BEDESMAN 4 
 
 MARY-J-H-SKR1NE
 
 BEDESMAN 4
 
 KAM83C13K
 
 BEDESMAN 4 
 
 BY 
 
 MARY J. H. SKR1NE 
 
 Author of "A Stepson of the SoU," 
 "The House of the Luck," Etc. 
 
 FRONTISPIECE BY 
 ESTHER C. ADLINGTON 
 
 "Now frondes et non sua poma." 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 1914
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 
 Published, April, 1914
 
 TO 
 THE INHERITORS 
 
 2138260
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK I 
 PASTURES NEW 
 
 BOOK II 
 THE DEAD HAND .......... 57 
 
 BOOK III 
 DENIAL ............. 107 
 
 BOOK IV 
 GWEN ........ ...... 199 
 
 EPILOGUE ............ 277
 
 Book I 
 Pastures New
 
 Bedesman 4 
 
 THERE were two of them, a boy and a 
 girl. For one, this fact had wholly 
 sufficed so far. 
 
 There never had been more. Neither 
 could recall a time when there had been 
 less. There were but sixteen months be- 
 tween them. As Granny Bold told Mother 
 at the time, twins would have been a lot 
 less work. But Mother, whose deepest 
 principles forbade her to desire what was 
 not ' * sent, ' ' replied seriously that she was 
 best off as the Lord pleased. Deep with- 
 in she knew she wished for nothing but 
 Life's good gifts as they were. They 
 grew together ; the boy, strong on his feet, 
 
 3
 
 4 Bedesman 4 
 
 when lie got to them, and absorbingly in- 
 terested in Baby's comings-on and creep- 
 ings; till he guided her triumphantly be- 
 yond the kitchen and wash-house on to the 
 broad flags of the sunny garden path be- 
 tween the wall-flowers and the parrot tu- 
 lips. Thence they started, steadily and at 
 their ease, to travel on together: both 
 clearly aware of a broad road and a merry 
 one stretching on and on, under good sun- 
 shine. This outlook Mother's grave pie- 
 ties in no way altered. Calmly, naturally, 
 and without warning or flourish of trum- 
 pets, the road led them to an afternoon in 
 September, fresh and fair and soft with 
 autumn's earliest finger touch; which 
 afternoon was a beginning. 
 
 The boy stood leaning his arms along a 
 time-worn gate between one wide, green 
 meadow and the corner of another. A 
 green lane, a worn stony road-track in its 
 midst, ran away to his right between high,
 
 Pastures New 5 
 
 ragged green banks. Beyond the near 
 fields, swept by great, purpling cloud- 
 shadows and bounded by far blue hills, 
 a wide landscape stretched, sown with scat- 
 tered gray villages, which thrust ancient 
 church towers through " immemorial elms" 
 in the mid-distance. The girl sat on the 
 bank and looked at the boy, who was rub- 
 bing his round chin reflectively up and 
 down his sleeve. Still, serious, unsmiling, 
 his brown eyes gazed up the grassy lane. 
 
 His comely childish head came of a hand- 
 some family, nay, of two. But the shapely 
 brow, the absorbed gaze, the young, still 
 lips, wore an unexplained air of power 
 that was their own. You looked at him 
 twice. He wore gray knickers, knit 
 stockings, stout shoes and an ancient 
 smock-frock, a garment now, alas! fast 
 disappearing from the earth. That same 
 Granny Bold, a "terr'ble one to sew," 
 had made three of them for her dame-
 
 6 Bedesman 4 
 
 school boy William, far away in ' ' Father 's ' ' 
 childhood. Mother had put one by to be 
 a "pattern" for Emily. The other two, 
 on week-days, David was doing his level 
 best to wear out. Hate it as you may, 
 there is a fearful amount of "stand-by" 
 in a well-made smock. David looks back 
 with a tender smile to this discipline 
 of his childhood, that his mother thought 
 good for him. He has as yet known only 
 one woman fit to be a patch on his mother's 
 back. 
 
 Emily rose and wandered down the lane. 
 Her round face, fresh and sandy-haired, 
 was just the plain, wholesome countenance 
 of a healthy country child, whose chief at- 
 traction lay in a greeting look of uncon- 
 scious sincerity and good- will. Outwardly, 
 she was comfortable Granny Bold over 
 again ; who always suggested the full moon. 
 Dave was "at some of his thinkings," and 
 an unoccupied Emily gathered red and
 
 Pastures New 7 
 
 black briony with resignation and slowly. 
 There was nothing morbid about Emily, 
 but childish love is like the daughters of 
 the horseleech, crying, "Give! give!" 
 
 To her surprise a quick call brought her 
 back. Dave stood upright; his eyes were 
 eager. 
 
 "Em'ly thee got to stand like that. 
 I 've a-got all of it ! Look ee ! Down lane 
 there Cromwell's soldiers did go that day, 
 all a-running. (The pack-horses did use 
 to come up along under the wood, like Dad 
 said.) They run all down through Pike's 
 Piece there and 'long under th' archway 
 right away to river; and there 'em fell in 
 wi r Squire Darner and 's men, as cut 'em 
 all to pieces. They drove 'em right up 
 and past here again. That 's why we 
 calls it Bloody Lane." 
 
 Though tea-time approached, the sun 
 was new-risen for Emily. She followed 
 him through ellipses, mixed pronouns and
 
 8 Bedesman 4 
 
 all, though, the relevance of the pack-horses 
 remained as Greek to her. 
 
 "How do ee know?" she said, awestruck. 
 
 But at the bottom of her mind lay the 
 rooted belief that he knew all things. 
 The trouble of learning with him counted 
 for nothing. 
 
 "That gentleman what 's stopping up to 
 Eect'ry come in school. We was read- 
 ing and he come and telled up to we boys 
 'bout our countryside, and the fighting as 
 was. Folks knows a lot more things nor 
 they did use to." 
 
 "So 'em do," said Emily solemnly. 
 
 "You shut your eyes and think how 'em 
 looked! Helt-skelt! A-bangin' and a- 
 clangin' " 
 
 "Must a' looked just about horrid all 
 a-bleedin'," said frail woman. 
 
 He laughed. "I 'd a' been there, broke 
 head or none! You could get on, them 
 days. ' '
 
 Pastures New 9 
 
 "So you can now-days," said Emily stur- 
 dily. As though any one could ever have 
 got on, if he could not ! 
 
 "How do you come at it? I be goin* to 
 work after harvest. Fine lot o' chances 
 then!" 
 
 She rubbed herself against his shoulder 
 silently. He had never said it so plain 
 before. 
 
 His eyes wandered back up the lane. 
 He opened the gate and came through, and 
 stood, absorbed again. 
 
 "Sis, thee got to go home wi' theeself. 
 I'm for up to Bect'ry, now as ever is. He 
 did ought to know, and he mid be gone to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Emily swallowed down quite a small 
 sigh. 
 
 * ' All right. I '11 tell Mother. ' ' 
 
 Along the field-path and over the stile 
 she trotted submissive away, towards cer- 
 tain brown farm roofs and a clustered
 
 1O Bedesman 4 
 
 group of gray cottages, half-a-mile off. 
 The skirmish in Bloody Lane vanished 
 from her mental vision. It had been seen 
 through other eyes. Quietly, without any 
 emotional pathos, her heart within ached 
 a little. For she could not see what there 
 was to happen except his going to work, 
 "underground" most likely. Emily was 
 not a person of imagination. Neverthe- 
 less she saw Dave's face clearly, the day 
 he would leave school; as clearly as Dave 
 saw Squire Darner's men. 
 
 Through another and more tangled 
 green lane, she took a turn to the left lead- 
 ing to the cottages. 
 
 David went straight to the Kectory's 
 open front door. He had tugged at the 
 worn wooden lozenge that was the bell-pull 
 before he suddenly knew that "Mother 'd 
 have a fit." The peal, resounding, raised 
 a hot blush. But he was going through 
 with things.
 
 Pastures New 11 
 
 "Beg pardon, please, miss, could I see 
 that gentleman what 's stopping here, 
 please, miss?" 
 
 The parlor-maid stepped past him, turn- 
 ing the corner of the house to where the 
 westering sun lay warm on the garden 
 bench. 
 
 1 'One of the boys, sir, is asking " 
 
 But David had followed her. 
 
 "Please, sir, " his words ran over each 
 other, "make so bold, sir, please, sir, I been 
 down Bloody Lane, sir. I can see 't all 
 just like you said, same as 't was a picture, 
 sir. And Father, he says " 
 
 The man with the large, hirsute, gray 
 head and the ill-fitting brown coat sat up- 
 right suddenly. He lifted a big book off 
 his knee on to the seat. 
 
 "Eh? (I saw you at the school.) What 
 is it about Bloody Lane? Does your 
 father know anything?" 
 
 "No, sir, Yes, sir, please. Th' old
 
 12 Bedesman 4 
 
 pack-horse way from Devizes did use to 
 come along Bloody Lane over Pike's 
 Piece" 
 
 "Pike's Piece?" The gentleman sat 
 more upright still. "Is it far, boy!" 
 
 "No, sir, just through churchyard and 
 down meadow over the stile. ' ' 
 
 "Come along," cried the gentleman. 
 
 They were crossing the churchyard be- 
 fore David knew much more, for this gen- 
 tleman was wont to go, when he was set 
 going. "Pike's Piece, Charley's Arch," 
 he was muttering. "What put the pack- 
 horses into your head, boy?" 
 
 "Please, sir, my Gramfer he could 
 mind of 'em, when he were little. And 
 you said as they come from Devizes, 
 sir." 
 
 "Sol did. ' ' The gentleman 's look dwelt 
 on the smock frock, on the curious uncon- 
 sciousness of the eager eyes. "What 
 made you think out all this, eh?"
 
 Pastures New 13 
 
 "Please, sir, you telled up that interest- 
 ing. An' I got studdin', and seemed like 
 as I could see 'em. And I do want to 
 know " 
 
 "Got studdin', did you? That's the 
 way to learn. What do you want to 
 know?" 
 
 David drew a long breath, gathering his 
 forces of expression. 
 
 "Please, sir in them days, did you 
 ought to ha* gone wi' Squire Darner for 
 the King, sir? or did you ought to ha' fol- 
 lowed wi' the Parli'ment?" 
 
 The gentleman pulled up in the midst of 
 the meadow, and rubbed one side of his 
 nose. 
 
 1 ' My good boy, all my life I Ve been at 
 that question. I wish I could tell you. I 
 wish to God I could.'* 
 
 His voice fell suddenly quite solemn and 
 he ceased to rub his nose. 
 
 "Personally, for myself but what 's a
 
 14 Bedesman 4 
 
 temperament ? The events What would 
 you have done yourself, boy?" 
 
 David's face cleared. 
 
 "I should a' gone wi' Squire," he re- 
 plied at once, "sure to. There was Bolds 
 here, see, in them days, (and looked on, 
 Mother says), and Fielders too; and 
 worked for Darners, all on 'em did. But 
 I don't know as Darners was right. King, 
 he were a' ways a-choppin' and a-changin', 
 and breakin' his word times and often. 
 And he was on'y one. And the tothers 
 was for freedom, like Mr. Gladstone and 
 them as set up the co-ops." 
 
 The gentleman smiled all over his curi- 
 ous, eager face and down into his shaggy 
 beard. He began to walk on. 
 
 "You Ve got the right sow by the ear. 
 But the King was n't one. He was an 
 embodied principle too, then; just as Vic- 
 toria is. You seem to think about these 
 things."
 
 Pastures New 15 
 
 * ' Mr. Dicey, he give me a book Please 
 sir, yonder 's Pike's Piece, where the tur- 
 muts is, and this here 's Bloody Lane." 
 
 "Ay! Ay! Now the pack-road " 
 
 "Down there. But you 'd have to climb 
 the fence " 
 
 It presently appeared that the gentle- 
 man regarded the prosecution of trespass- 
 ers as an irrelevance. The golden sun 
 was near setting and they had walked about 
 two miles before they stood again by the 
 old gate that looked on Bloody Lane. 
 
 "David Bold, The Wick," read the gen- 
 tleman from his note-book before he thrust 
 it into his pocket. "I '11 send you that 
 book. You '11 find it a bit stiff. But it '11 
 set you 'studdin'.' That 's the main 
 thing." His fingers closed on something 
 round in his waistcoat pocket and he stared 
 stonily over the boy's head at the church 
 tower. No. Not to a fellow-studder. 
 He nodded. "Good-by to you." David
 
 l6 Bedesman 4 
 
 touched his forehead, and turned away with 
 a lingering look. 
 
 The gentleman thrust his hands into his 
 pockets and walked reflectively down 
 Bloody Lane, whistling low between his 
 teeth. At the turning he pulled up. 
 ' ' Ay. Ay, ' ' he muttered, ' ' the boy 's right. 
 You can see it all, same as 'twas a pic- 
 ture." 
 
 At the Rectory he turned indoors and 
 went to his friend's study. 
 
 "I say, Eichards, is Dicey the name of 
 your schoolmaster?" 
 
 Crossing Pike's Piece, David remem- 
 bered as in a dream that he had had no 
 tea, and forgot it again. He thrilled yet 
 to the stimulus of that quest after the pack- 
 horse road ; and he knew that he liked that 
 bearded man better than any human being 
 he had ever met. The understanding be- 
 tween them was a new thing in life. But
 
 Pastures New 17 
 
 there was with David a thing bigger than 
 any man : a widening of his whole being, a 
 waking, a moving. At a gap in the hedge 
 he stopped and gazed. The sun behind 
 him had dropped in the last moments. 
 Vale and hills lay silent under the faint 
 bluish-gray haze of early evening. The 
 boy's eyes widened and widened. He had 
 grown up with that landscape as with his 
 mother's face. It had words for him that 
 no one knew. In eager moments, his soul 
 turned to it wordlessly. But he was not 
 consciously thinking of it. 
 
 It is fearfully interesting to be young 
 and not to understand yourself. But there 
 are moments when things not yourself en- 
 gulf all that. 
 
 The boy in the smock-frock knew dumbly 
 that he was very small and waiflike, and 
 alone in the vast world with dreams that 
 no one would understand, even himself. 
 The peasant does not 'accept his fate'; he
 
 l8 Bedesman 4 
 
 dwells in the midst of it. But this one was 
 aware that he did not know what it was. 
 Only, like a bright-eyed frail young man, 
 who wrote a certain letter of dedication 
 from Davos Platz, he was sure that "the 
 best that is in us is better than we can 
 understand." 
 
 Then all at once the dream broke, and 
 he knew he was ragingly hungry. He 
 turned and made the quickest of ways 
 home to the gray knot of old cottages. In 
 an open doorway Emily sat, darning a sock 
 of Father's. 
 
 "Sis, be there any tea left? Where 's 
 Mother?"
 
 n 
 
 ON a Saturday "Quar' come out" (in 
 the speech of Broughton Priors) at 
 midday: tired men, having earned their 
 Sabbath, emerging to look upon the sun till 
 Monday. 
 
 William Bold's Esther moved, with deft, 
 silent hands and step, in the deep-thatched 
 stone cottage, that stood back behind its 
 glowing front garden. There were wives, 
 if you 'd believe it as she sorrowfully did 
 would encourage a man to take dinner 
 with him the same on Saturday as other 
 days: as though they 'd never heard of 
 afternoons at the King's Arms. But this 
 quiet, paven place did not look as though 
 its mistress were one of "them as must be 
 all of a clutter, ' ' because the week was end- 
 ing. 
 
 19
 
 2O Bedesman 4 
 
 Having washed the onions and her own 
 hands, Mrs. Bold stood for a moment in the 
 sunny doorway: a handsome, dark-eyed 
 woman, whose fine, serious face was full of 
 character. Only to meet her going to shop 
 was to be aware of a personality. Her 
 beautiful eyes, severely steady but alto- 
 gether benign, lacked something of the 
 country-woman's wide readiness of reply. 
 She thought for herself, measuring others 
 with a grave courtesy as respectful as her 
 old-fashioned "drop-curchy" at sight of 
 her ' ' betters. ' ' You felt that you probably 
 fell short. If you were sick or innocently 
 sad, she met you with a large love not to be 
 forgotten. But from herself, and so far as 
 in her lay, from those around her, she ex- 
 acted a standard above everyday, comfort- 
 able conventions. You had to live for God 
 in the world. It was not very likely to be 
 easy. In daily life she bore about with 
 her a scrupulous dignity of the neat and
 
 Pastures New 21 
 
 the clean, the capable, the careful. Her 
 children did not know what it was to see 
 Mother look a slattern like some of the 
 women. Her oldest gown and shoes were 
 tidy. Her blue plates, that had come on 
 from Granny Fielder, were pale with a 
 careful old age : but Esther never chipped 
 a thing; and taught Emily, that would go 
 to service, a like care, as a grave duty owed 
 to God and man. 
 
 It was still much too early for William 
 when some one rapped on the door and an 
 unknown voice asked if Mrs. Bold lived 
 nearby. The visitor puzzled her. He was 
 clearly a gentleman, but no parson. She 
 found him scarcely tidy to be seen, espe- 
 cially his beard ; and he was far from con- 
 venient in "the mid of the morning." 
 Good manners, however, bade her greet 
 him with, 
 
 "Pray, sir, to walk in. There 's a step 
 down here, just inside. And it's a bit dark
 
 22 Bedesman 4 
 
 if you '11 mind your head, sir. Please to 
 be seated." 
 
 She waited his pleasure, while he looked 
 round silently. He never had seen an in- 
 terior like this, out of a picture, or a novel 
 by the wife of the Warden of Cuthbert's. 
 Its wide hearth and hanging pot, the 
 bacon-rack between the black beam and the 
 wall, the dark dresser with its worn crock- 
 ery, all gave him the shock of pleasure that 
 comes with old things that are new. The 
 woman belonged to it all. Both wore a 
 curious and unconscious dignity, that hith- 
 erto he had only met in association with 
 great things of the past. A queer shyness 
 gripped him. It was time he spoke. He 
 had pictured the interview as easy enough. 
 It began to look different. 
 
 "You 're Mrs. Bold?" he said. 
 
 "Yes unless 'twas Granny you was 
 wanting, my mother-law, sir? She lives 
 down to the farm cottages."
 
 Pastures New 23 
 
 "No," said the visitor, "I expect it's 
 you. You 've a boy, have n't you? Called 
 David." 
 
 Esther Bold's quiet face changed, subtly 
 and completely. 
 
 "I have, sir " 
 
 "Ah, well, I fell in with your boy two 
 days ago. Perhaps he told you " 
 
 "Yes, sir" her eyes were just like the 
 boy's "the gentleman as took him down 
 Bloody Lane " 
 
 "Well, no. He took me. I had a talk 
 with the boys in school-time. In the after- 
 noon he came to the Eectory door " 
 
 "Not the front door, I 'm sure I hope, 
 sir?" 
 
 "Oh, the front door, I suppose. I can't 
 say. He came round the corner after the 
 maid to tell me he 'd found out something 
 bearing on what I 'd been saying, and took 
 me off there and then." The stranger 
 ceased speaking. Their looks met. Up to
 
 24 Bedesman 4 
 
 now she had not been sure that she liked 
 him. His eyes were clear and gray: they 
 met her with a gravity and a sort of calm 
 aloofness, which appealed to her inmost 
 instincts. She saw at once that he had 
 something responsible to say and was 
 thinking how best to say it, just as she 
 might herself. She yielded, wondering, 
 not unafraid. 
 
 "Your boy," he said slowly, "is not 
 quite an ordinary boy. He 's What are 
 you going to do with him, Mrs. Bold?" 
 
 David's mother moved in her chair. 
 
 "His father, sir, thought upon taking 
 him down quarry; you can put your own 
 boy along. My mind don't go with it. 
 Down there in the dark, they forgets the 
 Lord something terrible, the talk and 
 that. On the land you don't take the same 
 money. There 's the stables, or there 's 
 service. He 's a bright boy " 
 
 * ' Bright ! ' ' The gentleman 's voice made
 
 Pastures New 25 
 
 her jump. "He 's brilliant. You ought 
 to keep him to school " 
 
 "Begging your pardon, sir, if you 're 
 thinking of the sums and that, the country 
 boys they don't have their health in them 
 shops, for all they may be clever." 
 
 Her guest moved his chair, with a loud 
 scroop of its legs on the stone floor, and 
 leaned forward. He seemed to take Es- 
 ther Bold into a large, firm, and quite un- 
 known grasp. It was the grip of the ex- 
 pert. 
 
 ' ' Look here, my my good soul. Put all 
 those things out of your mind, while I ex- 
 plain. That boy is meant for his books. 
 Much more than that. There are two 
 kinds of gifted man, Mrs. Bold : the steady 
 useful fellow, who turns to most things 
 with success and the first-rater. He 
 stands by himself! He has got to do one 
 thing. Put him to another job, you waste 
 him alive. But that one, he '11 do su-
 
 26 Bedesman 4 
 
 perbly, as no other in his generation can 
 do it. He 's himself, that man, not a type 
 of the race. Do you take me?" 
 
 The dark eyes were fixed on him. 
 
 "I am striving to, sir." Her quiet tone 
 quivered a little. 
 
 "That man" his voice dropped "is 
 your David, Mrs. Bold. You 've got to face 
 it. He has what we call the historic mind. 
 I know it, could n't mistake it, it 's my own 
 shop. But David will be a bigger man 
 than I am. He must follow me and others, 
 must " 
 
 There Esther Bold moved and spoke. 
 It was not manners, but she had to stem the 
 tide. 
 
 "I 'm no scholar, nor I have n't any gift : 
 but oh, sir! 'tis not the things as we 'd 
 choose: 'tis what the Lord sends, for we 
 to do wi' our might. My David he got to 
 serve in that state of life, him lookin' to 
 a better. We have to teach the children,
 
 Pastures New 27 
 
 sir, for to make their callin' and election 
 sure " 
 
 It was a kind, even a fatherly smile ; but 
 that grip relaxed not one whit. 
 
 "A grand Book, the Bible, Mrs. Bold. 
 It 's given you the precise word I wanted. 
 Listen. Nicholas' School at Spetterton 
 takes boys from the national schools on 
 their ancient Foundation. I am one of 
 their trustees and have a nomination to 
 give. The present Master, a pupil of 
 mine, is at home. I made it my business 
 yesterday to see him, and he says your boy 
 should be well able to pass the entrance 
 examination. He 'd then get a free educa- 
 tion: they would run him for one of their 
 History scholarships at my own College; 
 at nineteen he would be coming up to Ox- 
 ford with the world before him. That 's 
 your David's calling, Mrs. Bold." The 
 smile broadened. "I feel pretty sure 
 of what I'm telling you. It's my business
 
 28 Bedesman 4 
 
 to know a born student when I see him: 
 David will shape as I expect." 
 
 He ceased and watched her, realizing 
 that he had a definite thing to reckon with ; 
 that it was expressed in this woman, whose 
 eyes, wide and lovely and profoundly seri- 
 ous, had felt their way after him slowly. 
 A weighty pause fell. He was patient. 
 At last Mrs. Bold rose with a glance at the 
 clock. 
 
 "If you '11 please to excuse me, sir." 
 The two plates bore the washed onions, 
 peeled potatoes, turnips, and fresh young 
 carrots. She laid on sticks to kindle the 
 faded fire. The hanging pot worked upon 
 an anciently devised hook, that even amid 
 the annoyance of this check delighted his 
 heart. Mrs. Bold bestowed her vegetables 
 within; the plates went tidily back to the 
 dresser. One might have thought her 
 scarcely alive to a crucial moment: but 
 the man who wanted her David had a con-
 
 Pastures New 29 
 
 sciousness of firmly repressed emotion in 
 the air. She returned to her place. 
 "I 'm sure, sir, I can't tell how to thank 
 you taking thought like you have." 
 Then she sat looking at the flickering fire. 
 The black pot began to whisper gently. 
 He remembered sardonically remarking to 
 another eminent novelist that, when the 
 Wardeness of Cuthbert's opened a cottage 
 door, you were conscious of hidden trag- 
 edy and a smell of onions. Mrs. Bold's 
 onions seemed to have no smell. About 
 herself there was no tragedy, nor anything 
 that resented: only a sort of fervent and 
 intense gravity, wherewith one did not in- 
 termeddle. She raised her eyes to his. 
 
 "You 'd be making our boy a gentle- 
 man, sir?" 
 
 He felt himself flush. 
 
 "At Oxford his companions would be 
 other gentlemen. All scholars are equal 
 there, Mrs. Bold."
 
 30 Bedesman 4 
 
 He believed it fiercely; but lie wondered 
 if he were deceiving her. With the next 
 words his inward thermometer dropped: 
 but he thought, quite wrongly, that he 
 understood her the better. 
 
 ' ' 'T would be a long while before he 'd 
 be making much," she said reflectively. 
 "We haven't but the one boy to look to, 
 if Father was took; wi' one of them acci- 
 dents might be " She paused. "I 
 think as I 've took it all in. He 'd have to 
 go now directly, 'ouldn' he, sir! If I was 
 to go in Spetterton wi' carrier, could I see 
 that gentleman, and talk wi' him!" 
 
 "Certainly you could. I '11 give you a 
 note." He tore a leaf from his pocket- 
 book, and she fetched from her mother's 
 gate-legged table a thin white envelope, 
 which he addressed with a firm pencil. 
 
 "I '11 have to talk to his father. I 'm 
 sure, sir, we 'turns you many thanks. 
 We '11 take the good Sunday for to turn
 
 Pastures New 31 
 
 it over, and I '11 step up to Rect'ry Mon- 
 day or Tuesday. You 're leaving, sir? 
 Then I '11 write. Where to, please ! ' ' 
 
 "Ah, yes. My name 's Brownlow Pro- 
 fessor Brownlow." He wrote " Oxford" 
 beyond the name of a College, and handed 
 her his card. Both had risen: for an in- 
 stant he stood looking at the grave-eyed, 
 personable woman with her curious air of 
 refinement that had nothing to do with 
 'breeding.' 
 
 "You '11 have to give in," he said smil- 
 ing; "there 's that in your boy will go its 
 own way, whatever we do." 
 
 Esther Bold's lips moved in a slow smile 
 and she sighed. 
 
 " 'T is like that with the children, good 
 guide 'em maybe you got 'em of your 
 own, sir! Good morning, and my service 
 to you, I'm sure. Your kindness '11 be give 
 back to you, sir. That 's certain."
 
 Ill 
 
 ESTHEE BOLD fetched the white 
 cloth from the dresser-drawer. The 
 Professor's back had disappeared along 
 the road. She laid the table a little elab- 
 orately, then she went and stood at the 
 door. It seemed not a morning's length, 
 but years since she sent her white-clad 
 quarryman away after his breakfast. She 
 wanted to see him approaching, and yet 
 she shrank. Till he came this moving 
 thing was her own only. Her heart within 
 her was all stirred. It beat in her ears. 
 She was shaken with it, and rebuked her- 
 self. Closing her eyes, she prayed. But 
 there came no calm. Facts, yearnings, 
 fears crowded upon her. She wanted this 
 big thing for her child. Then she did not 
 32
 
 Pastures New 33 
 
 want it. It was unknown. It was doubt- 
 ful. It threw the future out of drawing. 
 Yet a mother's hot ambition, below all, de- 
 sired, yearned for it. If William All 
 at once she saw the white figure at the turn 
 of the road, and instantly went inside 
 again. 
 
 Her husband, in his cream-colored 
 clothes with little brown straps below the 
 knees of his trousers, handsome, square- 
 set, red-headed, stood knocking the sticky 
 mud off his boots before he stepped over 
 the threshold. He lacked the curious, sub- 
 tle distinction and character that belonged 
 to his wife. But he was a fine man to look 
 at, and a good workman, and glanced 
 round the neat, comfortable place with a 
 cool pride of possession. He meant to buy 
 his house, as soon as there was a bit more 
 put away. 
 
 Esther, putting a plate to warm, did not 
 look at him.
 
 34 Bedesman 4 
 
 ' ' You be well to time, my dear. ' ' 
 ''Where 's the youngsters?" the father 
 said. 
 
 "Down to Granny's, doin' up her gar- 
 den. Took their dinner. Yours '11 be 
 ready soon as you be." He never sat 
 down in quarry clothes of a Saturday. 
 The loose linen jacket and old brown trou- 
 sers made him a less striking figure, but a 
 more comfortable. He had half satisfied 
 his hunger before, fixing steady eyes on 
 her, he said, 
 
 "What 's up wi' you, missus?" 
 Her eyes sought his silently. Theirs 
 was a faithful marriage ; though two trou- 
 bled years, when both were young, had 
 slowly taught her idealisms that the lover 
 she had met at Mother's favorite prayer- 
 meeting was merely a working man of 
 the usual flesh and blood. With the boy's 
 birth, its deep fears and dear hopes, she 
 had learnt to prize his man's strength;
 
 Pastures New 35 
 
 and he had come nearer to understand- 
 ing. 
 
 Across her jug of home-brewed a com- 
 promise with his refusal to Hake the 
 pledge' she looked to see how he would 
 take her news. 
 
 "I Ve got a big thing to speak about," 
 she said, not quite steadily. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " 'T is a gentleman been here, from Ox- 
 ford College. He come after 'twas him 
 took our Dave out, that night as he were 
 late for tea." She paused. He eyed her 
 inquiringly. "He do want for we to send 
 Dave to Spetterton Free School: says as . 
 the child be out o' common clever, and 
 they 'd send 'n on t' Oxford College, when 
 he come up nineteen." 
 
 Her husband read new and strange 
 things in the brown eyes that he had never 
 quite fathomed. 
 
 "Do thee want it?" he said.
 
 36 Bedesman 4 
 
 1 1 1 don' know if I do want it. ' ' Her eyes 
 showed her helpless yearning. "I do 
 want the Lord's will for >n, whatever 't is. 
 He 'd come up a gentleman. He 'ouldn't 
 learn no bad words: nor none o' that " 
 She ceased. Her lips were working, and 
 she could not speak steadily. "Thee 'd 
 have to stand out of 's money. 'T is thee 
 must say." 
 
 William sat silent. He knew her ; or be- 
 lieved he did. 
 
 "Thee do want it," he said. A scarcely 
 perceptible smile touched his lips. "Us 
 can get along like we be ; they '11 give me a 
 crane presently if I d' ax for it." 
 
 "Don't thee be takin' no risks," she said 
 seriously. The man who 'had a crane' 
 paid so many men and held the profits, 
 which in working a good seam might be 
 considerable. They were silent, till she 
 reached a white envelope from the mantel- 
 shelf above them.
 
 Pastures New 37 
 
 "He give me that for to give to the 
 schoolmaster. Us did ought to see him, 
 whether or no." 
 
 "Frank Fletcher, Esquire," he read 
 aloud. "I've a-seen that place. 'T is 
 along the London road." His eyes trav- 
 eled to the clock. 
 
 "The carts '11 be by, 'bout a half hour 
 from now. Thee could get a lift in, and 
 back wi' carrier." 
 
 She nodded. "Granny she r d give them 
 childern their tea; and us could go to- 
 gether. Else we '11 have to bide till an- 
 other Saturday." 
 
 "I '11 go down to Mother's while thee 
 gets theeself ready." 
 
 "Don't ee say nothing," she cried 
 quickly. "There mightn't nothing come 
 of it. Tell 'em the carts is goin' and we 
 takin' the chance. 'Tis true." 
 
 He smiled again. She rose and stood 
 looking round.
 
 38 Bedesman 4 
 
 "What about thee buyin' the house?" 
 she said, suddenly. 
 
 " That '11 be all right," said William, 
 solidly. Within, the instant pinched him. 
 It was a cherished dream and had involved 
 a second wage-earner. But when Esther 
 wanted a thing, it was usually a weighty 
 thing, a little above average, everyday de- 
 sires. She usually had it whether or no 
 she realized the fact. 
 
 "Us '11 go, then," she said gravely, and 
 opened the long brown door in the wall 
 that hid the stairs. 
 
 The long procession of low, solid stone- 
 carts with their heavy wheels left a broad 
 track, steel-blue, where the big slipper- 
 drags steadied them down the long hill. 
 On a great slab of broad creamy oolite, a 
 ton and a half in weight, Mrs. Bold spread 
 a shawl to save her best gown. William, 
 beside, walked the long eight miles in the 
 autumn sunshine.
 
 Pastures New 39 
 
 That learned and wealthy gentleman, 
 Sir Humphrey Nicholas of Compton 
 Nicholas^ in the second year of King 
 Henry VII, set the clustered buildings 
 of his "Free Schoole for all ye poore 
 children of Compton and other good 
 menns children," together with his Bede- 
 house, in certain lands and tenements be- 
 side the river Combe : enf eoffing three Fel- 
 lows of Cuthbert's, Oxford, and others to 
 the number of eight, "in a moiety of his 
 Manor and in one mese and a toft cum per- 
 tinentibus lying without it." The College 
 in return covenanted to keep in repair St. 
 Margaret's Chapel and altar, where he 
 had founded a chantry; to appoint the 
 Chantry Priest, and to pay to him eight 
 pounds per annum for keeping of the free- 
 school ; also to each of the eight poor men 
 in the Bede-house ninepence per week, 
 with three and f ourpence yearly for a gown 
 and two and threepence for fuel; the resi-
 
 4-O Bedesman 4 
 
 due of the rents being expended by the 
 Warden and Fellows in exhibitions or 
 otherwise at their discretion. 
 
 Thanks to his cautiously worded deed of 
 Feoffrnent and to the persistence of his de- 
 scendants in the Manor, the spirit of this 
 good Knight presided, through troublous 
 days and calmer, like a careful and far- 
 seeing guardian, over his green riverside 
 acres and thatched walls, now hoary and 
 lichen-grown. When in mid-nineteenth cen- 
 tury certain Commissioners came down 
 from London with every intention of "loos- 
 ing the dead hand of the Founder" from 
 this comfortable bit of property, they 
 found a flourishing and superior day- 
 school, no longer free, on the outskirts of 
 the thriving cloth-weaving town of Spet- 
 terton, (a hamlet in 2 Henry VII), where- 
 into little Compton had been long since 
 absorbed. Cuthbert's and Sir Hum- 
 phrey's deed withstood them to their face
 
 Pastures New 41 
 
 and won ; for the school served the trades- 
 men class well, and the exhibitions were 
 valuable. So the government of the place 
 remained in the hands of the original eight 
 trustees, who, dismissing the "poore men" 
 to Flint 's Almshouse, by Spetterton Parish 
 Church, adapted their old abode to the 
 uses of a new foundation of boarders. 
 The latest successor of the original Chan- 
 try Priest, a rubicund young layman of 
 pleasing countenance, was playing tennis 
 on his sixteenth-century turf, with some of 
 his Sixth Form from the town, when the 
 stone-cart stopped. Esther Bold's eyes 
 took in ancient gateway and latticed win- 
 dows, nodding sunflowers and gaudy dah- 
 lias in the old Bede-house garden, while 
 William pulled the long chain under its 
 little penthouse. A gawky young man in 
 livery, who answered, threw open the door 
 of a wainscotted hall, carrying off the Pro- 
 fessor's letter: and they stood meekly wait-
 
 42 Bedesman 4 
 
 ing, under the brooding gaze of the 
 Founder's portrait by Holbein, which 
 hung, deep-bearded and flat-hatted, above 
 the high stone mantel. 
 
 The healthful and slightly perspiring 
 presence of the Master in his clean mod- 
 em flannels entered from a side door. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Mrs. Bold. Come into 
 my study, won't you?" He had shaken 
 hands courteously with both, causing Wil- 
 liam to blush up to his hair. "I saw the 
 Professor yesterday. We had a long talk 
 about your boy. Our term begins in ten 
 days. Yes, we have a jolly garden, 
 haven't we? I expect you 'd like to go 
 round the place first." He had rung the 
 bell. "Tea in half an hour, Clark. This 
 way, Mrs. Bold." He led them on by long 
 passages, up and down stairs, in and out of 
 tiny chambers, and through deep, low class- 
 rooms fitted with old desks in shocking 
 repair, to Mrs. Bold's careful eye. They
 
 Pastures New 43 
 
 followed, meek and monosyllabic, till 
 they emerged again at length upon the 
 bowling-green, where the lads were still 
 at the interrupted game. The parents had 
 gone through all the survey speechlessly; 
 it seemed to them a sort of dream, scarcely 
 half realized ; Mr. Fletcher did all the talk- 
 ing, and found them " a bit heavy on hand. ' r 
 But on the stone bench under the study- 
 window, Esther Bold became aware that 
 she ought to speak. Her hands in their 
 neat knitted gloves met in her lap: she 
 steadied her soul for an effort. 
 
 " I 'm sure, sir, we be downright obliged. 
 I 'd never thought as it could be that beau- 
 tiful; and the beds and all, free gracious. 
 'T is main good of the gentlemen. But 
 surely, sir, our David bain 't fit. 'T is all 
 suitable to gentlefolks: and he but a poor 
 boy; for all he knows his manners, like 
 'em should all be taught, as you knows, sir ; 
 and speak the truth, as he knows I 'd
 
 44 Bedesman 4 
 
 pretty near die if he didn't; and hurt no- 
 body by word or deed ; and his lips is pure, 
 sir, please the Lord they keeps so." 
 
 Her subject had taken hold of her and 
 she raised her eyes to the Master, who 
 liked her very much. 
 
 "We have several," he said gently, 
 "from from schools like David's." He 
 could not truthfully say "from homes like 
 yours." Board School boys from the 
 town were not like this one; and he knew 
 it, though he had never been inside a coun- 
 try cottage. "They do very well. He will 
 have one of the little Bede-house rooms 
 you saw. One Saturday in the term, if 
 you wish, he can come home till Sunday 
 evening. Come indoors now, won't you?" 
 For the sound of teacups came from within 
 the study. 
 
 "He 's a real nice young gentleman," 
 Mrs. Bold opined gravely, as they turned 
 from the gateway towards the shops and
 
 Pastures New 45 
 
 the Anchor Inn, whence " Carrier" 
 started, "for all I 'd looked to see some- 
 body a bit more serious-like, and that. But 
 I could kind o ' trust him. ' ' 
 
 William nodded. At the bottom of his 
 mind, he felt himself miles apart from the 
 whole thing; in another world, his own of 
 the quarry and the fields, whence he could 
 not visualize this one. But certain facts 
 had taken hold on him, among them the 
 look and the voices of the lithe lads spring- 
 ing over the tennis-court. When he had 
 thought a bit, he spoke. 
 
 " There 's a lot in book-learnin'. I 'd be 
 doin' a lot better myself down quar' if I 'd 
 had a bit more cypherin' and that. I 'd 
 meant for he to learn the mensuration." 
 
 She assented gravely. 
 
 "Thee must turn it over and so must I, 
 takin' the good Sunday. 'T is thee must 
 settle it, my dear, 'cause o ' the money. ' ' 
 
 "Did ought to put up wi' something, "
 
 46 Bedesman 4 
 
 lie said slowly, "for the boy to come up a 
 gentleman. ' ' 
 
 His wife's beautiful eyes were turned on 
 him: they were swimming in tears. 
 
 " 'T is 't is that I be feared on," Esther 
 Bold said, with shaken voice. Then she 
 controlled herself, going on quietly beside 
 him, with her steady, rapid step. He was 
 silent, vaguely wondering if you could 
 ever be sure where you 'd have a woman. 
 
 They reached home a little after sun- 
 down, taking the short cut over the fields 
 from the Plough, where 'Carrier' stopped. 
 The door was open, and Emily ran out to 
 take the parcels from Mother, who asked, 
 
 "Where 's Dave?" 
 
 "In the window there, wi' a book as 
 come from Eectory. I got supper laid, 
 Mother." 
 
 "That's Mother's careful maid. Put 
 'em on the pantry shelf, my dear." 
 
 Esther had read, with a little stab, some-
 
 Pastures New 47 
 
 thing she had come to know in the open 
 childish face. She asked no other for her 
 daughter than woman's world-old drama 
 of dependence: but " 'twould come hard 
 on that poor child." 
 
 Monday afternoon had come. Esther 
 sat alone by the fireside, darning, when her 
 husband came in. "You be early, my 
 dear," she said. 
 
 "I be. We Ve a-finished up seam, and 
 I 'ad a mind to come back home before the 
 youngsters was in. I 've a-thought, Mis- 
 sus." 
 
 "You 'ave, then?" 
 
 "Yes. I Ve a-thought. I '11 stand out 
 o' the money, Missus. The boy shall 
 have 's chance. ' ' 
 
 A quick trembling shook his wife; but 
 her voice was quite steady. 
 
 "You be a good father, my dear. I 'ope 
 as he '11 give it back."
 
 48 Bedesman 4 
 
 William uttered a short sound inartic- 
 ulate, rough, emotional. 
 
 "Be goin' to clean myself," he re- 
 marked. 
 
 Esther Bold sat still by the fire, her 
 hands on her lap, her heart aflame. She 
 thanked God, and snatched the words back. 
 She called upon him and the cry became 
 praise. In the midst of it, she saw her 
 boy's head pass beyond the window. 
 
 Her son was growing that tall ! He was 
 beginning to have to stoop coming in at 
 the door, like his father. The step down 
 inside made the doorway shallow. Them 
 smocks would have to go now! Fanny's 
 Albert would be glad of them, all but the 
 one heirloom for Emily. Bless him! he 
 had a comely face. Would it look the same 
 in a month or two ? 
 
 "Dave, you can wash your hands: and 
 Emily, my dear, you mid fill the kettle. 
 Father 's came home."
 
 Pastures New 49 
 
 The familiar world, the sound of her 
 own voice and the kettle's, gradually be- 
 came real again. But the inward argu- 
 ment went on. If the boy changed, whose 
 fault would it be? If he didn't, a sort 
 of miracle! God could work miracles. 
 David ought to know by now what went 
 before a fall. 
 
 "Father, your tea 's ready. Come, my 
 dears." 
 
 William sat in the arm-chair of au- 
 thority. The firelight danced on Esther's 
 comely head, on the bright pewter teapot, 
 on the boy over his hot toast, on Emily's 
 round eyes above her teacup. Emily, hav- 
 ing eaten her fill, was revolving in her 
 heart the question of an adjournment with 
 David to the wash-house; where, Monday 
 being boiling-day, the copper fire was still 
 alight. In summer they would run out 
 among the trees behind the house. Mon- 
 days were far lovelier in autumn and win-
 
 50 Bedesman 4 
 
 ter ; when they meant the blue three-legged 
 stool and the turned-up basket, beside the 
 square, glowing mouth of the copper: the 
 cob-nuts ; the cold, bare boughs in the wind, 
 beyond the little window; perhaps, the 
 snow; the warmth within; and Dave's 
 stories, endless, breathless! Emily knew 
 no joy greater than that hour's. But, 
 from the absence of talk she knew Dave's 
 "signs" as a careful farmer knows his 
 heavens she feared to-night his head was 
 in that book. She washed the tea-things 
 always. To-night, before she had touched 
 them, her mother spoke, rather suddenly. 
 
 " Father, I think 't is time now for tellin' 
 David what we been a-talkin' of." 
 
 The boy had gravitated instantly to- 
 wards the dresser, where the brown book 
 lay. He turned his face full of sudden 
 question. 
 
 William Bold sat upright in his chair. 
 
 "You can tell 'em, Missus," he said.
 
 Pastures New 51 
 
 When the children were concerned, he 
 never was the chief speaker. 
 
 ''Come here to me, David, " said Es- 
 ther Bold. When she felt a thing deeply 
 and anxiously, her tone and her face were 
 never without a hint of sternness. The 
 boy understood it. It only awed and ex- 
 cited him. He came and stood by her 
 chair. 
 
 "David, the Lord have looked upon 
 thee. Father and me have got a girt piece 
 o' good luck come to us for thee, David." 
 
 She paused, delaying, choking back she 
 scarcely knew what, joy or fear. 
 
 "There ain't a boy in this parish nor 
 plenty more here round about, as ever 
 come by the like. I hope you '11 lay it to 
 ee, David, and give the Lord back." 
 
 "What, Mother V 9 David asked breath- 
 less. The room was shaking with Emily. 
 
 ' ' Your gentleman what took 'ee out come 
 here Saturday. He 've planned as you
 
 52 Bedesman 4 
 
 should go to Nich'las Free School to Spet- 
 terton. They be goin' to be wonderful 
 good to 'ee there : and give 'ee book-learn- 
 ing all free gracious, more 'n plain writin' 
 and cypher. Latin and history-books and 
 all sorts. Nor that ain't all." 
 
 The boy's bright eyes devoured her 
 face. 
 
 ''They says if Father can give up 
 thoughts of you earning anything or doin' 
 for yourself, they '11 keep ee come you be 
 nineteen, and then send ee to Oxford Col- 
 lege, for to see if the folks up there '11 take 
 ee to instruct, like they does the gentle- 
 men. This here school have got some sort 
 of a hold upon Oxford College, as they 're 
 bound to take a boy from there once a year. 
 It mid be you, David." 
 
 The boy's breath came short and 
 quick. 
 
 "You did ought to thank your father, 
 David, as have made up his mind for to
 
 Pastures New 53 
 
 stand out o ' your money, and part keep ee 
 'isself for you t' 'ave such a chance." 
 
 David stepped across the narrow hearth. 
 
 "Thank ee, Father," he said in a high, 
 excited, childish voice, "be main good of 
 ee, Father." 
 
 His mother caught her breath. The boy 
 had taken it in. 
 
 Emily behind had stood looking on 
 with scarlet cheeks. Her little soul, 
 shaken and eager, was filled suddenly to 
 overflowing with passionate pride. He 
 was going to be seen for what he was ! to 
 do the marvels she had always known he 
 could do! Now nothing could have re- 
 strained her. She sprang forward and 
 caught David round the neck. 
 
 1 ' Oh, Dave, Dave ! ' ' she cried out. ' l Oh 
 Dave! I be that glad." Her pale eyes 
 glowed and danced. No thought but of 
 selfless joy was in the child. 
 
 The boy turned, caught her by the shoul-
 
 54 Bedesman 4 
 
 ders and jumped with her up the room and 
 back again. His cheeks were flaming : his 
 eyes lit ; he was a creature transformed ; a 
 boy no longer, that dumb, conscious thing 
 that is a boy. 
 
 The tears leapt up into Esther Bold's 
 eyes. She was not a crying woman, but 
 they blinded her. 
 
 As the dancing children came near her, 
 she stretched a hand, rose, and arrested 
 them, looking on them with eyes of fierce 
 love, and shaking lips that for a long min- 
 ute would not speak. 
 
 "My son, when you be come up a gen- 
 tleman, mind what your mother did say to 
 you this night. Wherever you be and what- 
 ever you Ve a-done, don't you never come 
 ashamed o' your sister, David. She do 
 love thee faithful."
 
 Book II 
 The Dead Hand
 
 IV 
 
 DAVID'S box had departed early by 
 the carrier: an ancient hair- trunk, 
 which had gone with Granny Fielder and 
 Mother to their first places. It was 
 studded with elaborate designs, in brass 
 nails which Emily rubbed to blazing point 
 after the packing. 
 
 The entrance examination had resolved 
 itself into written questions, imprisoning 
 in an empty class-room, till five of a sunny 
 afternoon, a David oppressed with a sense 
 that his life depended on them. 
 
 In due course a letter came. 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Bold, I am glad to tell you 
 that David has passed in. He should pre- 
 sent himself here not later than five next 
 Monday, when term begins. He will have 
 57
 
 58 Bedesman 4 
 
 time to unpack and settle down before hall 
 tea at six. Believe me faithfully yours, F. 
 B. Fletcher." 
 
 The sheet bore a square stamp with a 
 facsimile of the Holbein above the date 
 1487. 
 
 No one ate much dinner that Monday. 
 Emily, mounting the narrow brown stair- 
 case from the kitchen, clad herself in the 
 gray frock and white hat of Sunday. She 
 was to walk to Spetterton with David, and 
 return with the carrier. A fine instinct 
 that she but half understood kept Esther 
 Bold at home. She had kissed and sol- 
 emnly blessed him, and David was ramming 
 his new straw hat down on his head, when a 
 diversion occurred in the form of Granny 
 Bold, bustling up from the farm cottages, 
 "one vast substantial smile." 
 
 "He do look smart! Granny 'ad to 
 come and throw shoe after 'n! Here, 
 sonny, lovely and ripe!" From a seem-
 
 The Dead Hand 59 
 
 ingly limitless pocket came two huge and 
 scarlet apples; after more diving also an 
 old bag purse and a pierced " three- 
 penny. ' ' 
 
 "Keep that and thee '11 have money. 
 What, won't 'em go in thee pocket? Let I 
 try." 
 
 "Here 's my basket," said Emily 
 quickly. He was pernickety about that 
 jacket ! Granny with some noise embraced 
 the departing hero. With a twitch of the 
 boyish mouth, he held up his face silently 
 again to Mother. 
 
 "Don't 'ee fret after 'n, my dear." 
 Granny came in from the gate. "Come 
 down my place, or sh' I stop a bit and help 
 with thee sewing?" 
 
 "I haven't no call to fret," said Esther 
 gravely. "I 'm sure you got plenty sew- 
 ing, Mother. Mine 's most done." 
 
 The pair went soberly down the hill. 
 Crossing the stile, where the vale showed
 
 60 Bedesman 4 
 
 distant chimneys, David pointed. "There 
 's where I be goin'." His face was full of 
 new things. 
 
 "I wish as I could see ee there," said 
 Emily slowly. 
 
 "They don't have no girls," he replied 
 gravely, well aware that hers was the re- 
 verse of the shield. 
 
 "If 'em did, I ain't sharp enough. Nor 
 Mother couldn't spare me till I goes to 
 place. ' ' 
 
 " 'T is like as if we had to go different 
 ways." He spoke with a gravity like his 
 mother's. "But 'tis just the same, 
 really. ' ' 
 
 She nodded, swallowing deep in her 
 throat. "To be sure 'tis," she said, 
 stoutly, ' ' and thee Ve never finished telling 
 up about that old man in the book." 
 
 Sitting on the last stile they slowly dis- 
 posed of Granny's apples. The short cut 
 brought them past the tall white hospital
 
 The Dead Hand 61 
 
 and down into the town about half-past 
 three. They visited Mother's shops and 
 deposited Emily's basket in the high white- 
 covered carrier's cart. Then under the 
 old inn's archway they kissed simply and 
 parted; a pair of children " going different 
 ways. ' ' 
 
 Emily turned towards the shelter of a 
 friend's back-parlor where she was to get 
 her tea: she neither cried nor consciously 
 grieved : she only felt cold all over and very 
 silent. The child-soul hates the irrevoc- 
 able. 
 
 David, turning from the inn, was glad to 
 mount back to the lane between bramble 
 brakes, that ran towards the west; streets 
 have always an untrusted strangeness to 
 the country-bred. 
 
 On the high road at right angles that 
 went traveling over the hill to London be- 
 tween golden trees and broad green mar- 
 gins, the boy stood still a small, lonely
 
 62 Bedesman 4 
 
 figure, with, lifted head, scenting the air of 
 the future. 
 
 The town, set with two tapering spires 
 and many factory-chimneys, lay beneath 
 its faint haze of smoke, below. Beyond it, 
 his own wide vale and blue hills met the 
 horizon line. 
 
 On the hither side, the hill dropped to 
 fields and lines of willows, the green out- 
 skirts of the town. A cluster of gray 
 buildings, irregularly roofed with a deli- 
 cate mingling of brown thatch and old, 
 mellow, red tiles, stood back from the 
 broad road. A golden sun bathed the 
 place in the mellow peace of his sinking; 
 warm upon gabled gateway and quaint, 
 hooded bell-turret and long lines of small, 
 twinkling window-panes. Beyond, the 
 road ran on, rising over a long, high-shoul- 
 dered ancient bridge, to the gray and misty 
 town. 
 
 The boy on the hill knew that he looked
 
 The Dead Hand 63 
 
 at his home-to-be, home in a new and un- 
 known fashion, yet in truth and already his 
 spirit's home. It had not yet struck him 
 to be frightened of a new life or unrealized 
 comrades. An unconscious courage came 
 to him with his cottage blood. One thing 
 only mattered. He was going to "get 
 learning. ' ' The heart within him swelled : 
 as he felt and felt, with some part of him 
 whose full use he did not yet know, after 
 a new, mysterious glory of life. Brough- 
 ton Priors, Emily, the cottage just over the 
 hill, were worlds away; himself suddenly 
 years older. We are at our youngest with 
 our mother. And he knew not yet the sav- 
 ing truth that no one is ever the same age 
 all over him. 
 
 From the quiet place a musical, quaver- 
 ing clock chimed half-past four. David 
 went gravely down the hill towards his 
 fate. The little wicket in the large door 
 opened. A solid man in porter's livery,
 
 64 Bedesman 4 
 
 red-badged on the sleeve, let Kim pass in. 
 The man looked the boy over with an ex- 
 perienced eye. 
 
 "Which '11 you be?" 
 
 11 David Bold." 
 
 "Any of that yours?" 
 
 David looked at a miscellaneous pile of 
 luggage in the opposite corner, and picked 
 out Phyllis Fielder's hair-trunk as in a 
 dream. 
 
 "I '11 give you a hand with it presently. 
 You can come along in the lodge, now and 
 write your name. Your things is there." 
 
 Wondering what they might be, David 
 followed into a warm, square little room 
 with a small iron door high up in the wall. 
 On a desk a large leather-bound book stood 
 open ; the long yellow page was headed : 
 
 "Sir Humphrey Nicholas' School and 
 Bede-House. Roll of Foundation Schol- 
 ars." 
 
 "Your name there; age here; father's
 
 The Dead Hand 65 
 
 name and address here. Try the pen first. 
 Can you spell it all?" 
 
 David replied, with inward offense. He 
 had always known how to spell: but he 
 observed that the last boy had written 
 ' ' Edward ' ' with three d 's. The solemn in- 
 diting in round text of his own descrip- 
 tion brought him a sense of gravity and 
 fate. 
 
 The porter took an object from a chair- 
 back and held it up smiling. A long gar- 
 ment of black serge, the shape and like 
 of which David never had beheld. 
 
 " 'T is your gown," he answered the 
 astonished eyes. "You haves it on to go 
 in to the Master. Slip into it. I reckon 
 it 's a bit long." 
 
 The strange feel of deep folds about his 
 legs made David but half conscious of the 
 odd, flat cap that his guide thrust into his 
 hand. "You bring 'em back here, and 
 fetch 'em again ten minutes to eight ; after
 
 66 Bedesman 4 
 
 that you goes on wearing 'em. Come along 
 to the study ; put your cap on. ' ' 
 
 "David Bold, sir," the porter an- 
 nounced, throwing open the door beyond 
 gateway and dim hall. 
 
 David was too much absorbed in his 
 clothes to have thought what he would see. 
 The low window of a pleasant room lined 
 with pale blue wainscot stood open to the 
 bowling-green; a young, upright woman 
 was pouring out tea for the Master, who 
 lounged smoking in an arm-chair. 
 
 "All! Come in, boy. Cap fit?" 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," said the lady, looking 
 at David with eyes that might have been 
 embarrassing, had not the mirror over the 
 mantel seized his own. 
 
 " 'T is never I!" He was unconscious 
 that any one heard. 
 
 The long black lines that fell to his feet 
 bore a broad edge of red; the cap a red 
 tassel ; his left breast a square brass badge
 
 The Dead Hand 67 
 
 repeating the Holbein stamp, surmounted 
 by a large red B and a figure of 4. 
 
 "What 's that for, please ?" cried the 
 quick childish voice. 
 
 "Bedesman Four: that number is on 
 your room. The gentleman on the badge 
 is your Founder." 
 
 "For whose soul," said the lady, in her 
 deep voice, "you are ever bound to pray." 
 
 * l Does he live here ? ' ' said David eagerly. 
 She only smiled. 
 
 "Shall he have a piece of cake, Frank?" 
 
 "I think he 'd better wait for his own 
 tea. Going, Dolly?" He crossed to open 
 a glass door beyond the window. "I '11 
 come over after supper, if I can. ' ' 
 
 "A picture of a child," his sister said, 
 too low for David's ears. 
 
 The Master, coming back, glanced at the 
 clock. "You and I will go and see your 
 room. At school prayers you '11 be for- 
 mally admitted. After that, come to this
 
 68 Bedesman 4 
 
 door and knock, and we '11 have a chat." 
 
 Through the still open garden door they 
 reached another creeper-hung entrance, 
 and a flight of stairs with black broad ban- 
 isters, scratched with many names. 
 
 "Here you are." 
 
 They stood in a low chamber, whose lat- 
 ticed window filled the length of one wall. 
 The floor was bare ; the room provided with 
 a row of pegs, a gas-jet, three shelves, a 
 worn table on heavy black legs, and two 
 high-backed wooden chairs. An odd piece 
 of furniture between a school desk and a 
 chest of drawers stood across the open 
 chimney. The small place, black-wain scot- 
 ted more than half way up, gave a curious 
 impression of space. A coat of arms in 
 faded reds and blues was blazoned above 
 the hearth. A late-blowing rose thrust 
 two creamy blooms in at the window. 
 
 "This is your own place, where you do 
 your work out of school: you can ask fel-
 
 The Dead Hand 69 
 
 lows in, within rules. Here 's your bed," 
 said the Master, pushing back a sliding 
 panel in the wall; "you wash in the lava- 
 tory off the stairs. You wear your cap to 
 go into the town, about the place here only 
 your gown. You *ve three neighbors, Mar- 
 tin, Scraggs, and Willis : four down below. 
 You ? re the eight Bedesmen, who come in 
 by Trustees' nomination; this is the old 
 Bede-house. Through that passage-door, 
 see, the other foundationers live." 
 
 David nodded. He was not in the least 
 interested in the other foundationers. 
 
 The Master departed with a kindly nod. 
 
 Left alone, half of David went out of the 
 window. The bowling-green lay enclosed 
 by a quadrangle of irregular buildings, the 
 hooded bell-turret rising from a tiled roof 
 at one end : the other closed by a tall close- 
 clipped yew hedge. Opposite him, where 
 other roofs dropped to a second and 
 smaller gateway, he could see fields and
 
 70 Bedesman 4 
 
 willows ; between them a steel-blue glimpse 
 of river reflecting a crimson sun. The 
 place lay empty, and all the view seemed 
 his own, till approaching voices made him 
 withdraw within his own domain, which in- 
 stantly took possession of him. At last a 
 steady, rapid bell began to ring and he ran 
 down. Following the little troop of boys 
 traveling towards the building under the 
 bell-turret, he found himself standing at a 
 short table across two long ones, with six 
 gowned figures at whom he did not venture 
 to look. Somebody said something sono- 
 rous and incomprehensible; a loud clatter 
 of cups and voices began. David found 
 himself hungry enough: but the unknown 
 noise confounded him; he shivered: the 
 scene was utterly strange; he began to 
 understand that he was one of fifty, and 
 scarcely found courage to look up till a dig 
 in the left side caused him to start round. 
 "Hullo, Four, are you a deafy?
 
 The Dead Hand 71 
 
 What 's your name f ' ' The head above the 
 far from clean gown was sandy and rubi- 
 cund: the amused eyes not unfriendly. 
 David drew breath. It was only another 
 boy. 
 
 "I can't but half hear what you 're say- 
 ing. Bold 's my name." He lived to 
 thank such guardian powers as suppressed 
 the David. 
 
 "I 'm Two: next door to you. I 'm a 
 bird-stuffer and I play the cornet.'* 
 
 "Why shouldn't you?" said David, see- 
 ing an answer was expected. 
 
 "Three has got the measles; won't be 
 back for a fortnight, the ass." 
 
 A general rising and dispersal broke off 
 these enlightening details. The neighbor 
 linked arms with one opposite, observing: 
 "Well, Toads, how 's your old self I" and 
 David regained his room with satisfaction. 
 
 At ten minutes to eight o'clock when 
 Granny Fielder's trunk, empty, had been
 
 72 Bedesman 4 
 
 carried to the box-room, the same bell rang. 
 The same hall was bright with lights, the 
 half -hundred boys ranged along the walls. 
 The porter bearing David's gown and cap 
 stood beside him at the end of the row of 
 Bedesmen. A homelike evening hymn 
 brought a lump into the new boy's throat; 
 but the day's Psalms were followed by 
 prayers, whose curious language stirred 
 his imagination. Then the porter mo- 
 tioned him to stand forward in the midst. 
 The gowned Master on the platform ad- 
 dressed him by name, filling him with an 
 instant's thrill of terror. He had read 
 most of what followed on a soiled square 
 card, taken from a nail on the lodge wall 
 and still held tight in both hands ; but it all 
 sounded quite new. 
 
 "David Bold, 
 
 "Sir Humphrey Nicholas of good mem- 
 ory directeth for his honor and credit that 
 his Bedesmen and Scholars be of honest
 
 The Dead Hand 73 
 
 and virtuous conversation, that they haunt 
 not taverns, neither play at unlawful games 
 of cock-fighting, cards, nor dice-tables, 
 neither carry any weapon invasive to fight 
 nor brawl withal : and that the Scholars be 
 submiss and obedient to the Master in all 
 things touching good manners and learn- 
 ing. All this wilt thou observe and 
 keep?" 
 
 David looked Mr. Fletcher full in the 
 face. 
 
 "All this," said a clear, rustic, childish 
 voice, ' * I will obser-rve and keep. ' ' 
 
 Then the Master, having clad the neo- 
 phyte in gown and cap, bade him, 
 
 "Kneel thee down." 
 
 " Admitto te," the strong male voice 
 went on. The boy, gripping his card, fol- 
 lowed in the English parallel column to the 
 end of the "Dominus custodial." He had 
 forgotten the public place, even the watch- 
 ing boys. His eyes swam. He did not
 
 74 Bedesman 4 
 
 understand the still, solemn elation that 
 thrilled him. But it is not definite under- 
 standings that feed the soul. 
 
 When he reached the study-door, the 
 place was full of boys hand-shaking, but 
 the Master cried, "Come in, Bold," and 
 presently, the room having cleared, the boy 
 found himself sunk in a deep chair by the 
 empty grate. 
 
 "Like it, eh!" the Master asked with a 
 whimsical smile. 
 
 "I likes it very well, please, sir," said 
 David squarely, with eager eyes. 
 
 "You '11 like it better to-morrow when 
 games begin " 
 
 David's face clouded for an instant. He 
 spoke with a touch of scorn. 
 
 "I do want to get learning. I can play 
 about between times." 
 
 The Master smiled again. 
 
 "In a week's time you '11 think games 
 are work, too. We are n't all head, like the
 
 The Dead Hand 75 
 
 turnips. We 're legs, and arms. Got any 
 fists, by the way?" 
 
 David laughed out and held them up. 
 He was not in the least afraid of this gen- 
 tleman, whose humor he relished. The 
 'jaded schoolmaster mind' acutely relished 
 him. Not often did Frank Fletcher meet 
 the child still in the boy. 
 
 "If any one plagues you," he observed 
 gravely, "it 's cheaper in the end to use 
 those at once." 
 
 For an instant David looked sharply ter- 
 rified. Then memories of one Bill Bobbins 
 relieved his mind. "All right, sir," he 
 observed, with an odd dryness. 
 
 "So. You '11 do. Now let 's talk about 
 your books." 
 
 "Martin," Mr. Fletcher put his head out 
 of the study, and captured the sandy-haired 
 bird-stuffer. "Your new Bedesman 's a 
 country lad and innocent. Keep an eye on 
 him, eh? when they begin to find it out."
 
 76 Bedesman 4 
 
 The gas went out suddenly as the clock 
 struck. A broad, oblique streak of moon- 
 light leaped into sight across the dark 
 boards. Gradually silence fell. The low 
 wind whispered in the creeper. The voice 
 of an owl came from the fields where the 
 river ran. 
 
 David Bold lay on his back in the box- 
 bed, where generations of Bedesmen, old 
 and then young, had lain before him. 
 
 As the quiet chime spoke again, his lids 
 began to fall. 
 
 "Pray God take care of me all night," 
 murmured Esther Bold's son. 
 
 He turned on his side, but for a long 
 while was awake for sheer happiness ; and 
 the keen relish of a new world, and of the 
 future. 
 
 Over the hill at Broughton Priors, a lit- 
 tle girl cried herself to sleep. Showers 
 come on at nightfall.
 
 V 
 
 DAVID always remembered with an 
 odd distinctness the Friday morning 
 in the third week of school when he seemed 
 to wake from a wild and exciting dream, 
 once more a normal, though a different, 
 human being. Till then he had constantly 
 pursued his life and never caught it up. 
 
 At a queer, compact desk in a sunny 
 class-room, he was ending an elementary 
 Latin exercise with a fierce and joyful ap- 
 plication of blotting-paper. The peasant 
 mind does not take kindly to new lan- 
 guages. It has too limited a hold on that 
 single one which it calls its own. The 
 room had emptied three minutes back, but 
 David waited by the master's desk. He 
 liked the calm, unfathomable remarks of 
 
 77
 
 78 Bedesman 4 
 
 the small, misshapen man who looked at 
 his exercise. 
 
 "You don't care for Latin, Bold 
 wouldn't have written that or that. 
 You 're not careless." 
 
 "By times I am, sir, when I wants to get 
 done. ' ' 
 
 "No. To get to something else. ('I 
 wants' is a false concord.) A whole man 
 doesn't make favorites of his subjects. 
 You 're learning to live, not to scrap up 
 knowledge. ' ' 
 
 "You can't help living," came with a 
 touch of scorn from David's deep puzzle- 
 ment, "you can help learning. The more 
 part of them does." 
 
 "I can't contradict you." Mr. Tithe- 
 ridge hitched his gown on to his queer high 
 shoulder. "You '11 come to see many 
 things, Bold, unless you shut your nose 
 inside a book, then you '11 just see cob- 
 webs. ' '
 
 The Dead Hand 79 
 
 Mr. Titheridge liked this rustic boy, who 
 was n't afraid of him; and limping off on 
 his tall-soled left boot, left his pupil to the 
 task of digestion. It was an hard saying: 
 he could not yet hear it. Yet it waked him 
 up : he suddenly knew he had to take hold 
 on himself, to face the racing current. 
 For a sharp, illuminant instant, he won- 
 dered if himself were the one thing worth 
 taking hold on. Then, passing out into the 
 kind sunshine, he relinquished what he 
 thought a conceited idea. The chimes 
 were announcing noon. The scurry of liv- 
 ing by unfamiliar, inexorable hours, a deep 
 countryman shyness, and the joys of new 
 learning had hitherto caused David's hu- 
 man surroundings to be as shadows : Mar- 
 tin with his blaring trumpet ; the wise face 
 of little Botley in the next desk, piloting 
 one through early whirlpools; a day-boy, 
 with a tall, small head, all were as figures 
 seen in the twilight. To-day, facts were
 
 8o Bedesman 4 
 
 round him : the border dahlias flamed with 
 color: figures were individuals. Espe- 
 cially he realized the slim, blue-clad person 
 of Miss Fletcher crossing the green, her 
 arms full of books which Flora, her 
 brother's growing St. Bernard, a large and 
 slobbering infant anxious to lick her face, 
 sent on to the grass in a cascade. 
 
 "Let I have her, miss," cried David, 
 startled out of a growing regard for his 
 pronouns. 
 
 "Oh, thank you: but don't try to pick up 
 the books too," as the teething Flora, go- 
 ing about seeking what she might devour, 
 struggled towards a bound Browning. 
 
 "You're Bold, aren't you!" Miss 
 Fletcher said. Flora disposed of, they 
 were seeking each book's gap in the library 
 shelves together. "Will you come to tea 
 with me on Sunday at five? I often have 
 boys then." 
 
 "Thank you kindly, miss," said David,
 
 The Dead Hand 81 
 
 slightly alarmed. In his former dream, he 
 had known she lived across the green, and 
 that certain girlish figures, thronging parts 
 of the playing-fields in dark blue skirts and 
 scarlet sashes, represented a department 
 over which she presided. 
 
 On Sunday, mindful of Mother, he 
 brushed his gown, removed some layers of 
 ink-stain from his fingers and crossed to 
 the gateway opposite his window. On the 
 bright strip of garden, before a harmoni- 
 ous modern building adjoining the old, a 
 graceful bay window looked, showing a 
 white table within. Miss Fletcher's voice 
 cried, "This way!" 
 
 In a charming room, sparsely but dain- 
 tily furnished, four girls in fresh Sunday 
 frocks were gathered, with a couple of 
 foundationers and the tall day-boy. 
 
 David's home eyes dwelt with satisfac- 
 tion on the girls; at sight of other boys a 
 paralyzing shyness gripped him.
 
 82 Bedesman 4 
 
 A brown-eyed maiden called Bridget 
 supplied him with beautiful cakes and 
 somewhat serious conversation, but looked 
 as if she could laugh. Being still quite a 
 natural person, David was neither awkward 
 nor wanting in an archaic code of manners 
 descended from Granny Fielder. But she 
 found him extremely bashful and his 
 country accents strange, though his young, 
 striking head gave her pleasure. After 
 tea, a rather serious feast, 
 
 "The Mistress has just got this lovely 
 book," said Bridget producing a fascinat- 
 ing reprint of Mallory. 
 
 Despite the approach of the tall day-boy, 
 her brother, the tongue of Bedesman 4 
 was loosed by the first grave and glowing 
 picture. His bright eyes met Bridget's: 
 his grammar fled to the four winds. When 
 at the sound of a bell, he had gone reluctant 
 away, and brother and sister turned home- 
 wards, Bridget opined:
 
 The Dead Hand 83 
 
 "That country boy r s very intelligent; 
 and not a bit like the town ones. He 's got 
 all his knowledge in different places/' 
 
 "You 're awfully sharp about a chap," 
 said Ned approvingly from the air above 
 her. 
 
 When they met again, David no longer 
 dwelt with his neighbors as though they 
 existed not: but had found a tardy grati- 
 tude for Botley, and drawn dismal howls 
 from the cornet. From a righteous battle 
 with one Briggs, large and lump-headed, 
 he emerged, thanks to William Bold's 
 quarryman arms, bruised, but purged of 
 fears. 
 
 On a golden late October Saturday, 
 "day-boys' holiday" and the week's jewel, 
 the fields called to him ; and half -past three 
 found him consuming partially ripe cob- 
 nuts on a stile near the river. 
 
 Descending to let a couple cross, he was 
 face to face with Ned and Bridget.
 
 84 Bedesman 4 
 
 " Which way are you going?" 
 
 "I don't but half know." 
 
 "Come with us round Frimley Wood," 
 the girl said. 
 
 She wore a white blouse, a skirt and 
 knitted cap of golden brown, the color of 
 her eyes, and went on with rapid, quiet 
 steps beside her brother, whose small, 
 clever head was perched, above his low 
 flannel collar, on an elongated throat. His 
 tall legs traveled somewhat loosely. Bur- 
 ton was no good at games. 
 
 They went on together, the first squir- 
 rel chased and held by David that Bridget 
 might study his wise, alarmed countenance, 
 making them fast friends. Burton had al- 
 ways been interesting, but Bridget had the 
 unique charm of the comrade-woman. 
 
 "I did n't know there 'd be girls," David 
 said, "my sister 'd give her eyes to come 
 for all she is n't sharp." 
 
 "We 're foundationers, too," said Brid-
 
 The Dead Hand 85 
 
 get proudly, "Sir Humphrey left six 
 pounds a year for the Mistress, and a pair 
 of white wool stockings at Christmas for 
 each girl, at one shilling per pair. We get 
 the shilling! The Mistress thinks he was 
 ever so much before his age. She 's all for 
 co-education. ' ' 
 
 "What's that!" 
 
 "Boys and girls together. She says she 
 could claim to-morrow to share your class- 
 rooms and work together. But she and 
 the Master think we 'd keep each other 
 back; through not needing things in the 
 same shapes. I wonder if they 're right. 
 I get along twice as fast when I work with 
 Ned." 
 
 David reflected. "I don't want the 
 Founder to be kind of a prophet," he 
 said, not knowing what words were coming 
 till they came, "it makes him not real- 
 like." 
 
 Bridget looked at him curiously.
 
 86 Bedesman 4 
 
 ''What 's your best subject?" 
 
 "History," said David promptly. 
 
 She nodded. "So 's mine. The Mis- 
 tress is running me for Oxford scholar- 
 ships. I 'm in luck, being under her." 
 
 ' ' So am I ; the Professor sent me. Can 
 girls go to Oxford?" 
 
 "You really might have heard of wom- 
 en's colleges. Dad's keen about them. 
 You know who he is? The architect that 
 designed the new class-rooms. Grand- 
 father did that first awfully good bit, in 
 '85, and Dad has developed the idea." 
 
 "You live here, then?" 
 
 "In Church Square, for generations. 
 Ned, which way are we going home?" (Ned 
 jerked his long neck towards the right.) 
 "Haven't you seen the chapel, St. Mar- 
 garet's, where the Founder 's buried 
 where we go to church on Founder's day? 
 You Bedesmen should," the girl said seri- 
 ously; she found in her an odd motherli-
 
 The Dead Hand 87 
 
 ness for this bright-eyed creature, short of 
 the right words yet full of frank curiosity. 
 
 The wood-path led to a green meadow, 
 where, retired and overhung by golden 
 trees, a small, calm, gray building faced 
 them. Its old greenish bell filled a little 
 round-headed archway. The nail-studded 
 door's flat, iron handle-ring lifted a large, 
 worn, wooden bolt. Within, a scent as of 
 a still place, ancient and faintly damp, 
 rested on the quiet air. There were no 
 seats, save a few stacks of rush-bottomed 
 chairs in a corner. The irregular floor 
 seemed made of worn, inscribed stones. 
 Behind the low altar, hung with a breadth 
 of dim brocade, and bearing flowers, one 
 realized a draped half- wall; the east wall 
 stood beyond a deep gap. Its high, green- 
 ish window showed figures in worn color- 
 ing, hard to make out. 
 
 Bridget touched a David silent and at 
 gaze ; who, following her to a wrought-iron
 
 88 Bedesman 4 
 
 wicket, reached the space beyond the 
 shrine. South of the east window, a cano- 
 pied table-tomb rose from floor to barrel- 
 roof. The sculptured knight wore a doc- 
 tor's gown, his feet upon a couchant mas- 
 tiff; his quiet lady's gentle and youthful 
 head, in a close coif, pointed and pearl- 
 bordered, rested like his on a fringed pil- 
 low. To the boy's young eyes they 
 seemed to lie very still. 
 
 "Four daughters and three sons; they 
 were the second wife's." Bridget spoke 
 low, pointing to the mounting and meeting 
 rows of small gowned figures below. ' ' See 
 the dead baby up in the sky. She died 
 when he was born, the year we were 
 founded. I 'm afraid he 's rather like a 
 caterpillar." But David scarcely smiled. 
 
 ' * Bid, ' ' said Ned 's voice, ' * come here. I 
 don't believe Dad looked at this corbel." 
 
 When they were out in the sunshine 
 again, David said:
 
 The Dead Hand 89 
 
 "Be the Statutes writ down?" and then 
 flushed at his grammar. 
 
 "To be sure. The Master 's got them, 
 and they 're in a book of Dad's, too. Of 
 course, we can't keep them all nowa- 
 days.'* 
 
 "No," said David, slowly. "They 
 did n't take my knife from me. I offered 
 the Master, for all 'twas my Granfer's. 
 Nor I never seen a dice-table." 
 
 "See, you 've got till six. Come home 
 to tea, and you could see the book." 
 
 The factory-quarter of Spetterton lay to 
 the north-east. The Parish Church with 
 its low tower, retired in a wide graveyard, 
 filled one side of the deep, irregular 
 square, Flint's Almshouse another. The 
 Burton's house was white and solid; three 
 steps rose from the street to the serious 
 door sheltered by a round stone projection. 
 The windows were tall, and heavily 
 framed. The long, low, cozy room at the
 
 90 Bedesman 4 
 
 back had three, with deep seats looking on 
 a walled garden. The carpet was worn; 
 all the furniture old and much of it quaint ; 
 the table strewn with books and parts of a 
 blue linen blouse that Bridget was making 
 with a hand sewing-machine. Under one 
 window a desk had a great book open upon 
 it, from which some one was minutely copy- 
 ing an architectural drawing apparently 
 Ned, who sat down to it instantly. The 
 girl rang and an elderly woman in spotless 
 apron but no cap, with a thimble on her 
 finger, appeared. 
 
 "Tea, is it? Dear, Miss Bridget, 
 don't fling your cap down there; and clear 
 up them pieces, else you '11 lose 'em. The 
 Master 's just come in." 
 
 ' * All right, old Nan. Bring some honey- 
 comb, bless you. This is Mr. Bold. I 'm 
 going for Dad. ' ' 
 
 Her chattering voice came back up the 
 stairs, and she came in hugging the arm of
 
 The Dead Hand 91 
 
 a gray-headed man in riding-breeches. It 
 transpired that he had been visiting 
 Broughton Priors Church, in connection 
 with a new vestry; and David's eager eyes 
 brought questions and frank replies. The 
 four sat round a generous table, Bridget 
 pouring out tea. Father and children 
 bandied family jokes, but the guest never 
 felt "out of it"; it seemed to him he had 
 never seen three people so fond of one an- 
 other. The one drawback was that he 
 could not understand all they said. He 
 liked them as he liked no one save the Pro- 
 fessor; as though he were of one world 
 with them. That he was for the first time 
 in a 'gentleman's' house as an equal did 
 not matter. When at half -past five, Brid- 
 get told him frankly that he ought to go, 
 his face fell: he wanted a thing so much 
 that the girl saw. 
 
 "Dad, may he see that book with the 
 Statutes in it?"
 
 92 Bedesman 4 
 
 David 's eyes shone: but he cast a dis- 
 traught glance at the clock. 
 
 "Can you take care of a book?" Mr. 
 Burton smiled. 
 
 "I '11 strive to," the boy said earnestly. 
 It was his mother's word. 
 
 " And I woll that the sayde Freest of my 
 Chantry be a discrete man and able of 
 connyng to teache Gramer: And I woll 
 that he sing his Masse and say his other 
 Divyne Service at the aulter of my Chapell 
 of St. Margarett in ye Parishe of Compton 
 and to pray specially for the soules, etc. 
 And I woll that he kepe a Gramer School in 
 the faier Howse therto by me ordained and 
 that he frely without any wages or salarye 
 except only my Salarye hereunder speci- 
 fied shall teche all maner persons children 
 unto the tyme that they be convenably in- 
 strut in Gramer by hym after their capaci- 
 teys that God woll geve them : And I woll
 
 The Dead Hand 93 
 
 that the same connyng and discrete Freest, 
 with all the sayd children his scolers and 
 with myn eight Bedesmen, shall one day in 
 every weke that is upon Saturday come 
 into the sayd Chapell, unto the place of the 
 grave ther where the bodyes of my wyff 
 Dame Margarett and my Fader and my 
 Mother lyen buryed and ther say togiders 
 the Psalm of De Profundis, with the versi- 
 cles and colletts thereto accustomed after 
 Salisbury use, and pray specially for the 
 soule of my so dear wyf and for my soule 
 and the soules of my Fader and Mother 
 and for all Christen Soules: And once a 
 year that is on St. Margarett 's Day in ye 
 afternoon to say the Dirigay and Comand- 
 asonay " 
 
 David lifted his chin from his hollowed 
 palms, and, sighing, rubbed his hands over 
 his ears. What on earth was the Comand- 
 asonayf 
 
 The shadows lengthened and deepened
 
 94 Bedesman 4 
 
 in the little wainscotted Bedesman's cham- 
 ber; and with them the new dream gath- 
 ered closer round, the dream that was calm 
 and real, no one's made-up tale, but true. 
 He gazed up at the faint blazoning above 
 the hearth. As he bent his head again the 
 fusty scent of the old book came up, excit- 
 ing him to the depths of his soul like some 
 new wine. 
 
 "And the same connyng Freest shall 
 teche the children his Scholers to say Grace 
 as well at dinner as at supper also he shall 
 teche them good maners and specially to 
 refrain from lieing to honoure their par- 
 ents and serve God devowtely in hys 
 Churche. And every Scholar shall be at 
 the saide School in the mornynge by seven 
 of the Clocke and at the tyme of his firste 
 admyting and writing of his name in the 
 boke of Scolers " 
 
 Slowly the gentle dusk was creeping be- 
 tween the eager eyes and the old blunt
 
 The Dead Hand 95 
 
 print, the queer spellings. Reluctant, as 
 one breaking a spell, David rose to kindle 
 his gas. With the starting jet, the dark 
 lines of wainscot and the books and the 
 gown upon the door peg leaped to sight. 
 His eyes clung to the straight-hanging red- 
 bordered garment. His soul grew aware, 
 as though some dawning light broadened 
 and glowed. That firm, un-stirring hand, 
 that relaxed not, had first taken hold in the 
 year of grace 1487, when America was 
 yet to be, the quiet hand of a bearded 
 Englishman, Doctor of Laws in the Uni- 
 versity of Oxford: who in a heart-rending 
 hour desired that those after him, living 
 truly, should also call upon God for a sweet 
 soul gone hence and no more seen. He 
 lived still: still his words had power; still 
 his bounty gave to craving, eager souls the 
 jewel of learning, set in the sound gold of 
 a fair tradition. 
 Where did one find the Psalm of De
 
 g6 Bedesman 4 
 
 Profundis? Bridget would know To- 
 morrow was Sunday. David had dropped 
 back into his chair. The .Past, most alive 
 of all things, had gripped him again. For 
 this Bedesman was of his own nature Hers 
 for good. Till now he had not known it. 
 Turning a handful of leaves, he lost him- 
 self among the elaborate provisions of the 
 pious and cleanly Dean Colet, and of one 
 Peter Blundell a clothier of ' ' Tyverton in 
 Devon," who, with his love for "floores 
 well-plancked with plancks of oke" and for 
 "faire greate chimneys," had apparently 
 known how to be comfortable.
 
 : T"^VON'T ee go furder 'n Frankley 
 JL/ turning, my dear. Thee mid miss 
 him." 
 
 "He '11 be sooner 'n that, Mother." 
 The gate swung behind Emily. In her 
 round and simple countenance "large 
 mornings shone." 
 
 Esther Bold went back to her mending. 
 But the drama of her daughter lay at her 
 heart. Time, bringing new things, weans 
 a childish heart from the old. After eight 
 weeks Emily was still unweaned. She had 
 flagged, drooping to a lonely look: "seek- 
 ing to" her mother, till Esther was 
 ashamed to rejoice in a new friendship 
 born of the child's new pain. But the boy 
 he was sure enough to have traveled on. 
 His mother's heart shook, there. She put 
 
 97
 
 98 Bedesman 4 
 
 away her basket. It was wiser to stir 
 about, till the two chattering voices, ap- 
 proaching on the road, caught her back to 
 a time that was gone. Her eyes swam. 
 Then he was in the room. Two vigorous 
 arms had her round the neck. Grown! 
 To be sure he was. That was the ''good 
 living." And he had a look smarter? 
 was it only that? He looked round with 
 eager eyes; seeing everything new. 
 ''Seems all different somehow," he said 
 slowly, as Emily's foot climbed the stair. 
 
 ' ' Our chairs Mother, they 're just like 
 them in my room. You did ought to see 
 my room : 't is pretty near 's big as this : 
 the window 's longer. There 's pipes. 
 But 't is cozier with the fire. And 't is " 
 
 Suddenly he nestled to her, and she knew 
 she meant the heart of home: he was al- 
 ways a coaxing one from a baby. "Thee 
 be just the same," he said in her ear. 
 
 "Thee mother don't change. She ain't
 
 The Dead Hand 99 
 
 young like thee. Be happy there, child?" 
 
 "Bare and happy. 'T is lovely." A 
 slow smile broadened. He was still, warm 
 against her, staring at the fire. 
 
 "I 'm getting learning," he said in a low 
 voice, not free from awe, "more every day. 
 Mr. Titheridge he can teach." 
 
 "Don't Mr. Fletcher?" 
 
 "Not till you get in the Sixth. Master, 
 he rules, back of everything, so as you feels 
 lovely and safe. Mother " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 1 * Our Founder were good to us. Mother 
 do thee say prayers for them that 's 
 dead?" 
 
 Esther Bold was brought up short. She 
 paused, seeking the deeper truth. 
 
 "They be safe, my dear: not but what 
 I often thinks on Mother and them. 
 Seems like Mr. Eichards he holds with it, 
 if 'twas n't some o' them antics, like they 
 say he haves."
 
 1OO Bedesman 4 
 
 ' * 'Cause Founder said to go to my 
 lady's grave. 'T is Psalm 130. I found 
 it in the Prayer-book. Darner her name 
 was, Mother: like the Bolds and the Field- 
 ers worked for, far-back times." 
 
 Here Emily entered. As he watched her 
 set the tea : 
 
 "Sis, have a brown frock, your next; 
 'tis awful pretty." 
 
 "What do thee know?" Emily laughed. 
 
 "I can see. Bridget she wears it and 
 cap to match. The girls do come ; to Miss 
 Fletcher, t'other side. Bridget's got a 
 brother a day-boy. I been to tea there." 
 
 Whoever Bridget was, Emily did not 
 care about her. 
 
 "Mother, sh' I fetch in a bit more 
 wood?" David said. 
 
 She was so pleased that she felt 
 ashamed. "Take off thee jacket first," 
 she answered calmly. 
 
 Out at the back door, the bright North
 
 The Dead Hand 101 
 
 wind fluttered David's pink shirt sleeves, 
 as, a village lad again, lie loaded Ms arms 
 with sticks. Standing still for a minute, 
 he scented the breeze through the fir-trees. 
 He felt l ' queer, ' ' shaken, as though he were 
 not sure who he was. Home had gathered 
 him to its warm arms ; but it was i ' differ- 
 ent somehow." It did not mean all of 
 him : and it had grown smaller. Glancing 
 away, he saw the white figure of his father 
 turning the corner. David went in. 
 Somehow he preferred to have his jacket 
 on when Father came in. He suddenly 
 knew that part of the "difference" in 
 things was in his feeling about his father. 
 Why? Mother was just the same more 
 so. 
 
 At tea, he knew the male eyes watched 
 him. William Bold, who wished his son to 
 "come up a gentleman," found he did not 
 relish all the signs that his desire began to 
 be fulfilled. His wife knew it. She talked
 
 1O2 Bedesman 4 
 
 to the children : but the boy had turned sud- 
 denly silent, almost shy. He went with 
 Emily to the scullery, to wash the tea 
 things. Sisterly eyes knew he had not 
 been at ease. Emily hated his correcter 
 language, after the old rough-hewn speech. 
 The last cup put away, he spoke, and her 
 heart leaped. ''Us '11 have a run, Sis." 
 Out of the back door and down the slope 
 they scooted, bare-headed both, till at the 
 stile they stopped for breath: leaning 
 against it, panting, laughing. He pushed 
 a flying lock behind her ear. 
 
 "Miss me, Sis?" 
 
 The round, simple face quivered. 
 
 ' ' Course I does. ' ' He saw it all clearly. 
 
 "See here," he spoke quickly, "when 
 I ? m on my own, us '11 live together, Sis, 
 you and me. You shall see to the house, 
 and I '11 be studding and reading, writ- 
 ing, most like " he paused and his eyes 
 widened.
 
 The Dead Hand 103 
 
 1 ' Thee '11 get married then, ' ' said Emily 
 sedately. 
 
 "I shan't want no wife, if I got thee. 
 I wonder if I was to write " 
 
 The pause was long; Emily's eyes grew 
 imploring. He roused himself, looking to- 
 wards the west. "We got time to go up 
 in the wood before 't is dark," he said. 
 
 In the little chamber at the top of the 
 stairs with the three-quarter door, where 
 his white bed had received him each night 
 since the baby became the boy, where 
 the birds talked under the thatch till you 
 fell asleep, he lay to-night, wide-eyed, hear- 
 ing Emily's soft breaths beyond the 
 wooden partition. He was queerly aware 
 of an empty box-bed in the valley beyond 
 the hill, where a slow chime told the quar- 
 ters. This little room had a closed-in feel- 
 ing and was cold, though he loved to be in 
 it. The spotless sheets smelt of wood
 
 104 Bedesman 4 
 
 smoke. Drying-day had been wet. Over 
 the evening fire, a joke of his father's had 
 loosed his tongue and there had followed 
 long, long tales, and pourings-out. Now 
 how strange it all looked! To-morrow 
 back again, to lessons, to play, no one there 
 aware of this other world that was 
 ''home," himself deep in the intense inter- 
 ests, the passionate "learning" 
 
 Could one really be two people? He 
 was. 
 
 On Sunday, after afternoon church, they 
 walked all together to Frankley turning, 
 and the three watched the one over the 
 hill's brow. Going home, Emily lagged 
 behind. 
 
 "He be a lot come on," said William. 
 
 "I believe," his mother said, slowly, "as 
 he '11 stop the same boy." 
 
 "To be sure, will," his father said, not 
 without a hint of puzzlement.
 
 Book III 
 Denial
 
 VII 
 
 THERE came an April morning, warm 
 and sunny. Through Church Square 
 a quiet and cheerful traffic rattled on its 
 way. "Spetterton's Grandfather," the 
 giant elm, whose massy trunk was sur- 
 rounded by irregular seats; and all the 
 churchyard sycamores and limes, had 
 clothed themselves in tender and transpar- 
 ent greens. In the warm, walled garden 
 behind number 17, a fragrant place, vivid 
 colors flamed softly. 
 
 The front door and the garden door op- 
 posite it stood open; so that a tall boy, 
 arriving on the top step and glancing 
 through, saw as the center of a glowing, 
 spring-like picture, a girl, trim and work- 
 manlike in a blue overall, who seemed to be 
 107
 
 io8 Bedesman 4 
 
 dealing a trifle masterfully with an eld- 
 erly, shirt-sleeved gardener. 
 
 The boy walked coolly through the house, 
 and, smiling, descended the old curved gar- 
 den steps and deposited at their foot cer- 
 tain soundly-tied paper parcels. Then he 
 stood looking on. Yes. She was like that, 
 this friend of his. As if no one could be 
 enough alive ! Hear her ! 
 
 "No, Sparks then I must begin again. 
 The iris-bed " 
 
 The working man's quiet eyes dwelt on 
 her with a fatherly smile and a patient nod. 
 Not till he had retired with large slow steps 
 to a far-off corner did Bridget turn, and, 
 pushing back her sun-bonnet, realize the 
 new-comer. 
 
 "David! That's good! Why I just 
 wanted your mind on the tulips. But 
 what 's that? not the love-in-a-mist from 
 your mother?" 
 
 "She tied it up with some other bits of
 
 Denial 109 
 
 things. There 's a creeper, red-flowering, 
 my aunt sent her from Cornwall : but it 's 
 a bit faddy. Have you got a cozy corner 
 to the north! Let me undo it and we '11 
 put them in.'* 
 
 ' ' Your mother, ' ' said Bridget, with con- 
 viction, "must be a jewel. Oh, boy ! cut it ! 
 My knife 's just sharpened." 
 
 "She is, rather, but she don't let you 
 cut string," said the boy, with a quaint 
 gentleness. "Here 's the creeper, see. 
 Where shall the lavender go 1 " 
 
 Half an hour's busy work left them rest- 
 ing on the seat beside the old pear-tree, 
 warm and full of words. 
 
 "What have you done with your holi- 
 days? G-ot on with Froude? I r m half 
 way through vol. III." 
 
 1 ' How a girl does race at things ! I have 
 been going over and over that first chapter. 
 I could n't leave it. But now I Ve finished 
 vol. I. Most of the time I Ve been out
 
 HO Bedesman 4 
 
 of doors. I 've dug up our garden and my 
 grandmother's: and done a good few other 
 things. ' ' 
 
 ''Have n't I told you 'a good few' is bad 
 style? Can't you see it 's almost non- 
 sense?" 
 
 "Why not? Plenty nonsense words are 
 rare good to use. I find them every day. 
 You take a first-rate book and count " 
 
 "My blessed boy, don't argue. I 'm 
 merely taking an interest in your English 
 style. Ah what are you thinking 
 about?" 
 
 David looked down between his feet, si- 
 lent but unembarrassed, though her eyes 
 dwelt on him. Like most of her male 
 friends all her life they were many he 
 understood Bridget. Perhaps, as with one 
 Beatrice, "Adam's sons were her breth- 
 ren." She was David's closest friend. 
 But he had a thing at his heart, deep, 
 moving. Only slowly, he knew that you
 
 Denial ill 
 
 do not keep a big thing back from the 
 friend. 
 
 "Master gave out prize subjects this 
 morning,' 7 he said. 
 
 "Well I" 
 
 "Well the essay 's decent. 'This place 
 in the Founder's day.' " 
 
 "David! Mistress put that into his 
 head, I know!" 
 
 "No. It was some old lady up at the 
 Hall, just come. He told me so." 
 
 "Not my godmother! Did he say Miss 
 Nicholas?" 
 
 "Miss Nicholas! No." 
 
 "Founder's heir. She 's come back 
 then! And we thought she 'd let it for 
 good." 
 
 "Well, she '11 be giving the prizes, or 
 else some learned friend of hers. That 
 last big-wig ass on his hind legs, wasn't 
 he?" 
 
 "Bather. Did you send in, then?"
 
 112 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Yes. I made a poor job. I shan't this 
 time." He sat gazing before him, silent, 
 at a gorgeous tulip-bed. She watched him 
 with softened eyes. 
 
 "You won't. Suppose it were the be- 
 ginning?" 
 
 He gave one quick nod, and a wise 
 woman arrived at the holding of her 
 tongue. She rose and went to root a weed 
 from the tulip-bed. He said, as to himself : 
 "Good to begin already." Bridget came 
 back. 
 
 Sitting down she smiled, picking up a 
 corner of his Bedesman's gown that lay on 
 the seat between them. The porter's wife 
 had lately let it down to within the last 
 inch of its liberal turning. 
 
 "Your own subject," she said. "I *ve 
 never known another but you that cared 
 to walk about Spetterton in this. Boys are 
 such self-conscious loonies !"
 
 Denial 113 
 
 He lifted his head as with offense. 
 "There 's graceless fellows in every 
 school." 
 
 f l Oh, come ! It 's just want of imagina- 
 tion." 
 
 "If you choose to give smart names to 
 ugly things. You think what they owe 
 him!" 
 
 "Yes, but if you 're a born idiot, why, 
 you are! You can't expect things centur- 
 ies old to appeal to them, because they ap- 
 peal to you." 
 
 He rose with a quick movement and 
 stretched his arms above his head. 
 
 "I must go, Bridget, or be late for hall. 
 I '11 come one day, and talk it over, and see 
 how that creeper 's doing." 
 
 "Do. Dad might have some books. 
 Oh, David" 
 
 He turned. 
 
 "I want to thank your mother. Why
 
 114 Bedesman 4 
 
 shouldn't you and Ned and I ride over on 
 Saturday? Dad would lend you his old 
 bicycle. ' ' 
 
 David paused. That jewel of his lay 
 close against his heart. 
 
 "I 'm not the best of men on a bike." 
 He began to laugh. Then she saw him 
 catch himself up. He went on deliber- 
 ately, his eyes on the -tulip-bed. 
 
 "No. That 's not speaking truth to- 
 gether. I 'd like to go well, and for you 
 to go. Only " 
 
 Bridget's frankness veiled itself with 
 something gentle as she waited for 
 more. 
 
 "It 's her I 'm thinking on. She 'd be 
 pleased and proud, I know that. But " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I wouldn't have her take you for a 
 young lady. You 're not what she 'd 
 mean, anyway." 
 
 "David," said Bridget, with deep se-
 
 Denial 115 
 
 piousness, " shake hands. You have some 
 glimmerings of intelligence." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, I 'm sure," said 
 David, a small smile stirring his lips. "I 
 should be pretty well baked lop-sided, 
 should n't I, if I hadn't some by now, be- 
 ing as I ami" 
 
 "Maybe," she answered, "but I think 
 you 'd always have had them. It comes 
 out in other ways." She glanced at the 
 gown. 
 
 He shook his head gravely. 
 
 "Not if I 'd been left at bird-starv- 
 ing." 
 
 "What is bird-starving?" 
 
 "What my younger brother 'd be at 
 now, if I had one. You sit under the 
 hedge with a clapper when the crop 's 
 coming up, to drive them off. You may 
 bide there best part of a morning and not 
 see half a dozen, if Farmer 's a careful 
 man."
 
 li6 Bedesman 4 
 
 f 
 
 "Time to think!" 
 
 "You leaves off thinking, when that 's 
 your life. Look here, Bridget, I shall be 
 late." 
 
 "Well, come on Saturday and hunt 
 Dad's book-shelves." 
 
 When he was gone, she stood still in a 
 muse. How curious it was to hear his 
 tongue, his very words, change when he 
 thought of the fields ! The voice of a gong 
 and an aroma of roast mutton reaching 
 her, she ran up the steps, unbuttoning her 
 overall. 
 
 The use of a common playing-field 
 caused a " girls ' half" to fall on a boys' 
 whole school-day, save on the Saturdays 
 dear to both. Bridget's afternoon was 
 free. When Ned, who was leaving at mid- 
 summer, to be articled to his father, 
 followed David's road, she stood looking at 
 her neat new bicycle. Then she sat down on 
 the top garden-step and thought for a con-
 
 Denial 117 
 
 siderable time. Bridget had a clear and 
 a stable mind. After a bit, she usually saw 
 her woman's way. Alone from babyhood 
 with two male things, she had had to learn 
 how. She went indoors and put on a 
 clean white blouse. Contemplating a 
 springlike hat, she shook her head, tried 
 the more natural "tammy"; then, thank- 
 ing the heavens for a windless day, de- 
 cided on the hat. "It 's a formal call," 
 she remarked to herself, "though most 
 likely the compliment will be lost on her. ' ' 
 When she had visited the garden again, 
 she rode away through Spetterton High 
 Street, and turned up the hill past the hos- 
 pital, a stiffer climb than the London 
 road. Among the green lanes, she stopped 
 to pick white violets, dawdling under the 
 sweet sunshine, promising herself to 
 gather more coming home. 
 
 It was after half-past three when she 
 came to the gray cottages. In the bright
 
 n8 Bedesman 4 
 
 garden before the little house that stood 
 back, she saw a lavender-clump lately dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 Save this, nothing but chance guided her : 
 and dismounting she pushed the gate and 
 went to knock at the door. 
 
 "Is Mrs. Bold at home?" she said at 
 a venture. 
 
 Within, all was silence. Through the 
 door, down the two little steps, she saw the 
 small quiet house-place full of the sun- 
 shine, the dresser, the gate-legged table 
 against the wall, the other, round and with 
 the half cloth on it, ready for the tea cups, 
 the clean broad stones underfoot. She 
 had never realized David's home, even 
 when she had thought about it. Now with 
 a sudden shock of understanding and 
 change, she wondered, was her visit that 
 thing worse than a crime, a blunder f an in- 
 trusion into her friend *s sacred things? 
 "Rubbish," concluded Bridget, with de-
 
 Denial 119 
 
 cision, taking refuge in mere good man- 
 ners. She knocked again to encourage 
 herself. 
 
 A step sounded on a creaking stair, and 
 Esther Bold came through the house- 
 place. Her dressing for tea being as much 
 a matter of course as a Duchess 's for din- 
 ner, she had been upstairs changing her 
 gown. Her clean apron covered up her 
 brown skirt; her beautiful hair, un- 
 streaked as yet, lay close to the shapely 
 head so like her boy's, in firm plaits; her 
 grave mother's eyes looked in love on 
 every young thing. The girl's clear look 
 took her in silently for a moment : intensely 
 attracted, unfamiliarly shy. Those eyes 
 stirred something unknown and demand- 
 ing, that she was afraid of, deep at the 
 roots of Bridget. She spoke quickly. 
 
 "You 're Mrs. Bold? I came over to 
 thank you ever so much for the lovely 
 creeper and the love-in-the-mist, and all
 
 12O Bedesman 4 
 
 you gave David for my garden. He and I 
 put them all in this morning, and " 
 
 "Do please to come in, miss," said 
 Esther Bold. Bridget fiercely regretted 
 the tammy. It was her way to come to 
 grips with a disagreeable thing. 
 
 "I can't," she said mournfully, "if 
 you 're going to call me that! I 'm just 
 Bridget Burton, David's school-fellow. 
 He doesn't make hosts of friends; and 
 I 'm proud that he 's mine. The school 's 
 going to he proud of David, I can assure 
 you, when he 's a bit older." Esther 
 Bold's cheek flushed. 
 
 She held the inner door quietly open. 
 Bridget knew she had pleased. 
 
 "Will my bicycle be safe? Oh, thanks, 
 I'll fetch it in." 
 
 Eeturning, her bright eyes met Esther's 
 across a mass of soft white, pink- 
 tinted. 
 
 "I thought you might like some of my
 
 Denial 121 
 
 double tulips. These are just out, and 
 David said you had none." 
 
 "Well, I 'm sure they 're lovely. But 
 do ee come in." Mrs. Bold turned round 
 a fireside chair. Beaching an old blue 
 jug from the dresser, she stepped "out 
 back" to fill it. Then looking across the 
 nosegay at the fresh face full of its char- 
 acter, the ruddy plaits, the young, lissom 
 figure, she smiled. "I 'm sure I *m that 
 pleased to see you, like one of the flowers 
 yourself, such a lovely day. You live to 
 Spetterton then, m my dear!" 
 
 ' ' My brother 's with David at Nicholas ' ; 
 and I 'm in the Sixth Form on the girl's 
 side. That 's how we know each other. 
 My father made the plans for the new 
 vestry at your church. Mrs. Bold, who 
 did make that sampler!" 
 
 "That 's mine. They don't teach ee 
 samplering there, I reckon. 'T is all for- 
 got now. My mother 's there, you
 
 122 Bedesman 4 
 
 should look at that. And here 's my Emily 
 coming, must show you hers; and we '11 
 have a cup o' tea." 
 
 "Is she at school?" 
 
 "She left Christmas-time; come the 
 winter she '11 be going to place, I hope. 
 Her Granny 's ailing just now and Emily 's 
 mostly down there. My dear! here 's a 
 visitor come to see us, Miss Burton as 
 goes to school with Dave, and have brought 
 us them lovely tulips." 
 
 Emily came to an abrupt stand-still; 
 she carried a bundle tied in a blue hand- 
 kerchief, as well as a milk-can; and she 
 wore a lilac-checked long pinafore over 
 her cotton frock. The wide-open friend- 
 liness of her blue eyes was crossed sud- 
 denly by something strange to them, as 
 they realized the girl examining Granny 
 Fielder's stitchery, who held out a greet- 
 ing hand. 
 
 Emily took it and let it drop: turning,
 
 Denial 123 
 
 shy and wordless, to hang up her sunbon- 
 net. 
 
 "You got to fetch your sampler, too," 
 her mother said, to help her out. "I put 
 it by in the drawer upstairs." 
 
 Emily opened the brown door in the wall 
 and there was silence while her loud 
 step mounted, paused, and came down 
 again. She held out the folded work 
 dumbly to her mother. 
 
 "Show it to Miss Burton, while I set the 
 tea." 
 
 Approaching Bridget, Emily laid it on 
 the table and, still wordless, stood by her, 
 first on one foot, then on the other. 
 
 * ' I wish I could mark like that, it would 
 be nice for one's things. Wasn't it a 
 long job?" 
 
 "No," said Emily stolidly. 
 
 "It 's all done by thread, of course." 
 
 "Yes." The same dull, raw voice. 
 
 Bridget's eyes glanced up at her.
 
 124 Bedesman 4 
 
 David's sister! This rough, sandy- 
 headed girl. 
 
 "Thee better fill the kettle," said Es- 
 ther Bold with a grave mildness. 
 
 As Emily disappeared: "You '11 ex- 
 cuse her, my dear. She 's one o' the shy 
 ones. Misses our Dave something dread- 
 ful, she do, just after he 's gone: makes 
 her like that. Yes, put her on, Em'ly. 
 Won't you come out while she 's boiling, 
 and look at my flowers?" 
 
 Tea was still in progress when a large 
 cream-colored figure darkened the door. 
 
 "We Ve begun a bit early, Father, hav- 
 ing a visitor." Mrs. Bold repeated her 
 explanation, and Bridget, rising, held out 
 her hand. Father, handsome as he was, 
 went further to mystify her thoughts on 
 David. His large palm left white dust on 
 her fingers, which he dropped exactly as 
 Emily, and he nodded mutely to his wife 
 and went out by the back door: from a
 
 Denial 125 
 
 further region came sounds of pumping 
 and splashing, and Esther bade Emily 
 fetch Father's shoes. When he returned, 
 cleaner but less picturesque, Bridget es- 
 sayed conversation on the weather, which 
 met with agreement, though "you don't 
 know much about it when you be under- 
 ground." A certain check fell on the 
 former feminine chat, and Father, occu- 
 pied with deep draughts of tea, did nothing 
 to fill the gap. Glancing at the clock, 
 Bridget took her leave. Esther followed 
 her to the gate with cordial good-byes 
 ' ' and come again, do ee, my dear. ' ' Look- 
 ing after her, she smiled and sighed. 
 
 "Sweetheartin' a 'ready!" said Esther 
 Bold. 
 
 Bridget, riding home in the soft evening, 
 tried to re-adjust her thoughts and see the 
 David of Nicholas' in this new milieu. 
 She found it well-nigh as hard as realizing 
 a departed friend in heaven. Her heart
 
 126 Bedesman 4 
 
 sank a little and her eyes grew grave. The 
 more did he need all that Nicholas' and the 
 new life could give him. She sat upright 
 at the top of the long hill, and put on her 
 brake firmly. Friendship is a serious 
 responsibility. Then her thought called 
 back Esther Bold: the country voice, the 
 unconscious dignity, the serious eyes that 
 were like home. A motherless girl, swal- 
 lowing deep in her throat, sped past the 
 white violet bank with unseeing eyes. 
 
 "Who was that come to tea?" Father 
 said, between the puffs of his pipe. 
 
 "She r s one that goes to the other part 
 o' Dave's school; come over to thank me 
 for some bits of plants I give him for her 
 garden." 
 
 "Uncommon fine girl: taller 'n you, 
 Em'ly." 
 
 "She 's older," said Emily quickly. 
 She rose to fetch a reel of cotton from
 
 Denial 127 
 
 the table. As though after reflection, she 
 added: "I reckon she 's pretty wasteful, 
 wearing her best hat of anyday." 
 
 "I went to thank your mother," Brid- 
 get said, ''the same day you were here." 
 
 David, halfway up the library steps, 
 looked quickly from between two dusty 
 covers. "Was she at home?" 
 
 "Yes, and gave me tea; and your sister 
 and your father." 
 
 David sat down on the top step, his fin- 
 ger between the pages: he met her eyes 
 with a sort of detached thoughtful- 
 ness. 
 
 "You 'd find it a queer little place after 
 here," he said, with an odd simplicity, 
 "just about an old house, ours is." 
 
 "Your mother 's lovely." 
 
 His eyes changed, till they were almost 
 like Esther's own. 
 
 "Emily was shy, was n't she?"
 
 128 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Yes. I don't think she fancied me." 
 
 "She don't know," said David with a 
 touch of eager apology. 
 
 Bridget smiled. 
 
 ' * David you must get your mother here 
 for Margaret's Day. All the parents 
 come. ' ' 
 
 His look brightened. "So I should. I 
 never thought upon it." 
 
 She taught him everything, he said to 
 himself. To know her was a liberal educa- 
 tion.
 
 T 
 
 vin 
 
 HEE new bonnet 's awful pretty, 
 Mother." 
 
 "Don't seem as I knows myself in it," 
 Esther Bold said. She turned to the lit- 
 tle square of looking-glass to draw the 
 new adornment forward on her head. 
 "There, we're as the Lord made us, 
 Emily, when all 's said and done." 
 
 "He made thee awful nice, then," said 
 her daughter valiantly, "and thee did 
 ought to have what sets ee. Open out thee 
 pocket-handkercher, for luck." 
 
 "Tut!" said Esther, but her lips smiled. 
 "You run on, now, child, else Granny '11 
 be waiting for her dinner. The cart 
 won't come this ten minutes." 
 
 She followed Emily downstairs : and the
 
 130 Bedesman 4 
 
 cart delayed. Presently she stood at the 
 gate watching for it. The twentieth of 
 July was a true gala day. The wide view, 
 all rich blues and soft grays, was crossed 
 by no cloud-shadows; the clove-carnations 
 in the border scented the warm air. 
 
 Along the road where the cart should 
 come, a man in white clothes appeared, 
 running. As he neared, his pace slack- 
 ened. He lifted a hand. 
 
 An odd shock startled Esther Bold. 
 She unlatched the gate and went to meet 
 him. 
 
 Every window of the hall was open. 
 The long room was full. On the platform, 
 one small lady's pale gray costume, and 
 the dashes of red upon a Bedesman *s gown 
 relieved the flat blacks of the group of 
 masters. 
 
 1 'English Essay, Bold," Frank Fletch- 
 er said; and resumed his seat.
 
 Denial 131 
 
 The room rustled lightly: the ladies in 
 bright summer gowns and men in frock- 
 coats, slightly bored, settled themselves 
 with commendable patience to be quiet 
 through another prize exercise. At least 
 this one was in the vernacular. 
 
 A boyish voice, pitched nervously a 
 trifle high, with an unconscious cadence in 
 it, began to speak. After half a dozen sen- 
 tences, the silence had ceased to be a 
 forced and guarded thing. The tall boy 
 was not reading. He was telling a story; 
 which began: 
 
 "Towards the latter end of the 15th Cen- 
 tury, a learned and kindly gentleman " 
 
 A girl in a dainty white frock and poppy- 
 trimmed hat, on one of the raised benches 
 at the Hall's end, cast a searching, slowly 
 despairing glance over the company and 
 settled herself to listen. 
 
 The silence lasted. At the close of the 
 story, a burst of clapping rose.
 
 132 Bedesman 4 
 
 On the platform, the lady in gray leaned 
 over and spoke to the Master. 
 
 "Who helped him with that?" 
 
 Frank Fletcher turned. 
 
 "Books. No one else." 
 
 "Are yon sure?" 
 
 The Master smiled. "I know the boy." 
 
 There was a movement in the Hall. The 
 Master rose and requested Miss Nicholas 
 to give away the prizes, displayed in rows 
 before her on the table. When Bedesman 
 4 came up, amid applause, the little 
 gray lady leaned across the table, almost 
 as her stature had compelled her to do when 
 the smallest boy came up. 
 
 "Thank you," she said, handing over 
 the bound volumes. 
 
 The boy was evidently confused. His 
 hand went instinctively to where his cap 
 should have been and dropped disap- 
 pointed. He blushed furiously. 
 
 A few minutes later, the audience,
 
 Denial 133 
 
 streaming out of the heated hall, clustered 
 about white-clad tea-tables on the bowling- 
 green, amid a buzz of talk. 
 
 "Bold! This way. Miss Nicholas 
 wants you introduced." 
 
 The Master led David towards a bench 
 where Miss Fletcher and the gray lady 
 were accepting cream and cakes from a 
 strikingly handsome elderly gentleman. 
 Bridget, eagerly watching their approach, 
 sat next Miss Nicholas, who shook hands 
 with David and looked at him straight. 
 
 * ' I hope you will come and see me at the 
 Hall some Saturday. I will show you the 
 other portrait of the Founder and some 
 possessions of his. Will you get me some 
 more tea?" 
 
 David did not know afterwards what he 
 had said, in his effort not to fall back on 
 the " Thank you kindly" of his childhood. 
 When he returned with the tea-cup, the 
 gray lady was in conversation, and thanked
 
 134 Bedesman 4 
 
 Mm with a nod; and Bridget said: "She 
 isn't here!" 
 
 "I know. I Ve looked for her every- 
 where. Something 's happened to stop 
 her. I say, could I be heard?" 
 
 ' ' To the very end. It went grandly. ' ' 
 
 A new group approaching, they were 
 parted. In the movement David felt a 
 touch on his shoulder. 
 
 "I want to take a look at your buildings. 
 Couldn't we slip away from all this?" 
 
 David knew not why the wise and whim- 
 sical countenance of Miss Nicholas' elderly 
 friend recalled an hour in Bloody Lane, 
 that lay three summers behind him. 
 Something was swelling in him, jubilant 
 but very shy. He was glad to get away. 
 
 "You Ve not rightly seen hall, sir. 
 Come this way, please." 
 
 Their progress became a continuous joy. 
 The old gentleman, it appeared, was by 
 nature argumentative, and held diametric-
 
 Denial 135 
 
 ally opposite views on antiquarian mat- 
 ters to those in vogue at Nicholas. It was 
 impossible to hear such sentiments and 
 not unloose one 's tongue. By the time the 
 Bedesmen's rooms were reached, their at- 
 titude was one of unembarrassed sparring. 
 
 David offered his armchair. The guest 
 sat down with evident satisfaction. 
 
 "You enjoyed writing that essay," he 
 remarked. "Where did you hunt up all 
 that knowledge of the time!" 
 
 "Part of it was Froude: part old books 
 Mr. Burton lent me." 
 
 "One of the masters?" 
 
 "No, sir: he 's an architect, but he has 
 a sight of odd things on his shelves, school 
 statutes, old church accounts and things 
 in Spetterton, and Cathedral records. 
 You get soaked with a period that way. 
 Then you " he stopped suddenly. 
 
 "Yes, you?" 
 
 "I studded on it," the boy said slowly;
 
 136 Bedesman 4 
 
 "that 's like to seeing it, after a bit. I 
 met a Professor once, told me that was the 
 way/' 
 
 "Ah!" said the elderly gentleman. He 
 seemed to meditate. "You '11 be a writer 
 in a few years," he remarked. "When 
 you have something done, come up and 
 show it to me. Barabbas was not of my 
 firm, though they say he was a publisher." 
 
 On the card offered him, David read 
 with amazement a name hitherto associated 
 only with the backs of revered books. 
 Without waiting an answer, the old gen- 
 tleman put his head out of the window, 
 asked some one below if a train was not 
 due, and then ran downstairs without fur- 
 ther parley. David stood still in the midst 
 of the floor, then slowly went down too. 
 
 The throng was beginning to thin, and 
 the boy, avoiding it, doubled down a back 
 passage, made a quick circuit and pres- 
 ently swung himself over Miss Fletcher's
 
 Denial 137 
 
 garden railings. He wanted silence, 
 alone-ness, "the sweet smell of the fields." 
 In the open meadows, under a hedge fra- 
 grant with honeysuckle, he lay still, on his 
 back, for a long while. His eyes followed 
 the moving cloudlets. His soul within him 
 spoke with strange new things. Before 
 he was aware, the fathomless blue swam 
 before his sight. The world grew bigger 
 and bigger. The beginning! ah, the be- 
 ginning ! How good is the beginning ! 
 
 The golden mists of Life's morning 
 parted round David Bold. For this fair, 
 intense moment, the thing he was to do, 
 to be, was with him, was his own. As 
 though already he were the man to come, 
 it was there, quick, newborn, his life, him- 
 self. That joy within him swelled into one 
 great sob, that, breaking, shook and star- 
 tled him, and left wetness on his cheek. 
 
 Ah ! the long days, the weeks, the years, 
 for work work!
 
 138 Bedesman 4 
 
 The marvel that had brought a peasant- 
 boy to this home, where his soul dwelt at 
 ease! And all Oxford to come! 
 
 Great words, remembered from a 
 Browning reading in Bridget's garden, 
 leaped to his lips: 
 
 I go to prove my soul ! 
 
 I see my way as birds their trackless way. 
 
 I shall arrive ! 
 
 After a long while, the voice of a bell 
 warned him. He rose slowly. To keep 
 rules was always less trouble to David than 
 to break them: though the thought of tea 
 was odiously material. 
 
 The bowling-green was empty now, save 
 for a pair of waiters lifting the last tres- 
 tles and picking small litter from trampled 
 turf. All wore its familiar air. With 
 reverence to all visions, thick bread and 
 butter is good. David had finished his 
 third slice, when a hand touched him. 
 
 "You 're wanted in the lodge," the por- 
 ter's voice said.
 
 Denial 139 
 
 " Me ? " said David, turning. Something 
 in the man's face startled him: he got up 
 at once, aware of a deep and formless 
 fear. 
 
 In the little square room, his mother 
 rose from a chair. She looked very white 
 and tired, and wore a bonnet he did not 
 know. When she had kissed him, she 
 moistened her lips as if to let words pass 
 through. But none came. Something un- 
 known took hold on David's heart. It said 
 he was a man : she, for all else she was to 
 him, a woman. 
 
 1 'Come along to my room," the boy said. 
 Going up the stairs, he watched her steps 
 as though she might fall. 
 
 The wooden chair stood where the 
 publisher had left it. David put her in 
 it and sat on the edge of the table, wait- 
 ing. 
 
 Esther Bold lifted her head. For a long 
 moment she looked at him mutely.
 
 140 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Dave thee Father 's hurted, terr'- 
 ble bad, up to quar' this mom- 
 ing" 
 
 She looked round, like one realizing. "I 
 were just ready, coming off here." 
 
 "Is he alive?" the boy said hoarsely. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "They 've took him to the 'firmary. 
 But they don't know not yet. The right 
 leg. That 's broke. And his arm. And 
 maybe there 's more. A piece o' roof come 
 down. I Ve just come away. They was 
 awful kind." 
 
 The boy gave a queer little nod. His 
 lips grew white, but he kept hold on him- 
 self. 
 
 "When '11 they know?" 
 
 "They can't tell that. They Ve set the 
 leg ; 't is a awful bad break. But he ain 't 
 come to. Maybe " 
 
 "He never will?" David said. She 
 nodded.
 
 Denial 141 
 
 "'Twere the Lord's mercy he weren't 
 clean killed." 
 
 Something in the well-known pious 
 phrase was more than her son could bear. 
 Tears smarted in his eyes. He gripped 
 one arm with the other hand till he could 
 have cried out with pain. He spoke 
 quickly. It was the old speech. 
 
 "How are thee going home? I sha* 
 come with ee." 
 
 "I 'm stoppin' the night here, wi' Eliza 
 Simms as was ; going back to the 'firmary 
 to-morrow, nine o'clock. Emily 's down 
 to Granny's." 
 
 "Does she know!" 
 
 "Yes. I stopped there to tell 'em. 
 They took him right off from quar', so 
 soon as they got him out, in Mr. Richards' 
 carriage; and John Drew he run down to 
 tell me." 
 
 "I shall go to the Infirmary with ee. 
 Master '11 let me off second hour. You
 
 142 Bedesman 4 
 
 bide here quiet, and I '11 see him. Have 
 thee had any tea?" 
 
 1 ' The nurse give me a cup, but I could n ' 
 drink none. I 'd like very well for thee to 
 be wi' me a bit." 
 
 "Thee can bide with me here," he said, 
 and went away. His mother drew a long 
 sigh. Looking round, she seemed to see 
 the room as in a dream: her boy's little 
 place, with its open window, that she pic- 
 tured to herself at home. The climbing 
 rose thrust in soft pale heads. A couple 
 of books, a gentleman's card, were on the 
 table : a bunch of wild flowers on the man- 
 tel. She wondered, dreamily, where Dave 
 got the little blue jug. It was pretty 
 Why was she like this? The shock, most 
 likely. She had been herself all right, till 
 now: just as if she had no feeling. 
 
 Below stairs, David followed his knock 
 into the study. The Master, addressing 
 a letter for the post, looked up.
 
 Denial 143 
 
 "What 's wrong, Bold?" he said quickly. 
 
 Upstairs, he drew up the other chair and 
 sat quietly by Esther, as they spoke to- 
 gether. 
 
 ' * David, your mother would be the better 
 for a glass of port wine. Go and ask Biggs 
 to bring me some up here." 
 
 The boy's lips smiled, mechanically, as 
 his mother answered: "I couldn't, sir, 
 'turn you many thanks, bein r abstainer 
 pledged." 
 
 "Then a sandwich, a cup of tea. You 
 had dinner early." 
 
 David was despatched this time. 
 
 "He shall go with you to-night, for as 
 long as you want him: and to-morrow to 
 the Infirmary. You '11 have him home, you 
 know, next week. He 's had a great suc- 
 cess, to-day, Mrs. Bold. I wish you had 
 been there. His essay struck people 
 much." 
 
 She looked back wordlessly: her lips
 
 144 Bedesman 4 
 
 quivered. The Master took leave of her 
 kindly. 'Back in the study he stood still. 
 "Of all the maddening events !" said 
 Frank Fletcher aloud to the silence. 
 
 David, setting the tea on the table, picked 
 up the visiting-card, thrusting it into his 
 pocket. Sitting beside her, he helped his 
 mother, seeing her eyes revive gradually 
 and become themselves. 
 
 "What '11 thee do," he said, abruptly, 
 "if he 's in there long?" 
 
 "He '11 be on club. I sh' have nine shil- 
 ling a week for eight weeks, six after. I 
 must go up to Rectory when I get back 
 home. They was wanting some one for 
 their washing." 
 
 David flushed. "Thee Ve never took 
 in no work," he said with a touch of of- 
 fense. 
 
 "I Ve never needed, thank the Lord. 
 But I 'm good at it. My mother were 
 laundress, thee knows. Nine shilling ain't
 
 Denial 145 
 
 like twenty-four: and he '11 want a lot o' 
 things when he comes out." 
 
 She sat silent for a space, and ceased to 
 eat. " Maybe," she said, slowly, "he '11 
 never go back to quar'. 'T ain't work for 
 a man as has been all broke up. ' ' 
 
 David watched her with wide eyes. 
 Then he filled up her cup; she stirred. 
 "We just got to wait on the Lord. May- 
 be he won't " 
 
 She stopped suddenly. 
 
 ' * Thee got me, ' ' the boy said, in a hurry. 
 
 His mother looked at him wordlessly. 
 Then she drew him nearer. They were 
 locked in a long kiss. 
 
 When David turned back through the 
 streets from the house of the kindly Eliza 
 nee Simms, the warm summer dusk was 
 deepening towards night and the lamps 
 shone yellow. Before the closed window 
 of a large stationer's the boy stopped. A
 
 146 Bedesman 4 
 
 white notice was fastened to the window 
 with wafers. He read it through three 
 times. 
 
 " David!" a surprised voice said. 
 
 He turned. Bridget's face, under the 
 poppy- trimmed hat, changed as she saw 
 him. "Something 's the matter." 
 
 He nodded. The sight of her seemed to 
 rob him of speech. She was so dainty, so 
 pretty, so utterly part of the gay scene 
 that had been his triumph. 
 
 "Come home with me," the girl said, 
 grasping a situation she knew not. "I Ve 
 been at the Hall all this while with my god- 
 mother." She glanced up and down the 
 silent street as he turned mechanically 
 by her side and spoke slowly. 
 
 "Mother came," he said with a miser- 
 able smile; "my father was nearly killed 
 in the quarry this morning. She 'd been 
 with him to the Infirmary. I Ve just left 
 her."
 
 Denial 147 
 
 "Oh, David!" the girl breathed. 
 
 She went on swiftly beside him into 
 Church Square round the corner, and 
 opened the door with a latch-key. 
 "Father 's dining out," she said. 
 
 In the long old schoolroom the windows 
 stood open to the soft air-swept twilight. 
 They sat down together; and he told her 
 bare details in detached sentences. 
 
 "Most likely," came the last, "he '11 
 die." The boy dropped his chin on his 
 palms. He sat staring before him, com- 
 posed, tearless. But his eyes had that in 
 them that made her afraid. 
 
 "I '11 have to leave school," he said. 
 Then suddenly he sat up and turned on 
 her. "A pretty thing to be thinking of 
 that," he cried harshly, "when my father 's 
 a broken man, at the best. But I do." 
 
 "Hush, David! You must think of 
 that. It 's your life. I should myself; 
 and I 'm a girl."
 
 148 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Mother 's going to take in washing," 
 he said, between his teeth. "I 'd have 
 thought nothing of that three years ago. 
 Now I can't stand it. Bridget what 's 
 been done to me?" 
 
 "You Ve been educated, that 's all," said 
 Bridget simply. She was not sure she had 
 uttered the fundamental reason; but she 
 realized a deep calm within her that could 
 be leaned on like a quick-set hedge, and 
 that had to mean help. Her mind went 
 on working. She had fallen in love with 
 Esther Bold, but found it quite possible 
 to visualize her at the wash-tub. Not so 
 David behind the plow. 
 
 "You 're older, too. But David, you 
 sha'n't leave. There are ways " 
 
 The boy's eyes dwelt on her, large, 
 and with a dreary wildness in them. He 
 stretched out his hands with a dramatic 
 gesture and took hold of her wrist. 
 
 "Feel! They're strong. If I'd been
 
 Denial 149 
 
 left there, they 'd have been at hard work 
 this three years, beginning with five and 
 then eight or nine shillings a week. I 
 shan't make that now; but my mother 
 needn't slave for me." 
 
 "You 're talking wild," said Bridget 
 steadily. "No reasonable being would put 
 you to field work now." 
 
 "What would you put me to? It will 
 be five years with the biggest luck before 
 my education brings in anything. I 've to 
 be earning now: how doesn't matter since 
 it can't be by " 
 
 He got up. Turning his back he thrust 
 his hands fiercely down into his pockets, 
 fighting for self-command. Suddenly he 
 turned, and flung something into her lap. 
 
 "Look at that. He said to me: 'You '11 
 be a writer. When you 've something 
 ready, bring it to me.' " 
 
 There was light enough by the fading 
 window to read a name.
 
 150 Bedesman 4 
 
 "David!'* the girl said. There was a 
 long, dead silence. Then Bridget sprang 
 up from the window-seat. Taking him 
 gently by the shoulders, she turned him 
 towards her. 
 
 "David, look at me." 
 
 As their eyes met, he knew, despite the 
 dusk, that hers were shining like stars. In 
 his there was no confiding, only a wide and 
 dreary misery. The girl gave him a quick 
 little shake. 
 
 "Don't be tragic till you must! There 
 are things to be done. Only they '11 take 
 a little time." 
 
 He shook his head. Gently he slipped 
 from between her hands. 
 
 "Don't you see," he said, very quietly, 
 "it has got to be, or else I 've got to be a 
 cur! Which would you choose?" 
 
 "Don't go and do something precipi- 
 tate" 
 
 She stopped, unable to finish.
 
 Denial 151 
 
 "What would the Founder say?" asked 
 David almost fiercely. 
 
 William Bold was conscious, when wife 
 and son sat beside his bed next morning. 
 The stricken face, the slow speech, the 
 great, prostrate, motionless figure were as 
 nothing to Esther, when once his eyes knew 
 hers again. To David's young conscious- 
 ness, they were a shock and a horror that 
 he could not contemplate. He sat, hands 
 clasped between his knees, staring at the 
 white, scrubbed boards under his feet. 
 Strong, sound, sufficient one moment; the 
 next, broken in pieces. Was life like 
 that? 
 
 The nurse drew near and spoke. Esther 
 rose to go. As she turned from the bed, 
 the sick man's eyes dwelt on the tall, boy- 
 ish figure in the long red-bordered gar- 
 ment. There was a sort of hardness in 
 them.
 
 152 Bedesman 4 
 
 ' ' Thee '11 have to give up the book-learn- 
 ing now," the weak voice said. 
 
 The boy's eyes met his, aware, steady. 
 
 "I know, Father," said David Bold. 
 
 He put his mother into the cart that was 
 picking her up, and turned to go back to 
 school. At the street's end he paused a 
 moment. Then, turning to the left, he 
 reached the shop by which he had met 
 Bridget. It bore over the door the legend 
 "Spetterton Chronicle Office"; and the 
 white notice was in the window still. 
 David went in. 
 
 " Can I see Mr. Biles?" 
 
 "What name?" 
 
 "Bold. It 's about the notice in the win- 
 dow." 
 
 The young man opened a door behind 
 the counter and took him through. 
 
 A small alert-looking man at a desk, at 
 work on a long sheaf of galley-proof, looked 
 up.
 
 Denial 153 
 
 "Want to see me, eh?" He surveyed 
 David critically, and Ms thin lips stirred 
 at the corners. " Scarcely old enough for 
 our staff, I 'm afraid." 
 
 "You said a man that could write, and 
 had evenings free," said David desper- 
 ately. "I got the English Essay at Nich- 
 olas ' and " 
 
 The editor smiled. "No reporting ex- 
 perience, I expect!" he observed, looking 
 at his watch. 
 
 "I 'd do anything you set me to." 
 
 "So would half a dozen men twice your 
 age, and want no teaching. I 'm afraid 
 it 's no go." 
 
 The boy went back through the shop and 
 out into the street. Some time after 
 twelve he sought Mr. Fletcher. Standing 
 by the writing-table, he spoke carefully 
 prepared words. 
 
 "My father 's come to himself, sir: but 
 they think very badly of him. I Ve come
 
 154 Bedesman 4 
 
 to say I 'm afraid I '11 have to leave. My 
 mother '11 need me, if he does n't get well: 
 and if he does, most likely we shall have to 
 keep him." 
 
 The Master looked at him gravely. 
 "The Council may have something to say 
 about that, Bold. You came in on a Trus- 
 tee's nomination." 
 
 "I know, sir you don't suppose I 'm 
 " he gripped himself there, by ceasing 
 to speak. "When I get home I shall know 
 more about it," he said lamely, and turned 
 to go. The Master glanced at him and 
 saw much. 
 
 "Come down and see me when you do. 
 I shall be here for the first ten days. Stop 
 a minute, I '11 give you those books I 
 promised you for the holidays." 
 
 He turned to the book-shelf. 
 
 The boy looked up quickly an odd 
 surprise in his face. The thing loomed so 
 vast to him that books for the holidays
 
 Denial 155 
 
 seemed a painful irrelevance. He took 
 them and went. 
 
 It did not take very long to pack Granny 
 Fielder's trunk; nor to bump it down the 
 broad staircase to the gateway to await 
 the cart which would take it home. 
 
 The old buildings were empty and quiet 
 before ten o'clock that Thursday morning, 
 with that dead hush of opening holiday 
 that only school-folk know. From the 
 hall's doorway the porter and the boot-boy, 
 as David passed, were carrying out worn 
 oak benches to be scrubbed and dried in the 
 broad sunshine. 
 
 At the corner of the quadrangle he stood 
 still, looking back, his eyes seeking the 
 open window of his room. Deep in his 
 soul lay that pessimism of youth, that sees 
 not beyond a poignant moment. He would 
 never come back. 
 
 Lifting a hand with an unconscious
 
 156 Bedesman 4 
 
 gesture, he blessed the place in his heart. 
 
 Then he went slowly on into the fields, 
 and took a turn away from his road home- 
 ward. He had yet one thing to do. It 
 led him through pleasant woodland ways 
 to a green and shady meadow. 
 
 St. Margaret's Chapel was open. In 
 the midday silence his footfall on the flags 
 and the little wicket falling to behind him 
 echoed loud. In the space behind the al- 
 tar Sir Humphrey and fair Dame Margaret 
 lay solemn and peaceful in their sleep. 
 The boy knelt down on the pavement, rest- 
 ing his forehead against the chill marble 
 of the tomb. A strange and tender still- 
 ness came over him, body and spirit. He 
 slowly ceased to think. 
 
 But within he spoke, wordlessly, as to 
 some one quite near. 
 
 The conflict and distress within him, the 
 pain of being torn away, began to die 
 down, softening slowly to a deep hush.
 
 Denial 157 
 
 Something unknown and solemn grew in 
 him, a thing that the child he still was 
 never yet had known. He no longer 
 fought for his deep desire nor against it. 
 He seemed to have laid it down on the step 
 of the tomb, to be looking at it dispas- 
 sionately, yet understanding it more deeply 
 than ever he had. 
 
 The mists that blind pain raises lifted 
 from his soul. In the clear light he knew 
 for the first time that life's greater deed 
 is always to give, not to receive. He 
 knelt there a long time, understanding 
 slowly.
 
 IX 
 
 ALONG and rambling housefront in 
 gray and lichen-grown stone lay 
 warm in the sunshine under the brow of 
 the hill. The place wore a still and almost 
 an empty air, as Bridget set her bicycle 
 against the low wall of the upper garden 
 terrace and approached the front door. 
 
 "I know she was coming back yester- 
 day," the girl said to herself. 
 
 Till St. Margaret's Day she and her 
 godmother had not met since Bridget was 
 a small, bright-eyed person of seven. 
 They were friends, but a personal talk was 
 the only means for Bridget's present ends. 
 
 "Is Miss Nicholas in?" she asked 
 eagerly of the leisurely and serious man- 
 servant.
 
 Denial 159 
 
 "Miss Nicholas is gone abroad, miss. 
 We had a letter this morning." 
 
 * ' Thank you, ' ' said Bridget slowly. She 
 stood reflecting. "Can I have her ad- 
 dress?" 
 
 "We haven't one yet, miss. It 's to be 
 sent." 
 
 Esther Bold's son stopped before the 
 gray farm-house two fields' length from 
 his home. As luck would have it, the 
 farmer was crossing the garden to his din- 
 ner. David unlatched the gate and went 
 in. 
 
 "Please, sir, would you be able to give 
 me a job?" 
 
 The thick-set, gray-headed man looked 
 with critical eyes at the applicant, who did 
 not seem to fit his inquiry. 
 
 "Eh? Let 's see. You 're young Bold, 
 aren't you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. My father 's in the hospi-
 
 160 Bedesman 4 
 
 tal; I Ve come home to help my mother." 
 
 "Your father 's a quarryman." 
 
 "Yes, sir. But I Ve no experience 
 there. I 'm strong, and I 'm not stupid, 
 and you won't find me a lazy one." He 
 seemed to look at himself from outside, 
 quite freshly and suddenly. 
 
 "Well, I 'm cutting barley to-morrow. 
 Be in the five-acre at half -past five and 
 we '11 see what you can do there, and pay 
 you according." 
 
 David thanked him and went on. 
 
 It was past dinner-time. Emily stood at 
 the gate. Cords would not have bound her 
 to Granny's at this hour. 
 
 ' * Well, Sis, ' ' the boy said, lifting up his 
 heart to the level of a smile. " I 'm late, I 
 expect. I had to go out of my way." 
 
 "Dinner 's ready," she answered, her 
 eyes dwelling on him. "Thee box ain't 
 come yet, though." 
 
 His mother met him in the doorway.
 
 Denial 161 
 
 She was pale still, but the mere look of her 
 seemed to rest him. 
 
 "I went in yesterday, ' ' David said, ' i and 
 nurse says they 're going to try and save 
 the leg." 
 
 "Come to thee dinner," she answered, 
 fondly, " 't is a long step. ' ' 
 
 The scent of the well-known stew, the 
 sight of his father's chair brought some- 
 thing stinging into his eyes. 
 
 "I 've got a job of work, Mother," 
 he said quickly, "down to Mr. Han- 
 cock's." 
 
 "That *s my good boy," said Esther 
 simply. 
 
 At the meal, presently, she said : "I did 
 ought to go up to quar' and see the master. 
 He's there to-day and we haven't said 
 nothing about giving up the crane. ' * 
 
 "I can do that," said David. 
 
 "So thee could. Thee must take 
 Father's book." The quarry-master
 
 162 Bedesman 4 
 
 might as well see the boy they had, Esther 
 thought with a quick pride. 
 
 "Come along, Sis," said David. As the 
 two went soberly side by side, Emily's eyes 
 sought his face. 
 
 ' ' Dave do ee think Father '11 get well ? ' ' 
 
 "I expect so. It r s a week to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes. Dave" A pause. "Will he 
 be cripple?" 
 
 "I don't know, Em. Nor they either. 
 Bad injuries, the doctor said, and they 
 were afraid for his back; but they don't 
 tell one anything." 
 
 "Dave what 'd Mother do then? And 
 us?" 
 
 The boy looked across at the blue hills. 
 
 "Keep Father," he said, steadily. 
 "I Ve left school. I shall speak to the 
 quarry-master. Hancock isn't worth 
 much. Has Mother been after that wash- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Yes, she '11 have it, when Sykeses goes.
 
 Denial 163 
 
 Dave aren't thee going back not 
 never?" 
 
 "Not if it 's so," he answered, drearily. 
 The words seemed to thrust at his heart. 
 He glanced furtively at his Emily. Do 
 gradual years divide confidantes from 
 babyhood? He saw a light that she could 
 not help grow over her broad face. She 
 would not let it be a smile. Then swift 
 compunction came. 
 
 "Oh, Dave thee be sorry!" 
 
 "Never mind that," he said. If a man 
 had to stand alone, he did not need a girl 
 to prop him up. 
 
 "Dave" 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "Did n't I ought to go to place now?" 
 
 "Why, yes, we 've got to save her all we 
 can. How do you come by a place?" 
 
 "You goes to Registry, or you asks 
 folks. There 's Sally Bence is leaving 
 from Rectory. Her mother were in to
 
 164 Bedesman 4 
 
 Granny's this morning, a-telling up. She 
 don't like the cooking." 
 
 1 'Sally was always a silly. Mother 'd 
 like that for thee. We '11 go on up to Rec- 
 tory after we 've been to quar'. Then 
 you '11 be in before another one." 
 
 * * Mother don 't know ! Oh, can us I " 
 
 "We 've got our own sense, child." He 
 was immeasurably the elder now. 
 
 The quarry-master was in the little 
 wooden office at the head of the white road 
 running down into the ground. He looked 
 at David seriously. 
 
 "This is a bad job, my lad, and a long 
 one, I 'm afraid!" 
 
 David spoke fully. This was an old em- 
 ployer, who looked at ^you kindly, con- 
 cerned for a valued hand. He paid over 
 the full money and a trifle more. The boy 
 was encouraged to ask : ' * Should I be any 
 good to you, please, sir?" 
 
 "Let 's see, how old are you? Never
 
 Denial 165 
 
 been underground? Where does your 
 schooling come in?" 
 
 "Nowhere, I 'm afraid, sir," said the 
 boy dejectedly. 
 
 "Come! Cyphering? Book-keeping? 
 I 'm not wanting any one now, though. 
 Think of you, if I should. ' ' 
 
 The two went on their way to the Rec- 
 tory back door, boldly asking for Mrs. 
 Eichards. That lady, vigorous, but a trifle 
 stumpy, in a short skirt and an apron, was 
 busy with a spud on the lawn, where she 
 interviewed them. David's fatherly air 
 amused her; she smiled, rubbing the end 
 of her nose with a mould-stained finger 
 protruding from an ancient glove. Yes, 
 Emily might do. She had better ask 
 Mother to come and see Mrs. Richards. 
 The round face beamed with broadening 
 smiles, as they crossed the stile home- 
 wards. 
 
 "Nine pounds a year!"
 
 166 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Well done, Sis!" 
 
 David swallowed a sigh. Who would 
 rate him at nine pounds a year! When 
 Emily became the better man, it seemed 
 that humiliation could no farther go. 
 
 Mother's eyes swam and her lips 
 twitched when she heard. 
 
 "It 's good to have good children." 
 
 Emily came for a kiss, and trotted off to 
 Granny's tea, but David went outside and 
 took a long while bringing in wood. Sit- 
 ting down to feed the fire, he remained 
 staring at the leaping flames. His mother, 
 coming near, rested a hand on him: the 
 boy looked up quickly with a strained, sen- 
 sitive face. 
 
 "Don't ee fret thee, child," Esther Bold 
 said, quietly. 
 
 "I bain't any good to thee," he an- 
 swered under his breath. 
 
 "Nay. Thee be comfort all the time. I 
 looks to my son."
 
 Denial 167 
 
 His eyes searched her face. 
 
 "He don't bring in anything." Deep 
 peasant instincts were making him 
 ashamed. 
 
 "He Ve give up a lot," she answered, 
 gravely. 
 
 He leaned his head against her. In his 
 eyes tears smarted, but the feel of her 
 brown gown, her stillness, her quiet touch 
 brought him the fathomless comfort that 
 is in unreasoned, primal things. That she 
 understood was balm to him: but her 
 motherhood was like some deep conscious- 
 ness of God not to be told, tender, mighty. 
 After silent moments, he murmured: 
 
 "You gave up me." 
 
 She smiled, above his dark head. 
 
 "And were glad to. Now, thee didn't 
 ought to have to go to field work, when 
 there 's been time to look around." 
 
 He answered not, but, reaching out for 
 her hand, laid his cheek against it.
 
 i68 Bedesman 4 
 
 Emily, on returning, was full of the fu- 
 ture. 
 
 "Look ee, Mother, Granny Ve give me a 
 piece of calico, what she had by her, and 
 her blue-print frock as is pretty near new, 
 and Mrs. Bence she come in and she look 
 just about sour." 
 
 "She '11 be main disappointed with 
 Sally," said Mother, gravely. "You mid 
 get the scissors, my dear, and be unripping 
 this, while I 'm gone up to Mrs. Richards. 
 Your Granny 's good to ee. ' ' 
 
 Emily would have chattered on over her 
 task. But David's eyes were on a book, 
 beside the hearth. The look of him op- 
 pressed her vaguely. 
 
 The three years for her had meant nine 
 periods of holiday passed with an oracle 
 and a wonder, a little more grown-up each 
 time. Of his real development she had 
 known nothing nor guessed she knew not, 
 for at home he was still part of the old life ;
 
 Denial 169 
 
 the other, dear and precious as it was, 
 dropped from him here like the Bedes- 
 man's gown he left behind: save for books 
 brought back and read almost as he 
 breathed, perpetually and unconsciously. 
 With a part of him she was still one : and 
 though bereaved between whiles, had 
 scarcely known jealousy, save when the 
 other girl crossed the path. Now, keep- 
 ing silence, she slowly sobered in the midst 
 of her own joy. 
 
 Turning a page, he heaved a long sigh. 
 Emily dropped the scissors. Getting up 
 she crossed, and took his head in her arms. 
 
 "Dave I weren't right to ee. I be 
 sorry, really " 
 
 He sat more upright and smiled. 
 
 "All right, child," was all he said. 
 
 Esther Bold came in smiling. 
 
 "It 's all right, my dear. You 're to go 
 Tuesday." 
 
 The boy rose and with a finger between
 
 170 Bedesman 4 
 
 the leaves, went out. His mother looked 
 after him. 
 
 "He 's takin' on bitter," she said; 
 ' ' don 't take no notice, Em'ly. You and me 
 can't understand. The learnin 's a lot to 
 David." 
 
 The morning was clear and dewy in the 
 wide five-acre field. The long swathes of 
 the barley fell rustling before the gleam- 
 ing knives of the patent reaper, which 
 George Marton, on the high gray-painted 
 metal seat, drove steadily. David, follow- 
 ing in the line of binders, learned his job 
 gradually and silently from his next neigh- 
 bor. The air was cool and sweet with 
 early savors, under long tree shadows : the 
 world, all pure and fresh, was bathed still 
 in the deep gravities of night. The boy's 
 young, anxious soul drew in great breaths 
 of refreshment and poetry. Cold tea and 
 bread and bacon under the hedge found
 
 Denial 171 
 
 him ravenous for breakfast. Exercise and 
 early morning belonged to youth ; and this 
 was the world of his childhood. One could 
 get on, if things were no worse than this. 
 By "elevens," he was realizing that it 
 was harder work than football. Over 
 "fourses," after long fierce drinks of tea, 
 he fell dead asleep along the ground, to be 
 roused by shaking and loud raillery, that 
 brought the blood stinging to his cheeks. 
 But they were all old friends, and the other 
 world was far away. He laughed with 
 them. At home he fell asleep over supper 
 and climbed the stairs to bed in a dream. 
 He looked to find all things easier as the 
 days passed, and his spirits rose. All 
 country instincts, for rich brown earth, 
 and all green things and wholesome scents, 
 were strong and pleasant in him. But, as 
 the first week went on, he began to live in 
 a deepening, ever-increasing, aching weari- 
 ness. "He 's over-old to begin," his
 
 172 Bedesman 4 
 
 mother thought, anxiously. Barley-har- 
 vest lasted till the wheat was cut: the 
 farmer kept him on and he had no other 
 course: but Saturday's shillings seemed a 
 poor price for the straining and spending 
 and benumbing of one's whole being. The 
 second week he ached less. His body was 
 growing more accustomed, but there was 
 no mind. He seemed to travel on without 
 one, never thinking, never touching a book ; 
 always, somewhere, weary, with that tired- 
 ness that weighs down the soul. 
 
 Then it happened to him, that as he sat 
 in church on the second Sunday, long- 
 known poetries of the Old Testament 
 awoke him suddenly as from a deep sleep. 
 He sat upright on the narrow seat beside 
 his mother: his eyes brightened. Mr. 
 Eichards was a fine reader. The rugged, 
 massive figure of Elijah the mountain 
 prophet stood alive before David's eyes. 
 Suddenly, once more, he was Bedesman
 
 Denial 173 
 
 4, thinker, historian to come. He sat 
 with parted lips, aware intensely of each 
 majestic period. 
 
 All through life, David Bold never for- 
 got that hour. It was as though he were 
 alive from the dead. Things around him 
 sprang into vivid relief. He saw the gray 
 low quire-arch with its deep, strange chis- 
 elings, framing the quiet chancel beyond, 
 so that it seemed some remote chapel of 
 the mysteries. As if for the first time he 
 knew that St. Ambrose, Broughton Priors, 
 was a fine and an ancient church. His 
 soul stirred to the sublime rhythm of the 
 Te Deum. He knew his mother's face be- 
 side him, beautiful with the light that is 
 devotion: his heart lifted; standing, he 
 sang with all the rest, praising God word- 
 lessly that these things were so. 
 
 And then he knew that the dumb sleep 
 he had awaked from was the life he lived 
 to-day ; the life he had to live, unless those
 
 174 Bedesman 4 
 
 rapt and lovely eyes were to look to a son 
 in vain. 
 
 Late that afternoon, David came into the 
 empty open church, and sat down in the 
 same place. He had to square accounts 
 with himself, and to be alone to do it. 
 Besting his elbows on the narrow book- 
 desk, his chin on his palms, he stared away 
 from him up into the dim chancel. He 
 was trying to call back an hour in St. Mar- 
 garet's Chapel, whose grasp held him still. 
 Was it true, the thing he had heard there ? 
 
 To give all that made the world worth 
 having: to be the gift; never again to be 
 himself; always the gift, the man denied 
 his life. 
 
 Was this the Deed? this "the trackless 
 way"? He saw it all, in a drear, yet pa- 
 tient vision : the cottage dwelling, the coun- 
 try speech, no mind for books, Oxford not 
 even a dream; life shared with the simple, 
 not the wise, the taught; outward things,
 
 Denial 175 
 
 fields, cattle, growing crops these the real 
 facts that mattered ; Emily the prosperous 
 maid-servant, with a "young man" 
 David smiled drearily, Father, the 
 broken man growing aged in the chimney- 
 corner, Mother no, he could not stand 
 that! He got up quickly. Stepping into 
 the aisle, he walked with rapid steps up 
 the church. Under the chancel-arch he 
 stood, pressing his nails into his palms. 
 
 For her he could do this anything. 
 But if she were gone / Some day your 
 Mother died. If you needed her most of 
 all, then she would go first. And then 
 the thing would have been done. There 
 would be no going back: only the rest of 
 life to live. 
 
 The boy stood quite still, setting his 
 teeth. His vivid mind saw that which he 
 saw. And, staring out between youth's 
 blinkers, he saw it colored and itself, and 
 saw it whole.
 
 176 Bedesman 4 
 
 After a long pause, he drew a deep 
 breath. No further light had dawned. 
 He turned and went away out of the 
 church. 
 
 It was all true, that dark vision. And 
 there was nothing before him save to go 
 on. Or to "be a cur." 
 
 As he walked, for one bitter instant his 
 whole being waked up and raged, crying 
 out against the futility, the silly waste of 
 him. Then silently, relentlessly, he set his 
 foot upon himself. David Bold was a 
 man. He began to know it; for a man's 
 burden lay on him, that burden that is all 
 the weak of the earth : the weak and those 
 who, since ever he had begun, had suffered 
 and strained and labored and loved that 
 
 he might be. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 "Yes, child. I 've come home. This 
 time for good. I 've hoped for it often : 
 now I 'm going to do it. ' '
 
 Denial 177 
 
 "I 'm so glad, godmother!" Bridget 
 leaned across the tea-table. "If you 'd 
 waited a year or two longer, I should have 
 been gone." 
 
 Miss Nicholas looked her over. "I sup- 
 pose you would. Yes, I am glad. You 're 
 like your mother, Bridget, though you 're 
 a differently shaped woman. Now, if 
 you Ve finished, my dear, we '11 go into 
 that library. I believe the servants are 
 right. Tenants are one's natural ene- 
 mies." 
 
 The long room looked west, with a north 
 window also. The tall bookcases kept 
 their treasures behind brass lattice-work. 
 A little pile of folded dusters lay on the 
 corner of a dark old table. Miss Nicholas 
 picked one up. 
 
 "Bates thinks we shall want plenty of 
 these," she said grimly, opening a book- 
 case door; "have you brought an apron, 
 Bridget!"
 
 178 Bedesman 4 
 
 It was the third of the August Satur- 
 days. Hot afternoon sunshine lay over 
 the broad land. . Cycling was warm work, 
 but Bridget got over the road quickly, and 
 sprang off eagerly at the cottage gate. 
 
 "Mrs. Bold," she said in the doorway, 
 "are you at home? Can I see David?" 
 
 Esther came from the door, pushing 
 aside a long flapping sheet drying on the 
 new line set up down the garden. 
 
 "Oh, come in, Miss Burton." Stepping 
 to the gate she looked up the road. 
 
 "They 're just comin'. I can see John 
 Francis. They was to finish carrying the 
 Sidelings about now. Yes, there he is a- 
 comin' along." Turning back, she glanced 
 over her guest. "You '11 have to give the 
 poor boy a minute or two. He don't look 
 very fit to talk to the likes of you. ' ' 
 
 Bridget's answer was to come to the 
 gate. 
 
 The boy who came in sight wore a pair
 
 Denial 179 
 
 of fustian trousers and a white linen jacket 
 of his father's over his blue shirt, open 
 at the neck. At sight of Bridget, his eyes 
 woke up. The instant's vision of his 
 changed face seemed to strike at the girl. 
 She had never before seen David look half- 
 asleep. His fingers buttoned the shirt at 
 his throat. He had colored. She had 
 come none too soon. 
 
 " I 'm not fit to shake hands, ' ' he said. 
 
 "I wanted to see you. I have a message 
 for you." 
 
 He glanced at her quickly. His lips 
 shook. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "I 'm about ready 
 for some tea." 
 
 "Yes, my dear. Go in and clean your- 
 self. Miss Burton '11 have a cup wi' us. 
 There 's plenty o' wood." 
 
 Bridget went inside with a sense of hav- 
 ing reached the middle of a situation be- 
 fore the beginning.
 
 180 Bedesman 4 
 
 "My Em'ly she 's got a good place," 
 Esther Bold said, as she reached the cups ; 
 "gone to the Rectory, between-maid, last 
 Monday. 'T is just a special blessin'. 
 And Father 's getting on a bit now. We 
 saw him Saturday." 
 
 "You and David?" Had he come into 
 Spetterton, and not to Church Square? 
 
 "No, Emily. Dave 's that tired when 
 Saturday comes, he don't want long walks. 
 The field-work 's pretty hard on him, for 
 all he gets on with it. ' ' 
 
 Bridget said nothing for a moment. 
 
 "I suppose it makes good money, 
 though, ' ' she said with an air of innocence. 
 
 "Ten and six a week he gets. That 's 
 harvest money, though. He 's slow at it, 
 never doin' it till now. I hope, though, as 
 Farmer '11 keep him on. Here he is com- 
 ing." 
 
 The David who entered now seemed to 
 his friend more like the real boy. He wore
 
 Denial 181 
 
 a collar and the suit she knew, and he set 
 a chair for her with the smile of a grave 
 face. It was older. The mouth had 
 grown firm ; the eyes were steady, but less 
 bright ; the long, brown hands were rough- 
 ened and their nails broken, but they had 
 been well scrubbed. He cut the home- 
 made cake, and lifted his mother's kettle., 
 doing the host's small duties with a ma- 
 turer air than Bridget had known in him, 
 though he left the talk to the others, as 
 though tea mattered most. 
 
 Esther rose. Heaping the things on a 
 tray, she went "out back'* to wash them, 
 closing the door rather carefully after 
 her. 
 
 David moved to his father's chair. He 
 began to pull the half -burnt sticks out of 
 the fire, laying them on the wide hob to 
 cool against next time. 
 
 "What message is it, then?" he said, 
 without preamble.
 
 182 Bedesman 4 
 
 Bridget leaned forward, an arm on the 
 table. 
 
 "The message is from Miss Nicholas. 
 She 's settling down, bless her, to live at 
 the Manor, and I 'm staying with her for 
 my holiday, while Dad and Ned are gone 
 fishing. She is very anxious and busy 
 over the library. She and I have been 
 sorting and dusting and clearing for a 
 week, but the more we do, the more there 
 is, and the more she worships it. Her 
 father and grandfather just let it be, but 
 her great-grandfather was a bookworm, 
 and his accumulations are marvelous. 
 Yesterday she had a man down from Lon- 
 don to advise. She could n't abide him and 
 said he looked greedy at the books : and she 
 would n 't leave him alone a minute ! But 
 he let in lots of light and showed us how to 
 sort, and to bring the catalogue to date, so 
 that we can get on. But it will take 
 months, and we want a helper with nothing
 
 Denial 183 
 
 else to think about, who can work all day. 
 The man offered us one of his expert 
 youths at two guineas a week and board: 
 and she thanked him very kindly, and sent 
 him off with his fee. So now I 've come 
 over to say she wants you. ' ' 
 
 The boy's mouth grew straight and he 
 sat upright. "Me?" 
 
 "You. She '11 give you fifteen shillings 
 a week and your meals, and she keeps a 
 bicycle for the groom, that you can come 
 and go on night and morning. She and I 
 can show you the job; part of the day 
 we 're working too." 
 
 "But I I 'm not worth that money. 
 What do I know!" 
 
 "Lots more than Tony Smart, who 'd 
 come for sixteen, being the book-seller's 
 son. At least the Master says so; and 
 Dad." 
 
 "Did they recommend me? Was it all 
 you?"
 
 184 Bedesman 4 
 
 "She asked them of course, you loonie! 
 Do you think she 'd trust a girl, about the 
 books I She thinks every one either covets 
 or would destroy them. But she likes you, 
 because of your essay ; and, since the Mas- 
 ter trusts you, you 're all right. Do you 
 
 "Ye-s. I 'm better than Tony. But 
 I don't know " 
 
 " Don't know what!" 
 
 The boy took up one of the cooling sticks 
 and hit it hard against the hob: the last 
 sparks flew up. 
 
 ' ' Look here, ' ' he said, speaking very low, 
 1 'you know I 'd give my ears to come. 
 But I couldn't, and come back again to 
 the field-work. It 's a dog's life, but very 
 likely it 's got to be mine, for for her 
 sake." He nodded towards the door. 
 "My education 's of no money use. It *s 
 not gone far enough. And, if I 've got to 
 choose then I 'd better turn my back on it
 
 Denial 185 
 
 now. Only a fool does a beastly thing at 
 twice.'* He spoke with a repressed vehe- 
 mence, that she had never seen. His lips 
 shook. He hit the stick hard against the 
 hob again, so that it snapped in two. 
 
 The girl looked at him, with eyes that 
 dimmed, finding a poor male thing in pain 
 a pathetic sight. She stretched a hand 
 and laid it on his arm. 
 
 "See here, dear man," she said, simply, 
 "we '11 ask your mother. Why, David 
 after this, you could get into a second-hand 
 bookshop, and work right up ! " 
 
 The tall north window looked obliquely 
 over the green valley. The long, airy 
 room, lay in calm, cool shadow and silence. 
 Busy people do not talk. 
 
 The small elderly lady stood looking 
 over David's shoulder. She was a person 
 of an exquisite neatness and still very 
 pretty. Her deep blue cashmere gown had
 
 i86 Bedesman 4 
 
 fine lace at throat and wrists: her small 
 ringed hands touched the old table with 
 firm finger-tips. 
 
 11 Begin exactly below the last entry: 
 under the P of Pepys. Yes, I like your 
 hand, David Bold. But be careful not to 
 straggle." 
 
 Bridget, seated on the top step of the 
 book-ladder, in a large print apron, looked 
 down on the pair and smiled. 
 
 Thus, morning after morning, they 
 worked together. In the afternoon David 
 was here alone. He had grown quite used 
 to the neat, absorbing employment; to the 
 beloved scent of old books and the clear 
 light from the high window; to the fine 
 outlines of old furniture and fittings, and 
 the quiet gaze of Sir Humphrey over the 
 mantel in the gown of a Doctor of Laws, 
 seated in his high-backed chair beside the 
 table with the parchment and the ink-horn ; 
 used, too, though not so quickly, to lunch-
 
 Denial 187 
 
 eon in the paneled dining-room with the 
 two ladies, the serious Bates handing 
 grave, well-seasoned dishes: and to a 
 dainty breakfast tray when he reached the 
 library at seven-thirty each morning. The 
 boy half adored, half dreaded the simple, 
 dignified detail of this ordered life. It 
 was almost too much for him. He was re- 
 fining every day; the broken nails grow- 
 ing, the brown fingers firm and capable 
 upon the long quill pen, the young head 
 handsomer. At moments he almost knew 
 it: which thrilled him with a shock of 
 fear. For he was William Bold's son 
 still. 
 
 "Do you think of taking Orders, David 
 Bold?" said Miss Nicholas, one morning, 
 looking up from the neat fixing of a num- 
 ber ticket. Bridget had returned home 
 yesterday. 
 
 David was a trifle startled. 
 
 "I hadn't, Madam," he said lamely.
 
 i88 Bedesman 4 
 
 (In the matter of address you could 
 scarcely go wrong with Bates.) 
 
 "What do you wish for?" 
 
 "I should like to be a student," said 
 David, instantly ; adding at once, * ' but I 'm 
 not able to afford it." 
 
 "It doesn't pay," said Miss Nicholas, 
 thoughtfully, "neither does the Church, 
 for that matter. In that case, what have 
 you thought of? You 're going back to 
 school, I hope?" 
 
 "I 'm afraid not, Madam. I thought of 
 trying my chance at a book-shop. My 
 mother needs what I can make." 
 
 "I don't like that," said Miss Nicholas, 
 with a touch of severity. "You 're a 
 Bedesman. You should go to Oxford. 
 It 's your Founder's money, remember." 
 
 A quick glance went as in appeal to 
 the portrait. David flushed to the roots 
 of his hair. 
 
 "He 'd rather you acted straight than
 
 Denial 189 
 
 went to Oxford," he said quickly, without 
 any "Madam." 
 
 The Founder's heiress looked quietly 
 at him. After a moment's silence, she 
 damped, and pressed a handkerchief upon, 
 another neat ticket. 
 
 "You are right, David Bold," she re- 
 plied gravely, and silence fell. 
 
 After half an hour's work, he rose to 
 put a batch of books in their shelf for her. 
 
 "Some of those," she remarked quietly, 
 "bear directly on his period. Some day 
 I want a Memoir written of him. I have 
 quantities of papers. Will you do it for 
 me, David Bold?" 
 
 The tall boy turned round. His hands 
 still full of the books, he gripped them 
 tight lest, in his excitement, one should fall. 
 He stood silent, deprived of speech. But 
 her eyes dwelt on him. "Well?" she said. 
 Then David stirred. 
 
 "Madam," he answered, steadily and
 
 190 Bedesman 4 
 
 clearly, "I will do it, if I never do any- 
 thing else in this world." 
 
 Through the golden October days, 
 David Bold still worked in the Manor li- 
 brary, and the benches of Nicholas ' School 
 knew him no more. 
 
 A month ago a stooping man on 
 crutches had come home from the Infirm- 
 ary. At the end of the long fight, he had 
 lost the leg. There was no question of 
 sparing David's fifteen shillings. As Nov- 
 ember came in, the crutches were dis- 
 carded for two sticks, then for one; the 
 doctor at the hospital discharged the pa- 
 tient. 
 
 "I 'm goin' up quar' to-morrow," the 
 big man said to Esther Bold ; " maybe there 
 might be a little job as I could do." 
 
 There was a dumb, great yearning in 
 his tired eyes. Each day he had walked 
 a little further, till now the wooden leg
 
 Denial 191 
 
 went far; but who would employ it? The 
 days went slowly. Esther's face grew 
 thinner. Her heart was full of fears for 
 her husband, the strong man stricken in 
 his strength. 
 
 The short day was fading when he came 
 stumping back again. Esther at the table 
 was ironing a shirt by candle-light, while 
 David came and went, fetching and break- 
 ing up sticks for the fire. He came home 
 at dusk, Madam permitting no lights in 
 the library. 
 
 "Missus," said William Bold's voice in 
 the doorway, "I got a bit o' news for 
 ee." 
 
 "What is it then, Father?" she an- 
 swered, quietly: but David, going "out 
 back," stood still. 
 
 "I found the master up there. Wilcox 
 is taking on Barley Down Quar'; and 
 Fletcher 's put up for our new foreman : 
 and under-foreman's place is to fill.
 
 192 Bedesman 4 
 
 'Could you do it, Bold?' the Master says, 
 ' 't is mainly up ground, see, loading up 
 carts an' the weighings.' 'I 'd be main 
 glad to try, sir,' I says, 'but a wooden leg 
 ain't a man, as ever I heered of.' 
 'Might do, if he 's a straight 'un, like 
 you,' he says, 'as it pays a man to take 
 on.' " 
 
 "Praise the Lord, my dear!" cried Es- 
 ther Bold, her iron suspended in the air. 
 Setting it down, she saw her boy in the 
 shadow and turned quickly. 
 
 "Thee can go back to school, now, 
 child," she said instantly. 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then, 
 with dry lips, David answered, 
 
 "Better wait a week or two, and see how 
 Father gets on." 
 
 David stood by the library table, wiping 
 his quill pen with a little wad of blotting- 
 paper. Miss Nicholas, inspecting the last
 
 Denial 193 
 
 written pages of the catalogue, nodded. 
 
 "Your hand has improved, David Bold. 
 Well, I am very glad you are returning to 
 school. ' ' 
 
 "I shall be up on Saturday, Madam, by 
 two o'clock. It r s light under that win- 
 dow well till half -past four. When Christ- 
 mas holidays come, I can be here every 
 day." 
 
 "Your studies must not suffer. Other- 
 wise I shall be glad to see you." 
 
 David smiled quietly. He had a word 
 more to say. 
 
 "The task you set me, Madam, " he 
 glanced towards the mantel. "I am be- 
 ginning to see my way. I r m afraid it 's 
 a long way, if the thing is to be rightly 
 done." 
 
 Miss Nicholas raised her eyes. ' ' Surely, 
 David Bold, you have not imagined a 
 school-boy could do it?" 
 
 ' ' Of course not, Madam. But he can be
 
 1Q4 Bedesman 4 
 
 contemplating it, and preparing. So 
 long as you know that lie is." 
 
 "I have every confidence in you, David 
 Bold," said the small old lady calmly. 
 
 "Thank you, Madam," he answered with 
 his mother's own seriousness. 
 
 "Good-by, then, for the present. I 
 wish you very well." 
 
 Together they left the long room. 
 David took his cap from a peg and went 
 out by a side door into the garden. Miss 
 Nicholas turned the key in the library 
 door. 
 
 The boy ran down the terraces with a 
 light step, emerging close to the London 
 road. Once more, pausing on the hilltop, 
 he looked down on the home of his spirit. 
 Once more its windows twinkled to the rosy 
 farewell of the sun, the long roofs, the 
 bell-turret, bathed in the mellow quiet of 
 an autumn evening. Once more, a son of 
 learning went down the hill, with a swell-
 
 Denial 195 
 
 ing heart ; lie knew himself much more than 
 three years older. 
 
 The Master, who happened to be talking 
 to the porter, greeted him warmly; and he 
 took up Granny Fielder's trunk and 
 dragged it upstairs. 
 
 The little square room was very quiet, 
 the inkstand on the table, the armchair in 
 its place, as though no one had touched 
 them since this day four months, when St. 
 Margaret's sun shone in. On the door a 
 Bedesman's gown hung, his cap above 
 it. 
 
 1 'You 're a sight for sair e'en," Bridget 
 said, the next afternoon, as she turned 
 homewards from Miss Fletcher's door and 
 met David coming through the meadow. 
 ' i Good luck and many of them ! You look 
 as if you liked yourself." 
 
 * * I feel a bit younger, ' ' he answered with 
 a laugh.
 
 196 Bedesman 4 
 
 "I daresay. You Ve had a bad time. 
 But it 's over." 
 
 David seemed to reflect. 
 
 "I wouldn't have gone without it," he 
 said; "it 's beastly good for one to hate 
 things for a bit." 
 
 After this somewhat cryptic utterance 
 he began to pull a stick out of the hedge. 
 
 "I r m two men, after all," he remarked, 
 searching for his knife: "I suppose I al- 
 ways shall be. I say, Bridget, I want to 
 come and have a talk about that library. 
 I Ve a thing ahead of me."
 
 Book IV 
 Gwen
 
 PROFESSOR BROWNLOW'S room 
 in College was on the first floor. It 
 looked out on the Chapel quad, towards 
 the north. A projecting gargoyle a devil 
 with prominent teeth and an engaging as- 
 pect looked obliquely in at the oriel win- 
 dow, which was approached by two steps 
 from the long, high room. Large book- 
 desks, bearing each its open folio, stood in 
 two corners; the long writing-table was 
 piled with leather-bound books and neat 
 stacks of written and printed matter; on 
 the wall behind it hung a beautiful and elab- 
 orate pipe-rack, in carved cherrywood. 
 The high and spacious chamber's furniture 
 was mainly old and curious: much of it 
 beautiful, some of it rather ramshackle. 
 199
 
 2OO Bedesman 4 
 
 The Professor sat at the table in a well- 
 worn revolving-chair. His gown, faded by 
 long use to a fine green, lay over the chair- 
 back. His M. A. hood, in yet worse repair, 
 hung upon a door-peg. The tidiest of men 
 will fail to regard academicals as really 
 part of his clothing. There was about 
 Professor Brownlow's appearance, mind, 
 and habits a kind of crazy neatness, on 
 which, however, as neatness, no dependence 
 could be placed. His Professorship rep- 
 resented a remote corner of the field of 
 historical research. 
 
 In a row of old Chippendale chairs 
 against the opposite wall sat nine young 
 men. The Professor was discoursing, an 
 elbow on the table, his fingers buried in 
 his thick gray hair. 
 
 "Yes you '11 find your work cut out, >r 
 he was saying, with some feeling. 
 
 The man on the chair nearest the door, 
 though he was attending, let his eyes
 
 Gwen 201 
 
 wander over the room and out of the win- 
 dow. The gargoyle's expression, fore- 
 shortened, brought a smile to his lips. 
 Then his look came back to the Profes- 
 sor and he became absorbed in the matter 
 of his future studies. 
 
 When the talk was finished, the men went 
 away one by one, each after a moment or 
 two given to his personal concerns. A red- 
 headed youth, the last but one, spoke rather 
 volubly for some minutes, in an accent un- 
 known to the other. When, the door hav- 
 ing closed upon him, the last man and the 
 Professor were left alone, their conversa- 
 tion was short and technical, till the Pro- 
 fessor, pressing certain advice, happened 
 to glance up. His look changed : he seemed 
 for a moment puzzled, and about to lose 
 his thread. Glancing at a filled-in form, 
 which the pupil had handed over, he 
 seemed to see light. 
 
 "Why," he said, reflectively contem-
 
 202 Bedesman 4 
 
 plating him, "the last time I saw you " 
 
 "I wore a white smock-frock," said the 
 young man, and smiled. 
 
 The Professor experienced a slight 
 shock, distinctly pleasurable. 
 
 "To be sure. Cut- throat Lane, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 "Bloody Lane." 
 
 "Ah, yes, and Pike's Piece. I 'm al- 
 ways glad to see a Nicholas Scholar. 
 Went in on my nomination, didn't you? 
 How 's Fletcher? I believe I had a note 
 from him " 
 
 "He 's well and vigorous, like the school. 
 He desired his kind regards to you, sir, 
 and hoped you might be going down." 
 
 ' ' One of these days, perhaps. Why, yes, 
 he said you 'd been helping to straighten 
 that library. He took me to see it once; 
 when there were tenants in the house. 
 There are good things hidden away there. 
 Long may they stay!"
 
 Gwen 203 
 
 "Miss Nicholas will see to that," the 
 pupil said. 
 
 When he was gone, the Professor hung 
 up his gown. He was smiling. ' 1 1 wonder 
 if he '11 stay like that. Hope so. I shall 
 keep that tale dark : not that it would hurt 
 him. Might do him too much good, with 
 some people." 
 
 In the street, before the College gate- 
 way, his pupil paused to consult a slip of 
 paper from his waistcoat pocket : glancing 
 up, he saw his red-headed neighbor on the 
 opposite pavement, and crossed. 
 
 "Could you tell me my way?" 
 
 "That '11 depend," said the Scot, with 
 portentous gravity, "on where you '11 be 
 wanting to go. Eh? is that it? I 'm go- 
 ing myself in that direction." 
 
 The lane they presently reached seemed 
 to be all turnings. It went under a long 
 wall over which looked yellowing trees, 
 then past an ancient church, with a square,
 
 204 Bedesman 4 
 
 oddly-narrowing tower, in its graveyard. 
 
 ' ' They sent me a wrong address. When 
 I went the people were full," said David; 
 "they wanted a pot of money too." 
 
 "If ye 're seeking something reason- 
 able," said the Scot, "there 's a set at 
 the top where I am, not a smart set, but 
 ye have the air, and quiet. I came up three 
 days back. For the people," he added 
 thoughtfully, "I would not say I 'd any- 
 thing against them this far." 
 
 "Many thanks. Along this way?" 
 
 "Number 14. The yellow house. I Ve 
 business in here," said the other and 
 nodded as he left him. 
 
 The yellow house was tall and had stone 
 mullions and casements. In the passage, 
 where the bell jangled, a girl of fifteen put 
 a tousled head out of a door, behind which 
 something savory frizzled loudly. 
 
 "They 're upstairs," she observed 
 vaguely and withdrew. After waiting a
 
 Gwen 205 
 
 few moments, David thought he had better 
 go after them. 
 
 Halfway up, an open door showed a 
 Gladstone bag inscribed "D. Cameron." 
 He went on, arriving at a tiny landing, 
 which seemed all window and a prospect 
 of waving trees. 
 
 Through another open door he saw a 
 low room with a sloping attic-like ceiling 
 and two windows. An old worn carpet 
 covered somewhat uneven boards : beyond 
 a table with drawers and a red table-cloth 
 were an old cushioned wooden armchair, 
 and a glazed cupboard showing teacups. 
 But he did not look at these things. Be- 
 fore the fireplace, with her back to him, 
 stood a small elderly woman in an old 
 black dress; she had raised herself on 
 what would have been tiptoe but for the 
 four-inch sole and heel of one boot: and 
 her fingers were traveling slowly, inti- 
 mately, over the cheap ornaments, the dyed
 
 206 Bedesman 4 
 
 grasses, the Bee clock which adorned the 
 mantelshelf. 
 
 "The china shepherdess," she was mut- 
 tering, "her crook 's got chipped. These 
 fluffy things fair smell of dust " 
 
 David, waiting for her to turn round, 
 became aware that she would not. He 
 spoke. 
 
 "They sent me upstairs to find you." 
 
 The small woman started round, the 
 lame foot slipping on the loose hearthrug. 
 She would have fallen, and caught wildly 
 at the first thing that touched her, David's 
 outstretched arm, to which she clung as 
 for dear life. 
 
 "Here 's the chair," he said, and low- 
 ered her into it, where she sat panting, a 
 hand on her side, shaken and silent, David 
 standing by. 
 
 "Thank you very much, I 'm sure," she 
 said at length, slowly, "and pray, who is 
 it? I can't see you a bit. It 's cataract,
 
 Gwen 207 
 
 both eyes. I do tumble about so bad " 
 
 "My name 's Bold. Mr. Cameron ad- 
 vised me to come and see your rooms. 
 This is the set, I suppose." 
 
 Her face began to beam irrepressibly. 
 "Yes, the bedroom 's through that door, 
 if you would n't mind looking. What Col- 
 lege, please?" 
 
 David, after investigating the tiny but 
 spotless place indicated, came back to en- 
 quire prices. 
 
 "I '11 let you have them at that, ' ' she said 
 thoughtfully. "I think you 're a kind 
 man, saving me a fall like that. Men are 
 so different. And, being as I am, I 'd 
 rather have one that was considerate than 
 a little more money. Oh, yes, I Ve a 
 helper or shall have, now I Ve let both 
 sets. It was little Annie you saw down- 
 stairs, my niece. Then will you come in 
 to-night, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, please, I '11 bring my box round."
 
 2o8 Bedesman 4 
 
 He was looking over the pathetic little fig- 
 ure, with an understanding of her disabil- 
 ities born of village days. "Now, if 
 you're going down, hadn't you better 
 have my arm? You 're very clever to 
 have got up." 
 
 "Oh, I can climb," she answered, with 
 a touch of scorn; "going down is different. 
 I sit on the top step and let myself down 
 one by one. I must come up, you see, when 
 term begins, to see it 's all clean. I can't 
 abide dirt and dust! You can sweep, if 
 you are poor." 
 
 He piloted her safely to a tiny back room 
 on the ground floor, where she appeared 
 to live, learning on the way yet further de- 
 tails. At the stairf oot they parted friends. 
 When, that evening, his effects unpacked, 
 he sat beside a bright little lamp review- 
 ing the work before him, he felt strangely 
 at home. Through the further open win- 
 dow, came in a great daddy long-legs, bent
 
 Gwen 209 
 
 on self-destruction. David, expelling him, 
 received in full face a deep breath of au- 
 tumnal savors from the great College gar- 
 den opposite, where ampelopsis began to 
 redden over an ancient brick wall. 
 
 Then, solemn and treble, near and dis- 
 tant, the voices of Oxford bells rang and 
 spoke the hour: and he knew that all day 
 long, around all the new ideas, amid all 
 preoccupation, their music had been there, 
 clear or deep. He went back to his chair 
 and thought he had begun to read again, 
 when one deep tone spoke, thrilling through 
 the little room, as though close at hand, 
 grave, reverberant, alone. 
 
 As the solemn century of strokes passed, 
 David sat spellbound. When they ceased, 
 he knew deep within him that he was 
 gathered in. The age-long glamor of 
 Oxford held him once and forever, her- 
 alded by the great voice of Tom. 
 
 Mrs. Randall continued to approve of
 
 21O Bedesman 4 
 
 her lodger, who astonished her next mid- 
 day by rapping at her door with the in- 
 formation that he was going upstairs and 
 could take his coal-box with him. When 
 
 f 
 
 she asked, "Hadn't Annie?" he opined 
 seriously that it was n 't work for a girl : he 
 would carry the thing each day, if she 'd 
 tell him where to find it. 
 
 The hours and the days filled themselves 
 as by magic, in a life become wholly new. 
 In the third week, a chance word suddenly 
 waked David to the thought of Bridget. It 
 was some months since he had seen her. 
 She had come up a year ago with a scholar- 
 ship. His last two absorbing terms at 
 school had been empty of her company. At 
 first he had missed her badly : and his mind 
 turned to her now with keen satisfaction. 
 He wondered how to proceed, then decided 
 to go and call on her, as soon as he had 
 time. 
 
 The University year opened with a few
 
 Gwen 211 
 
 golden weeks of "mists and mellow fruit- 
 fulness," full of Oxford's purest hours of 
 beauty. On a calm Sunday afternoon 
 David, Ms country soul avoiding the too 
 populous Parks, turned between two black 
 posts heading a narrow roadway. It was 
 on the first of "Mesopotamia's" friendly 
 benches that a couple of girls attracted his 
 eye. One, rising, was saying good-by to 
 the other. He recognized the figure she 
 had left, and quickened his pace. 
 
 "Bridget!" he said. "This is a piece 
 of luck!" 
 
 He sat down eagerly beside her. The 
 girl, trim and dainty in a pearl-gray Sun- 
 day frock and hat, met him as he came. 
 He saw that her eyes were older, her out- 
 lines more pronounced and womanly, that 
 she was a person definitely in her own pos- 
 session: but behind and beyond stood Brid- 
 get, his friend. He waked up into keen 
 interest.
 
 212 Bedesman 4 
 
 "I am glad I met you. I was coming 
 to call. I Ve seen your abode, from a dis- 
 tance. ' ' 
 
 Her eyes filled with laughter. 
 
 ''Were you?" she said. "Where are 
 you? in College, I suppose!" 
 
 "In digs, till Easter, I expect. I '11 give 
 you the address. I say," as a cheerful 
 family party, the junior members in a go- 
 cart, passed, rubbing his knees "is there 
 any place where we could be quiet? I Ve 
 lots to say, and hear." > 
 
 Bridget's eyes considered: again that 
 demure and mocking smile. "There 's 
 Marston Ferry just round the corner. 
 We can get into the fields that way if you 
 like to." 
 
 "To be sure I do." 
 
 A pair of small children took much joy 
 in sending the ferry-boat back for them, 
 on its rattling wheel; and a few minutes 
 took them into meadows not all unlike those
 
 Gwen 213 
 
 at home. David went on, talking eagerly: 
 but slowly there gathered round him some- 
 thing strange, a little chill, that puzzled 
 him. It seemed to be making him not him- 
 self. Yet Bridget seemed younger here 
 in the fields. He knew her again with the 
 delicious stimulus that comes of picking 
 up old stitches. And yet that odd feeling 
 kept him from being at ease. It seemed 
 somehow to associate itself with Bridget's 
 little smile. 
 
 At length she turned. 
 
 "I must get back. I had six calls to 
 make! And I 'm engaged for tea." 
 
 "When can we meet again? I want to 
 show you " 
 
 That smile came again. 
 
 "I should love to see it. I must. But 
 my dear man, you have yet to understand. 
 "We are hedged round with regulations. 
 You see, you 're an undergraduate. ' ' 
 
 "Well?" David was ashamed of the
 
 214 Bedesman 4 
 
 sudden discomfort that came over him. 
 
 "I 'm not supposed to meet you, you see, 
 without I can ask you to tea, but I must 
 ask some one else too." 
 
 "Why on earth?" 
 
 "To make propriety. It 's absurd, 
 every one knows it is never mind, I can 
 get Miss Willis : you '11 like her. When 
 can you come!" 
 
 "But, I say shan't we have any 
 talk?" 
 
 Bridget looked at him ruefully, her head 
 on one side. "I don't know. We '11 try 
 for it. I '11 think and let you know. I 
 must go now, David." 
 
 David, far from recovered, shook hands. 
 
 "Good-by. I shall be reduced to writ- 
 ing to you." 
 
 She went back across the fields. He was 
 aware in himself with an intense annoy- 
 ance that she would prefer his not follow- 
 ing her. He sat down under the hedge,
 
 Gwen 215 
 
 embracing his knees and staring angrily 
 in front of him. Why should he be de- 
 prived of his Bridget, any more than if 
 she were a man? What did the the old 
 cats think he would do to her? Bridget; 
 neither sister nor sweetheart, simply con- 
 fidante and sound, peace-bringing friend. 
 
 A young pair, strolling past, with hands 
 and arms intertwined, answered him. A 
 sudden, consuming anger, such as only 
 stupidity can wake, smote him. 
 
 Then a veil seemed to lift. This dear 
 new world with its regulations, its un- 
 spoken laws, moving kind and stately on 
 its time-old and unconscious way he was 
 scarcely at the beginning of understand- 
 ing it. With the thought came a sharp 
 moment of new knowledge. There was 
 another, a coming world of youth and 
 maiden, of which so far he knew, and meant 
 to know, still less. Apart altogether from 
 its rules, silly or wise, its concerns were
 
 216 Bedesman 4 
 
 for no poor scholar as yet, thank heaven. 
 No ! he and Bridget had nothing to do with 
 that! 
 
 Then rather suddenly he remembered 
 that he had been asked to tea "some Sun- 
 day" by his tutor's wife; finding her ad- 
 dress in his pocket-book, he recrossed the 
 ferry, and found his way towards Nor- 
 ham Eoad, where for a somewhat crowded, 
 but quite pleasant hour, he handed cups 
 to bright-eyed girls and pleasant ladies, 
 and mixed, chatting, with a friendly group 
 of his own kind. He had lost his boyish 
 shyness, and more and more found society 
 an attractive thing. 
 
 # * * * 
 
 The window-seat was cushioned in a 
 deep blue ; and unlined curtains of the same 
 serge filled and stirred in the mild Octo- 
 ber air. The room, not large, seemed full 
 of fresh air and space, the result of the 
 considerate furnishing and fine taste of
 
 Gwen 217 
 
 one person, not stinted for money : a quiet 
 place, workmanlike, dainty, and full of a 
 definite character, hung with a few water- 
 colors full of suggestion, and all by one 
 hand. One, a tall, narrow picture of an 
 Italian landscape, over the mantel, seemed 
 to gather up and hold the room's meaning. 
 
 A girl sat, with her feet up, on the win- 
 dow-seat, balancing a cup of tea on the 
 fingers of one hand. 
 
 "My dear Gwen," she observed, as an- 
 other maiden brought her food, "where do 
 you go for chocolate biscuits? Take it 
 away! I 'm greedy." 
 
 "So am I," said a slim creature, in an 
 exquisite lilac frock, reaching a hand from 
 a deep chair. "Did you say Bridget was 
 coming? There '11 be none left for her. 
 Phyllis, you 're real nice doing all the 
 handing. ' ' 
 
 "You T re tired, Lucy, leave the cake- 
 stand alone."
 
 218 Bedesman 4 
 
 "I guess it 's a sleepy afternoon," said 
 Lucy, sinking back, "and this is a sleepy 
 chair. ' ' 
 
 The girl on the window-seat, looking out 
 across a green and ordered lawn at slowly- 
 changing poplars and a softly gorgeous 
 beech, here announced, "There 's Brid- 
 get coming where I can just squint round 
 the corner. Please may I have some more 
 tea?" 
 
 A tall young woman in white serge 
 turned from the low table to receive the 
 cup. There are faces that, turning round, 
 seem to alter all the values of a scene. 
 This was low-browed, soft masses of chest- 
 nut-brown hair sweeping up and back on 
 the broad temples. The eyes, gray, wide, 
 candid, under white, arched lids, were the 
 eyes of an Englishwoman built on broad, 
 calm lines. The finely-molded lips met 
 gravely. The beautiful head, which had 
 the little droop forward given to certain
 
 Gwen 219 
 
 Burne-Jones angels, seemed always to be 
 seeking something to be kind to. 
 
 ' ' That little old woman at the corner by 
 Sargent's made the biscuits, and the 
 cakes," she answered, a little late, "Mrs. 
 Franks. Her daughter 's my aunt's maid. 
 She '11 be glad of orders." 
 
 "That 's Bridget on the stairs," said 
 Phyllis, "hear the co-educational whistle !" 
 
 A chorus of laughter greeted the new- 
 comer, who dropped into a chair near the 
 tea-maker, and drew off her long gloves. 
 
 "No sugar, dear angel. Co-education, 
 indeed ! Sorry I 'm late, but I fell in with 
 the nicest school-friend I ever had, and 
 had to tell him he must not come and see 
 me ! Lord, what fools these rules do be ! 
 Thanks, my hat will go here. Just a tinge 
 more milk, beloved. How cool and sweet 
 your room is!" 
 
 "What 's his name?" from the girl in 
 the window.
 
 220 Bedesman 4 
 
 "David Bold, I mean. He 's just come 
 up to Cuthbert's. Professor Brownlow 
 thinks the world of him. Phyllis, how did 
 you like 'Varsity sermon? I almost 
 laughed once." 
 
 It appeared that all but every one had at 
 least criticized. For a minute, they all 
 spoke together. When this ceased, they 
 seemed to have descended into the depths 
 of things. The talk grew eagerly, excit- 
 ingly serious. Cups gradually emptied or 
 were forgotten. Phyllis, the cake-stand 
 put aside, defended the doctrine of Free- 
 Will fervently, from the arm of Gwen's 
 low chair : on the ground that ( l only a cow- 
 like person wants to be run." Bridget 
 held she would only be thankful; the 
 trouble was that you were usually driven. 
 
 " Speak, dearie," she said in a pause, 
 two fingers on Gwen's knee. The wide 
 smile that answered her was all but 
 motherly.
 
 Gwen 221 
 
 "Things are mostly all right," said 
 Gwen, in her deep, low voice. * ' Of course, 
 you must have patience. It 's a sad pity 
 to lose all the lovely detail by the 
 way. ' ' 
 
 "I wonder," said Bridget, still sitting 
 there, when talk had died and the rest had 
 all slipped away, "why you are such a 
 rest, Gwen? You 're scarcely older than 
 me, as real oldness goes. It must be that 
 you 're bigger." 
 
 "You shouldn't go living as fast as 
 Lucy does. It is n't English ; and we can't 
 stand it. Besides, you haven't yet taken 
 time to possess your soul in peace 
 no, I 'm right, never since you came up. 
 And just now you 're worried, child 
 mine. ' ' 
 
 "Perhaps I am. It was rather hateful 
 meeting David like that. He did n't under- 
 stand. ' ' 
 
 "Was it only a minute's talk!"
 
 222 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Dear, no! I walked him into the fields 
 over Marston Ferry, just as though we 'd 
 been an Oxford maidservant and her "fel- 
 low"! Think how pleased some people 
 would be! And at home he has had the 
 run of the house. We 've been friends 
 since he first went to school with Ned. 
 I Ve seen him through all his troubles and 
 been his critic these six years: he has 
 brought up things he has been writing to 
 show me. And we can't meet! Gwen 
 what would you do?" 
 
 Gwen looked out of the window: then 
 cast a quick glance at her friend and 
 smiled. 
 
 "I suppose I shouldn't do anything; 
 Solvitur ambulando. But I believe more 
 in sitting still. Of course it 's unlucky for 
 us, and rather silly, that first rules can't 
 be altered, till the new world has come in 
 and re-made all rules to fit itself. But 
 that happens in every generation. Of
 
 Gwen 223 
 
 course, there 's no earthly harm in Mars- 
 ton Ferry, your father knowing all about 
 you. But" 
 
 "I know. One must be straight for the 
 sake of the place, even if every authority 
 privately thought as we do. It 's tire- 
 some, though. David has all but finished 
 a memoir of our Founder. He has been 
 working at it three years in the family 
 library in holiday time." 
 
 "A freshman ?" 
 
 "Yes. He 's a quite big person, they 
 say. The School 's done everything for 
 him. If he had a statue of the Founder, 
 he 'd burn incense to it. His people are 
 poor." 
 
 Bridget's mouth closed suddenly. She 
 was thinking of the look of the strong 
 dark-eyed man she had seen. "Who would 
 notice any difference from other fresh- 
 men ? Till she knew David had spoken of 
 home, his friend would say no word. Men
 
 224 Bedesman 4 
 
 come and go from the University in silence 
 on their most vital matters. 
 
 "That 's rather beautiful," said Gwen 
 quietly. "I should like to know him." 
 
 "You would mix, for all your differ- 
 ences. What 's that striking? Gwen, 
 shall we read something? Shall I fetch 
 Peer Gynt?" She went, while Gwen 
 moved in the room, shaking cushions and 
 straightening a table-cloth. 
 
 "Yes," she reflected, "he wants her, 
 very likely, now, but she '11 soon leave off 
 wanting him. The child 's growing, bless 
 her, and it will take all sorts to make 
 Bridget's world. Besides she has a 
 home." Gwen stood still, looking from 
 the window. "I wish" two large tears 
 stood suddenly on her cheeks. "Yes, I 
 wish Dad had waited a little longer down 
 here. "What am I thinking about? How 
 he might have suffered ! And the dear old 
 aunt and uncle "
 
 Gwen 225 
 
 She sighed and shut the window. Left 
 alone, she had come here of her own 
 choice to read history, and "to learn 
 what the real world was like, for a girl 
 with her own money," as the others put 
 it. Home or none, Gwen dwelt in her 
 friends' hearts, tho' her own was too big 
 not to be a little lonesome. The restful, 
 white-painted room heard many confi- 
 dences, and more "good talks." 
 
 "Come in, Bridget, child," she said, 
 turning. "We Ve nearly an hour."
 
 XI 
 
 THE long and stately Hall of Cuth- 
 bert's, between nine and ten one 
 spring night, was alive with, a loud noise of 
 talking: brilliant with electric light, and! 
 with the bold, yet dainty colors in vogue 
 that year. The crowd was increasing; the 
 demand for coffee-cups lessening. The 
 great foreigner, in whose honor the College 
 opened her gates, had done his speaking; 
 and, conspicuous in his broad ribbon, 
 moved round the great room with a small, 
 bright-eyed, be-diamonded woman on his 
 arm. 
 
 David Bold was relieved from active 
 
 politenesses. His tall head glancing over 
 
 the throng, he saw, not far from him, in a 
 
 corner veiled from the room's blaze by a 
 
 226
 
 Gwen 227 
 
 heavy, drooping curtain, a little living pic- 
 ture. A girl in a curiously graceful dress 
 of dull white satin heavily furnished with 
 gold embroidery sat in conversation with 
 Professor Brownlow, hirsute and shaggy 
 as of old. The girPs long-gloved hands 
 lay in her lap ; she sat very still, as people 
 sit with whom stillness is less a habit, or a 
 conscious courtesy, than part of a charac- 
 ter. Her head was raised : David saw it 
 in profile. As he looked, the rest of the 
 thronged room became a kind of dream. 
 His eyes were on a face, in outline, pose, 
 detail, very beautiful; but it was less 
 beauty that held him than the grace of a 
 certain turn of expression, half spiritual, 
 half graciously protecting, that went to 
 his heart. This lovely stranger seemed 
 to him a thing known, almost belonging 
 to him. For that look, combined with that 
 calm stillness of pose, belonged to an- 
 other woman
 
 228 Bedesman 4 
 
 An amused voice spoke near him: 
 
 "How do you do, David. You 're look- 
 ing 1 at my friend, Gwen. Isn't she 
 lovely?" 
 
 "Do you see any likeness to my 
 mother?" said David, as one in a dream. 
 The Professor beckoned to him, and he 
 moved. 
 
 Bridget watched him, her lips twitching. 
 "Why, David, good lad," was her in- 
 ward comment, "don't they say that 's 
 the biggest compliment a man can pay a 
 woman ? ' ' 
 
 The Professor was rising. 
 
 "Bold, Miss Brydon wishes you intro- 
 duced to her. She is Founder's kin, and 
 you must show her the portrait. A copy, 
 Miss Brydon, no more. The original is 
 better known to you than to me, eh, Bold?" 
 
 "That 's true," said David, as one in a 
 dream ; then as the Professor shook hands, 
 taking his leave, he turned, and found her
 
 Gwen 229 
 
 wide and lovely eyes, warm with interest, 
 upon him. 
 
 "The picture is on the south wall," he 
 said; "you will see it best if you will come 
 this way." Beyond a long refreshment- 
 table, he set a chair for her. * ' There he is. 
 The original Holbein hangs in my old 
 school, but this is quite good." 
 
 "It is reproduced in your book, of 
 course." David's color flamed and she 
 smiled. "A friend at my College lent it 
 me, Bridget Burton you were speaking 
 to her just now." 
 
 He smiled now too, embarrassment pass- 
 ing away. 
 
 "Bridget knew me first when I wore a 
 facsimile of that all day, as one of his 
 'Bedesmen.' She had much to do with 
 that book, for she 's a stern critic. You 
 will know Miss Nicholas too, his present 
 representative. It was she who set me to 
 write it."
 
 230 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Alas, no! I suppose I must confess 
 the truth. There has been a sort of 
 family feud, from my great grandfather's 
 time, who took the name of Brydon for 
 some property. The Nicholases didn't 
 forgive him nor his son. But I hope by 
 now she would shake hands if we met. Or 
 her successor. Bridget tells me the suc- 
 cession is doubtful." 
 
 He sighed. "It depends on her will. 
 The entail was broken some time back, and 
 now there is no male heir. She seems 
 equally friends with all her known 
 cousins." 
 
 "Or with none," said Gwen, smiling. 
 "Won't you sit down, Mr. Bold there is 
 a chair and may I ask you something?" 
 
 He drew the chair up, waiting. Still 
 the sense of unknown things, of a dream, 
 was upon him. This simple talk was un- 
 like any other in his life. Her deep, gentle 
 tone thrilled him like the sound of Tom.
 
 Gwen 231 
 
 He could have listened to her for ever, 
 even had she spoken an unknown lan- 
 guage. 
 
 "I want to know how, given all possible 
 musty documents, you managed to make 
 that simple little book a work of art, a 
 series of pictures? It is quite amazingly 
 convincing. ' ' 
 
 He showed no touch of shyness now, 
 but answered after an instant's thought. 
 
 "I 'm afraid that is just what is the mat- 
 ter with the book. I Ve thought about 
 him ever since I went to school; then 
 came the library and the papers; 
 you wouldn't call them musty if you had 
 read them. At length the whole thing 
 was so alive that, when I came to write 
 a book about it, it almost got in my way. 
 It would be all the same if it were all 
 utterly wrong. I couldn't alter it. It 
 has convinced me: and now I 'm helpless. 
 That is how I come at things. "
 
 232 Bedesman 4 
 
 She was looking at him, her eyes full 
 of smiles. 
 
 "That must be," she said calmly, "why 
 Professor Brownlow talked about new de- 
 partures and the power of the eye and his- 
 tory-writing in the future." 
 
 "He talks a power of flattery to other 
 people; but he fell upon me solidly, when 
 I told him what I 'd done. Then he ac- 
 tually read it, in manuscript and in the 
 middle of term ! and sent me off with it to 
 the publisher the next week." 
 
 "So apparently it is not all wrong, but 
 very right." 
 
 David's eyes roamed to the Holbein. 
 
 "Who can tell that?" he said with a 
 deep change in his voice, "when they are 
 'departed as if they had never been'?" 
 
 He felt her look on him and met it. 
 Then the eyes of this new-met maiden 
 spoke back to him a deep thing that none 
 knew, save he himself. An awe fell on
 
 Gwen 233 
 
 Ms soul. What was this that held him? 
 
 At length, he knew not how long after, 
 
 he answered her as if she had spoken. 
 ' * You are right. One can touch them ' * 
 "They can touch you," said Gwen Bry- 
 
 don quietly. "That is why you could 
 
 write that book." 
 
 About four o'clock the next morning, 
 David stood at his sitting-room window, 
 drinking in the fresh breath of the dawn. 
 He had not slept, and his bedroom seemed 
 an unendurable and stuffy place. 
 
 He had much to think of, but he thought 
 of none of it; only of one great Fact. 
 Deep in what his grandmother would have 
 called "his own dear self," he knew what 
 had happened to him. That maiden pres- 
 ence that his own had met to-night met in 
 that strange and sudden intimacy under 
 the painted eyes of Sir Humphrey Nich- 
 olas even that dear and exquisite pres-
 
 234 Bedesman 4 
 
 ence, known as it seemed to him forever, 
 yet a new and precious thing, would go 
 on beside him always through life, what- 
 ever happened to either or to both of them. 
 
 But what would happen? 
 
 David made no effort to answer the 
 question. 
 
 The hour of answer was not yet. It 
 would arrive and not be hastened. He, 
 too, and she would travel on, as it 
 would have them. These facts seemed in- 
 herent in the very nature of things. 
 
 A cool fragrance of new-growing grass 
 came up to him from the fine green turf of 
 the quad. Beyond its further angle of 
 kind old College walls, a long church-roof, 
 barely visible, lifted upon a gray and silent 
 sky the broad and soaring lines of her 
 great spire. Slowly a softly rosy light 
 touched the edges of the stone, and grew 
 and grew. Detail waked in crocket and 
 pinnacle and carven saint. A solemn and
 
 Gwen 235 
 
 tapering shadow fell and grew upon the 
 morning air and sky. 
 
 To the man who watched, the Ox- 
 ford dawn seemed a picture of his own 
 fate. 
 
 Then there waked in him something that 
 was of life, and cast out fear. His heart 
 cried out to the Maker of youth and of the 
 morning for that brave and joy-born gift, 
 a man's good chance. 
 
 "How did you get on with my friend 
 David?" Bridget asked. 
 
 A person knowing it well has described 
 the Oxford fly as "a kind of vault." The 
 ancient city can certainly boast an undue 
 proportion of ramshackle and faded vehi- 
 cles. A fusty smell, as of damp and worn- 
 out hay, always clung, for Gwen, about cer- 
 tain exquisite memories of her own: for 
 she and Bridget went home in an old 
 * ' four-wheeler. ' '
 
 236 Bedesman 4 
 
 "I found him interesting," Gwen said 
 slowly. "We talked about his book." 
 
 In the dark Bridget smiled. "I hope 
 his next won't be a big step down. He has 
 been soaked with the Founder, since he 
 was about thirteen." 
 
 "He says all that stood in his way. I 
 could trust his gift. One can't tell where 
 it will go next, but somewhere." 
 
 "You sound pretty sleepy." 
 
 "Oh, I 'm not. I 'm very much awake. 
 I was only thinking " 
 
 Here with a lurch and a rattle the cab 
 drew up. The girls alighted and paid. 
 Under the light on the landing, Bridget 
 cast a quick, keen look at her friend. 
 
 "Good-night, beloved. It was a lovely 
 party, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Lovely," said Gwen, in the same tone*, 
 as Bridget turned away. 
 
 In her peaceful room, whose white bed
 
 Gwen 237 
 
 stood uncovered, Gwen slowly drew off her 
 draperies of white and gold. She was 
 glad to have no one to speak to : she seemed 
 still to be in the lit hall under the friendly 
 eyes of that square-bearded man in the flat 
 hat. 
 
 "Kin and kind both," she said to her- 
 self, "when next I feel alone in the world, 
 I '11 go and get another look at him." 
 
 As the thought came, she stood still: 
 then, rather suddenly, sat down on the bed 
 with fixed and wondering eyes. 
 
 Alone! Could you ever be that again, 
 while the world held another, who could 
 think your thought and answer it before 
 it was spoken ? 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "That'll do, Phyllis. Bun her in 
 under that willow. It 's heavenly of sum- 
 mer term to begin like this." 
 
 Bridget cleared a light wrap and, with 
 some rattle, a tea-basket off the other cush-
 
 238 Bedesman 4 
 
 ion. ' ' Now let 's go ahead, ' ' she observed, 
 reaching her book; "we '11 have tea let 's 
 see in an hour, eh?" 
 
 Silence reigned. The light shadows of 
 the willow-leaves played over the "Water- 
 hen" and her burden, dancing on the girls' 
 light frocks and on the open page. Other 
 river craft went by with quiet splashings 
 and scraps of passing talk. But neither 
 moved. 
 
 It was after the hour before Phyllis 
 looked at her watch; and, sitting up, 
 pushed her hair back, and began prepara- 
 tions for tea. Bridget shut her book. 
 
 "It 's pretty lovely here," she re- 
 marked, leaning back. "We '11 miss the 
 river when we go down. I wish Grwen 
 would have come too." 
 
 There was an instant's pause, before 
 Phyllis said, rather deliberately, "Brid- 
 get what 's the matter with Gwen?" 
 
 A quick look, half amused and wholly
 
 Gwen 239 
 
 keen, crossed Bridget's face. "The mat- 
 ter with her?" she said to Phyllis' shoul- 
 der, "as howl" 
 
 Phyllis accomplished lighting the spirit- 
 lamp. 
 
 "You 're not going to talk about it, 
 then?" she observed. "All right, if you 
 don't want." 
 
 "By no means. Go on." 
 
 "You must see what I see, unless I 'm 
 
 crazy. And I 'm not the only one. Lucy 
 
 
 "Lucy's comments are interesting; she 
 is of a different civilization. But I 'd 
 rather know what you see." 
 
 Phyllis bent her face over the teapot. 
 "Gwen 's not herself." A little emotional 
 sound was in her voice. "She forgets 
 the oddest things, when she 's promised 
 to help you, even. And she looks " 
 
 "Perfectly lovely. It 's said people 
 often do, in her case. Yes, Phyllis
 
 240 Bedesman 4 
 
 something has happened to Gwen. We Ve 
 just got not to see it." 
 
 She sat up in the punt. The other girl 
 still leaned forward, her face not visible. 
 "Cheer up, child," Bridget said, "there *s 
 enough of your Gwen to go round, even 
 
 if" 
 
 
 
 Phyllis turned on her eyes that swam; 
 the springlike face of a fresh, clear-witted, 
 eager maid, out of a country Rectory, and 
 still young all over. 
 
 "I I don't know anything whatever 
 about those things/' she said deliber- 
 ately. Her cheeks were rosy. 
 
 Bridget pulled her down, kissed her, and 
 laughed. 
 
 "No," she said, "as for me, well, I Ve 
 seen my brother through about three ab- 
 surdities. But Gwen is somehow too big 
 not to be visible. She moves all of a 
 piece. Very likely she 's still unconscious. 
 See, Phyllis, we 've got to protect her. If
 
 Gwen 241 
 
 Lucy, or any of them especially Lucy 
 begins to talk, just choke them off. 
 'Those things' shouldn't be discussed. 
 They 're one person's business (I believe 
 I mean two!) and no one else's. It's 
 not for us to touch the thing. See?" 
 
 Phyllis nodded, looking into the willow- 
 tree. 
 
 ''It would be beastly irreverent," she 
 murmured, as a canoe went by them 
 swiftly. 
 
 "That tea will be stewed," said Bridget. 
 
 When she began to sip her cup, she spoke 
 again. 
 
 "I 've got a word more to say: but it is 
 not ever to go beyond us two. You can 
 hold your tongue, Phyllis. I 've a special 
 reason for wanting silence round Gwen. 
 I happen to know that there are things 
 about the other, that Gwen will have to 
 hear. Only one person ought to tell her 
 himself. I 'm taking perhaps a big re-
 
 242 Bedesman 4 
 
 sponsibility, but I don't mean even to hint 
 them to her. And she won't hear them 
 from any one else unless there were gos- 
 sip. ' ' 
 
 Phyllis nodded. She would as soon have 
 sought to know who "himself" might be, 
 as demanded an immediate interview with 
 an archangel. 
 
 "All right. I promise. Is it going to 
 be for long, Bridget?" 
 
 "All this term, I should expect," said 
 Bridget. She paused and smiled. "To 
 think I should come to be a mother to 
 Gwen!" 
 
 * * * * 
 
 "We got to think over them two letters, 
 my dear. One of 'em 's just as good as 
 t'other. Yet you may be sure there 's a 
 lot to choose, if you could on'y get at it." 
 
 Esther Bold sat in the chimney-corner, 
 in a soft white shawl. "The weather," or 
 some other obscure cause, had brought her
 
 Gwen 243 
 
 a slight return of last year's illness. 
 Emily had come home to nurse her and 
 sat sewing, in a neat print, opposite. 
 
 "I likes that first one the best," she ob- 
 served, biting her thread, " 't is a titled 
 lady; and I 'd be sure to get on with that 
 upper. Swayne, she never taught you a 
 thing, only druv you just to get the work 
 done. Else I should n' ha' been so ready 
 to leave. This one 's proper second house- 
 maid with a 'between,' so as you can 
 get on up. I ain't goin' single-handed 
 again. 'Twas a mistake takin' Symes's 
 place. ' ' 
 
 Her mother stretched a hand for the let- 
 ters. The quiet face had a certain air of 
 frailness, and a curiously deepened calm; 
 but no suggestion of the old woman yet. 
 She sat very still and perused the letters 
 carefully before handing them back. 
 
 " 'T is true, my dear, about th' upper: 
 and the money and all. I don't know how
 
 244 Bedesman 4 
 
 't is somehow I 'd sooner thee took the 
 t'other, but" 
 
 "Here 's somebody coming down the 
 path," said Emily, rising. " 'T is well, 
 I never! Dave!" 
 
 With a scream, she ran to hug and kiss 
 him in the entry. The mother did not 
 move. He would not keep her waiting: 
 and a moment's quiet after that sudden big 
 leap of the heart was best for her. Fold- 
 ing the letters, she bestowed them quietly 
 under the lid of her work-basket, which 
 stood close by on a three-legged stool. 
 
 He came in, and stooped to put an arm 
 round her, and let her hold him. He 
 seemed very tall and strong beside her, 
 and she knew at once that something lay 
 behind his grave look. He would tell her 
 in time. A perfect confidence dwelt be- 
 tween these two. When last spring 
 Esther lay ill, ' 'facing death," the coun- 
 trywoman's matter-of-course she had
 
 Gwen 245 
 
 known, with a lifting of the heart, that 
 nothing would ever come between them 
 now. That which was there was a thing 
 not to be disturbed. 
 
 "I had a day free, so I ran down," he 
 said; "I Ve news to tell you, Mother." 
 
 He paused, watching her. Emily from 
 the background jumped to a seat on the 
 table. "Oh, I say, Dave" 
 
 "Hush, dear," Esther Bold lifted a 
 hand. "What is it, my son?" 
 
 "My College have made me one of their 
 Fellows. I only knew late last night. I 
 came off to tell you, Mother. The post 
 wouldn't quite do." 
 
 Esther Bold took her son's hand quietly. 
 Emily leaped off the table. 
 
 "Dave, Dave, oh, Dave! I be that 
 glad." 
 
 Her brother caught her to him and gave 
 her a kiss. "Those were the words you 
 said, Sis, when we danced up and down this
 
 246 Bedesman 4 
 
 floor together, on a night when I knew I 
 was going to a certain free grammar 
 school. ' ' 
 
 The two laughed together, holding each 
 other's shoulders, Emily full of chat- 
 ter. 
 
 Esther Bold sat by the fire, a still look 
 on her face. "The Lord have been very 
 good to ee, my son, ' ' she said, when silence 
 had fallen and lasted long. 
 
 When Emily ran down to shop for a 
 rasher for supper, he sat on holding her 
 hand for a long while. 
 
 "Have ee any more to say, my son?" 
 she asked presently. 
 
 "How did you know? Yes I Ve more 
 to say. In a week or two, Mother, I 'm 
 not sure when, I am going to stay with 
 some Oxford friends at their country 
 house. There I shall meet some one 
 whom I love. I am going to tell her all 
 my story. Very likely she will say me
 
 Gwen 247 
 
 'Nay,' but, yet I think I have my chance. 
 I Ve known her some time, but not seen 
 much of her. It seemed a thing hardly 
 right to seek her, till after my degree. But 
 somehow, when we meet, as we did last 
 week and again yesterday, I seem to know 
 her quite well. Why is it, Mother?" 
 
 "I take it, my son," said Esther Bold 
 calmly, " 't is 'cause you be the two. I 've 
 knowed some while, my dear," she added 
 after a pause, "as there was someone, 
 and as 'twas n't my Miss Bridget. The 
 Lord give thee joy of the maid, my son, 
 and send thee thy heart's desire." 
 
 There fell a hush that he would not 
 break. He looked at her furtively. He 
 did not like these little illnesses. 
 
 "My dear," said Esther Bold, and 
 then paused, "she '11 be a lady, I take it, 
 and we 're but poor folks. Thee be come 
 up a gentleman, like we always said, and 
 't is so she '11 know thee. Thee won't think
 
 248 Bedesman 4 
 
 as thee must be constant coming here. She 
 
 
 
 David Bold made a quick movement, 
 grasping his mother's hand so tight that 
 he all but hurt her. 
 
 "Mother no. She T s too big for all 
 that. If she should care, all would work 
 out of itself. If not, I I could not 
 marry her. I have the right to speak to 
 her. Oxford makes a man belong to his 
 future, not his past. He is himself, and 
 what he can do of himself, after that. 
 Who gave me Oxford, Mother?" 
 
 She pressed his hand, not speaking. 
 
 "I should like you/' he said thought- 
 fully, "to know her name, Gwendolen 
 Brydon. You won't name it again, un- 
 less She *s a lovely woman, Mother. 
 The first time ever I saw her, I saw she 
 was like you." 
 
 "Gwendolen Brydon," said Esther Bold 
 slowly.
 
 Gwen 249 
 
 Emily and the rashers immediately ar- 
 rived, then Father, stumping in, to have 
 the Oxford news explained to him over the 
 meal. When Esther had gone up to bed 
 the two men sat there, the father smoking 
 a long clay, and David joining him. 
 When he knocked the ashes from it, his 
 son got up. 
 
 ''Father,'* he said, "I haven't thanked 
 you for what you Ve given me for what 
 has brought me to this day." 
 
 William Bold looked up. He surveyed 
 the tall man in his sound tweeds, whose 
 head had a curious dignity that he under- 
 stood not. And deep in his soul, he knew 
 they were strangers. When he spoke, his 
 voice had a touch of harshness in it, yet 
 a hint of satisfaction. 
 
 "When you Ve a-putt down a pot of 
 money," he said, "you do like to see some- 
 thing for it. Your mother's uncommon 
 pleased. ' '
 
 XII 
 
 ," said Glover, the butler, with 'a 
 look in his eye,' "the gentleman 's 
 comin' down, this time, eh? When '11 
 the wedding-day be, Mrs. Sykes, I won- 
 der?" 
 
 ' ' She '11 make a lovely bride, ' ' said Mrs. 
 Sykes, breaking an egg with an air of sen- 
 timent. 
 
 "Here, Jane," said the butler grandly, 
 "you can put this letter on the spare-room 
 mantelpiece. ' r 
 
 ....... 
 
 The childlike gentleness of Lady Susan's 
 aged face was overcast. Her blue eyes 
 were troubled. Her Honiton cap had even 
 tilted a little on one side. 
 250
 
 Gwen 251 
 
 "I don't see how I can let her go," Lady 
 Susan murmured. 
 
 "Of course you can't. Darling dear, 
 your cap! Let me. If Jane wants to go 
 home, she should make a clean breast of 
 it," 
 
 4 'How can I, Gwen, with Watson so 
 far from well? And yet I can't bear be- 
 ing hard on a servant. I wonder, could 
 one put him off? But it 's only for two 
 nights, and so good for your uncle. He 
 wanted him asked ; Mr. Bold 's so nice with 
 him. It 's not sickness, she said " 
 
 "Surely, dear, then, it can wait?" 
 Gwen's breath had caught a little. "See, 
 auntie, shall I speak to her? We 're 
 rather friends. I won't have you worried 
 into a headache." 
 
 "Oh, no, dear. It 's settled now. But 
 I 'm not comfortable. Suppose her par- 
 ents really want her. Such dreadful 
 things do happen to the poor! They 're
 
 252 Bedesman 4 
 
 such very respectable people, "Watson says. 
 The father 's a quarryman. And she y s 
 such a nice girl, only here a month and 
 Watson can leave her to anything. Just 
 what I want. I wonder what it is. Per- 
 haps some brother 's run away to sea, or 
 they 're in debt, or the father drinks " 
 
 Gwen burst out laughing. 
 
 1 ' Oh, dear, poor things ! What a tender- 
 hearted auntie it is ! " 
 
 The Times here arrived opportunely, 
 under the big cedar-tree. 
 
 When Lady Susan had entered upon a 
 leader, Gwen got up and went in. She had 
 seen a duster flutter out of her bedroom 
 window, in the midst of reading out the 
 paragraphs. 
 
 "Ah! Jane, has my lilac gingham come 
 home from the wash?" 
 
 Jane set down the pail she was carrying 
 away. 
 
 "No, miss. But I Ve sent round."
 
 Gwen 253 
 
 "Oh, thanks! Jane, I 'm sorry to hear 
 you 're in trouble." 
 
 Jane stood upon one foot, flushing to the 
 roots of her sandy hair. She reached after 
 the handle of the pail. 
 
 "Oh, it 's it 's not anything, miss." 
 Another woman's eye saw it was very 
 much indeed. "I 'm sorry I troubled her 
 Ladyship, miss." 
 
 "But what is it, child?" Gwen thrust 
 the door to, over the girl's shoulder. 
 "You 're really in trouble, or you would n't 
 have spoken. And I might help. Tell 
 me. It won't go any further, I prom- 
 ise." 
 
 The sense of common girlhood was in 
 the tone. Lady Susan's housemaid stood 
 flushed and awkward. Then she gave a 
 quick, hot glance upwards, (why can't 
 one say 'uttered a glance T that is the 
 truth) just one look, but it covered the 
 whole, from head to dapper slipper-toe, of
 
 254 Bedesman 4 
 
 Gwen's fair, dainty, summer-morning per- 
 son. Then she dropped her eyes. 
 
 "Oh, no, miss ! Not if 't was ever so !" 
 
 Gwen was startled. She felt as if she 
 had been scorched. And she had no idea 
 why. It was as if there was something 
 hostile, almost tragic in the glance. 
 Tragic! Jane! solid, steady-going maid- 
 servant 1 
 
 "But, if it 's so serious " Gwen found 
 herself saying. 
 
 "Oh, 't is n't, miss. 'Tis nothing. I 
 only wanted for to see Mother." 
 
 "Well, I 'm sure, next week, when the 
 house is empty, my aunt will spare you 
 
 gladly. Mrs. Watson will be better, and 
 
 
 
 "Oh, yes, miss. Please, miss, don't you 
 trouble. 'Tis just nothing." And Jane, 
 the color of a hot coal, seized her pail and 
 was gone. Gwen shrugged her graceful 
 shoulders. Well, you can't help some peo-
 
 Gwen 255 
 
 pie. But what on earth had made the 
 girl look at her like that? 
 
 The girl went away, as in a desperate 
 hurry, the pail clanging noisily down the 
 passage. When she got into the roomy 
 housemaid's cupboard, where the sink was, 
 she thrust the door to behind her, set- 
 ting down the pail with a quick rattle, with 
 no attempt to empty it. She stood breath- 
 ing quick, big drops of agitation and stress 
 breaking out on her forehead. "Oh, 
 dear!" she said in little gasps. "Oh, 
 dear!" Persons of her condition do not 
 soliloquize, save in such interjections, the 
 natural vent of woman till that queer thing 
 called culture has made her ashamed. If 
 they did, she would have gasped out, ' l Her ! 
 her, of all people! Tell her!" She be- 
 came quieter, leaning against the wall, her 
 eyes fixed and troubled. Was ever poor 
 girl put in such a corner before? Who 
 ever heard of such a thing? Oh, what a
 
 256 Bedesman 4 
 
 Heaven-sent blessing they called her 
 "Jane"! 'T would n't never strike him 
 to remember her second name, Granny's. 
 If only she 'd written to him since she came 
 here a fortnight ago! Mother wouldn't 
 have given her address yet, thinking she 
 wrote herself. 
 
 The helping wait dinner! Oh, there 
 would be the trouble ! What a mercy they 
 used red-shaded candles! Perhaps he 
 would never look up, nor catch her face. 
 If he did good heavens ! what would they 
 both do? 
 
 All at once sobs burst up into her throat. 
 Oh, it was hard! She hadn't seen him so 
 long, except for that one night. But stand 
 in his way! ruin his chance 
 
 ' ' Jane ! Jane ! ' ' came in Mrs. Watson 's 
 vigorous tones, from the further land- 
 ing. 
 
 The girl dashed her apron up into her 
 eyes, and emptied the pail with a resound-
 
 Gwen 257 
 
 ing splash. There was no help for it. 
 The thing had got to be faced. 
 
 It was tea-time when the guest arrived. 
 From the bedroom window, when Miss 
 Gwen's lilac gingham came home to be 
 carried up, one could see the little group 
 under the cedar, the white table with the 
 pretty tray, all dainty china and silver; 
 Lady Susan, old and elegant, in the wicker 
 arm-chair; the Doctor with his big white 
 hat; Miss Gwen's gracious figure in that 
 pretty blue cotton, bending over the tea- 
 pot, drawing up a chair; -Miss Gwen! 
 why, if that happened! oh, goodness, such 
 things could n't be ! And, clear to be seen, 
 but with his back to her, that other figure, 
 in dark brown tweeds, the black head, 
 the shoulders. Oh, come, one mustn't 
 get to crying again! How nice he did 
 look! 
 
 Yes, David Bold, for a peasant boy, made 
 outwardly a remarkably successful "gen-
 
 258 Bedesman 4 
 
 tleman. ' ' When one has been taught from 
 babyhood to fear God and respect one's 
 elders, to hate a lie, and consider one's 
 neighbor, one 's root-principles are not fun- 
 damentally different from those regulating 
 ' * the gentle life, ' ' socially so called. There 
 was at moments a shy and rather need- 
 less modesty about him. That was all. 
 For the peasant, pure and simple, is not a 
 "vulgar" person. That means entirely 
 something else. Small wonder none of 
 the family had wondered whence he came, 
 though Dr. Morcott thought he knew him 
 well. 
 
 And there, upstairs, furtive and fright- 
 ened, peering between the light summer 
 curtains, in her tidy black frock and white 
 apron and her neat little housemaid's cap, 
 his own born sister, that had shared his 
 baby plays and eaten hot toast off the same 
 plate with him, stood and gazed at him with 
 hungry eyes.
 
 Gwen 259 
 
 "You 're fond of the country," Gwen 
 said, as they strolled down the long path 
 to the paddock. 
 
 David had come straight from three 
 weeks' reading at the British Museum. 
 The summer days in town, airless and 
 dust-defiled, made all gardens more fair. 
 He glanced round him, drawing a deep 
 breath. 
 
 "I was born and bred in the country," 
 he answered. As he said it, suddenly, a 
 thing happened. The garden prospect, 
 the overhanging beeches, the tangled bed of 
 poppies mingled with white pinks, that ran 
 beside the path, aye, even the girl so close 
 to him were there no more. He was 
 on a rough paved pathway, outside a gray 
 thatched cottage in its neat garden, where, 
 too, the pinks grew. To go in, to where 
 the low-roofed, tidy kitchen glowed with 
 firelight, and one in black gown and neat 
 apron sat and sewed, he must step down,
 
 260 Bedesman 4 
 
 through the brown doorway, must stoop 
 his head a good deal. 
 
 The moment was very intense. It could 
 scarcely have happened if he had not been 
 vividly in love. He had come down here, 
 eager, shaken with the seeing her again. 
 In the broad, silent museum's matted 
 spaces, amid the deep joys that came to 
 him from dusty decipherments in solemn 
 aged tomes, she had been never absent from 
 him. 
 
 His life at Oxford had been always quiet, 
 but never narrow. Every one knew he was 
 poor, and had come up from a country 
 grammar school. His gifts, combined 
 with a certain simple directness of char- 
 acter, due partly to youthful sincerity, 
 partly to his peasant instincts and up- 
 bringing, had saved him awkwardnesses. 
 He had learned unconsciously, to adapt 
 himself, as academic life teaches, to people, 
 to circumstances. He had many friends.
 
 Gwen 261 
 
 That sudden acute memory smote him 
 like a blow in the face. 
 
 All at once, now, he realized the gulf. 
 It was as if he never had seen it yawn be- 
 fore. It was true that he no longer be- 
 longed to that life where his mother dwelt. 
 A light puff of wind fluttered a blue cot- 
 ton skirt towards him. Gwen, his gra- 
 cious lady, to whose world he did belong, 
 for good and all, who knew nothing about 
 the other 
 
 All at once one of those strange voices, 
 as out of the Invisible, that, at weighty 
 hours of life speak suddenly to shake, to 
 inspire us, came to David Bold. 
 
 "Tell her now," It said; "you have 
 to tell her. Say 'I am a quarryman's 
 son.' " 
 
 As It came, the two turned up the path 
 again. When they reached the head of it, 
 David stepped aside and gathered some- 
 thing from the border.
 
 262 Bedesman 4 
 
 "Do you like pinks?" lie said. His 
 voice was not quite steady. 
 
 He had not spoken. He did not mean 
 to speak. He did not know her well 
 enough. He was not ready. 
 
 Yet at the bottom of his heart fool- 
 ishly, unreasonably though it might be 
 he was ashamed. 
 
 As they passed over the lawn, a muslin 
 curtain, caught by the warm breeze, sud- 
 denly billowed out of a first floor window. 
 They both looked up. Then Gwen looked 
 swiftly at him. Behind the billow she 
 had seen, in a quick vision, something. 
 Had he seen it tool 
 
 It was a furtive, eager face the face 
 of Jane the housemaid. 
 
 The red-shaded candles shone softly 
 upon dark roses laid upon the white cloth. 
 The soup had gone round. It was salmon 
 now. There was an entree to come next.
 
 Gwen 263 
 
 Glover was distinctly worried. He 
 could not think what was the matter with 
 the girl. As a rule, she waited capitally, 
 was all he wanted. To-night she seemed to 
 have lost her head, had missed out 
 the guest ! From the sideboard he did his 
 best to telegraph to her ; then he beckoned 
 and thrust the plate into her hand. Merci- 
 fully no one saw him. 
 
 Whether it was her nervousness, or the 
 fear of getting no fish, that disturbed the 
 even tenor of his mind, David Bold became 
 suddenly aware of he knew not what in the 
 air. He glanced up. Suddenly he ceased 
 to speak. That hot, strange vision of 
 home leapt up once more. He had met 
 full a frightened, deprecating, distressed 
 pair of blue eyes. Bending to hand cu- 
 cumber to the Professor, he saw his sis- 
 ter Emily. 
 
 David never knew clearly what he 
 thought or did in that instant. An im-
 
 264 Bedesman 4 
 
 pulse to spring up from his chair, to 
 speak, came first, for one warm, natural 
 moment. Then Emily's eyes, and an ac- 
 quired instinct, that in that strange crisis 
 half of him hated, the other half respected, 
 kept him seated, silent. He was forbidden 
 by all laws of good breeding, to make a 
 scene. He bent his eyes on his plate and 
 helped himself to salt. 
 
 Some one else had seen, some one sit- 
 ting opposite him. A pair of quick girl's 
 eyes had intercepted that speechless mes- 
 sage. 
 
 The color flooded Gwen's cheek and 
 neck. But he saw nothing but his plate. 
 
 "Are you drinking claret, Bold?" said 
 Dr. Morcott, into the pause. 
 
 At the end of the interminable meal, and 
 the Doctor's learned questions over the 
 port, David Bold, wondering what he had 
 done and said all that time, turned and 
 went upstairs to his room. There was only
 
 Gwen 265 
 
 one thing lie could do and he blushed in the 
 dark as he did it. He walked across the 
 room and rang the bell. 
 
 As he stood waiting in that first unoc- 
 cupied moment, it seemed to him that 
 he knew not who he was or what he was. 
 He was less ''in a strait betwixt two" than 
 adhering to both, fighting fiercely for his 
 rights in both. His mother Emily meant 
 his mother! Gwen, the new, insistent, ex- 
 quisite love, that while the life beat in him, 
 must come first of all things! The thing 
 went so much deeper than the surface ex- 
 citements, the question of tact, the hideous 
 embarrassment, that, acute as they were, 
 they seemed only to prick him like pins, 
 amid the strong half-comprehended stabs 
 of the deep instincts in struggle within. 
 Yet they hurt acutely. In a moment Emily 
 would be here. 
 
 But Mr. Bold was as yet but inade- 
 quately initiated into the due routine of a
 
 266 Bedesman 4 
 
 careful household. As he stood in the 
 dark, catching his breath, a dignified creak 
 approached along the passage. In the 
 twilit dusk came a decorous knock at the 
 open door, and the offended but patient 
 voice of Glover disturbed at his supper. 
 
 "You rang, sir?" 
 
 David could have leapt at Glover's 
 throat. "I I want some hot water," 
 came from his lips lamely. For Emily's 
 sake, he could not ask for the housemaid. 
 
 Gwen sat by the lamp, drawing threads 
 from a square of coarse linen. She did 
 not look at David Bold as he came in. 
 What did the thing mean? What had the 
 housemaid to do with him, that their eyes 
 met like that? 
 
 The girl was young, and there was 
 pride in her, the hot pride of birth and 
 breeding, the fierce, tenderer, tremulous 
 pride of first love. She knew she cared for
 
 Gwen 267 
 
 this man. What had he to do with the 
 housemaid? 
 
 David Bold took a seat in the shadow, 
 not going near her, picking up a magazine. 
 But he saw nothing else but Gwen. The 
 bent head, the little fair tendrils of hair 
 on the nape of the neck, the gracious slope 
 of the shoulders, the noble brow. The 
 sight of her took hold of him, as never till 
 this moment. 
 
 A fierce question waked and burned. If 
 she knew? 
 
 The workman's son knew himself all 
 at once ignorant of her standpoint. The 
 idea of a mean thought as hers would not 
 realize itself within him. Yet how did 
 she look at things? If she knew, what 
 would she say? She, the orphan maid with 
 money, who, as he knew well enough, would 
 dispose of herself. 
 
 Gwen Lady Susan's high-bred niece, 
 sister-in-law to the housemaid!
 
 268 Bedesman 4 
 
 The idea was too bizarre to be taken in. 
 
 It was inevitable that the inherent temp- 
 tation should be visible to David Bold. 
 How could it not be ? 
 
 To see Emily furtively, tell her to be 
 silent, not to know him here. What harm 
 in that? What so natural 
 
 To acknowledge her, in the midst of this 
 peaceful refinement, with all its delicacies 
 of consideration each for other, to speak 
 and tell Lady Susan, Dr. Morcott, that his 
 pupil and guest, to whom they had shown 
 exquisite kindness, and the girl whom they 
 paid to empty the slops and make the beds 
 were of one blood would it not be like 
 an affront? 
 
 Instantly, all through, he hated himself. 
 The suggestion could have come to Esther 
 Bold's son only from outside himself. 
 She would have called it "a thought from 
 the devil." He hated it. Yet there was 
 honest perplexity in him. The situation
 
 Gwen 269 
 
 was an unheard-of thing. How could he 
 do that! 
 
 Gwen swept down the passage with a 
 rustle of silk skirts. She had shaken hands 
 with the guest at the stair-head. As she 
 entered her bedroom, Jane came out. She 
 had just deposited a hot water can, and 
 she carried another. 
 
 The guest had just entered his room op- 
 posite, towards which the girl crossed. 
 Then she stopped and turned to go down 
 the passage. She had seen him. But a 
 voice said, "I want to speak to you." 
 Gwen, invisible herself, saw the instant of 
 hesitation. Then Jane had crossed the 
 other threshold, and the door was shut. 
 
 "Oh, Dave! I didn't never mean! 
 Dave" 
 
 The sentence was cut short. The gen- 
 tleman in dress clothes caught and kissed
 
 270 Bedesman 4 
 
 the girl in cap and apron. Then he 
 looked at her for an instant, his face un- 
 steady. 
 
 "Bless the maid! she 's as red as the 
 roses. Why didn't you tell me you were 
 here?" 
 
 "I never knowed as you was comin', 
 Dave. Not till Mr. Glover give me a let- 
 ter for to put on your chimney-piece. 
 Dave, I 'm that sorry! But I shan't say 
 nothinV 
 
 The well-known tones with the burr of 
 home in them brought a queer sensation 
 into David's throat. The eyes, with their 
 wistful love, their anxiety, did not help. 
 He suddenly took her by the shoulders. 
 
 ' t Look here, sister Emily, what time are 
 you free to-morrow? In the afternoon? 
 After tea? We '11 go out together." 
 
 "Oh, Dave, I couldn't. They 'd all be 
 talkin'. 'T would come to Miss Gwen 
 Oh, Dave, I 'oodn't stand in your way."
 
 Gwen 27 1 
 
 The dark face flushed hotly. 
 "What time are you free?" 
 "Well, ha'-past five But, Dave" 
 "We '11 have a chat then. Well, now, 
 
 good night, Sis. I 'm afraid you 'd better 
 
 not stop here." 
 
 Gwen lay awake a long time. Thoughts 
 unknown to her life visited her that night. 
 Then she tossed through dreams for a 
 short three hours, and woke in full summer 
 sunshine, about six. She was weary and 
 restless. The summer garden invited. 
 She rose and went out. 
 
 Her heart was troubled. Nature was 
 kind, under the dewy trees. 
 
 Yesterday she had thought him her own. 
 Now she was proudly aware that she re- 
 linquished him. They were not engaged; 
 she held no rights in him. There were 
 many details in a man's life, also many 
 women, who took what they called a
 
 272 Bedesman 4 
 
 1 ' broad-minded view" of them. They 
 had a right to their view, if they liked it. 
 But it was not Gwendolen Brydon's. Old 
 Nicholas blood, and withal certain things 
 inherent in herself, said that in his rela- 
 tions with a woman, be she heiress or be 
 she housemaid, a man either acted honor- 
 ably, or he did not. 
 
 Going home to breakfast, through the 
 woodland ways, some half mile off, she 
 caught sight of a black and red uni- 
 form. 
 
 "Good morning, postman," said Gwen, 
 ever good-natured, "can't I save you a 
 walk?" 
 
 He pulled up, thanked her, shifted his 
 bag from his back, and gave her the house- 
 hold letters. Gwen went on towards the 
 house, turning over the little bundle idly 
 to find her own. 
 
 All at once in the middle of the coach- 
 way, she stopped.
 
 Gwen 273 
 
 Whose address was that! 
 
 "Miss Emily Jane Bold," 
 
 Bold? The only Bold was That was 
 a servant's letter, obviously. The envel- 
 ope, the handwriting, said so. 
 
 ' ' His people are poor. ' ' 
 
 As with a growing light, something 
 slowly unfolded itself before Gwen. A hot 
 spot burned in her left cheek. 
 
 She went through the open study win- 
 dow, where a girl was sweeping. ' ' Here 's 
 a letter for you, Jane, I think. I met the 
 postman." 
 
 Upstairs in her room Gwen stood still. 
 Her heart yearned over what she loved. 
 She had misjudged him. 
 
 Yes. But this was a new test. Would 
 he stand it! 
 
 The girl's lips parted in an anxious 
 smile. 
 
 Heavens! What a moment for a man! 
 To speak out, to confess!
 
 274 Bedesman 4 
 
 Or else to risk for that other girl, who 
 belonged to him, the gossip of the servants * 
 hall, of all her neighbors in her own 
 sphere. And more than that. What 
 would David Bold be worth, if he were 
 silent? 
 
 "Yesterday," Gwen said to herself, de- 
 liberately, "I meant to marry him. To- 
 day I don't care two straws how he is 
 born. He is himself. But the man I 
 marry must be a gentleman ! ' ' 
 
 Uplifted and tremulous her heart shook 
 within her; but by that test Gwen would 
 abide. 
 
 David Bold was shy, speaking less freely 
 than usual. 
 
 It might have been half -past ten, when 
 Lady Susan, armed with a large and seri- 
 ous book and a white parasol, took her 
 seat, as each morning, on the terrace, in 
 the shadow of the house. After a few 
 minutes a step approached her. "Lady
 
 Gwen 275 
 
 Susan," said David Bold's voice, "may 
 I ask you for something?" 
 
 Lady Susan looked up. She had taken 
 a fancy to this young man and she smiled 
 upon him. 
 
 "Will you give me leave to take your 
 housemaid for a walk this afternoon? 
 She is my sister." 
 
 He stood quite still. It seemed to him, 
 in the next instant, that he had sacrificed 
 he knew not what. 
 
 Then, with a little quick movement, he 
 looked up. On the drawing-room window- 
 step, stood Gwen. 
 
 Esther Bold's son met his bride's beau- 
 tiful eyes full.
 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 AQUAETEB of an hour before lunch, 
 after a morning that seemed a 
 dream, David Bold sought his room. He 
 believed he was going to write to his 
 mother. 
 
 Thrusting itself from beneath the pin- 
 cushion on his dressing-table, he caught 
 sight of the corner of a slate-gray envel- 
 ope : and drew it out. It was unaddressed, 
 but he opened it. His sister wrote to him 
 on paper of this depressing shade. Some 
 one had made her a present of a box of 
 "fancy stationery ": and Emily >s limited 
 correspondence took a long while to get 
 through it. Inside was a half sheet. 
 
 "Dear Dave, I heard you with her 
 ladyship, up at her bedroom window 
 
 277
 
 278 Bedesman 4 
 
 sweeping. Dear Dave, don't say a word 
 for them to know downstairs. If you 
 wants me, come in the little wood out of 
 the white garden wicket quarter to six, 
 and I '11 be there. Your loving Emily. ' ' 
 
 David turned the missive over in his 
 hands. His first impulse was to rebellion. 
 Since Gwen, stepping quietly, after that 
 encounter of eyes, down from the window- 
 step, had passed round the corner of the 
 house, and he had followed her, the world 
 was new-made. He was in no mood to put 
 up with any nonsense of the servants ' hall. 
 But he saw that Emily must know best 
 where her own shoe pinched. Her brother 
 must consent for once to slink out of the 
 house to meet her, as if they had some- 
 thing to be ashamed of. When the hour 
 came, he saw a white sailor hat among the 
 trees, as he approached. 
 
 "Come along this ways," she said,
 
 Epilogue 279 
 
 eagerly, "there won't nobody see us. Oh, 
 Dave, why ever did 'ee go telling up to 
 her ladyship like that?" 
 
 He only smiled. To make her under- 
 stand why appeared to him an irrelevance. 
 "Never mind, Sis. That's all right. 
 I 've news to tell you, if you can't guess 
 it." 
 
 "To be sure I can," she answered, her 
 cheek flushing hotly; "whatever do her 
 ladyship say?" 
 
 "Her ladyship, kind woman well, Miss 
 Brydon has taken charge of her. It *s you 
 I 'm concerned with now, child. Explain 
 to me where downstairs comes in." 
 
 "Dave, if they was to know! I 'd run 
 right away home. I 'ouldn't have the 
 face to stop. I sha* give warning to-night, 
 now as you Ve told me. I sha' say as 
 Mother wants me home. Her ladyship 
 '11 let me go." 
 
 He pulled up in the midst of the path.
 
 280 Bedesman 4 
 
 "I don't know that I can have that," he 
 said, slowly. 
 
 "Thee can't help it," said Emily stub- 
 bornly. "I tell 'ee there 's things as you 
 can't put up with, nor I won't." 
 
 (If a thing could be stupid, it was a man. 
 Did he think his sister was going to sit and 
 listen to that Glover's observations about 
 him?) "Thee got to prevent 'em know- 
 ing," she repeated. 
 
 David had met that "dunt" look in those 
 eyes, when they went together to school. 
 Counsels of perfection, too, are not to be 
 forced. 
 
 1 l You must have it your own way, I sup- 
 pose, Sis. I 'm sorry you '11 be out of a 
 good place." 
 
 "Bless 'ee, I can see to myself," said 
 Emily, coolly. She looked into the re- 
 cesses of the wood and smiled. "I mid be 
 off to Canada for what I knows," she ob- 
 served, looking at him obliquely. "No,
 
 Epilogue 281 
 
 thee have n't heard nothing about that, nor 
 more haven't Mother. She been ill, and 
 I did n't mean leavin' of her. But I had a 
 letter from him this morning.'' She felt 
 in her pocket. "I must ha' lef it in the 
 drawer. ' ' 
 
 1 ' Who is he, then?" 
 
 " Second gardener up to Darner's; John 
 Byman, you can mind of 'n. ' ' 
 
 "Certainly. And does John Ryman 
 want my sister?" Something silent and 
 elemental stirred in David as he spoke. 
 
 She nodded. "Mother she don't think 
 bad of 'n. Nor Dad. But now he 's got 
 that far, as he means going out there in a 
 year or that, and will I come too?" She 
 paused. 
 
 "Will you?" her brother said gently, 
 fresh from his own romance. 
 
 "I don't hold with them chauffeurs," 
 said Emily, with seeming irrelevance, 
 "else I might have had Captain Symes's.
 
 282 Bedesman 4 
 
 Gives theirselves airs they does, wi' their 
 caps, never was ! Nor yet I don't wi' but- 
 tlers. Look at that Glover! They don't 
 know what 's in that pantry cupboard! 
 And as for coachmen! bless 'ee! well!" 
 
 Her lifted chin spoke Portia's resolve, 
 to "do anything ere she would be married 
 to a sponge." 
 
 "Be there any honest men left, Hal?" 
 David wondered. 
 
 "And second gardeners, eh?" he said 
 and smiled. Emily pursed her mouth. 
 
 "Do 'ee think Mother 'd have let him 
 over door-stone, if he hadn't been pledge? 
 They say as he '11 do well out there, when 
 he 's got his chance. I don't know all of 
 it" 
 
 They went on together silently under 
 the arching trees, till he found her looking 
 aslant at him, and met her eyes. There 
 was a dumbness in them as of old, and the 
 old appeal, of common blood, of home.
 
 Epilogue 283 
 
 But there was something else, that was 
 new and a question. 
 
 1 'You 're fond of him, Sis," said David. 
 
 "Yes," she answered slowly, "I been 
 fond on him this two years." Silence 
 again. Then, suddenly, a quick little sob. 
 
 "But I be awful fond o' thee." 
 
 She had her arms about his neck. He 
 drew her to him, and they stood together 
 mutely, like lovers. 
 
 "I 'm rich," said David Bold, with a 
 catch in his voice. 
 
 The wooden-legged man glanced at the 
 carriage at the head of the lane. Two 
 young figures were turning in at his own 
 gate. One, tall and gracious, wore a 
 dainty white gown and a plumed hat. He 
 pulled up crossing the field. The thing 
 flabbergasted you a bit. Surveying his 
 right palm, he rubbed . it vehemently on 
 his white trouser-leg, having first well
 
 284 Bedesman 4 
 
 licked it. Poor William Bold! His wild- 
 est dreams had not pictured a woman like 
 that. 
 
 His Esther sat darning in a low chair 
 outside the cottage door. She looked up 
 calmly as the gate fell to. 
 
 1 'Mother," her son said, "I Ve brought 
 my Gwen." 
 
 The maiden in white slipped quietly on 
 to her knees, to be on a level. 
 
 "Please kiss me," her deep tones said, 
 simply. 
 
 The two women looked into each other's 
 eyes. Their lips met. 
 
 THE END
 
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