
 garden that the spices thereof may flow out. 
 
 Dazed, utterly confounded, the passionate desire 
 formed itself in David's mind that he might interpret 
 the mystery of this echo of his own music, an echo 
 floating apparently from some celestial choir, an echo 
 incomparably beautiful and sublime. The answer 
 
258 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 came to him soft as a flake of snow. This imperish- 
 able music which he had created when he was young 
 and strong and clean represented energies directed 
 aright, and perhaps more a reserve force, a spiritual 
 capital, upon which, so to speak, he could draw, the 
 asset standing between him and ruin. 
 
 But the final struggle was yet to come. Listening 
 to his own music so marvellously orchestrated, he was 
 transported to Mary's garden, where he beheld again 
 the very flowers that had inspired his loveliest themes. 
 He could see it as it was, ravaged by weeds, and as 
 it had been in Mary's lifetime all glorious. And 
 here, at the moment when he deemed himself free, the 
 weeds seem to twine themselves about his soul, tentacles 
 imbued with a terrible life and strength which sucked 
 life and power from him. 
 
 Hardly conscious of anything save the necessity 
 of a last rending effort to escape from a jungle of wan- 
 ton and pestiferous vegetation, David called upon Mary 
 to destroy the weeds which she had fought and 
 conquered so long ago. 
 
 Simultaneously, a loathing of the soft, flexible, 
 caressing tendrils overwhelmed him; for the vision of 
 his child at the mercy of these crawling, poisonous 
 serpents had come to him with dazzling vividness. 
 And, even as he had called upon Mary and apparent- 
 ly in vain to save himself, so now with more despe- 
 rate invocation he besought God to save Mollie. If he 
 must perish, let her live. 
 
MARY'S VOICE 259 
 
 Minutes or years might have passed when he found 
 himself upon a lofty alp, looking down upon the other 
 peaks rising majestically out of masses of cloud lying 
 motionless upon the snow-fields they covered. The 
 sharpness of edge of these peaks, their austerity of 
 line, their symbolism expressive of the Titanic, con- 
 vulsive energy which had exposed such bare bones of 
 the earth, their everlastingness, accorded with David's 
 new perceptions. He, too, stood bare beneath high 
 heaven, above the mists of earth, yet of earth, and 
 rooted tremendously in earth. If the desires of the 
 flesh had passed away, the fact that they had left him 
 naked and ashamed remained. He felt that he could 
 never return to the planes below, and he told himself 
 miserably that he could journey no nearer to the planes 
 above. Was he doomed, like these icy rocks, to re- 
 main where he was, at the mercy of the winds of 
 remorse, drenched by his own unavailing tears ? 
 
 Such rags of self-righteousness as may have remained 
 vanished. From some deep, unexplored zone of 
 consciousness, what he had done and left undone 
 throughout his terrestrial existence confronted him. 
 He became his own judge; or, shall we say that the 
 God within him rose clear-eyed and omniscient to 
 unveil the Man ? There was no process of introspec- 
 tion. His record spread itself before him. 
 
 Below, abysses yawned, while vast glaciers moved 
 imperceptibly upon their appointed way, regardless of 
 all obstacles; into their unplumbed crevasses roared 
 masses of melting snow. These were the voices of 
 
2 6o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 the mountain, the travailing and groaning of gigantic 
 elemental forces subservient to the eternal laws of 
 Energy and Motion. And in the spiritual world, these 
 laws manifested the same evolution, the same sequence, 
 the same progress. 
 
 Since Mary's death, David had not prayed. At 
 the moment of her passing to the other side, he had 
 besought her to come back; and that prayer - 
 addressed primarily to her remained unanswered 
 for a reason which he was now able to perceive. The 
 finer spirits, purged of the earth-taint, could not 
 return, being subject to some law whose workings no 
 earth-fettered slave was permitted to behold, a law 
 as immutable as that which governed the progress of 
 a glacier. 
 
 It has been recorded that David had lost faith in 
 revealed religion, because, so he contended, it was not 
 revealed to him. If we except his futile attempts to 
 seek truth in the "parlours" of mediums and clair- 
 voyants, we behold him, like the weed on Lethe's 
 wharf, "rotting at ease" in the Tom Tiddler's ground 
 of a facile success. Deliberately he had put from him 
 religious thought and aspiration. 
 
 Now, his conviction of the continuity of life, his 
 recognition of his organism as one of infinite vibrations, 
 and lastly the supreme fact that his love for Mary 
 and his child had not only survived the disintegration 
 of the flesh, but had increased immeasurably in intensity 
 and purity, produced in him an abasement and humility 
 impossible to set forth. 
 
MARY'S VOICE 261 
 
 Nevertheless, the quality of this humility must be 
 briefly indicated. It is significant that at such a 
 crisis he accepted the law which constrained him to 
 linger on earth. There was no rebellion, no selfish 
 desire that this law should be suspended or modified 
 for his advantage. He bowed his head beneath an 
 inexorable verdict. Perhaps for the first time since his 
 adoption by Fermor he resigned himself to the Divine 
 Will, preferring his passionate request in meek obedi- 
 ence to It, and exhibiting thereby a renascent faith in 
 It. For he prayed with a supplication which was 
 absolutely selfless that he might, while on earth, be 
 permitted to uproot the weeds in his child's soul, that 
 a communication might be established between them 
 along which, in undiluted essence, love might cleanse 
 and redeem her. 
 
 While he prayed, he became conscious of an uplifting, 
 as if tender hands were raising him. He passed into 
 a warmer air. He tried to open his eyes, and, failing 
 in the attempt, resigned himself quite contentedly 
 to blindness. He knew that an "ampler ether" encom- 
 passed him, that he was suffused with an ecstasy 
 entrancingly sweet. Some of us have experienced this 
 ecstasy in dreams. We have suffered abominably, 
 tossed hither and thither upon turbulent waves of 
 perplexity, and terror, vividly conscious that we are 
 at the mercy of an unknown and cruel element, and 
 then, quite suddenly, a soothing balm seems to be 
 shed upon the waters, and we find ourselves lulled 
 to rest, drifting gently to some safe harbourage, a 
 
262 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 sanctuary of the spirit, wherein we know nothing 
 save the glad conviction that it is well with us. 
 
 Wafted upward, David still prayed that the love so 
 strong within him might serve definite purpose. Borne 
 along, swiftly and smoothly, his faith that his prayer 
 would be answered seemed to increase as he 
 ascended. Despair, which had clutched his heart, was 
 left behind. He was mounting, mounting upon the 
 Heavenly Way. . . . 
 
 Then the miracle happened. He heard Mary's 
 voice, calling him by name. 
 
 "David!" 
 
 Speechless with delight, he once more attempted to 
 open his eyes. He seemed to feel the touch of fingers 
 upon his lids. 
 
 He tried to speak. Mary's fingers pressed his lips 
 into silence. Mary continued: 
 
 "You have come to me, David; I could not go to 
 you. You came upon the wings of love, and upon 
 the same wings you must return." 
 
 Then he must leave her ? 
 
 She answered the unspoken question swiftly: 
 
 "You desire to help Mollie?" 
 
 He bowed his head. 
 
 "If your prayer be granted, David, if a chance be 
 given to you to redeem our daughter, the conditions 
 may be quite other than what you think them to be. 
 Are you prepared to go back unconditionally ? Do 
 you surrender absolutely ?" 
 
 Again he bowed his head in assent. 
 
MARY'S VOICE 263 
 
 "Then it shall be so," said Mary. He fancied that 
 his ear caught and held for an instant a note of triumph, 
 and as this melted upon the silence, he heard a strain 
 of music, exquisitely sweet and penetrating, a celestial 
 harmony so sublimated in quality and tone that it 
 seemed to bear the same relation to earthly music 
 which the ampler Life and Love of the other side bore 
 to the life and love of earth. The beauty of it, its 
 surpassing significance as a medium of expression, 
 its inevitable divergence, as a message, from the master- 
 pieces so familiar to him, transcended finite imagination 
 and feeling. He could only compare it to the tones 
 and semi-tones of Mary's voice, which he had recog- 
 nized instantly as hers and yet so purified as to be 
 entirely different. 
 
 As her lips touched his he lost consciousness. 
 
BOOK III 
 
 "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall 
 make you free." 
 
 ST. JOHN, vin. 32. 
 
 " We have shewn that amid much deception and self- 
 deception^ fraud and illusion, veritable manifestations 
 do reach us from beyond the grave. The central claim 
 of Christianity is thus confirmed, as never before. If 
 our own friends, men like ourselves, can sometimes 
 return to tell us of love and hope, a mightier Spirit 
 may well have used the eternal laws with a more com- 
 manding power. There is nothing to hinder the rev- 
 erent faith that though we be all ' Children of the 
 Most Highest, 9 He came nearer than we, by some 
 space by us immeasurable, to That which is infinitely 
 far. There is nothing to hinder the devout conviction 
 that He of His own act 'took upon Him the form of 
 a servant, 1 and was made flesh for our salvation, 
 foreseeing the earthly travail and the eternal crown. 
 * Surely before this descent into generation,' says Plo- 
 timus,'*we existed in the intelligible world; being 
 other than now we are, and some of us Gods ; clear 
 souls, and minds unmixed with all existence; parts of 
 the Intelligible, nor severed thence; nor are we severed 
 
 even now. 9 
 
 F. W. H. MYERS. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE CONDITIONS 
 
 UPON the morning after David's accident, 
 Mollie Archdale stood opposite a glass, smil- 
 ing at the image reflected therein with some- 
 thing of the complacency of Narcissus. Only the night 
 before an amorous and enterprising youth, whose 
 compliments were sincere if crude, had said: "I sup- 
 pose whenever you want to give yourself a jolly good 
 time, you stand in front of a looking-glass." Mollie 
 had answered, " Of course." The youth was handsome 
 and he danced quite too beautifully, but every debu- 
 tante knew that he was 'impossible* from a matrimonial 
 point of view. Mollie crossed the room and picked up 
 the book which she had been reading in bed. Holding 
 it gingerly in her pretty hands, she made a grimace, 
 before she slipped it into a drawer. Then, from the 
 same drawer, she took a cartoon which had recently 
 appeared in a society paper. The subject was a 
 man overlooking and overshadowing a vast country. 
 Underneath was the legend, "Coming men cast their 
 shadows before," and below, in very black type, 
 "His Excellency." 
 
 Staring at the cartoon, Mollie smiled and frowned. 
 A little laugh bubbled from her lips, and she murmured: 
 "Their Excellencies." A close observer might have 
 
 267 
 
268 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 noticed that her fingers just trembled, as she examined 
 more carefully the masterful face which seemed to 
 stare back at her with a persistency of gaze even 
 greater than her own. 
 
 It was Henry Middleton, of whom mention has been 
 made. He belonged to a small group of Balliol men, 
 of which Newsom was a member. Middleton had 
 succeeded as conspicuously as poor Newsom had 
 failed, Newsom having taken higher honours as a 
 scholar. Middleton entered public life as the pri- 
 vate secretary of the Prime Minister. His subsequent 
 career is so well known that we may be excused from 
 dwelling upon it in detail, but it may be said that his 
 success as a public man surprised everybody who 
 knew him, except his tutor and, possibly, himself. 
 Heavy in manner and appearance, dull in ordinary 
 conversation, he was gifted with an extraordinary 
 capacity for coordinating facts and setting them forth 
 in a quiet, deep, convincing voice. Because he was 
 sincere and very rich, the public were of opinion that 
 Middleton had no axe to grind other than the official 
 one with which he decapitated the hydra heads of 
 ignorance and dishonesty. For the rest, he was thirty- 
 six years of age; and Felicia Stormont, who had known 
 him since he was a boy at Eton, affirmed that he had 
 never been in love till he met Mollie Archdale. 
 
 It is quite certain that he was in love with her. And 
 obviously, he had made up his mind to marry her, 
 setting about the accomplishment of this new desire 
 with the same plodding, indefatigable persistency 
 
THE CONDITIONS 269 
 
 which had crowned other endeavours with success. 
 Two days after meeting Moliie he said to Mrs. Stor- 
 mont, imperturbably: 
 
 "Is this the wife you promised to find for 
 me?" 
 
 It was characteristic of Mrs. Stormont to reply 
 briskly, "How clever you are!" Inwardly, she was 
 accusing herself of stupidity in not having foreseen such 
 a likely combination. If Middleton's administrative 
 abilities should justify a big Colonial appointment, 
 the one thing lacking would be a wife, a woman of 
 beauty and charm, not necessarily brilliant, but young 
 and plastic, healthy and ambitious. David Archdale's 
 daughter seemed to have been expressly designed to 
 be his complement. To bring about such a match 
 would be a consummate triumph. 
 
 "I am not clever," Middleton had replied, "but as 
 a rule I get what I want. Who is she ?" 
 
 "Good Heavens! You don't know? Why, David 
 Archdale's girl, to be sure." 
 
 "And who is David Archdale ? The name sounds 
 familiar." 
 
 "Sounds! You have picked the right word. 
 Stringed instruments, brazen trumpets, voices of 
 men and women, have sounded that name from 
 pole to pole. At this moment, my poor Henry, 
 you are wearing an 'Archdale' collar. He wrote 
 the 'Peer and the Peri* and 'When Cuckoos 
 Call'." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
270 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "You are brutally ignorant, as Matthew Arnold 
 once said of a famous dean and schoolmaster." 
 
 "True." 
 
 " Therefore it behooves you to marry a wife who 
 knows what you don't." 
 
 'True again. I suppose all your drones are buzzing 
 about Miss Archdale?" 
 
 " I do not encourage drones." 
 
 "She's a radiant creature." 
 
 "Am I to tell little Miss Honey-pot that you say so ?" 
 
 "I'll tell her myself, thank you." 
 
 Mrs. Stormont smiled discreetly. At luncheon, upon 
 the following day, Mollie found herself next to the great 
 man of whose remarkable achievements in and out of 
 the House of Commons she had received a very prettily 
 worded account, ending as follows: 
 
 "The extraordinary thing about Henry Middleton 
 is that he seems absolutely indifferent to us. No 
 woman, so far as I know, has ever challenged his inter- 
 est. If he doesn't utter a word, don't be surprised." 
 
 "Of course he won't talk to me," said Mollie. 
 
 To her astonishment and pride he talked to nobody 
 else. 
 
 Within a week the girl guessed what he wanted, 
 and it was made plain what he could give in return. 
 Mollie, let it be remembered, had left the small world 
 of Art, which holds so many agreeable, interesting 
 people, for the infinitely larger world of politics and 
 affairs. Meeting upon intimate terms the men who 
 were making history instead of painting pictures and 
 
THE CONDITIONS 271 
 
 writing plays, she had been impressed by a new point 
 of view, which effectively dwarfed the old. Apparently, 
 her Tritons were minnows in the estimation of million- 
 aires and statesmen, small fry to be welcomed with 
 a patronizing smile and dismissed with a careless nod. 
 Not many young girls came to Stormont Lodge, but 
 even those with hair down their backs knew who 
 * counted* and who didn't. Henry Middleton, for 
 instance, * counted' enormously. The cartoonist sum- 
 med up the situation when he portrayed him over- 
 shadowing a continent. His wife would be a very 
 great lady indeed. 
 
 Mollie laid aside the cartoon, and picked up the 
 photograph of her father. As she did so, her face 
 softened. No one could doubt her affection for and 
 pride in her father. She was reflecting that she must 
 have inherited ambition from him, and that he would 
 be pleased to see his daughter at home in the seats 
 of the mighty. Nevertheless, conscience pricked her, 
 because she guessed that a too prompt acceptance of 
 Mrs. Stormont's offer had distressed him. Well, the 
 future would vindicate her. 
 
 At this moment, she had a vision of a wedding in 
 Westminster Abbey beneath the eyes and aegis of 
 Royalty! She saw herself, upon her father's arm, 
 advancing to the altar, toward a man who overshadowed 
 continents! 
 
 A tap upon the door put to flight the strains of 
 "The Voice that breathed o'er Eden." Mrs. Storm- 
 ont entered. 
 
2/2 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 At once, Mollie perceived that something serious had 
 taken place. Her friend kissed her in silence, and, 
 leading her to the bed, sat down beside her. 
 
 "What has happened?" gasped Mollie. "Tell me 
 quick." 
 
 "There has been an accident in France." 
 
 "To father?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He is not dead?" 
 
 "A telegram has just come to say that he 
 is still alive. Mr. Fermor is dead. The accident 
 was terrible. The papers this morning report 
 your father's death, but that evidently is a 
 mistake." 
 
 Mrs. Stormont added details, softening them as much 
 as possible. The telegram had stated that the injured 
 man was unconscious and likely to remain so till the end. 
 Mollie seemed to be stunned. She did not weep; she 
 accepted passively kisses and protestations of sympathy 
 and affection. When, at length, her piteous silence 
 provoked the exclamation "Child, child, can't you say 
 something anything?" she muttered almost inaudi- 
 bly: "It is a judgment on me." 
 
 "A judgment on you ?" 
 
 " I left him to come here. I wanted to come. I was 
 getting bored at home. At the time I saw something 
 in father's face. He would have liked me to stay. 
 But he was too proud to say so. I'm sure he knew 
 that I wanted to come to you. Did he?" 
 
 Mrs. Stormont prevaricated. 
 
THE CONDITIONS 273 
 
 "It was natural at your age that you should want 
 things he could not give." 
 
 "Natural to want to leave the kindest father in the 
 world ?" 
 
 " Natural to want change." 
 
 "I left him, and now he has left me." 
 
 She began sobbing, refusing to be comforted. Mrs. 
 Stormont wisely tried other means to stem a torrent of 
 grief and self-reproach. 
 
 "We start for Blois as soon as possible. You must 
 get ready. My maid is packing my things. Shall I 
 help you to pack yours?" 
 
 "Please," said Mollie. 
 
 During the journey to Paris, Mollie prayed that she 
 might be permitted to see her father alive. Being 
 still a child in many respects, she desired to bargain 
 with Omnipotence, professing herself eager to pay to 
 the uttermost farthing whatever might be exacted. 
 Let her be given the consolation of asking his pardon 
 and receiving it. One glance from his eyes would 
 suffice. 
 
 As they drove to Victoria the boys were shouting: 
 
 "David Archdale still alive!" 
 
 At the station the posters of an evening paper 
 proclaimed the fact in huge black letters upon a yellow 
 ground. Mollie said to Mrs. Stormont, "Does the 
 public really care?" 
 
 Mrs. Stormont replied: "He delighted millions of 
 tired men and women. Of course they care." 
 
274 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Between the constant reiteration of her prayer, 
 Mollie tried to see her father and herself. Glorifying 
 him, she abased herself. Mrs. Stormont, gazing at 
 her pale beautiful face, marvelled at the change which 
 a few hours had wrought. The child, beneath sorrow's 
 touch, had become a woman. Once Mollie whispered: 
 "I never told Father how much I loved him." 
 At Paris, they learned that David was still alive; the 
 doctors were careful to add nothing more. 
 
 Rushing through the valley of the Loire, Mrs. 
 Stormont saw a lovely peaceful country revealing itself 
 at earliest dawn; woods and fields sparkling with light 
 and air and dew. The intimate charm of a pastoral 
 landscape appeals, with poignant significance, to the 
 worldly and weary, because they have forsaken it, 
 because they know that they have excluded themselves 
 from a paradise to which with rare exceptions they 
 can never return. 
 
 "If I were not here," thought Mrs. Stormont, 
 "I should be just going to bed in London." 
 
 She attempted to consider the claims of the simple 
 life. It had never appealed to a mind quickened 
 at an early age and polished by continual friction - 
 which had sought the new rather than the true with 
 feverish interest and energy. Comedy delighted Felicia 
 Stormont; upon Tragedy she turned her back. Her 
 vitality, her superb health, her capacity for enjoyment 
 had never failed. Mary Archdale once spoke of 
 her as a " front-seater," a " first-nighter," a "monopol- 
 
THE CONDITIONS 275 
 
 ist." From her youth, society had acclaimed her as 
 a leader. She admitted that she loved a fight, and had 
 played with undiminished keenness all games save 
 the game of love. 
 
 She worshipped one God, the Juggernaut of Success. 
 
 And now she was sixty! Her doctor had said that 
 she must do less and less during the years to come. 
 
 She wondered if she could be happy alone with 
 Mollie in some pretty cottage in the country. Did she 
 love the child ? Was it possible that maternal instincts, 
 long dormant, were now about to assert themselves ? 
 And, if so, was it not part of her philosophy to cherish 
 and develop them as being a new and exciting expe- 
 rience ? Mollie, forlorn and wretched in her corner, 
 began to clutch at her heart-strings. 
 
 The train rocked and rattled over a track not too 
 well ballasted as it sped through the vineyards and 
 cornfields of Touraine. So also Felicia Stormont 
 had rattled and prattled through pleasant years, and, 
 now, when she was approaching her destination the 
 noise and pace and cinematographic changes of scene 
 were becoming stale and tedious. She possessed hosts 
 of friends. Was there one whom she truly loved 
 and who truly loved her ? 
 
 Upon arrival at Blois, Mollie was told that part of 
 her prayer had been granted. David still lived, and 
 his condition was slightly less critical. The doctor at 
 the hospital, Achille Sarthe, a small, dapper, very 
 wide-awake Frenchman, received the ladies. 
 
276 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "We believed," he said, "that life was extinct. 
 It is the most remarkable case of suspended animation 
 that has come before my notice, and, Mesdames, I was 
 a pupil of the illustrious Charcot. I studied at the Sal- 
 petriere. In short, Monsieur was laid out ready for burial 
 when how shall I put it ? the vital spark seemed 
 to flicker back. The affair is of the most amazing!" 
 
 "He is conscious ?" 
 
 "No. He barely breathes, but the temperature is 
 falling." 
 
 "Thank God!" exclaimed Mollie. 
 
 Sarthe stole a glance at Mrs. Stormont, who remained 
 silent. Presently, Mollie was taken to a room to lie 
 down. Sarthe would not allow her to see her father. 
 
 "At the first possible moment, Mademoiselle, I 
 will take you to him. You must trust me." 
 
 But, alone with Mrs. Stormont, he went into details. 
 The body had been cruelly crushed, and the head 
 also had sustained injuries. 
 
 "It is almost certain," he added, "that the optic 
 nerves are destroyed. If he recovers he will be blind 
 and a cripple for life." 
 
 Mrs. Stormont hesitated, and then said gently: 
 
 "It would be better for him and his daughter if he 
 died?" 
 
 "A thousand times yes. Mademoiselle is so 
 young, so pretty, so charming. An only child, you say, 
 Madame ? Well, if he lives, she must become his slave. 
 Alas! life is an abominable thing incases like these." 
 
 Mrs. Stormont inclined her head. 
 
THE CONDITIONS 277 
 
 Three days passed. Upon the morning of the 
 fourth day, David opened his lips and whispered: 
 
 "Mary?" 
 
 The nurse answered in French, explaining his con- 
 dition in a few words and enjoining silence. By a 
 sign David showed that he understood, that con- 
 sciousness had returned, that he was sane. 
 
 A few minutes later Mollie was summoned. When 
 she kissed him he muttered, "Is it Mollie?" 
 
 "It is Mollie," she whispered. "Your own Mollie, 
 who loves you." 
 
 During the week that followed he lay semi-con- 
 scious, knowing little of any feeling other than acute 
 pain, and that his shattered flesh was being tenderly 
 cared for. Bandages covered his eyes and most parts 
 of his body. One by one they were removed. And 
 then the truth was broken to him by his child. 
 
 He was incurably blind. 
 
 Sarthe had prepared Mollie for a piteous scene. 
 But David exhibited remarkable fortitude. Sarthe 
 explained this astonishing resignation: 
 
 "He does not yet realize. He has not recovered 
 from the shock to the brain cells." 
 
 But the next day, as Mollie sat beside him, David 
 said quietly: 
 
 "I have been spared to finish 'Solomon's Garden." 
 
 From this moment he made rapid progress. Very 
 soon he was able to ask questions which Sarthe 
 
278 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 answered. David could remember nothing except 
 that last vivid impression of the granite wall racing 
 at the car. 
 
 "The automobile was utterly smashed," said Sarthe. 
 "And poor Monsieur Fermor, too. Near the wall 
 was a heap of weeds. You must have pitched on that, 
 and then rolled to the middle of the road, where two 
 peasants found you." 
 
 "Two peasants ?" 
 
 Some inflection of his voice challenged Sarthe's 
 attention. 
 
 "Yes; two peasants were passing. They brought 
 you here. Honest fellows! It seems that your pocket- 
 book, full of notes, was lying beside you. I have it 
 safe." 
 
 "My pocket-book? How odd!" 
 
 "Odd?" 
 
 " I seem to remember vaguely what you tell me." 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "We believed you to be quite dead for several hours. 
 We tried the usual tests." 
 
 " I seem to remember that I was dead. Everything 
 else is shadowy, but I remember the smash, and being 
 in the middle of the road, and two peasants, and - 
 and being dead." 
 
 "Monsieur, don't try to remember anything 
 more. " 
 
 "There is nothing more to remember," said David. 
 
 A month passed. Mrs. Stormont returned to London 
 
THE CONDITIONS 279 
 
 upon the day when David was moved to a small cottage 
 overlooking the Loire. Throughout the warm June 
 days he would lie upon a couch placed beneath a 
 weeping willow, whose branches drooped over the 
 river. Mollie ministered to him devotedly, aflame 
 to solace and serve, jealous even of the nurse in 
 attendance. Mrs. Stormont, taking leave of her, had 
 said: 
 
 "When your father is strong enough to be left with 
 the Pignerols, you must come to me for a change." 
 
 "I shan't leave him," Mollie replied. 
 
 "You have become very dear to me," said Mrs. 
 Stormont: "so dear," she added quietly, "that 
 you must allow me to make your life as easy as 
 possible." 
 
 Mollie thanked her and kissed her, but she whispered, 
 in the voice so curiously like Mary's: "Perhaps my life 
 has been made too easy. I have been a selfish little 
 beast, and thank God! I know it." 
 
 After Mrs. Stormont's departure, David spoke 
 warmly of her kindness. When Mollie remained 
 silent, he asked wonderingly: 
 
 "Wasn't she kind to you?" 
 
 "Too kind. Father, it makes me hot with shame 
 when I think of how I gobbled up everything she 
 offered. Kind ? If you could have seen my room. 
 It was done up expressly for me. All in white and 
 blue a sort of bonboniere." 
 
 "In white and blue?" repeated David, interroga- 
 tively. 
 
2 8o THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "There was even a pale blue carpet." 
 
 "Stop!" 
 
 The word was spoken so imperatively that Mollie 
 was startled. To her utter confounding, David said, 
 laboriously, "Do you read in bed?" 
 
 "Sometimes." She blushed, but the blush vanished 
 in astonishment when David continued in the same 
 hesitating, heavy tone: 
 
 " I remember a room in blue and white, and of you 
 lying in bed, asleep, with a book upon the coverlet. 
 Did I dream it?" 
 
 "You never saw my room." 
 
 " Perhaps you described it to me." 
 
 "I am quite sure I didn't." 
 
 "For an instant I seemed to see the room. Now 
 it has faded. My head is still queer. I I haven't 
 mentioned it to you or Sarthe, but no music comes to 
 me, not a note." 
 
 "Good gracious, as if it could!" 
 
 " You think it will come back ? ' Solomon' s Garden ' 
 must be finished." 
 
 "Of course it will." 
 
 "But if it shouldn't?" 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "Long ago, I told your mother that the darkness 
 terrified me when I was a child, because of the silence. 
 'Solomon's Garden' was written in the sunshine. 
 Mollie, it will be awful if the music does not come 
 back." 
 
 She heard his voice, so finely controlled during 
 
THE CONDITIONS 281 
 
 weeks of pain, sob in his throat; and the sob annihilated 
 the last barrier between them. She understood all 
 that had been suppressed weakness, fear, horror! 
 To that weakness and terror, the strength and courage 
 dormant in her responded. David felt her soft cheek 
 against his, her firm young arms encircled his body. 
 Mary's voice, which had sustained him during those 
 never-to-be-forgotten days when failure and despair 
 impended, thrilled again in his ears. 
 
 " Darling father, the music will come back when you 
 are ready to receive it; and I have a secret to tell you. 
 I've been practising writing music. I'm getting such 
 a dab at it. When the pixies begin to do their duty 
 again, and it's very thoughtful of them to have let you 
 alone, I shall be ready to take down what they say. I 
 shall love working with you." 
 
 "You blessed child!" 
 
 "Blessed! Didn't you hate me, when I left you 
 didn't you?" 
 
 "Hate you?" 
 
 "I saw what I had done too late, and I hadn't the 
 pluck to say so. And at Mrs. Stormont's I thought 
 of my food, and my pretty clothes, and of the big splash 
 I was going to make. There it's out. I feel heaps 
 better. You asked me just now if I read in bed. 
 Father, I read two or three books which would have 
 given you fits to see in my hand. Are you appallingly 
 shocked?" 
 
 He held her tightly to him. 
 
 " Men of my age are not easily shocked. As between 
 
282 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 you and me, Mollie, perhaps the only absolutely shock- 
 ing thing would be deceit and hypocrisy." 
 
 Upon the following day, he saw Sarthe alone. The 
 little man was free from the prejudice and self-com- 
 placent cocksureness of many country practitioners. 
 David knew that he was an enthusiast upon psychology: 
 familiar with and keenly interested in the work of Bern- 
 stein, Janet, Pitres and Voisin: empty names to David 
 till he was made to understand how profoundly their 
 studies might be brought to bear upon his peculiar case. 
 
 "I had another singular experience yesterday," began 
 David. "My daughter described a room into which 
 in the flesh I have most certainly never entered. Yet 
 I remembered it mistily, as I remember the peasants 
 finding my body and the pocket-book. And since, 
 again and again, I have had a glimpse of other things 
 which seem to flash before me and disappear." 
 
 "Yes. yes. A common experience." 
 
 "Where was my mind, when my body lay as you 
 supposed dead ?" 
 
 "Your mind alone can answer that question, your 
 inner mind, which forgets nothing." 
 
 " My inner mind ? My father-in-law, Professor 
 Pignerol, is always talking of the inner mind." 
 
 "What! Louis Pignerol is your father-in-law? We 
 used to think highly of Louis Pignerol; but he is a 
 Quixote trying to reconcile what can be observed in 
 this material world with dogmas and doctrines which 
 depend entirely upon ill-supported tradition and faith." 
 
THE CONDITIONS 283 
 
 " I dismissed his theories as mere idle speculations." 
 
 "You dismissed them, Monsieur? Let me tell you 
 that our thoughts and the thoughts of others are not 
 to be dismissed. They remain. That has been 
 proved to the hilt by men whose authority cannot be 
 questioned, by the most enlightened psychologists all 
 over the world. The inner mind never forgets. When 
 that is fully realized, we may be more careful about our 
 thoughts and the thoughts of others. For the rest, 
 it is quite possible that your mind did leave your body. 
 I could cite a dozen well-attested cases in support of it. 
 Also, in nearly all these cases of spiritual activity 
 remembrance is suspended when the brain resumes 
 its functions." 
 
 " Has it been proved that we have two minds ? " 
 
 "I thought the duality of the human mind was 
 established everywhere. Certainly you have two minds; 
 the one works through the senses. The other works 
 when the senses are in abeyance. For example, the 
 inner mind can see and hear and touch and smell when 
 those senses have been destroyed." 
 
 "You affirm that I could see with my inner 
 mind?" 
 
 "The inner mind of a blind man in the hypnotic 
 state can be made to travel to distant countries and 
 bring back reliable information. It is, in short, a 
 separate entity independent of bodily functions." 
 
 "Will you hypnotize me?" 
 
 Sarthe hesitated. 
 
 "I would rather not, Monsieur. You are making 
 
284 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 a remarkable recovery. And I believe in leaving well 
 enough alone." 
 
 He hurried away, gesticulating and muttering to 
 himself, conscious that he had put from him an immense 
 temptation. He would have liked to hypnotize his 
 patient. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE CREED OF A HAPPY MAN 
 
 THE Professor who would have come to Blois 
 had he not been chained to a schoolmaster's 
 desk was the first to welcome David when 
 he touched English soil. His genial tones rang out: 
 
 " Mon fihy you look better than I had dared to expect. 
 What a vitality is yours! Well, well, the holidays have 
 begun; the long days which we shall spend together. 
 I have planned pleasant things/' 
 
 David remembered that this summer vacation was 
 to have been devoted to the magnum opus. How 
 cheerfully Pignerol laid aside his own work, whenever 
 in matters small or great he might be of service to 
 others ! 
 
 Pignerol then told David that many distinguished 
 persons had travelled to Southampton to greet him. 
 A committee was in waiting at the South- Western Hotel. 
 Outside the docks a crowd had collected. David heard 
 once more the cheers of the multitude, who acclaimed 
 him as if he were a conquering hero instead of a shat- 
 tered invalid, limping painfully upon crutches and 
 guided by the hand of a girl of eighteen. Presently 
 he was listening to protestations of friendship, to the 
 reading of a gracious telegram from his Sovereign, to 
 the blare of a band playing one of his popular marches. 
 
 285 
 
286 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Thelluson happened to be a member of the com- 
 mittee. 
 
 "Old Wrest and I were at the Buskin when the news 
 came over the 'ticker* that you were smashed to bits. 
 We were appalled." 
 
 "Wrest and you were at the Buskin?" 
 
 Thelluson was struck by the odd expression upon 
 David's face. He continued cordially: 
 
 "Wrest and Newsom and I. David, my boy, gal- 
 lant fellows like you aren't easily killed, eh ?" 
 
 "Were you in the smoking-room ?" 
 
 "We're always in the smoking-room at ten. Wrest 
 couldn't come down to-day, but he's at your service, 
 if you want anything done. Hang it y we're all only 
 too anxious to help. Man of many friends you are!" 
 
 Others said the same thing. At Sherborne, where 
 the reception was of a domestic character, old fellows 
 pressed his hands who could remember the days 
 when he sang "Oh, for the wings of a dove," and 
 added so materially to the collections. Miss Rachel 
 Callow brought flowers and faltering greetings. David 
 felt himself to be borne away, inundated, by a tidal 
 wave of pity, sympathy, and emotion. When he reached 
 Pignerol's house, he was obliged to lie down. 
 
 "What a welcome!" said the Professor. "You are 
 tired out, but there is no tonic like affection. People 
 love you, mon fits. That is a great consolation, my 
 poor boy, a true triumph." 
 
 "If I could have seen their faces." 
 
 "With your imagination that is easy. We will talk 
 
THE CREED OF A HAPPY MAN 287 
 
 of this when you are rested, but Mollie has written to 
 me. Her letters were full of your courage and patience. 
 David, my dear, dear son, you have won a great 
 victory." 
 
 " It's not won yet," said David grimly. 
 
 Next day he remained in bed, limp in mind and 
 body, unable to concentrate thought upon either 
 present, past, or future. The three seemed to be 
 inextricably mingled: a tangle of memories, ambitions, 
 and speculations. The room in which he lay was so 
 familiar; he had occupied it often before his marriage 
 and after; and now a different man seemed to 
 stare at the engravings upon the walls, seeing nothing, 
 but knowing because he had asked the question - 
 that not an article of furniture had been moved. 
 
 The silence of Sherborne oppressed him. In Blois, 
 during the daytime, he had become accustomed to the 
 innumerable sounds of a French town, which linked 
 him, helpless though he was, to the activities without. 
 
 At his request, he spent the morning alone. But, 
 immediately after luncheon, Mollie came to sit with him, 
 bringing with her an atmosphere of youth, and high 
 spirits, and excitement, prattling eagerly of old friends 
 and the things which engrossed them. A game of tennis 
 had been promised. She had bought a new racquet. 
 The lawn was in tip-top condition. 
 
 "It is good to be back," she concluded. 
 
 David did not keep her long, divining her wish to 
 be out of doors in the sunshine where she might forget, 
 
288 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 poor child! his darkness which had cast its shadow over 
 her. He heard a gay laugh, as she ran downstairs 
 to join her friends, leaving behind some splendid roses 
 sent from the Castle. Throughout the afternoon kindly 
 messages, with or without flowers, were arriving at 
 Pignerol's house, and telegrams from all parts of the 
 United Kingdom. 
 
 Many friends slipped in for a few minutes' talk: 
 talk which never varied, which harped pleasantly but 
 interminably upon his recovery and the great gain 
 thereby to the world. One and all seemed to take 
 for granted that he would write more musical comedies, 
 more songs such as "In Cowslip Time," more waltzes 
 and polkas whose very names seemed to tinkle exasper- 
 atingly. 
 
 After dinner, alone with Pignerol, he said: "I want 
 you to do me a service. The score of 'Solomon's 
 Garden' is in my music room at Portland Place. Will 
 you go up to town and fetch it ?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "I shall finish it, and produce it. Mollie and I 
 have been talking of nothing else." 
 
 "I am delighted to hear this. How Fermor would 
 have rejoiced." 
 
 "Oddly enough, I can't remember a bar of it 
 except in my dreams. At the moment of waking I 
 hear some theme; and then it goes. What an odd 
 thing remembrance is!" 
 
 "Say rather recollection. Remembrance is con- 
 stant, recollection fickle and unreliable." 
 
THE CREED OF A HAPPY MAN 289 
 
 David hesitated, and then added slowly: "I want 
 to talk to you about many things. You can help 
 
 me." 
 
 "Willingly, willingly." 
 
 "You know that those doctors over there believed 
 me to be dead." 
 
 "So Mollie wrote." 
 
 "What Sarthe calls the inner mind I prefer the 
 old-fashioned word 'soul' appears to be most active 
 when the senses are in abeyance." 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 " What was my soul doing when my body lay dead ? " 
 
 "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Because I am convinced that it was on a journey. 
 Thelluson told me yesterday that he and Wrest were 
 in the club smoking-room when the news of my death 
 reached them. Before the words were out of his 
 mouth, I knew it; I remembered somehow seeing 
 Wrest and Thelluson and Newsom." 
 
 "This is most interesting." 
 
 "Not a day passes but some chance allusion, a word, 
 perhaps, sets vibrating a chord of memory. I am 
 beginning to believe that I saw my own body picked up 
 and placed in a cart, that I walked into the club, that 
 I stood by Mollie's bed." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Suppose I was dead." 
 
 "Ah, my son, that is a wonderful thought.** 
 
 "Mary and I promised each other that we would 
 come back. She did not corne back. Or rather, if 
 
2QQ THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 she did, I was not aware of it. But I swore that I 
 would come back, if I could. Perhaps I did." 
 
 "In my opinion it is possible." 
 
 "You must be honest with me." 
 
 "David, I have made researches which I venture to 
 hope may help to establish, upon a scientific basis, the 
 law of continuity of life. For all time this has been 
 the creed of the human race: a tremendous argument in 
 its favour. To-day, the men of greatest intelligence 
 are demanding proofs other than those which have 
 satisfied generations of thinkers. I believe that these 
 proofs will be forthcoming, because the demand for 
 them is so immense and so importunate. We are 
 knocking at a door which must, sooner or later, be 
 opened. And myriads are approaching that door from 
 a thousand directions." 
 
 " Mary spoke of that." 
 
 "Sarthe, of course, has investigated seeming miracles 
 which the inner mind can accomplish when the normal 
 functions of the brain are suspended. The French 
 are far ahead of us in this particular field. Unhappily, 
 they are divided, not in their search for the truth, 
 but in the conclusions which they have formulated 
 upon the mass of evidence so admirably sifted by them. 
 And the high priests of science are as dogmatic and 
 obstinate as the high priests of religion. The best 
 men, the most sincere, the most unselfish, the most 
 learned, are also the most timorous and backward in 
 accepting anything new which may conflict with their 
 own convictions and beliefs. Till quite recently, 
 
THE CREED OF A HAPPY MAN 291 
 
 imagination, which leads us blindfold to treasures 
 of knowledge, has been mistrusted by investigators 
 who ought to have recognized it, as the greatest factor 
 in all discoveries. My old friends, the men with whom 
 I worked in Paris, have denounced me as a humbug, 
 because I have cherished my imagination and allowed 
 to it full scope. It has carried me to heights and 
 depths." 
 
 David sighed. Then, after a long pause, he said: 
 
 " I have always wished to know where you stand." 
 
 "I stand upon a mosaic pavement, upon bits of what 
 I conceive to be truth collected from all the religions 
 of mankind." 
 
 "You accept Christ's divinity and resurrection?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "What else do you believe?" 
 
 "I shall attempt to tell you; my creed is my dearest 
 possession, but I have never proclaimed it, not even 
 to my children. It is part of that creed to encourage 
 others to search for their beliefs and not to accept 
 them ready-made. The early Christians paid for 
 their creed with their lives. What do we pay ? Ob- 
 viously, I lay myself open to attack, because the 
 teachers insist upon the unreliability of the lay mind. 
 And I, as you know, am a stickler for authority when 
 it concerns itself with matters of fact. Upon matters 
 of faith, I am willing to learn from a child what may 
 have been withheld from an archbishop." 
 
 Pignerol paused before continuing. Perhaps he 
 was reflecting that a creed loses the vitality it seeks 
 
292 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 to express when it becomes concrete. And perhaps 
 he shrank from putting into words thoughts which 
 had been jealously guarded during a lifetime. He was 
 a modest as well as a brave man, and because he had 
 respected the beliefs of others, he had the more solicitude 
 for his own. 
 
 "I was not unlike you, David, when I left school. 
 I was consumed by a desire to succeed. I studied 
 successful men and their methods. And I soon 
 realized that concentration of will was at the back of 
 human achievement. With it, mediocre men came 
 to the front, without it the most brilliant fell behind. 
 I wanted to win a scholarship. But apparently I had 
 not a chance. Four out of ten competitors were much 
 cleverer than I. But I had the strongest will; and I 
 won. True, I worked hard, but so did the others. It 
 was an eye-opener. It led me to the conviction that 
 a man can have within reasonable limits anything he 
 wants, if he wants it with every fibre of his being." 
 "Would will-power restore my eyesight?" 
 "I said within reasonable limits. Those limits, 
 which I dare not define, are greater than we are as yet 
 aware of. The next step was to find out what was 
 worth the wanting and having. I was studying pathol- 
 ogy, and confronted daily by terrible phases of disease 
 and misery. It took me less than six months to decide 
 that health was worth the wanting. I was thin, dyspep- 
 tic, and subject to tormenting headaches. Fortunately, 
 I fell in with a man who had concentrated his intelli- 
 gence upon physical culture. He made me throw 
 
THE CREED OF A HAPPY MAN 293 
 
 drugs out of my window, and ordered me to leave that 
 window open day and night. Fresh air, exercise, 
 plenty of good food, did the rest. I became a strong 
 vigorous man. Want number one was satisfied. I 
 passed my medical exams, and attacked psychology 
 under a famous savant now dead. He was the unhap- 
 piest of men. Again and again he would say to me: 
 'Louis, look at that workman. He is laughing and 
 singing. He is happy. He earns a few francs a day. 
 Gladly would I change places with him!' I begun to 
 study happiness. There is any amount of happiness 
 in the world, David, but few look for it in the right 
 place. Children have almost a monopoly of it. I 
 wanted furiously to be happy. My health was my 
 greatest asset. The right man had helped me to find 
 that. Long afterward, the right woman taught jne 
 that happiness, like health, can be had for the wanting, 
 but you must want it so intensely that other wants have 
 to be abandoned. I wanted furiously to be rich and 
 famous, so happiness evaded me for a season." 
 
 "Mary said once that you could have become rich 
 and famous." 
 
 " Probably. I put aside such ambitions when I saw 
 that they exacted sacrifices too great. I had to choose 
 between fame and my wife, between wealth and my 
 children. I was offered two positions, one of tremen- 
 dous responsibility in Calcutta, and the other my 
 mastership here, which insured a competence for me 
 and mine." 
 
 "You have had no regrets?" 
 
294 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 " I am human there have been moments, long 
 ago past, when I looked back at the cities of the plain, 
 but I chose right. I have been a happy man. Be 
 happy and you can hardly help being good. And 
 Happiness stays at home; Unhappiness wanders to the 
 uttermost ends of the earth and to the lowest depths 
 of hell." 
 
 "This is the happiest household I have ever known/' 
 "Ah! Happiness is as contagious as influenza, 
 probably more so. But, mind you, I could not have 
 been really happy had I not believed in reincarnation. 
 The doctrine permeates nearly all philosophies and has 
 been accepted by the greater portion of the human 
 race. To me it explains adequately the mysteries 
 of sin and suffering, and the apparent injustice involved 
 in lives widely and cruelly differentiated. I pass to 
 the third clause in my creed. I was standing firm upon 
 my belief in the immortality of the soul, and my con- 
 viction that it manifests itself through innumerable 
 existences. I called myself in those early days a free- 
 lance. I contended that what I could not understand 
 after patient study was of no use to me in my present 
 existence. Every doctrine which appealed strongly 
 to my reason, I tried to reconcile with my belief in the 
 continuity of life. I went back to Paris to study 
 the dual nature of the mind. That became the third 
 clause in my creed, confirming the others. We come 
 now to my marriage. My wife, whom I adored, lived 
 and died a firm believer in the divinity of Christ. She 
 urged me to restudy the New Testament, and step by 
 
THE CREED OF A HAPPY MAN 295 
 
 step I came to the fourth clause in my creed: that 
 Christianity is established upon a scientific basis." 
 "A scientific basis ?" 
 
 "Christ preached and practised nineteen hundred 
 years ago what we have rediscovered to-day: the power 
 of Faith, the Faith which means recognition of the 
 Universal Mind. Some one has said that 'to realize 
 the manifestation of the Divine which Jesus stands 
 for, and to love it, is the indispensable condition for 
 attaining that access to the Father which means the full 
 development in ourselves of all the powers of the Spirit." 1 
 "You accept the doctrine of the Trinity ?" 
 " I believe in a God-soul, who has created and inter- 
 penetrates the universe. I believe in the God-made 
 flesh. And I believe in the God-Mind, the Holy 
 Ghost. I believe in rewards and punishments which 
 the God within inflicts in this life and in other lives. 
 I believe in the resurrection of the dead; and in the 
 Communion of Saints." 
 
 "When did you begin to think independently?" 
 "When I was seventeen. If a man is because he 
 thinks, then it follows that his spiritual advance depends 
 upon what he thinks. Our thoughts are a barometer 
 by which we can gauge day by day the growth of the 
 soul which is nourished or impoverished by them. 
 If you can know a man by his friends, so also you can 
 know yourself by your thoughts, which are indeed 
 angels or devils to the host who entertains them. 
 Truly has the Psalmist said that some perish through 
 their own imaginations." 
 
296 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "A man's thoughts, you say, are not his own ?" 
 
 "He makes them his own by adoption. In this he 
 exhibits his free will. With the thoughts that are not 
 his he can create new thoughts." 
 
 David moved restlessly. 
 
 " My thoughts are trying to create something." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "A finale to 'Solomon's Garden/ My life so I 
 firmly believe was spared for just that." 
 
 To this Pignerol made no reply. 
 
 Next day he took the early train to London, hoping 
 to be able to return to Sherborne the same day, but 
 about three in the afternoon David received a tele- 
 gram: 
 
 "Have searched your room thoroughly. No score 
 to be found" 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 
 
 UPON receipt of the telegram, David insisted 
 that Mollie should join her grandfather. If 
 necessary, expert assistance must be called in. 
 Let every nook and cranny be searched. His instruc- 
 tions were carried out, but within twenty-four hours 
 Mollie and Pignerol returned empty-handed. "Solo- 
 mon's Garden" had vanished. 
 
 When David was told, he said grimly: 
 
 "I destroyed it." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " By accident. I guessed what had happened when 
 I got the telegram. Years ago, just after the production 
 of the ' Belle and the Tiger,' I had a burning of old 
 scores and papers. A cupboard was full of what I 
 thought rubbish. I had forgotten the oratorio. Now 
 I can remember distinctly putting it there. I remem- 
 ber as distinctly how tired I got of glancing through 
 that huge mass of manuscript. And at last I bundled 
 what was left into the fire." 
 
 Pignerol exclaimed: 
 
 "What an awful thing!" 
 
 "I must rewrite it from memory," said David. 
 
 He began work the next morning, sitting at the 
 piano, and playing over such parts as he could remem- 
 
 297 
 
298 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 her. Then he would dictate the notes to Mollie: a 
 laborious task. Pignerol conceived the happy thought 
 of using a phonograph, which lightened the labour; 
 but long before a week had passed it became plain that 
 David had forgotten much of the old and that no new 
 music would come to him. 
 
 We have here an instance of the power of the brain 
 to impose conditions upon the spirit. David, before 
 the accident, had decided possibly with a resolution 
 greater than he had understood not to write any 
 more sugary music. He had damned, it will be 
 remembered, the "tinkle-tinkle bell." Apart from the 
 fact that light and colour transposed themselves into 
 sound for him, and that darkness now overshadowed 
 these, it is probable that a desire on his part to suppress 
 certain fleshly manifestations of his genius had indeed 
 raised a veil even more impenetrable than phys- 
 ical blindness between his higher and lower natures. 
 Pignerol maintained that the will could interpose an 
 insuperable barrier between the spirit and thought- 
 forms which that spirit desired to exclude. To console 
 David, he maintained stoutly that the higher inspiration, 
 so long denied expression, would return, although no 
 man could predict when or how. David remained 
 faithful to his determination to write no more musical 
 comedies. He told Mollie and Pignerol that he wished 
 to give to the world his best or nothing; and every 
 day the conviction deepened that the world, begin- 
 ning already to clamour for something, might receive 
 nothing. 
 
MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 299 
 
 About a fortnight later, when David happened 
 to be alone, a parlour-maid came in to say that a 
 gentleman wished to see Mr. Archdale most particu- 
 larly. 
 
 "Most particularly?" repeated David. "What 
 name ?" 
 
 " The gentleman said you didn't know him personally. 
 His name is Mr. Henry Middleton." 
 
 "Mr. Henry Middbton ?" murmured David vaguely. 
 
 Then he remembered. Middleton, of course, was the 
 great man who at Stormont Lodge had flattered Mollie 
 by his attentions. Why had he come to Sherborne ? 
 
 "I will see Mr. Middleton." 
 
 As the maid left the room David reflected that 
 Middleton had come upon a fool's errand. For months 
 Mollie had not mentioned him. He was nothing to 
 her, could be nothing. And yet, if passing through 
 Sherborne he had called upon Mollie as a mere act 
 of courtesy, why had he wished to see her father 
 "most particularly?" When Middleton entered, 
 David held out his hand with a faint smile. 
 
 " Mrs. Stormont has spoken to me of you." 
 
 Henry Middleton replied heavily: 
 
 "Has she?" 
 
 David tried to visualize him. He remembered 
 vaguely a large ungainly figure not without dignity 
 and power, and a long, narrow, impassive face which 
 lent itself to caricature. Once, he had heard Middleton 
 speak at a big public meeting. Beginning badly, 
 with the sympathies of the audience against him, the 
 
300 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 man had ended with a triumph, the greater because 
 unexpected and due to the speaker's sincerity of pur- 
 pose and his mastery of a difficult subject. 
 
 " She said you always had your own way/' 
 
 "Mrs. Stormont made a similar remark about you, 
 Mr. Archdale." 
 
 " My way has ended in a blind alley." 
 
 "You have my sincerest sympathy. It is very good 
 of you to see me. I had to come." 
 
 David waited. Middleton would beat no bushes. 
 
 "I am tremendously interested in your daughter. 
 With your permission I should like to remain in Sher- 
 borne in the hope of persuading her to become my wife." 
 
 This bald but business-like statement provoked 
 another smile. David said tentatively: 
 
 "With my permission? Is that necessary ?" 
 
 "Under the circumstances, I think so." 
 'Thank you. You have my permission, to win her 
 if you can. But I should say the same to any decent, 
 honourable man." 
 
 An awkward silence followed, the sense on the part 
 of both men that they had nothing in common except 
 an interest too great to bear discussion. David was 
 the first to speak: 
 
 "You have had a busy session ?" 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Is it true that you may go to Canada?" 
 
 "It is on the cards. Strictly between ourselves, I 
 have been approached. The fact that I am a bachelor 
 is against me." 
 
MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 301 
 
 "I understand." 
 
 Pignerol's entrance with Mollie was a welcome 
 interruption. David listened to Mollie's voice, trying 
 to interpret every tone and semitone. Suddenly 
 he realized that he hated Middleton, that he would 
 fight for his own, and that he was justified in so doing. 
 
 "He wants Canada more than Mollie," he thought. 
 
 Just then Pignerol asked a question which Middleton 
 answered with a precision and knowledge challenging 
 silence and admiration. At this, devils tore David. 
 Almost savagely, he began in his turn to ask for infor- 
 mation upon matters concerning which as Mrs. 
 Stormont had put it Henry Middleton was indeed 
 brutally ignorant. David begged his visitor to be kind 
 enough to write down the names of a few new books; 
 he wanted to hear about the latest comedy, the picture 
 of the hour, the Australian tenor. David could talk 
 admirably upon such themes; Middleton replied in 
 monosyllables, assuming his stolid, impenetrable mask, 
 admitting, almost clownishly, that he cared nothing 
 for art and was practically tone-deaf and colour-blind. 
 From time to time Mollie expressed mild surprise at 
 his indifference. 
 
 "Surely, Mr. Middleton, you read something beside 
 blue books." 
 
 "Not much else." 
 
 "How dull!" 
 
 David smiled discreetly. 
 
 "They called me 'Gradgrind' at Oxford." 
 
 Middleton took leave after tea. The hospitable 
 
302 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Pignerol asked him to dine on the following day. As 
 soon as he had left, David said irritably: 
 
 "That man is a bore. What he does not know 
 about nearly everything worth knowing would fill an 
 encyclopaedia." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Pignerol, quietly. Then, in the 
 slightly derisive tone which had made David wriggle 
 when he was a boy, he added: "Henry Middleton is, 
 in my opinion, the greatest force for good in English 
 politics to-day, and what he knows about subjects 
 vital to the right government of his country would fill 
 another encyclopaedia." 
 
 Mollie looked up, conscious of something she was 
 unable to analyze, a dissonance which jarred upon a 
 sensitive ear. She perceived that her father was 
 flushed and ill at ease; and immediately the yearning 
 to console drove out other perceptions not so well 
 defined. She kissed him, whispering: 
 
 "How well you talked! But Mr. Middleton listened 
 nearly as well, didn't he ?" 
 
 Pignerol smiled. His voice warmed into a fuller 
 tone as he exclaimed : 
 
 "Bravo, Molliekins! I must have a kiss on both 
 cheeks for that. How wise you are!" 
 
 As instantly David responded. 
 
 "I beg Middleton's pardon," he said. "I am an 
 irritable, superficial ass, and a boor to monopolize the 
 talk as I did." 
 
 " But Mr. Middleton was charmed. He liked to hear 
 you, father. I know his face quite well by now. He 
 
MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 303 
 
 only looks dull. And he is so modest and unassum- 
 ing. How are you feeling?'* 
 
 " My head buzzes with those confounded airs in the 
 Jollity pieces. I thought I had got hold of a motif, 
 when a barrel organ began to grind out 'In Cowslip 
 Time.' I hear it now." 
 
 "Let us go for a walk," said Mollie. 
 
 Dun days followed. Phrases out of "Solomon's 
 Garden" floated into David's mind in obedience to his 
 intense demand for them, were laboriously picked out 
 on the piano, and then recorded by the phonograph. 
 David said despairingly: 
 
 "I was at my best when I wrote it; now I am at my 
 worst. I conceived of my garden as the Garden of 
 the Soul, the Garden of Wisdom. My highest thoughts 
 seemed to transpose themselves into sound. There 
 were moments when I knew that I was flooded with 
 inspiration, and now nothing nothing!" 
 
 "It will come back." 
 
 From this position the faithful Mollie refused to 
 move. Pignerol added, emphatically: "Yes, it will 
 come back, because it is there, complete, not a bar 
 missing. Nothing is lost." 
 
 "It is lost till it is found." 
 
 David's weakness, intensified by frequent bouts of 
 pain, aroused increasing strength in Mollie. Even 
 Pignerol marvelled, as he watched the miracle of 
 transformation, the unfolding of a Soul. He began to 
 talk to Mollie as he had talked to Mary, nourishing her 
 
3 o 4 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 mind with the thoughts which had lifted him far above 
 the vanities and vexations of a material world. 
 
 "You are doing fine work, my Mollie," he would say, 
 with a quaint chuckle. "You are picking up your 
 mother's stitches/' 
 
 "If I could make Father happier 
 
 "But you will, you will. Never doubt that for an 
 instant. Doubt is the devil, Beelzebub himself, my 
 pretty. The serpent Doubt, or Negation, brought 
 about the fall of man. I must read to you a chapter 
 in my book which deals with the Book of Genesis. 
 The Divine Force created Adam, the red clay, and 
 gave to him Eve, the soul. That soul was in its essence 
 universal and good, but if we conceive it as capable 
 of directing and transmitting energy, we must equally 
 conceive it as capable of misdirection. When the 
 complete Man, body and soul, became an agent of the 
 Most High, and an agent gifted with free will, his mis- 
 direction of the force imparted to him caused the Fall, 
 and the creation of evil. Hence the necessity of an 
 Atonement. But these are high matters, not to be 
 considered lightly. For the moment it is enough for 
 you to believe that doubt is damnation, and faith the 
 one thing necessary to salvation. Believe that it will 
 be well with your father. I have never lost faith in 
 him. He is not like ordinary men. He is a genius." 
 
 " But what is a genius ?" 
 
 "An advanced human being in whom the mind and 
 soul work harmoniously. The nearer they approach 
 to a true understanding of their separate functions, 
 
MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 305 
 
 the greater the manifestation of genius. Your father, 
 as a boy, astounded us again and again by his per- 
 ception of truths which we the Vicar, Fermor and 
 I had groped for during years. He a child 
 seemed to divine what was best for his own develop- 
 ment. It was something in him that prevented his 
 being sent to a public school. He was able to repel 
 influences likely to injure him; he seemed to grasp intui- 
 tively the things that were right for his development 
 as a musician. He was adopted by the right man; 
 he married the right woman. The result so Fermor 
 always maintained was 'Solomon's Garden.' I am 
 no musician, so I did not see this at the time. I know 
 now that up to a point mind and soul had advanced 
 hand in hand. But when he misdirected his aims 
 toward a facile success, I can see plainly how inevitably 
 the mind drifted farther and farther from the soul. 
 But I believe, and you must believe, that the two will 
 come together again. Our belief will help him. He 
 is dependent upon you in a sense which you cannot 
 
 measure." 
 
 "Do you mean that I am necessary to him ?" 
 
 "Most emphatically/' 
 
 To his surprise, he saw a faint shadow in her eyes, 
 which blurred his vision of her. She said, hesitatingly: 
 
 "I can do so little." 
 
 "Pah! What a parrot cry! Little? Do you dare, 
 my Molliekins, to say what is little or big ? Can you 
 measure the influence of one human being upon 
 another ? Ah, well, I am beginning to wish that 
 
3 o6 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 my book was in print. The influence that a baby, 
 a morsel of pink and white flesh, may have upon the 
 wisest man is incalculable. Your father never discov- 
 ered what he owed to your mother till she passed to the 
 other side. The work she began, you must finish." 
 
 His power of arousing enthusiasm in others, his 
 flaming desire to help those less strong than 
 himself, created an illumination in Mollie, which 
 shone steadfastly in her eyes, as she answered: 
 
 "I will have faith. What I can do, I will do." 
 
 That night, alone with David, Pignerol dropped the 
 same balm upon an abraded and burning consciousness 
 of failure and humiliation. 
 
 "Why did I not die?" David asked. "My music 
 has gone. There is nothing left for a blind cripple 
 to do, except to make the lives of those about him 
 miserable." 
 
 " Do you know what you are doing ? " 
 
 "I am a nuisance to myself and everybody in this 
 house. I am keeping you from your work; I am turning 
 Mollie into a drudge." 
 
 "Not so. You are turning Mollie from a rather 
 frivolous, vain, selfish little girl into something like 
 an angel." 
 
 "That's the good in her, bless her!" 
 
 "Ah, David, you are the instrument which has 
 wrought the change. Had you died, Mollie, I fear, 
 might have never learned to live. You spoiled her; 
 you never saw the weeds in her soul." 
 
 "What do you say?" 
 
MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 307 
 
 Pignerol repeated the phrase, slightly astonished 
 at the excitement in David's face. 
 
 "The weeds in her soul ? Why does that make me 
 thrill? Why do I feel so certain that it is true?" 
 Weeds? And yet" -he passed h;s hand over a 
 forehead wrinkled by the effort to grasp some fugitive 
 thought " I did see weeds. Where ? When ? My 
 God! If if I knew! " 
 
 Pignerol touched him, gently but firmly. 
 
 " Knowledge comes to the serene and patient. Be 
 calm, David! Don't speak! I will try to the best of 
 my ability to help you. Lie back in your chair. So. 
 Let me hold your hands. Now, together, let us make 
 a tiny experiment. Put from you these turbulent 
 thoughts and regrets. Imagine, if you can, that you 
 are about to fall into a pleasant sleep. Believe that the 
 light will come." 
 
 As he spoke his kind voice had the tender inflection 
 of a woman's, his touch soothed the quivering 
 nerves of his patient; the virtue of a powerful will 
 concentrated upon healing seemed to suffuse the tissues. 
 Presently, David experienced a delicious languor, 
 and then consciousness melted into a profound 
 sleep. When he woke, Pignerol was still holding 
 his hands. 
 
 "I dreamed," said David. 
 
 "Can you remember your dream ?" 
 
 "It has gone. Did you hypnotize me ?" 
 
 "No. I tried to calm you." 
 
 " You succeeded. How long have I been asleep ?" 
 
3 o8 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 " Not a quarter of an hour. Before you fell asleep, 
 you were trying to remember something connected with 
 weeds and Mollie." 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "Don't move! Remain as calm as possible. Now, 
 let remembrance work naturally, if it will." 
 
 After a long pause, David said uncertainly: "I 
 looked into her mind upon the night when I stood in 
 her room. And what I saw distressed me inconceivably. 
 But now the vision is blurred." 
 
 "Something has been accomplished," said Pignerol, 
 releasing David's hands. "Very little, but a step in the 
 true direction. For a moment soul and mind were 
 working in unison. That moment will come again and 
 again, but you must have patience and faith. Good- 
 night, David." 
 
 "Goodnight." 
 
 Each day, in the afternoon, Henry Middleton came 
 to Pignerol's house. Often he would stay to dinner, 
 contributing little toward the entertainment beyond an 
 attentive pair of ears. It was noticed that he seemed 
 to have plenty to say when he was alone with Mollie. 
 But Mollie, upon examination, confessed that he talked 
 of his work. He spent his mornings either reading 
 or walking about Sherborne. It leaked out that he 
 had offered funds for a much-needed purpose the 
 better equipment of the hospital. 
 
 Meantime, David made no more attempts to exhibit 
 his daughter's lover in a ridiculous light. He was 
 
MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 309 
 
 ashamed of what he had done. Nevertheless, he 
 disliked Middleton, and this dislike, although passive, 
 made itself felt in the household. To Pignerol, David 
 admitted his conviction that Mollie would accept this 
 stolid, plodding tortoise of a man. 
 
 " Because he has so much to offer ?" 
 
 "I do not say that. I--I don't know. But he 
 has impressed her; he interests her; when he doesn't 
 come she misses him." 
 
 "If she marries him, David, you must make this 
 your home." 
 
 "You are the most unselfish of men, but I couldn't. 
 Already I reproach myself because you give me your 
 afternoons and evenings." 
 
 "Rubbish!" 
 
 At this crisis, the burly Lorimer appeared. He had 
 just returned from a holiday abroad, full of plans for 
 the future and with an appetite for work sharpened by 
 six weeks abstinence. With him came the atmosphere 
 of the town, its pungent flavour, its energy and move- 
 ment. To David's surprise, Lorimer expressed cordial 
 approval of the production of the oratorio. 
 
 "Why this complete somersault ?" David asked. 
 
 "My dear fellow, the moment has come. I shall 
 take delight in relieving you of all responsibility. I 
 promise the Albert Hall, and a galaxy of stars. You 
 are, of course, the man of the hour. Your astounding 
 recovery 
 
 "Recovery!" 
 
3 io THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 " I mean the fact that you are alive. It will be said 
 that you were spared to produce a masterpiece." 
 
 "I was. Well paragraphed that will make an 
 impression." 
 
 Quite unconscious of a derisive note, the worthy 
 Lorimer continued: "Just so. An enormous interest 
 could be worked up. Again I say, leave that to me. 
 A musical comedy from you, at the moment when, 
 when 
 
 "When I am half-dead." 
 
 "Come, come, you understand. Give me credit 
 for a certain delicacy, but the fact remains that a serious 
 work from a man almost raised from the dead would be 
 taken seriously. It might be expedient to let the 
 public believe that the oratorio is your latest as well as 
 your greatest work eh ?" 
 
 "My latest? Urn! It is likely to be very late 
 indeed." 
 
 " What do you mean ? This is the psychological 
 
 moment." 
 
 "Unfortunately the score has been destroyed." 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 " I did it by mistake." 
 
 "But surely it's in your head ?" 
 
 "Bits of it. I have the libretto, and that I can 
 improve, but the music won't come back except 
 by fits and starts." 
 
 "This is upsetting." 
 
 "Very." 
 
 Accordingly, Lorimer returned to Bond Street 
 
MOLLIE PICKS UP STITCHES 311 
 
 with an unsigned agreement in his pocket. But he 
 told himself that he had inspired David with some 
 of his former ambition. And this was true. The old 
 leaven began to work and ferment. Lorimer's vehe- 
 ment assurance that the oratorio would create a prodi- 
 gious sensation whetted to fresh keenness David's 
 appetite for recognition. 
 
 Morning after morning he would seat himself at the 
 piano, and play over certain themes. Opposite 
 Pignerol's piano stood the small American organ used 
 by Fermor. David would limp from one instrument 
 to the other, treating his theme in half a dozen different 
 ways, but quite unable to make up his mind which was 
 the best. When at length he arrived at a decision, 
 the music was played upon the piano, and then recorded 
 by the phonograph. After that began the hardest 
 labour. Note by note, David would dictate to Mollie, 
 often pausing, always dissatisfied with the result, but 
 persevering with a resolution which Pignerol assured 
 him must bear fruit. Lorimer had undertaken the 
 orchestration of the score. 
 
 Presently it became evident to both Mollie and 
 Pignerol that David would break down under this 
 immense strain. Pignerol protested, but David laughed. 
 
 "I'm started," he replied grimly. "And I shall go 
 till I drop." 
 
 To Mollie's question, "Can we do nothing?" 
 Pignerol answered, "We can watch and pray." 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 MOLLIE SEES TWO ROADS 
 
 IN EARLY September, Henry Middleton left Sher- 
 borne, summoned to Scotland by the Prime 
 Minister. David heard of his departure through 
 Pignerol. His passive attitude toward his daughter's 
 lover had made confidence on her part difficult. 
 
 "What does this mean?" David asked. 
 
 "A big colonial appointment/' 
 
 "And he has said nothing to Mollie ?" 
 
 "Nothing yet. But he's coming back." 
 
 "Persistent beggar!" muttered David. Then in a 
 voice which he tried to make soft, he said : " Of course 
 she will take him." 
 
 "We none of us know." 
 
 David burst out vehemently: "Well, make this 
 plain to the child, for I can't trust myself to speak 
 about it - She must not refuse him on my account." 
 He became more agitated. "Do you understand? 
 Dear as she is to me, dearer every day, and closer, I 
 won't have her light put out because I'm in darkness. 
 To keep that radiant creature tied to a cripple 
 God! What a thought!" 
 
 " Has she given no hint to you ?" 
 
 "No; that is my fault. I showed my dislike to 
 Middleton too plainly. Oh, he's one of the best, no 
 
 3" 
 
MOLLIE SEES TWO ROADS 313 
 
 doubt, hut I couldn't have cottoned to an archangel 
 that wanted my Mollie." 
 
 Meantime, the work on the oratorio continued slowly 
 and laboriously. Upon the new score was lavished 
 all of David's science and art, but the higher inspiration 
 was lacking. And, by night and day, he complained 
 of the gadfly tormentings of musical-comedy tunes. 
 
 "I can't get rid of them," he said furiously. "They 
 keep the themes I want at bay." 
 
 Two days later he broke down, and was forced to 
 take to his bed, racked by neuralgic pains which assailed 
 the back of his eyes and his spine. The doctor in 
 attendance prescribed absolute rest. 
 
 In a gust of futile rage, David commanded Mollie to 
 tear up what had been so laboriously transcribed. 
 But Mollie refused. Her patience and good temper 
 never failed; and the simple Gallic gaiety which makes 
 much out of little brightened even the darkest hours. 
 She devised absurd games, and each day published a 
 long chronicle of the doings in the family. Pignerol 
 called her, ma bonne petite gazette. To him and to 
 everybody else it became evident that she was indeed 
 the light of her father's eyes. Her presence, her touch, 
 her laugh exercised an extraordinary influence over 
 David, and, perhaps, the knowledge that she alone 
 could comfort and distract him spurred her too willing 
 spirit to even more devoted endeavour. 
 
 And, adoring her as he did, David said to himself 
 each day: "I shall lose her and what then ?" 
 
 He had been confined to his bed about a week when 
 
3 i4 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 the news came of Middleton's appointment, an appoint- 
 ment which as The Thunderer pointed out was 
 the recognition on the part of the Government of the 
 ablest administrator of his day. David heard from 
 Mollie of this appointment, but he could only guess 
 from the tone of her voice, which was not quite steady, 
 that she was excited and delighted. He asked no 
 questions and contented himself with sending a court- 
 eous message of congratulation to be delivered to 
 Middleton upon his arrival. Mollie added that she 
 was expecting him soon. She spoke quite calmly. 
 David was puzzled, divining that she wished to spare 
 his feelings. And, immediately, she had changed the 
 channel of talk from Middleton to himself with an 
 abruptness which aroused suspicion. As she was 
 adjusting a pillow, he caught her head between his 
 hands,, and kissed a cheek which he discovered to be 
 wet, although she was laughing at the time. With 
 intensity, David whispered: 
 
 "You darling little woman, how happy you are 
 going to make some lucky fellow." 
 
 Mollie, hoping he had not noticed the tell-tale moist- 
 ure and reflecting that in any case he would believe 
 that pity for his sufferings had made her weep, re- 
 sponded lightly: 
 
 "You are the man I want to make happy." 
 
 Next day, she failed to find the morning paper, 
 which she read aloud to David between the hours of 
 ten and eleven. Usually, it lay upon the hall table; 
 but she saw that it had been taken away, and directly 
 
MOLLIE SEES TWO ROADS 315 
 
 afterward Pignerol appeared with the paper in his 
 hand and a shadow upon his pleasant rosy face. 
 
 "Come here," he said gravely. 
 
 She followed him into his study. 
 
 "A friend of your father's has committed suicide." 
 
 "Who, who?" 
 
 "Harold Newsom. Read." 
 
 The body had been discovered at the bottom of a 
 deep pool in a Scotch river. Upon Newsom's desk 
 was a sheet of paper upon which the unhappy man 
 had set down his reasons for committing suicide. 
 Disappointment, it seemed, had consumed a body 
 never too robust. Confronted by the spectre of an 
 incurable malady, he claimed the right to end a life 
 no longer worth the living. In a short editorial, it 
 was mentioned that his father, the famous iconoclast, 
 had maintained this right emphatically, and in par- 
 ticular where it could be shown that the dragging out 
 of existence imperilled the happiness of others. A 
 dictum of the great man was quoted: "Scrap the worn- 
 out machine!" 
 
 Mollie read the editorial, and glanced at her grand- 
 father, who said : " We must keep this from your father. 
 It would distress him greatly." 
 
 "Yes," said Mollie. 
 
 "It is possible," continued Pignerol, "that this 
 appointment of Middleton's had something to do with 
 the tragedy." 
 
 "O!" 
 
 "Newsom and Middleton were at Balliol together. 
 
3 i6 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Newsom, so I have always understood, was regarded 
 as the more brilliant man." 
 
 "If there was any jealousy behind the act Mr. 
 Middleton will be very unhappy. I had a letter from 
 him this morning." 
 
 "A letter?" 
 
 " A few lines. He is coming here this afternoon." 
 
 Suddenly Pignerol remembered that he had not 
 spoken to Mollie. Hesitatingly, he began: "I have 
 something to say to you, my Molliekins. Perhaps I 
 shall say it better, if you perch yourself on my lap, as 
 your mother used to do when she was your age." 
 
 She blushed, guessing what was coming, and averting 
 her face. Pignerol's voice was very sympathetic as 
 he whispered: "This appointment of Middleton's is 
 a very serious affair hem?" 
 
 "Very for him and others." 
 
 " It is of the others I would speak. We have seen 
 how it is with him. It jumps to the eye that he wants 
 you." 
 
 " He has not said so," murmured Mollie. 
 
 "Because of that I have invited you to sit on my 
 knee. He will speak as soon as he arrives. And 
 then, what will you reply, my child ? " 
 
 "I don't know," said Mollie nervously; with vehe- 
 mence, she continued, " I can't leave father." 
 
 "Mollie, I am speaking for your father. Perhaps 
 afterward I will say a word for myself. For the 
 moment your father is speaking, not I. The thought 
 of any sacrifice on your part is terrible to him. He 
 
MOLLIE SEES TWO ROADS 317 
 
 writhes, I tell you, under the possibility of it. And he 
 charged me to tell you this before Middleton arrives." 
 
 "He does not like Mr. Middleton." 
 
 "Because he doesn't understand him." 
 
 "Thank you for that." 
 
 "The girl who marries Henry Middleton will be very 
 lucky. If he were poor and obscure I should say the 
 same thing." 
 
 Mollie kissed him, and Pingerol knew then that 
 Middleton had not been wasting his time in Sherborne. 
 In a different tone the Professor continued : 
 
 "Now I will add my word." 
 
 He paused, wondering how it would be received. 
 Was the soil ready for the seed ? Then he said 
 softly: 
 
 "The thought of sacrifice is not terrible to me." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "After the fall, sacrifice became necessary. Nobody 
 believes to-day in burnt offerings of sheep and goats, 
 but they represented in patriarchal times a vital oppor- 
 tunity for self-denial. Misdirected energy, my Mollie, 
 can only be redirected aright through sacrifice. When 
 you understand that, you will have the key to the 
 Bible, and to the mysteries which it sets forth in 
 allegory and parable." 
 
 "When I was on my way to Blois I prayed that 
 Father might be alive, and I made a sort of covenant." 
 
 "A covenant?" 
 
 "That if he was spared, I would do anything 
 anything that might be required." 
 
3 i 8 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "You had no idea of what might be required ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And now, to-day, you see two roads, one, perhaps, 
 a broad, easy way, and the other not so easy, not so 
 broad?" 
 
 "Yes," she whispered. 
 
 "Child, which are you going to take ?" 
 
 He almost believed that Mary was speaking, when 
 she answered firmly, "I am going to stay with 
 Father." 
 
 "So be it," said Pignerol. After a pause he added, 
 " But you must not look back." 
 
 " I shall try not to." 
 
 "If you try hard enough you will succeed. To look 
 back with regret and sadness, to let your mind dwell 
 upon the broad, easy way, will poison your life and his. 
 But this is certain. To those who choose the narrow 
 path and walk in it serene and hopeful, it broadens day 
 by day, till it becomes in truth the Perfect Way. And 
 the other, unless all human experience is at fault, 
 changes inversely, ever narrowing and darkening till 
 at length we cease to walk upright in it, but slide head- 
 long into bottomless abysses." 
 
 Suddenly she clutched him as if afraid. 
 
 "You will help me if I stumble." 
 
 "Gladly. All the same, I would have you believe 
 that if the energy, the force, lies without, to be had for 
 the asking, still the perception of spiritual truth is 
 within and comes from the Divine within, the God in 
 whose image we were made. By the light within, 
 
MOLLIE SEES TWO ROADS 319 
 
 Mollie, you will walk bravely along the path you have 
 chosen." 
 
 " Father must not know." 
 
 "Not yet. Otherwise the sacrifice would be in 
 
 vain/ 3 
 
 They rose, gazing into each other's eyes. It was 
 difficult to believe that the man had lived nearly 
 seventy years and the girl less than twenty. Youth was 
 as conspicuous in Pignerol as in his grandchild: the 
 youth which is immortal, which ever expects and 
 demands greater joys, an ampler life, a wider intelli- 
 gence, a more vital sympathy. 
 
 While Pignerol was talking to Mollie, David lay 
 upon his back thinking of the girl's wet cheek and 
 cursing the darkness that hid her face from him. Was 
 she about to leave him ? 
 
 Did she love Henry Middleton ? 
 
 His mind concentrated upon this point of inter- 
 rogation. If he could look for one instant into her clear 
 eyes, he would know. Because such vision was denied, 
 he rebelled passionately. So Prometheus suffered, 
 and Job. 
 
 That afternoon the doctor spoke of an improvement. 
 David laughed grimly. 
 
 " What do you mean by improvement ? I had a 
 very bad night." 
 
 "You have extraordinary vitality, Mr. Archdale." 
 
 "Tell me the truth. I lie here knowing that half 
 the time I am being humbugged by kind but well- 
 
320 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 meaning friends. Am I likely to make old bones 
 after all?" 
 
 "Quite likely." 
 
 "I might attain threescore years and ten?" 
 
 "With care yes." 
 
 "Other people's care, eh ?" 
 
 As he put the question, he saw himself being led 
 down the long years. The doctor, accustomed to 
 work in a town, where certain expressions and senti- 
 ments were expected of him, added with unction: "You 
 can thank God for an excellent constitution." 
 
 "Can I ?" said David, derisively. 
 
 The worthy doctor reddened. 
 
 "I don't say that to humbug you; your constitution 
 is of iron." 
 
 " And with care - David laughed again. " Was 
 there ever a patient of yours who received more care ?" 
 
 The doctor took part of the compliment to himself; 
 it may be added that he deserved it. 
 
 " Mr. Archdale, the care of you is a matter of world- 
 wide importance. I realize my own responsibility, 
 I can assure you. That is why I lay so much stress 
 upon absolute rest." 
 
 "Rest?" David laughed again. 
 
 " I entreat you to cooperate with us and Nature. I 
 shall look in again to-morrow." 
 
 To-morrow! 
 
 Yes; and the day after and the day after that! 
 Out of the gloom they came, these grisly to-morrows; 
 an endless procession of days without light or colour, 
 
MOLLIE SEES TWO ROADS 321 
 
 each the black counterfeit of its predecessor: dim 
 sentinels lining the perspectives of Time. 
 
 "Did you bring the morphia ?" 
 
 The neuralgia during the previous night had been 
 so severe that an ordinary composing draught failed 
 to alleviate it. Accordingly, at David's request, the 
 doctor had consented to bring a little morphia to be 
 injected hypodermically, if the pain became very 
 acute. 
 
 "Yes; but you won't need it." 
 
 " Professor Pignerol will administer it, if necessary." 
 
 "Very well; I will give it to him. I repeat you 
 are much better. But a chill, the slightest fatigue, 
 an indiscretion in diet, and you would be worse 
 then ever. This is a superb appointment of Mr. 
 Middleton's?" 
 
 David smiled, detecting a curious note. The doctor 
 misinterpreted the smile. By this time all Sherborne 
 had guessed the reason of Middleton's presence amongst 
 them. 
 
 "That appointment," continued the doctor blandly, 
 "may have something to do with your improvement, 
 which is really very marked. I trust I am not indis- 
 creet, Mr. Archdale. I have girls of my own. The 
 papers say that a peerage will be conferred. The 
 Colonials dearly love a lord. Well, I must be going. 
 By the way, the death of his friend is a very shocking 
 affair, eh?" 
 
 "What friend?" asked David, indifferently. 
 
 "Harold Newsom, the novelist." 
 
322 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 " Harold Newsom ? I know him quite well. Dead ? 
 How did he die ? Confound it! Pignerol must have 
 kept this from me. I'm not a baby. Pray tell me the 
 details." 
 
 The doctor did so, not very willingly, for he per- 
 ceived that he had been indiscreet. David listened. 
 At the end he said slowly: "Poor fellow! He was an 
 unhappy, soured man. He made others unhappy. 
 Perhaps he has done the one thing possible." 
 
 "Suicide, unless the mind is deranged, is cowardice/' 
 
 " Are we to have no pity for cowards ?" 
 
 "He had a wife and children. What a blow to 
 inflict upon them!" 
 
 "They will get over it," said David harshly. 
 
 The doctor dismissed the subject with a wave of his 
 hand. As he rose, he said authoritatively: "Remem- 
 ber! We must make haste slowly. Remain in bed! 
 Don't worry! With care all will be well." 
 
 He pressed David's hand and hastened away. 
 David laughed. With care all would be well! With 
 care he might attain unto threescore years and ten! 
 
 With care! 
 
 The word ground itself into his soul. Always he 
 had been more ready to give than to receive. He had 
 entertained, but he had not accepted entertainment in 
 return. Of late years, for instance, other men's music 
 had rather bored him. He was not interested in 
 science. Of sport he knew little. Cards amused 
 him mildly. Because of these ignorances and indif- 
 ferences he seldom went to other men's houses, although 
 
MOLLIE SEES TWO ROADS 323 
 
 his own house was called the Archdale Arms. Now, 
 constrained to an enforced inactivity, he was able to 
 compute, perhaps for the first time accurately, what 
 his work had been to him. Without work and with- 
 out Mollie what would be left ? Unutterable weariness 
 of spirit and flesh. 
 
 He began to think of Newsom, and tried to remem- 
 ber when he had last seen him. Surely at luncheon 
 at the club. Newsom had held forth afterward upon 
 the eternal topic of self-advertisement and log-rolling. 
 But, behind this as before was the exasperating 
 sense of some other meeting which eluded the antennae 
 of his memory stretching out, hither and thither, feeling 
 for a remembrance really vital. Why were Wrest and 
 Thelluson associated with Newsom ? 
 
 Presently, Pignerol looked in. Middleton was on 
 his way to Sherborne, and might be expected about 
 tea-time. 
 
 "Did you speak to Mollie?" asked David. 
 
 "I did," said Pignerol. 
 
 "I hope you made it plain beyond shadow of doubt 
 that any sacrifice on her part would drive me stark 
 mad?" 
 
 " I told her that you were writhing at the possibility." 
 
 "Thank you. Why did Mollie and you keep this 
 Newsom matter from me ?" 
 
 " It was so shocking. I intended to break it to you 
 quietly. Shall I read ? Or would you prefer to 
 talk?" 
 
 "If you are considering me, go back to your book. 
 
324 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Not being able to work, I can at least console myself 
 with the reflection that I am not making others idle." 
 He spoke emphatically, and Pignerol saw that he 
 meant it. Accordingly, he went away. David lay 
 upon his back, thinking of Newsom lying at the bottom 
 of some quiet, translucent pool at rest! 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 IN THE GARDEN 
 
 MOLLIE was in the garden when Middleton 
 arrived. He came slowly toward her with 
 an expression upon his face not easy to 
 interpret. After the first greeting he sat down saying, 
 in reply to her congratulations: 
 
 "It is a great honour and a great responsibility. 
 But I can think of nothing but this affair of Newsom's. 
 He was a friend of mine." 
 
 "Yes, I knew." Then she added, "He was a 
 friend of father's." 
 
 "We were at Balliol together," said Middleton. "A 
 wonderfully clever fellow. He must have heard of my 
 appointment a few hours before his death. He sent 
 me a telegram unsigned: " Moriturus, te saluto!" 
 
 "What a cruel thing to do!" exclaimed Mollie. 
 
 " Cruel ? I don't think he meant it that way. Poor 
 fellow! I am so sorry. I let myself drift apart from him." 
 
 "I am sure that he drifted from you." 
 
 As he looked at her with his steady eyes, she blushed, 
 and to cover her confusion asked hurriedly: "Were 
 you jealous ? Did that come between you ?" 
 
 "Oh, no," replied Middleton simply. "He had all 
 the qualities which I have not. I must have bored 
 
 him horribly. And now " 
 
 325 
 
326 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "The papers spoke of his wife and children. Oh, 
 how could he abandon them ?" 
 
 "An unselfish motive is assigned." 
 
 "You mean because he was ill, broken down ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mollie hesitated for a moment; then she said softly: 
 " Do you believe that women only care for a man when 
 he is strong and successful?" As he made no reply, 
 she continued vehemently: "Suppose that another's 
 ill health is the one thing, perhaps the only thing, 
 necessary to develop a woman, to make her what she 
 was intended to be?" 
 
 "I had not thought of that," he confessed. "I," 
 he looked at her face, "I should hate to be a burden 
 upon the woman I loved." 
 
 "One hears all the strong men that have ever lived 
 repeating that." She laughed, with a mixture of 
 derision and pity, as if she divined that he with his 
 immense experience was grotesquely ignorant upon this 
 particular subject. Then, with a tenderness and 
 humility which thrilled her lover, she whispered : " We 
 do adore strength, but some men make things too easy 
 for the women they love, and then the women become 
 pigs, wallowing in clover and sunshine. I know, 
 because I have wallowed." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 She nodded. Her hand lay close to his. It was 
 delicately outlined against the stone bench upon which 
 it rested. Middleton stared at it, seeing new beauty 
 in its lines. She wore no rings, and Middleton had 
 
IN THE GARDEN 327 
 
 thought of the gems which he would like to buy for that 
 hand. At this moment, he saw it for the first time as 
 the hand of a ministering angel. He imagined it 
 poised above his own head, about to touch a burning 
 forehead. At times he suffered with acute headache. 
 And he told himself that Mollie would charm away 
 pain with a touch of her fingers. He looked at her face, 
 now half turned from his. 
 
 She had changed. 
 
 It was amazing that this change had escaped his 
 notice. A certain girlish plumpness had vanished. 
 She appeared a woman. The flesh had undergone 
 some refining process. It was impossible, for instance, 
 to conceive of this fair creature as wallowing! 
 
 "I can't believe it," he said. "What I can believe, 
 and it has only come to me this instant, is that a man 
 might well accept ill-health or any other misfortune 
 if such a woman as you were at his side to comfort him." 
 
 As she said nothing, he took her hand, and con- 
 tinued quickly: "I have come here, because I want 
 something far, far bigger than any appointment in the 
 Empire. And the bigness of it makes me realize my 
 own smallness. Mollie, dear Mollie, you know what 
 I want, don't you ?" 
 
 With her head still averted, she answered, "Yes." 
 
 As she spoke she remembered that upon this bench 
 her father had asked her mother to become his wife. 
 She knew the story of that long and simple courtship, 
 and she had told herself again and again that she in 
 her turn would like to be wooed in a garden, in some 
 
328 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 quiet, secluded spot fragrant with associations which 
 still distilled an enchanting essence. 
 
 " Mollie, are you going to give me what I want ?" 
 
 His voice trembled, as his grasp upon her hands 
 tightened. She thrilled and shivered. 
 
 "Have I been too abrupt?" he whispered. "I'm 
 a duffer at love-making. You are the first, and when 
 I look at you I feel such a clown. I can wait a little 
 longer, if you are not quite sure/' 
 
 "You have always wanted me?" 
 
 "From the first hour." 
 
 "Why, I wonder?" 
 
 " Because you are so different to other girls." 
 
 Mollie laughed, withdrawing her hand. 
 
 "I have something to tell you," she said; "a sort 
 of confession. If you had asked me to marry you 
 when I was with Mrs. Stormont, I should have jumped 
 at such a chance. Different to other girls! Not I. 
 I wanted what you could give me, a big position. I 
 purred to myself when I thought of being called * Your 
 Excellency.' I thought of the Middleton diamonds 
 and heaps of things, but I didn't think much of you. 
 As for being in love, well, I was in love with myself - 
 head over ears. When you talked to me about your 
 work, I was bored, but I consoled myself with the 
 thought that it engrossed you. Mrs. Stormont hinted 
 rather plainly that a husband with plenty to do generally 
 allowed his wife a free hand." 
 
 "Why 'do you tell me this?" 
 
 " I was like that not three months ago, I may become 
 
IN THE GARDEN 329 
 
 like that again. Father's accident made me see things 
 in a different light. And my talks here with grand- 
 father and you " 
 
 "And me?" 
 
 " Have driven out some of the imps which possessed 
 me, but they might come back if, if 
 
 " If ? " He held her glance firmly. 
 
 She replied resolutely, " If I married you." 
 
 "You refuse to marry me?" 
 
 "Yes," she said softly. 
 
 "Because you don't care enough?" 
 
 She remained silent, listening to his voice, slightly 
 harsh, and broken by surprise and distress. 
 
 "I thought you cared. I swear that I should not 
 have spoken, unless I believed that you cared not for 
 position and money but for me and also for my work. 
 In a sense my work represents me. If my work bores 
 you, you are right to refuse to marry me. But I thought 
 I hoped that you were interested, keen." 
 
 "I am keen now. I could work with you." 
 
 He stared at her despondently and muttered: 
 
 "I see. You are too kind to speak the brutal truth. 
 I have not succeeded in inspiring love." 
 
 Her silence so puzzled him that he took her face 
 between his hands and said masterfully: 
 
 "I want an answer; I must have an answer. Am 
 I personally distasteful to you? Yes or no?" 
 
 "N no." 
 
 "You like me? Yes or no?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
330 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "Much or little ?" 
 
 "Much." 
 
 "Then what on earth stands between us?" 
 
 "Father. I can't leave him." 
 
 She released herself with dignity. 
 
 "I have thought of your father. He could live 
 with us." 
 
 "He couldn't." 
 
 "In any case I should not dream of asking you to 
 leave him till his health is re-established. And I am 
 sure that he would be the last man in England to 
 keep you tied for ever to him." 
 
 "He would not tie me. I shall tie myself." 
 
 "Very well. Let us become engaged. I can wait. 
 I have waited for everything worth while which has 
 
 come to me." 
 
 He tried to draw her to him, but she resisted. When 
 his strength seemed likely to prevail, she murmured: 
 "Don't make things too hard. An engagement is 
 impossible. If Father suspected that I cared, it would 
 be terrible, because then he would say to himself that he 
 was keeping me from you. I cannot argue about it. 
 Father must be made to believe that you have asked 
 me to be your wife, and that I have refused you. You 
 must go back to London to-night, and please, please, 
 don't come to see me before you go abroad, and don't 
 write!" 
 
 As she spoke, hurriedly, with downcast eyes, and 
 cheeks whose colour betrayed her, Henry Middleton 
 understood. And at that moment he knew that the 
 
IN THE GARDEN 331 
 
 ultimate issue lay with him, not with her. If he chose, 
 he could entice her from what she conceived to be her 
 duty. The temptation to do so assailed him with 
 tremendous violence. Words came to his lips 
 specious arguments wherewith to tear to tatters 
 her resolution. She was at his mercy. And, behind 
 this, surged the sense of the injustice to himself. She 
 was young; she could wait; but he was middle-aged; 
 and every year, every month counted. He had made 
 so sure of her. A hot flush coloured his too pale face 
 when he remembered that he had hinted to the Prime 
 Minister concerning the possibility he was guarded 
 in all his statements of finding a wife able to play 
 her part in the great work awaiting him overseas. His 
 Chief, who was also his personal friend, had said bluntly 
 that he hoped it would be so. 
 
 Mollie may have divined what was passing through 
 his brain, for suddenly she made a gesture of protest; 
 a tiny shrug of the shoulders, which revealed pathetic- 
 ally her youth and weakness and inexperience. 
 
 Middleton, on the edge of speech, hesitated. Not 
 the least of his gifts was the power to see both sides 
 of a question. In the House, again and again, he 
 had triumphed by setting forth with admirable lucidity 
 and sincerity the case for his opponents, demonstrating 
 with every word he uttered how carefully he had con- 
 sidered the opinions and facts which governed them. 
 Because of this he had been chosen to fill an appoint- 
 ment which exacted special understanding of and 
 sympathy with conditions alien to those under which 
 
332 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Anglo Saxons live and prosper. In brief, he not only 
 knew, but acted upon, the conviction that the meat of 
 one might be poison to another. 
 
 He saw clearly that Mollie was obeying her instinct 
 and conscience. To impose upon her his ideas, how- 
 ever sane and logical, would be cruel and dangerous; 
 for in all moral exigencies he scrupulously respected 
 points of view other than his own. And he had faith 
 - which accounted for much in his career that in 
 the end conscience justified itself. He had always 
 maintained the infallibility of the "still small voice." 
 In and out of season he proclaimed the necessity of 
 acting according to one's lights, whether that light was 
 an arc lamp or a farthing dip. 
 
 He took Mollie's hand, kissed it, and walked out of 
 the garden. It was characteristic of the man that he 
 did not look back. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THROUGH THE MISTS 
 
 A I SOON as Middleton had left the garden, 
 Mollie hastened to her room, which was next 
 to David's, and divided from it by a thin lath- 
 and plaster partition. She moved lightly, but not 
 quite noiselessly; and by this time David's hearing 
 had become extraordinarily acute. He knew that 
 she had been with Middleton, and he was sure that the 
 man who had succeeded in everything undertaken 
 would succeed in the greatest enterprise of all. It was 
 unthinkable that such a personage would hazard a 
 refusal. 
 
 During the past hour, David had wrestled, even as 
 Jacob, and like him in the darkness, for that immeas- 
 urable blessing, the sense of his relation to what was 
 Highest within him, which told him that he must 
 accept Mollie's marriage not only with resignation but in 
 a spirit which would enhance her happiness. Pignerol 
 had enlightened him concerning Middleton. David, 
 in short, was alive to the fact that if Mollie was Middle- 
 ton's complement, Middleton, in even greater degree, 
 was the best possible husband for her. Pignerol had 
 laid emphasis on this, hoping thereby to make the 
 separation more tolerable to the father. 
 
 David heard the door of Mollie's room close, and 
 
 333 
 
334 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 then the click of a turned lock. A silence followed, 
 broken by a faint sob. Immediately, David sat up, 
 and the swift movement brought back the pain in the 
 spine. So acute was the attack that he gasped. 
 Clenching his teeth, he slipped out of bed, and tried 
 to grope his way to the partition. He came to the 
 open window. Here he was obliged to halt, for the 
 pain had become excruciating. The sweat was pour- 
 ing off him. He inhaled greedily the fresh evening 
 air. As he did so his attentive ear caught once more 
 an attenuated sob, peculiarly muffled. Evidently 
 Mollie's window was open also. David leaned out 
 of the casement. After a few minutes he knew that 
 his child was lying upon her bed in a paroxysm of 
 weeping, whose violence she was attempting to mitigate 
 by pressing her face against a pillow. David crawled 
 back, forgetful of his own pain, sensible only of Mollie's 
 suffering, Mollie, whom he had always regarded as 
 the most joyous creature in the world. He had not 
 conceived the possibility of her suffering like this. 
 For this was what he had suffered, the pangs of the 
 mind fiercer and more agonizing than the pangs of the 
 body. 
 
 What had happened ? 
 
 He leapt hot-foot to the conclusion that Middleton 
 had come and gone without speaking; he had made 
 this young girl love him, and at the last moment had 
 dropped her, because in her youth and inexperience 
 she might be deemed unfit to become the wife of a 
 mighty proconsul. Let it be remembered that David 
 
THROUGH THE MISTS 335 
 
 was desperately ill, with a mind and memory unhinged 
 by racking pains. 
 
 His impotence served to increase his bewilderment 
 and rage. He desired to go to his daughter, but he 
 couldn't. He asked himself why she had not come to 
 him; and, very miserably, he realized that his lack of 
 sympathy, not hers, kept them apart. 
 
 Some time must have elapsed when he heard her 
 door open, and then the familiar footfall upon the old 
 oak boards of the passage. He heard her tap upon 
 the door. Ah! he had misjudged her! She had spared 
 him the first outburst of grief, but now she was coming 
 to him, for the comfort which he yearned to give. 
 Never had she been so close, so dear, as at this instant 
 when, having ministered faithfully to him, she was 
 about to demand like solace at his hands. 
 
 "Come in," he said softly. 
 
 She entered, kissed him, and felt his arms tighten 
 about her body. She thought to herself: "Does he 
 fear that I'm going to leave him again?" Aloud, 
 she said quietly: "Father, Mr. Middleton has just 
 asked me to be his wife/' 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed David. For the moment, 
 he was too dazed to understand anything except the 
 bare words. Had she been crying because she divined 
 the price that he must pay for her happiness ? Unable 
 to speak, he heard her continue in the same quiet, ten- 
 der tone: "I have sent him away." 
 
 "Why ?" he gasped. "Is he in such a hurry to get 
 back to his work ?" 
 
336 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 "I can't marry him. Don't you understand?" 
 She laughed, so naturally that David would have been 
 deceived had he not heard her muffled sobs. "I'm 
 much too fond of my daddy to leave him." 
 
 "You have refused Henry Middleton ?" muttered 
 David. 
 
 "Yes. Of course, I feel highly honoured. And I 
 had to tell him that only a few months ago I would 
 have married him for his money and position - 
 
 "You told him that?" 
 
 " It is perfectly true. I respect him enormously, but 
 he's nearly old enough to be my father. He never 
 gave me a chance before. Of course, I am very sorry 
 for him. But I shall never marry except for love." 
 
 David almost said, "Will you swear to me that you 
 don't love this man?" For he knew that she loved 
 him. And with this knowledge he knew also that she 
 would not hesitate to lie, if a lie became necessary. He 
 could not force a lie upon her. He muttered instead : 
 
 "I thought you would take him, child." 
 
 "Because I knew you thought so, I couldn't speak 
 about Mr. Middleton. Will you forgive me?" 
 
 Then she laughed again, very lightly, because she 
 was thinking of her cleverness and daring as a skater 
 over the thinnest ice. 
 
 "So he has gone ?" said David. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "When does he leave England?" 
 
 " In about a fortnight. I - her voice never 
 faltered; she finished a sentence gallantly: "I begged 
 
THROUGH THE MISTS 337 
 
 him not to come back, and not to write. He's a proud 
 man. He won't. Father, what's the matter?" 
 
 " I am in great pain," he answered. 
 
 "Oh, dear! Has it come back ?" 
 
 "Yes; I must fight the devilish thing alone. Tell 
 your grandfather to bring up the morphia after dinner. 
 I can't face another night of this." 
 
 Left alone, the wrestling began again, a devastating 
 civil war between body and soul. The neuralgia 
 became more acute, as he struggled in the darkness to 
 see some light, however faint, which might guide him 
 out of this wilderness. Newsom had found a way, 
 and if there was any justification for Newsom, was 
 there not ten times as much for him ? He stood between 
 Mollie and happiness. Nevertheless, he knew that 
 his self-destruction would destroy Mollie's happiness. 
 The doctor had said that life lingered long when the 
 desire to live was predominant. David remembered 
 that from the moment when he had fully regained 
 consciousness and realization of his condition he had 
 resolved to live to produce his best work. Was it 
 possible that this overmastering passion had kept 
 body and soul together ? And if, now, he desired as 
 passionately to die, would not that desire find ful- 
 filment ? The doctor had imposed conditions. But 
 he was in no wise bound to accept them. 
 
 Mollie had dissembled with him; he would dis- 
 semble with her. How easy and simple to disobey the 
 doctor. He had done so already. Bathed in sweat, 
 he had remained by an open window. His throbbing 
 
338 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 head and hot dry hands told him that mischief had 
 been accomplished. 
 
 When Pignerol came upstairs, he found him suffer- 
 ing excruciating pain. The Professor administered 
 a medium dose of morphia, which took effect imme- 
 diately. David said, "What a wonderful drug!" 
 and as he spoke the lines of pain seemed to melt out 
 of his face, leaving it smooth and placid. He sank 
 back upon his pillow smiling; and the smile lingered 
 after he had fallen asleep. Pignerol sat down beside 
 the bed, gazing at the fine head upon the pillow, believ- 
 ing with deep conviction that he could help this sorely 
 stricken soul, not yet knowing how such help could be 
 transmitted, but assured that a way would be found. 
 He attempted to compose his mind with a view of mak- 
 ing it recipient to any message from the Divine Energy 
 and Wisdom within and without. After long practice 
 he had acquired a power of sensitizing himself into a 
 condition of hypnosis. Upon such occasions he gen- 
 erally ended by falling into a refreshing sleep, from 
 which he awakened conscious of renewed vitality and 
 intelligence. 
 
 To-night he failed to compose his mind. And the 
 thoughts which he tried to repel assailed him with 
 such persistence that finally he admitted himself van- 
 quished, and allowed them undisputed dominion. He 
 was wise and modest enough to believe that inasmuch 
 as these thoughts concerned David they might have 
 invaded him with definite purpose. Moreover, they 
 presented themselves in order, with a continuity super- 
 
THROUGH THE MISTS 339 
 
 latively interesting and exciting. The first thought 
 embodied itself in the profound regret that David's 
 memory of his best work had become intermittent and 
 inconsequent, a mere mutilated fragment of a once 
 splendid whole. From this Pignerol passed to a con- 
 sideration of other fragments of remembrance con- 
 cerning the period when David's life was suspended. 
 These ranged themselves in his mind: the recollection 
 of two peasants, the finding of the pocket-book, the 
 placing of the bodies in the cart, the visit to the club, 
 and the still more extraordinary experience in Mollie's 
 bedroom. Pignerol had never doubted that a remark- 
 able psychical experience had taken place. Granting 
 this, the question arose: could such an experience be 
 explained scientifically, or did it transcend human 
 understanding ? He decided that this depended upon 
 the evidence concerning David's condition after the 
 accident. If, as had been believed, David did die, 
 then the fact of his return to life was overwhelmingly 
 transcendent: a miracle comparable only to Christ's 
 resurrection. If, on the other hand, life had been 
 merely suspended, Pignerol's own observations and 
 researches would establish the journeyings of the 
 spirit as one more instance amongst scores of similar 
 spiritual excursions with which every psychologist was 
 familiar. 
 
 The conclusion was inevitable that David's death, 
 if he had died, could never be proved. Sarthe, after 
 exhibiting the usual tests, had pronounced David to 
 be dead. Now he was as emphatic in asserting that 
 
340 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 he had not died. Sarthe, with materialistic views, 
 could adopt no other position. 
 
 Pignerol turned to confront another speculation. 
 Waiving the impossibility of demonstrating the unde- 
 monstrable, it was worth while to attempt to divine the 
 reason of David's return. David believed that he had 
 come back to produce "Solomon's Garden." And well 
 might any intelligent man believe that reason to be ade- 
 quate. Nevertheless, the fact obtruded itself that 
 "Solomon's Garden" might not be produced. As 
 salient was the change in Mollie. Was it, therefore, 
 justifiable to assume that the real reason of poor 
 David's extended lease of life was other than what he 
 deemed it to be ? 
 
 Afterward, Pignerol admitted that these thoughts 
 and speculations may have engrossed him for an hour. 
 And then he made a second attempt to compose his 
 mind, always with the same end in view of making it 
 recipient to some message. He fell asleep, waking 
 suddenly to find David sitting up in bed with his sight- 
 less eyes wide open and shining with a curiously alert 
 and perceptive expression. Pignerol adn its that he 
 overlooked the fact of David's blindness. Hardly 
 awake himself, with his own sensibilities focussed 
 upon David's face, he forgot what had passed before 
 he fell asleep, forgot that David was under the influence 
 of morphia, and without reflection, as if in obedience to 
 some imperative command, addressed David by name. 
 
 David answered at once: 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
THROUGH THE MISTS 341 
 
 The monosyllable was interrogative, as if the speaker 
 expected to be asked questions. 
 
 At this moment Pignerol knew that David was 
 under the influence of a drug whose peculiar properties 
 are not yet wholly understood, and he perceived as 
 instantly that the morphia had awakened David's 
 mind. 
 
 "Can you see me ?" 
 
 "Yes," said David. 
 
 He spoke in his ordinary voice, but Pignerol noticed 
 an inflection of positiveness. 
 
 "What sort of jacket am I wearing?" 
 
 "Your old smoking-coat." 
 
 Pignerol thrust his hand into the pocket of the coat. 
 He carried notebooks in all his coats. Furtively, he 
 slipped a notebook onto his knees and opened it. 
 David's eyes never left his, and it was impossible for 
 him to see the notebook, supposing that he was not 
 blind. 
 
 "What have I got on my knees ?" 
 
 "A notebook." 
 
 "Just so. I'm going to ask you a few questions, 
 David, and I shall take down your replies." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 At this moment Mollie softly opened the door. 
 Pignerol looked round, with his fingers upon his lips; 
 then he signed to Mollie to sit down. As she passed 
 him she whispered: "I heard voices. Why does 
 father look so odd?" 
 
 "He is in a trance." 
 
342 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 She sat down behind the shaded lamp. Pignerol 
 asked the first vital question. 
 
 "Do you remember the accident to the car ?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "What happened immediately afterward?" 
 
 Pignerol set down in shorthand his own questions 
 and David's answers. In the shadows Mollie sat, 
 elbows on knees, leaning forward with her head between 
 her hands and an expression of amazement upon her 
 face. 
 
 "I found myself standing near the car. Then I 
 discovered that father was dead; then I discovered 
 that I was dead." 
 
 " You are quite sure that you were dead ?" 
 
 "Of course I was dead." 
 
 Pignerol paused, knowing the importance of control- 
 ling his feelings. Any manifestation of them might 
 awaken David, perhaps to his injury, and most cer- 
 tainly to the ruin of this experience. 
 
 " Can you tell me what happened after you realized 
 that you were dead ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Try to tell me everything." 
 
 David obeyed. His voice, quiet, clear, slightly 
 monotonous, never faltered. The story which he told 
 has been set down already. It was taken, indeed, 
 from Pignerol's notebook, and modified in form only. 
 From beginning to end Pignerol's pencil followed the 
 amazing narrative. David never paused; and Pig- 
 nerol dared not interrupt him. Afterward, he thought 
 
THROUGH THE MISTS 343 
 
 of questions he might have asked. At the time he was 
 sensible only of a conviction that David was describing 
 minutely and accurately personal experiences which 
 must have happened. 
 
 When he had finished the recital, concluding with 
 his lapse into unconsciousness, David's eyes closed; 
 his head sank back upon the pillow; he breathed 
 gently, like a child asleep. 
 
 Pignerol beckoned Mollie to follow him into the 
 passage. There he whispered: "We can leave him; 
 he will sleep for some hours, five or six at least. Come 
 to my room." 
 
 They went downstairs. 
 
 "Was he delirious?" asked Mollie. 
 
 "No." 
 
 He saw that Mollie was trembling. Tenderly, he 
 placed her in a chair, sat down beside her, and said 
 softly: "A very wonderful experience has just taken 
 place, so wonderful that I can hardly realize it. I shall 
 reread aloud these notes." 
 
 When he finished, Mollie said eagerly, "It is true ?" 
 
 " Part of it we know is true," replied Pignerol. 
 
 "It is true that upon the night of the accident I was 
 reading a vile book, it is true that I was thinking of 
 nothing except myself, of how much I could grab, of the 
 splash that I might make ? And if that part is true, 
 isn't it all true ? Why do you not answer ?" 
 
 "The utterances of persons in the hypnotic trance 
 are worthless as evidence. That has been proved. If 
 I had said to your father, 'You are John Sebastian 
 
344 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Bach/ he would have replied, 'Yes, I am/ He knows 
 about Bach, and believing himself to be Bach, he would 
 have described with accuracy what he had read about 
 Bach's life. On the other hand, had I imposed upon 
 him the conviction that he was, let us say, Themis- 
 tocles, then his description would have been inaccurate, 
 because he has never studied Greek history. Your 
 father, in a state of suspended animation, may have 
 witnessed the picking up of his body. I do not doubt 
 that he did. He may have made this astonishing 
 pilgrimage to England; he may have looked into your 
 heart. But - He paused, before he continued in 
 a different voice: "If the rest is true, if he did cross 
 to the other side, why, then, a new knowledge con- 
 cerning things hitherto unseen carries us on and upward 
 to heights I cannot measure." 
 
 "I believe that father died," said Mollie fervently. 
 " Frcm the bottom of my soul I believe it." 
 
 Pignerol kissed her. And then he locked up the 
 notebook. If the record was true, David, as a dis- 
 embodied spirit, had returned to earth for the sole 
 purpose of cleansing his daughter's soul. The pro- 
 duction of the oratorio had not been considered. 
 
 The wonder of the matter to a man whose leisure had 
 been spent in the endeavour to find a scientific reason 
 behind phenomena which to-day we rightly term super- 
 normal rather than supernatural, lay in the fact that 
 David's mission had been accomplished so far as 
 Mollie was concerned, and accomplished without 
 conscious effort on the father's part. Pignerol did not 
 
THROUGH THE MISTS 345 
 
 doubt that Mollie would advance upon the narrow path 
 till it widened into a fairway. Trials and tribulations 
 would beset her. But she would go on. Of that he 
 felt assured. And with this conviction illuminating 
 his mind, he concentrated his thought upon the father 
 still struggling with earthly ambitions, still enmeshed 
 in the nets of his own spinning. 
 
 "When will you tell father ?" 
 
 "You must leave that responsibility to me." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 THE AWAKENING 
 
 MOLLIE returned to her father's room, 
 and 'sat down beside his bed. His 
 expression had not changed: the smile 
 remained inexpressibly tender and serene ; the lines 
 traced by pain upon his face seemed to have 
 vanished. 
 
 Presently Mollie knelt down to pray that the faith 
 which flamed in her might never be extinguished, and 
 with the reiteration of the prayer she became sensible 
 of an oppression in the atmosphere. When she rose 
 from her knees, she discovered that there was a reason 
 for this. A storm impended. She went to the window 
 and opened it wide. Outside, the air was stagnant and 
 heavy; Sherborne seemed to sleep beneath the spell 
 of an uncanny silence. The room overlooked the 
 garden, and Mollie could just see the tower of the 
 Abbey Church black against a darkening sky. Light- 
 ning flared to the right of Honeycomb Hill; and after 
 many seconds a distant peal of thunder indicated that 
 a storm was approaching from the south-west. The 
 second and third flashes were more vivid; the thunder 
 followed quicker. Mollie wondered whether the noise 
 would awaken her father; but he lay still, so still that 
 she leaned over him with the fear tearing at her heart 
 
 346 
 
THE AWAKENING 347 
 
 that he might be dead. To her relief he breathed as 
 placidly as a child. 
 
 She returned to the window. 
 
 Ever since she could remember, she had been afraid 
 of storms. As the thunder roared louder she experi- 
 enced the familiar terror, the desire to hide, to rush 
 to her own room, to bury her head beneath thick 
 blankets. For the first time she fought this impulse, 
 remaining at the window, pale and trembling. The 
 storm was increasing in violence and likely to burst 
 with fury upon the town. So far it had been accom- 
 panied by neither wind nor rain. 
 
 She hoped that Pignerol would come to her, but she 
 remembered with a qualm that he was the soundest of 
 sleepers. He boasted that thunder never disturbed him. 
 
 At this moment she reflected that the storm would 
 put to the test her newly formed resolutions. Had 
 she not promised her grandfather that she would walk 
 upon her self-appointed path serenely ? 
 
 Thunder and lightning began to crash and flash 
 simultaneously. Mollie's hands went halfway to her 
 eyes. Then, with a tremendous effort her arms fell 
 and she stared valiantly into the darkness and silence. 
 The lightning seemed to strike the pinnacles of the 
 tower; the thunder pealed unceasingly. Then the 
 wind rushed down in fury, shrieking through the trees 
 in the garden. Five minutes later the masses of black 
 cloud were rent asunder and a tropical rain descended 
 in torrents. 
 
 The storm passed. 
 
348 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 David still slept. From the wet garden rose the 
 penetrating smell of earth and the fragrance of crushed 
 herbs. The stars shone with steadier radiance. And 
 into Mollie's soul flowed the glad sense of triumph, 
 of a victory over the flesh. The storm had strengthened 
 her. Its terrors were put to flight, never to return. 
 
 She left the window. Gazing at David, she thought 
 of her mother, now so wonderfully alive, such an 
 unbreakable link between the here and the hereafter. 
 Mary had sent back David to save her! 
 
 The hours glided by, for Mollie was on an amazing 
 journey, beholding through her father's eyes that other 
 side in which hitherto she had taken but the vaguest and 
 most shadowy interest. Now, in panoramic splendour, 
 it was revealed, no mirage, but eternal substance. 
 
 Dawn was breaking when David woke. To the 
 left of Jerusalem Hill a silvery line transmuted itself 
 into gold. Mollie, more alive than she had ever been 
 to the significance of a new day, stood beside her 
 father. As the lids of his sightless eyes raised them- 
 selves, she took his hand. He murmured her name. 
 
 "I am here," she answered. 
 
 He said slowly, " I've had a wonderful dream." 
 
 "A dream," she repeated softly. 
 
 "I saw your mother; I heard her voice. I went to 
 her; she has never come to me, Mollie." 
 
 "Tell me about your dream." 
 
 He did not answer. A frown settled upon his fore- 
 head; the lines deepened about his mouth and eyes. 
 
THE AWAKENING 349 
 
 Then he said wearily: "I heard music, the music I 
 want, but it has gone." At the end of a long pause 
 he added feebly, "There is nothing nothing." 
 
 She kissed him and asked if he was in pain. 
 
 "The pain has gone too," he replied in a firmer 
 voice. " But I'm tired, worn out. What time is it ? 
 When did you come in?" 
 
 "I have been here all night." 
 
 "Then you must lie down at once. Perhaps I 
 shall sleep again, go back to my dreams. Leave me, 
 child." 
 
 She went to Pignerol's room, and told him that David 
 remembered nothing. 
 
 Throughout that day and the next he remained in a 
 condition of exhaustion, taking little nourishment, but, 
 fortunately, suffering no pain. He never mentioned 
 the oratorio. 
 
 Upon the third day Pignerol said to the doctor: 
 "Can you account for this condition of apathy and 
 indifference ?" 
 
 The doctor replied irritably: "I don't like it. That 
 sort of thing indicates extreme debility. His vitality, 
 you understand, justified a favourable prognosis, but 
 now his vitality is failing. The artistic temperament 
 is hard to deal with. If he could be interested in some- 
 thing apart from this confounded music!" 
 
 "I know of something," said Pignerol slowly "a 
 communication which I must make soon. It is uncon- 
 nected with his music, and it might, it must rouse him." 
 
350 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 :< Then the sooner you make it the better." 
 
 Pignerol waited another twenty-four hours. And 
 then David himself offered an opportunity. He said 
 resignedly: "I am sliding out of life; I know it. It 
 will be a blessed release for you, for Mollie, and for me. 
 My God, how tired I am! And if I could find rest, even 
 if it meant extinction for ever and ever, I should be 
 satisfied. All to-day I have been thinking of poor 
 Newsom at the bottom of that pool. I am sinking 
 as he did, down, down, down to the bottom of 
 everything. When I reach the bottom my only hope 
 is that I may stay there." 
 
 Pignerol put his hand into his pocket. 
 
 "David," he said, very solemnly, "how blind you 
 are!" 
 
 " Blind yes. I envy you your faith. What seems 
 to have been revealed to you has not been revealed to 
 
 me." 
 
 "Are you sure of that? Think well." 
 
 "I have had dreams. That's all." 
 
 "Dreams?" he repeated. "Perhaps life here is 
 only a dream, a nightmare to many. You have 
 dreamed all your life, David; now you are about to 
 wake up." 
 
 Something in his tone, a deep solemnity and impres- 
 siveness, startled David. He said quickly: 
 
 " Wake up ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 Pignerol answered the question. From time to 
 time, as he read aloud what had been set down, exclama- 
 tions burst from David's lips. Otherwise the recital 
 
THE AWAKENING 351 
 
 was not interrupted. When Pignerol had finished, he 
 perceived that David was too moved to speak. He 
 lay impassive, with eyes shut, but from beneath the 
 heavy lids tears trickled down his wasted cheeks. 
 Then his hand, lying upon the counterpane, sought 
 Pignerors, and the first words fluttered from his lips. 
 
 "You believe this to be true?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "I came back on MolhVs account?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And in my blind folly I thought that I was spared 
 to produce 'Solomon's Garden V 
 
 " You were spared to turn a wilderness into a garden, 
 You looked into MolhVs soul and saw weeds of your 
 planting. If you could look again, what a change you 
 would perceive. My son, if the lesser triumph of 
 producing a masterpiece is to be denied to you, will 
 not this infinitely greater triumph suffice?" 
 
 There was a long silence, during which the genius 
 in David Archdale revealed itself: the uprush of all 
 that was finest in his real self. Through the darkness 
 which had obscured the colours and forms which he 
 had been privileged to transpose into lovely harmonies, 
 he saw the real Solomon's Garden, the Caanan of per- 
 fect Love into which he in this life would not enter. 
 And at the same moment he realized that the setting 
 forth in music of what he saw might be accomplished 
 by him, but not here or now. In his glorious youth 
 he had come within measurable distance of such a 
 triumph. Worn out, blind, beset by mocking echoes 
 
352 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 of music unworthy of his best powers, was he physically 
 or mentally able to rehabilitate himself with the energy, 
 the vitality, the endurance which such a labour would 
 exact ? Sorrowfully he told himself that this was his 
 just and inevitable punishment. The burning of the 
 score by his own hand, unwittingly, had but fore- 
 shadowed this conscious burnt offering of ambition and 
 hope. Humbly he bowed his head and answered 
 Pignerol : 
 
 "It will suffice." 
 
 After another silence he spoke again, and his voice 
 was stronger. 
 
 "Why do you speak so authoritatively of Mollie's 
 triumph ?" 
 
 "You have quick perceptions, David. Can't you 
 guess what Mollie has sacrificed for you ?" 
 
 " I know that she loves Henry Middleton." 
 
 "How did you know?" 
 
 David explained. At the end he said faintly: "I 
 must be alone. I cannot see Mollie yet. God have 
 mercy on me for a blind, selfish fool!" 
 
 Pignerol rose, gazing at David's face. Then he 
 bent down and whispered: 
 
 " 'Let thy soul walk softly in thee as a saint in Heaven unshod; 
 For to be alone with silence is to be alone with God/" 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE HEAVENLY NOTE 
 
 BEFORE many days had passed, it became 
 evident that David's strength of body was 
 not coming back, although his mind seemed 
 to gain power and lucidity. The neuralgia vanished. 
 To satisfy what the doctor spoke of as a "public 
 demand," a famous consultant was called in. He 
 admitted, reluctantly, that nothing could be done. 
 The shock of the accident, apart from the injuries 
 to the head and limbs, must have affected the heart, 
 whose action was failing. After the consultation 
 David said: 
 
 "So I shan't make old bones after all ?" 
 
 The doctors exchanged a sharp glance. Before 
 either had time to answer, David added: "I am glad 
 it is so. Shall I have to wait long ?" 
 
 "Not very long, I think," replied the great man. 
 
 They went away, and Mollie came to him. During 
 the next hour David talked of Mary. Out of the 
 shadows of the past she emerged once more, a flesh- 
 and-blood reality. 
 
 Presently David repeated what the consultant had 
 said. Then, with a smile which Mollie could not inter- 
 pret, he added quickly: "What a pity it is that I can't 
 see you happily married before I go!" 
 
 353 
 
354 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 Mollie made no reply, not daring to speak. David 
 continued : 
 
 "You won't mourn for me, child?" 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 "You must know that I am happier than I have 
 ever been since your mother left me." 
 
 " I do know that." 
 
 " You believe that it is well with me ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 " Because of that you mustn't grieve." 
 
 "I shall try not to," she answered unsteadily, still 
 staring at the smile upon David's lips. 
 
 Two days afterward, Middleton arrived, and was 
 shown into David's room. Mollie had no idea what 
 was about to happen. As soon as David felt the grasp 
 of Middleton's hand he said eagerly: 
 
 "Have you got the license ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Everything is arranged?" 
 
 "Everything." 
 
 "Mollie does not know. If she should think that 
 I have forced her hand, you will remind her that she 
 dissembled with me. This is my little revenge: a 
 Roland for her Oliver. The Professor has managed 
 admirably. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You sail next week. She will soon join you. At 
 this moment she is in the garden, gathering flowers 
 for her own wedding. Tell her that you have come 
 
THE HEAVENLY NOTE 355 
 
 here to marry her, and that I am going to have the 
 great pleasure of giving her to you." 
 
 "How generous you have been!" 
 
 " Mollie will explain my generosity. My own mar- 
 ried life was happy, but it might have been happier 
 if I had realized how tremendously the so-called little 
 things count. But, if you can't skim all the cream you 
 want, don't let disappointment sour the milk that is 
 left. I skimmed the cream, and it disagreed with me. 
 Looking back, I see that my triumphs were so small. 
 Lying here, I think of the touch of my wife's hand, the 
 smile that never failed, the voice that was always kind. 
 Those were her triumphs, and I hardly saw them 
 through the mist of my own ambitions. But they 
 carried her from Earth to Heaven. Mollie will tell 
 you how I have come to know that those who are 
 faithful in small things do enter into the joy of the 
 Lord, here and hereafter." 
 
 The marriage took place next day, in David's room, 
 beside his bed. Once Mollie had dreamed of a gor- 
 geous ceremony in Westminster Abbey. But this 
 covenant, ratified in the presence of a dying man, and 
 by reason of that divested of aught that might distract 
 the mind from its spiritual significance, became indeed 
 a solemn, ineffaceable sacrament. 
 
 Soon after the ceremony, Middleton was obliged to 
 return to London, where affairs not to be neglected nor 
 postponed claimed his undivided attention. Mollie 
 remained with her father. 
 
356 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 He lingered longer than was expected. The last days 
 were passed in a serene tranquillity of body and spirit, 
 as if he were sinking out of cloudless skies into a smooth 
 and illimitable ocean. Many old friends came to wish 
 him farewell: the burly Lorimer, the gay Boileau, 
 DafFy-down-Dilly, Thelluson, and Wrest. Each after- 
 noon he was carried into the garden whose flowers were 
 but the symbols of the myriad beautiful thoughts and 
 actions which during long years had interpenetrated it. 
 To David the place was holy ground. Apart from 
 any personal association or experience, it was eloquent 
 of the supreme truth that the infinitely great may be 
 contained in the infinitely small. It lay in a busy city, 
 in it and of it and yet apart from it. Year after year 
 the flowers bloomed and vanished : resolving themselves 
 into other forms of life. Year after year, attacked by 
 weed and blight, they were delivered by faithful hands. 
 The garden seemed to remain the same; but it was not 
 the same, save in its expression of energy rightly directed 
 and controlled. David and Mary had created just 
 such another paradise out of the tiny plot behind their 
 cottage. Afterward, when riches came to them so 
 abundantly, there had been no garden, no sanctuary. 
 And, deprived of it, unable to bloom without it, Mary 
 had wilted and passed away. She might have lived, if 
 a garden had been provided. David remembered what 
 she had said about the rich entering the heaven that is 
 on earth, which may be described, perhaps, as the 
 garden of the soul. He thought of world-famous 
 gardens, the epitome of all that science and art and 
 
THE HEAVENLY NOTE 357 
 
 wealth can achieve, wherein wander scores of restless, 
 uneasy men and women. Truly the rich have no 
 sanctuaries because they bring their cares into 
 them. 
 
 Concerning this David said a few words to Mollie. 
 Middleton had sent to his wife a string of fine pearls 
 which she placed in her father's hands, so that he might 
 feel their size and texture. Presently she saw a shadow 
 of a frown upon his forehead. 
 
 "You are not in pain ?" 
 
 "No. But I'm trying to see you as a great lady. 
 I'm thinking of 'Her Excellency!' Your life, Mollie, 
 will be filled to the brim with excitements and activities; 
 but Henry and you must have a sanctuary into which 
 you can go alone. And in it think sometimes of my 
 'Solomon's Garden'." 
 
 " I have thought of it already as that." 
 
 He smiled, as if he could see the garden. 
 
 The end came upon a cloudless afternoon in mid- 
 October. Few leaves had fallen from the trees, and 
 the air in the garden was warm and fragrant, as if 
 summer still lingered, loath to leave the place and the 
 people. Pignerol had been reading to David and 
 Mollie passages from his book, a study of the seen 
 mounting step by step into the empyrean of the unseen, 
 and including a consideration of the human personality 
 after death. 
 
 When Pignerol finished reading, David said: "After 
 I am gone I should like my wonderful experience to be 
 
358 THE OTHER SIDE 
 
 given to the world, but let it be set forth anonymously. 
 It would hurt Mollie if I am spoken of as a blind vision- 
 ary; a few may accept my story as true, and think what 
 it will mean to them/' 
 
 "Yes," said Pignerol. "And the thought of the few 
 to-day becomes the talk of the many to-morrow." 
 Then turning over a page of his manuscript he read 
 aloud: "'The great awakening has come to some of us, 
 the knowledge that death involves no change whatever. 
 We carry hence the same desires, the same ambitions; 
 we make here our future heaven or hell, and we find it 
 there when we pass over/ ' 
 
 David shivered. 
 
 " Are you cold, father ? Shall we go indoors ?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 She noticed that his voice was weaker, and the blood 
 ebbed from his face. 
 
 "I descended into hell," he murmured, "and then I 
 ascended into heaven." 
 
 He lay silent, but Pignerol noticed that his breathing 
 had become laboured. He touched David's wrist; 
 the pulse fluttered and stopped, and then fluttered 
 again. Pignerol glanced at Mollie and made a sign. 
 
 "Listen!" said David. 
 
 He had opened his eyes. They were still limpidly 
 blue, the eyes of the boy who had sung anthems in the 
 Abbey Church. 
 
 "Do you hear anything?" 
 
 They listened. From without the garden floated the 
 familiar sounds of the ancient town: a boy's laugh, 
 
THE HEAVENLY NOTE 359 
 
 the rattle of a cart, the twittering of the sparrows, 
 the hum of voices in the street. 
 
 "What do you hear ?" asked Mollie. 
 
 "The heavenly note/' 
 
 Then, in a loud, clear, joyous tone, he exclaimed: 
 
 "Mary!" 
 
 He struggled to sit up, extending both his arms, 
 looking straight into the sun. Involuntarily, Mollie 
 followed that swift glance; and at the same moment 
 David's head fell back upon the pillow. 
 
 THE END 
 
LOAN DEFT 
 
 U. C. BERKELEY 
 
 ^D 2lA-507n-9,' 
 6889slO)476B