Individualist 
 
 Philip Gibbs
 
 ,
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST
 
 THE 
 
 INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 PHILIP GIBBS 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD, 
 THE RECKLESS LADY, 
 HEIRS APPARENT, ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GROSSET & DUNLAP 
 
 PUBLISHERS
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 is one of Philip Gibbs" early novels and 
 
 is printed by special arrangement with 
 
 GRANT RICHARDS, LTD., PUBLISHERS 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED IK THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 2135787 '
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A LETTER had been delivered to the mistress of Long 
 Stretton village school as she sat at her desk in the 
 classroom, where thirty-five boys and girls of varying 
 ages and sizes had been listening to the story of Robin 
 Hood and his merry men. The bearer of the note 
 was the page-boy from the Hall, rising four feet and 
 a half, in tight little livery with many gold buttons. 
 A thundering knock at the school door had announced 
 his coming and startled Alicia Frensham and her 
 children in the very midst of the delectable adventure 
 of the outlaw and Friar Tuck. Then with a solemnity 
 which did honour to his training, he advanced across 
 the school floor in a fire of eyes and delivered the note 
 to the woman who, in this very room, had spanked 
 him not longer than six months before. 
 
 "A note from the 'All, miss." 
 
 "My dear Tommy, why not say Hall? Have you 
 forgotten my lessons already?" 
 
 She reproved him with her eyes as she slipped her 
 paper knife through the envelope. As soon as she 
 began to read, however, Tommy took a deep breath, 
 
 after the conscientious fulfilment of his duty, and, turn- 
 
 7
 
 8 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 ing round, put his tongue out to his former school- 
 fellows. 
 
 The letter he had delivered contained the following 
 message: 
 
 "To Miss Alicia Frensham. 
 "My dear, 
 
 "My sister and I would be so much obliged if 
 you would call at the Hall after school hours. Mr. 
 Stretton has suddenly telegraphed to say he will be with 
 us this afternoon, and there is so much to do hurriedly 
 in which your nimble fingers and admirable taste would 
 be invaluable. Pray forgive my troubling you during 
 school time, and believe me, 
 
 "Yours sincerely, 
 
 "Cecily Wingfield. 
 
 "P.S. As Mr. Stretton is our nephew and heir, we 
 are naturally desirous to do him honour. 
 
 "PJSS. My sister begs me to say she hopes very 
 much you will come. 
 
 "Stretton Hall, Monday." 
 
 The mistress took a sheet of notepaper and wrote 
 her answer swiftly: 
 
 "My dear Miss Wingfield. 
 
 "I shall be delighted to come and help. 
 "Yours very sincerely, 
 
 "Alicia Frensham."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 9 
 
 She thought for a moment, with the end of her 
 penholder in her mouth. Then she added: 
 
 "P.S. / am sure you will rejoice to see your nephew 
 again after so many years." 
 
 Before the boy went with this note the mistress 
 took him by the arm, pulling him towards her and 
 rumpling his hair, in spite of his shout of protest and 
 his endeavours to twist from her strong white hand. 
 A shrill burst of laughter rattled the school windows, 
 renewed when, after a pat on his chubby cheek, the 
 boy wriggled himself free, and with all his dignity gone 
 made a dash for the door, and so escaped. 
 
 "Silence!" cried the schoolmistress, clapping her 
 hands. 
 
 For an hour more the class was continued, and after 
 the reading lesson the children copied out a passage of 
 prose. The mistress went down their ranks, bending 
 over the shoulder of one to correct a misspelt word, 
 guiding the pencil of another, letting her hand rest 
 lightly on the flaxen curls of a tiny girl. As she stood 
 like this, the sun streaming through the leaded window- 
 panes caught her hair, giving a reddish tint to what in 
 a dull light was dark brown, and deepened the colour 
 in her cheeks. She was a tall, thin girl, simply dressed 
 in black, rather flat-chested, and with noticeably 
 large hands, though white and well-modelled. Her 
 face was hardly beautiful. Many people fond of the 
 plump insipid prettiness of the picture postcard kind 
 would have called it plain. Yet with her brown
 
 10 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 serious eyes, her high cheek bones touched with car- 
 nation red, her long sensitive mouth and pointed chin, 
 and her brown hair coiled loosely above a low broad 
 brow, there was a wild-rose air about her that was 
 curiously haunting to some men, and to some women 
 too. 
 
 There was a virginity in her eyes, and a touch of 
 mysticism. Yet, when she laughed, which was often, 
 her merriment made her face seem very roguish, so 
 that those who had been scared by her saint-like look 
 were startled by a hint of devilry. 
 
 The words of a friend who knew her later hit off 
 the character in a curious way, suggestive, but not 
 altogether accurate. He was an artist, and the 
 phrase came naturally to his lips. 
 
 "Good Lord!" he said, with a little gasp. "There 
 is Rossetti's Beata Beatrix transformed into a wood- 
 nymph by Giorgione." 
 
 Then he said more deliberately, "There is passion 
 behind those brown eyes and I would not be the man 
 to run up against that pointed chin." 
 
 There was one expression, however, that quite 
 altered the face of Alicia Frensham, and yet was often 
 to be seen. It was when some child suddenly took 
 her hand and fondled it, or when she caught up some 
 little one who had fallen and cried to her for help. 
 Or, again, it might be seen for a moment when she 
 dismissed the school and stood at the gate with a brood 
 of youngsters about her skirts. It was an expression 
 of hungry love, the look one may see on the face of a
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 11 
 
 young wife expecting her firstborn, and filled with the 
 foreknowledge of maternity. 
 
 The mothers of Long Stretton said that Miss 
 Frensham was "fair daft on childer," and indeed it 
 was a kind of madness with her. People who had 
 only seen her demure, with a face like a saint in a 
 stained-glass window, were astonished if they suddenly 
 met her down a lane or on the moors racing a bevy 
 of her school children with flying skirts and her brown 
 hair unlooped upon her ears, and in her eyes the look 
 of an untamed creature. Some of the mothers were 
 almost jealous of her, for their babes would sometimes 
 cry to be taken to her, or when they left her. 
 
 She had pluck too. When she had first come to 
 the school three years before there was a spirit of 
 mutiny and disorder among half a dozen of the elder 
 boys, who had been the terror of the former mistress. 
 One of them, the son of the butcher, a strong lubberly 
 youth of twelve, had thrown a ruler at her head when 
 she had commandeered some sticky sweetstuff which 
 he had been handing round to his comrades. The 
 stick had cut her cheek open, but with the blood flow- 
 ing down her face she sprang at the young scoundrel 
 and dragging him from the bench gave him the smart- 
 est hiding he had had in his life. The fellow fought 
 with tooth and nail and kicked her with his hobnailed 
 boots, but at the end of five minutes he howled for 
 mercy. That evening Squire the butcher came round 
 to her schoolhouse with the boy, who was still aching 
 from her punishment (and with another from his father
 
 12 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 on the top of it) and thanked her warmly for having 
 dealt so admirably with "the young varmint." He also 
 sent round a shoulder of mutton and some pig's trot- 
 ters the next morning in token of his esteem. It was 
 a moral victory, and from that day there was no other 
 mutiny in the village school. 
 
 To-day, when the note had come down from 
 Stretton Hall, Alicia Frensham dismissed her class 
 punctually at twelve, and did not stand so long as 
 usual at the gate watching her children as they went 
 home to dinner, dancing and running with merry 
 squeals and shouts. She packed them off promptly, 
 and shutting the door after the last small boy, tidied 
 up her papers and cleaned the black-board with swift 
 deft hands. 
 
 Then she stood for a moment with her elbows on 
 the window sill, leaning her pointed chin on the palm 
 of her hand and looking down the village street with 
 its old grey stone houses towards a clump of trees 
 beyond, through which appeared the gables of Stretton 
 Hall. She was thinking of "Mr. Stretton," as his aunt 
 had called him in her prim, polite letter. She won- 
 dered whether he would be at all like her mental 
 picture of him, or would correspond to his aunt's en- 
 thusiastic descriptions of his virtues. Stretton Wing- 
 field was a name often seen in the papers during recent 
 days. His adventures as an explorer in Central Africa 
 had been chronicled at length and made him a popular 
 hero for a week or two. Then his two novels, The 
 Under Secretary and A Social Atom, had attracted the
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 13 
 
 attention of the reviewers by their peculiar mixture of 
 cynicism and sentiment, by their clever satire upon 
 modern politics and society, and by their bold attack 
 upon English conventions. Alicia Frensham had read 
 the review of the last book in the Daily Telegraph, 
 which had devoted a column of adverse criticism to it. 
 "Mr. Wingfield is trading upon the reputation of his 
 father as the wit of the House of Commons and the 
 licensed jester of society, to make cheap epigrams about 
 venerable institutions and to slander the profession of 
 politics of which his father was a distinguished orna- 
 ment. We advise him in all friendliness to remember 
 his youthfulness and to cultivate more reverence," etc. 
 
 She remembered some such phrases as these about 
 a book which she had read with intense interest and 
 with a constant feeling of astonishment that it was 
 written by the nephew of the two spinster ladies at 
 Stretton Hall. 
 
 Their very name was associated in her mind with a 
 beautiful old-fashioned morality, with "early Vic- 
 torian" views of life, with sweet and fragrant charity. 
 But the book appealed to her own secret spirit of 
 rebellion against orthodoxy, class distinction, and social 
 conventions. It was the work of a revolutionary, of 
 a wandering social atom who had come into touch with 
 the highest and lowest phases of humanity, and who 
 recognised under the veneer of cilivisation the primi- 
 tive conditions and passions of the savage people among 
 whom the writer had lived for a time in Central Africa. 
 In her innocence of the world she could not test the
 
 14 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 truthfulness of the author's satire of civilisation, but 
 she knew enough of her own heart to be touched and 
 even to be excited by his revelation and tacit approval 
 of the poetry of passion which, in the author's words, 
 * 'proved the divine relationship between heroes, saints, 
 and brutes." 
 
 When Alicia Frensham passed through the iron gates 
 of Stretton Hall, and looked up at the grey old building 
 with its pointed gables, its mullioned windows, its 
 leaden water pipes decorated with the Wingfield crest 
 and the date 1541, its oak doors, worm-eaten and worn 
 by centuries of weather, its smooth green lawns, and 
 the spreading cedar trees beneath which Charles II. 
 had once kissed the hand of Cecily Wingfield when 
 he left a three days' hiding place, she thought again 
 how strange it was that Stretton Wingfield, the heir 
 to this house and to all its ancient and honoured 
 traditions, should have written a book so socialistic 
 
 in its philosophy and so revolutionary in spirit. 
 
 ***** 
 
 "My dear," said Miss Cecily Wingfield, who was 
 waiting for her at the hall door, "we are so excited!" 
 
 "You must be," said Alicia, taking the little lady's 
 thin hand and touching it with her lips. 
 
 "You see it is a great event. Mr. Stretton has not 
 been here since he was sixteen years old that was 
 when he broke one of the windows with a tennis ball. 
 I have told you about it, my dear. It was the one 
 that had Sir Charles Wingfield's name on it, scratched 
 with a diamond, and the date 1642 with the legend
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 15 
 
 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.' I cried when 
 it was broken it was as if a piece had been chipped 
 out of my heart, and I remember Stretton laughed and 
 said, 'Old things must give way to new, and a tennis 
 ball is more harmless than a cannon ball.' I remem- 
 ber, too, poor Agnes would not allow him any pudding 
 that day, and he was so angry he took the afternoon 
 train to his father's house in town, saying that old 
 maids and young boys did not harmonise." 
 
 The lady smiled at the recollection, though her grey 
 eyes twinkled a little with moisture at the memory of 
 the tears she had shed over the precious piece of glass. 
 
 "Mr. Stretton is a man now, and I hope we shall 
 harmonise a little better. Of course, as our heir we 
 are anxious to do everything to please him. I hope 
 he will not be too dull. Poor Agnes is dreadfully afraid 
 he will be bored." 
 
 It was a characteristic of the two ladies that they 
 always spoke of each other as "poor Agnes" and "poor 
 Cecily." It was perhaps an unconscious admission of 
 disappointment and pathos of two lives which had 
 always been rather lonely and filled with unsatisfied 
 hopes. 
 
 "I trust he will not think the place dilapidated," 
 continued Miss Cecily anxiously, still holding Alicia's 
 hand and giving it now and again an affectionate little 
 squeeze. "We are so anxious not to destroy any of 
 the characteristics of the old house and garden, that 
 perhaps we have not been sufficiently attentive to 
 modern improvements. What do you think, Alicia?"
 
 16 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "I should hate anything modern inside these gates," 
 said the school-mistress with a sincerity that was very 
 pleasing to Miss Cecily, "and nothing could improve 
 a place so perfectly beautiful." 
 
 "Ah!" said the old lady with another gentle squeeze 
 at Alicia's hand. "But some people reproach us for 
 letting it go 'to rack and ruin,' as they say, little know- 
 ing how cruelly the words hurt us. Only yesterday 
 Mrs. Bellamy said she could not think why we did not 
 have a new doorstep to replace this hollowed-out old 
 stone. 'It is almost a danger, my dear,' she said." 
 
 "And what did you say to such an abominable idea? J> 
 said Alicia. 
 
 Miss Cecily's voice shook a little with stress of 
 emotion, and her gesture was dramatic. 
 
 " 'I would rather die,' I said, 'than move the stone 
 which has been worn by the footsteps of my fore- 
 fathers, and which has been the threshold of our home, 
 for five centuries.' - Perhaps I spoke a little too 
 sharply." 
 
 "I should have been brutal with such a woman," 
 said Alicia. "It is astonishing to see how some people 
 go through life without seeing any of its beauty and 
 poetry. It is as if they had been 'born blind.' ' 
 
 "Well, you at any rate were born kind and good," 
 said Miss Cecily. "Come in, my dear, and help us 
 with those willing hands of yours strong and philan- 
 thropic hands I always say to poor Agnes." 
 
 Alicia was not astonished at the confusion and 
 bewilderment which reigned inside the Hall. She
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 17 
 
 knew how trivial an event would disturb the harmony 
 of a household composed mostly of old people, whose 
 lives had been spent away from the turmoil of the 
 modern world in this haunt of ancient peace. To-day 
 the telegram from Stretton Wingfield, which lay care- 
 fully smoothed out on the polished oak table in the 
 hall, was a message intensely exciting, not only to the 
 two maiden ladies, but to the butler who had served 
 them since their childhood, to the housekeeper who 
 tyrannised over them in all matters of cleaning, 
 cooking, and household management, to the gardener 
 who was also coachman, and to the boarhound whose 
 devotion to the two ladies was only equalled by the 
 love they lavished on his massive and venerable head. 
 Alicia sat down on one of the oak settles and laughed 
 softly at the scene of flurry that was taking place in 
 the Hall. Miss Agnes, with a patch of flour on her 
 nose, was down on her knees before a trunk full of 
 ancient tapestries from which she was selecting 
 hangings for her nephew's bedroom, utterly perplexed 
 as to whether the Tudor set with the hunting scene, 
 or the Stuart set depicting the progress of Cupid 
 through "the fayre Realme of Love," would be most 
 suitable for a bachelor's room. In after years, when- 
 ever Alicia smelt the fragrance of lavender and cam- 
 phor, there would come to her mind the picture of the 
 frail little lady with yellow-grey hair, in her black silk 
 dress* and old lace fichu, on her knees before the oak 
 chest with the faded embroideries around her on the 
 floor. And at this memory Alicia's eyes would be moist,
 
 18 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 and a hundred other memories of the peaceful old home 
 with its two gracious women would come flooding back 
 to her. 
 
 To-day "poor" Miss Agnes was almost distracted 
 with her anxieties to have everything in order for the 
 sudden visit of her nephew. Blinkworthy, the butler, 
 had lost his nerve completely, and what was more 
 disastrous, the old man had also lost in his flurry the 
 key of the wine vault from which he wished to get a 
 bottle of the port laid down on Stretton Wingfield ? s 
 first birthday. He had made several journeys to the 
 cellar to gaze fondly at the dust-buried bottles, but 
 after his last visit he had carried away the key and put 
 it down in some "safe place," the whereabouts of which 
 baffled his failing memory. Miss Agnes heard the news 
 with a little shriek of dismay, and Blinkworthy stood 
 with his hands pressed to his bald head striving, so it 
 seemed, to squeeze out the secret of the fatal hiding 
 place. Mrs. Hibbert, the housekeeper, had also come 
 to Miss Agnes with a tale of woe, and with her hands 
 on her waist wheezed out a prolix description of the 
 dirt she had found lurking in unsuspected places. 
 "Which, my dearie," she said, "is coals of fire upon the 
 head of that hussy Betty, who should be fair ashamed 
 of herself, and like enough to send Master Stretton 
 back to town with a stomach-ache." 
 
 To add to the dramatic effect of this domestic scene, 
 Lion, the boarhound, disconcerted by this unaccus- 
 tomed clatter of tongues, roamed about the rooms in
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 19 
 
 a dismal way, raising his great head at regular inter- 
 vals to bark with a deep and mournful note. 
 
 ''My dear," said Miss Cecily presently, when after 
 Alicia's advice the Stuart tapestries had been settled 
 upon for Stretton Wingfield's room, "my dear, what- 
 ever is that flour on your nose?" 
 
 Miss Agnes's transparent skin flushed with a beau- 
 tiful pink, and she hurriedly rubbed the wrong side of 
 her nose. 
 
 "It was a little sentimental idea of mine," she con- 
 fessed. "I have been making the same pudding which 
 I refused poor Stretton when he broke the window. 
 I I thought I would make amends for that past sever- 
 ity. Hibbert wanted to keep me out of the kitchen, 
 but I insisted. It was a foolish whim, but it pleased 
 me." 
 
 Thereupon she laughed in a sweet silvery voice that 
 always seemed to Alicia like the high notes of the 
 rosewood spinet in the drawing-room. Miss Agnes and 
 Alicia joined in her mirth, but in the heart of each of 
 them, that simple little thought of making the pudding 
 which Stretton had liked as a boy touched some chord 
 of sentiment that brought a little moisture to their 
 eyes, though they knew not why. 
 
 Alicia was appointed to the task of plucking flowers 
 from the garden and arranging them in the hall and 
 drawing-room. It was a task of some delicacy, for she 
 was accompanied by old Birch the gardener, to whom 
 the flowers were as well-beloved children. Anxious 
 as he was to please "the young master," as he called
 
 20 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Stretton Wingfield, he could not refrain from groaning 
 dismally when Alicia's scissors went swiftly to work 
 among the blooms which he had tended and watered 
 and watched since their birth. 
 
 " 'Tis allays the same," he said, shaking his white 
 old head. "Wimmen will allays throw their jewels 
 afore swine." 
 
 "Swine!" cried Alicia, pointing her scissors above the 
 head of a big tea-rose. "Is that what you call Mr. 
 Stretton?" 
 
 "The Lord forbid," said the old man hastily. "Mas- 
 ter Stretton do be one of his family a real Wingfield, 
 God be praised. But he don't take much account for 
 flowers, judging as how he trampled on the beds when 
 he was here a boy, just ten years since. I could have 
 broken his young bones, I could!" 
 
 "Boys will be boys, you know, Birch," said Alicia, 
 having no mercy on the tea-rose, though the old man 
 touched her arm with a trembling hand and with an 
 involuntary gesture of restraint. 
 
 "They be mainly young devils," he growled. "My 
 word, miss," he added, peering with gloomy eyes into 
 Alicia's apron one of Miss Cecily's "you've been 
 an' plucked all my beauties the very best, an' no 
 mistake." 
 
 Alicia laughed gaily, and infected by the excitement 
 which had taken possession of the whole household 
 bounded into the hall with her apron full of blossoms 
 which she emptied, a heap of fragrant colour, upon 
 the round table.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 21 
 
 "How wonderful! How beautiful!" she cried, and 
 put her face into the very midst of the fresh flowers 
 whose fragrance filled the whole hall. Then, as she 
 raised her head, the bloom upon her own cheeks seem- 
 ing to have caught the tint of the deep red roses and 
 dark carnations, she heard a startled cry from Miss 
 Cecily, and her face being toward the open doorway, 
 she saw framed in the porch the figure of a man. It 
 was Stretton Wingfield, who had come in the morning 
 instead of the afternoon, thereby disconcerting his 
 maiden aunts to a degree of which he could have had 
 no conception.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "MAY I come in?" said Stretton Wingfield, standing 
 on the threshold, smiling with quiet amusement upon 
 the two ladies as he glanced from one to another with 
 quick eyes. Alicia remembered afterwards, though she 
 was not really conscious of it at the time, that his eyes 
 had looked longest upon herself. 
 
 It was Miss Agnes who first recovered from her 
 surprise. She went forward a little nervously and took 
 her nephew's hands in her own, drawing him indoors. 
 
 "Stretton! my dear Stretton!" Then looking up at 
 him she laughed in her quiet, gentle way, and said 
 simply, "What a fine big fellow you have grown!" 
 
 Stretton Wingfield echoed her laugh, quite boyishly, 
 and leaning down kissed the little lady on her forehead. 
 
 "Why, Aunt Agnes," he said, "you're looking 
 younger than ever, by Jove you are!" 
 
 He turned to Miss Cecily and gave her his kiss also, 
 laughing again, with a whimsical look in his grey eyes, 
 when he saw how she blushed as if she were still a 
 young girl. 
 
 "My dear Stretton," said Miss Agnes, "why did you 
 not let us know your train? We should have sent the 
 trap to meet you. And we are so disordered. Pray 
 
 forgive the confusion. We were so anxious to have 
 
 22
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 23 
 
 everything just as it should be for your welcome. If 
 we had only known the time of your arrival!" 
 
 Both ladies broke into anxious little apologies, but 
 he interrupted them with affectionate bluntness. 
 
 "Don't you bother about that, Aunt Agnes. I'm 
 as happy as a cricket to see the old place again. It's 
 like putting the clock back. What, Lion! are you 
 still alive, you old ruffian!" He bent down and 
 fondled the dog's head, but as he did so his eyes rested 
 again on Alicia, who was busy with the flowers. 
 
 Miss Cecily saw his glance, and taking Alicia's hand 
 drew her forward. 
 
 "Alicia, my dear, this is our nephew," she said, 
 with a quaint touch of old-fashioned formality. 
 "And this, Stretton, is our dear young friend, Miss 
 Frensham. She is the mistress of our little school, 
 and a most successful educationist." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Stretton, with just a slightly quiz- 
 zical elevation of his eyebrows. "That sounds almost 
 alarming!" 
 
 The words might have seemed impolite, but for 
 the frank smile with which he met Alicia's eyes. And, 
 again, she might have resented the length of time 
 for which he held her hand, as he made an evident study 
 of her face. But although outwardly self-possessed, 
 Alicia was really excited at this meeting with a man 
 whose book had lain by her bedside for many nights, 
 and whose opinions had recently, to some extent, 
 shaped her character. So that she hardly noticed either 
 his words or his manner.
 
 24 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 They were left alone together in the drawing-room 
 for an hour, while the aunts hurriedly completed 
 their domestic arrangements, and Stretton Wingfield's 
 cool, quiet behaviour and his seeming absence of all 
 self-consciousness, or at least of "shyness," to use 
 a simple word, soon put Alicia at her ease. She found 
 herself talking to him in her usual frank, outspoken 
 way. 
 
 "How extraordinarily like you are to that portrait 
 of Sir Rupert over there." 
 
 Stretton Wingfield strolled over to the picture of a 
 young man in a cavalier costume. 
 
 "By Jove, yesl I recognise myself. Heredity's an 
 extraordinary thing. The Wingfield eyes and full 
 under-lip come out even in my delicate little aunts. 
 Look at that Puritan lady. That is Aunt Agnes three 
 centuries ago. I am rather interested in heredity. I 
 once lived with a tribe in Africa of whom the chief, 
 who was still living with his sixty wives, had something 
 like eight hundred descendants children and grand- 
 children, and great-grandchildren. It was amazing how 
 the old man had impressed his ugly face upon a whole 
 race as it were." 
 
 "Is that really true?" said Alicia. 
 
 "Oh, absolutely. But I hope Rupert has not be- 
 queathed me his character as well as his face. He 
 was a weak sort of sensualist, I believe, and a rank 
 egoist, to judge from his diary." 
 
 Alicia looked at him gravely. 
 
 "I should not think you were weak," she said.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 25 
 
 Stretton Wingfield threw her a quick glance, and 
 then laughed with a passing sign of self -consciousness. 
 
 "My worthy uncle, the War Minister, thinks I am 
 as unstable as water. That is because I have preferred 
 a wandering life to the conventional career of a party 
 politician, at the heel of the Whip." 
 
 "I read something like that in your last book," said 
 Alicia. 
 
 "Have you read it?" 
 
 He looked at her curiously, as if surprised that she 
 should have read a novel which was not exactly written 
 for young unmarried women. 
 
 "What do you think of it?" 
 
 "It was very frank and sincere. I admired it im- 
 mensely." 
 
 He coloured and laughed with evident pleasure. 
 
 "I am glad you think so. It is frank certainly. I 
 don't know about its being sincere. I am afraid we 
 are none of us sincere nowadays, except by accident, 
 and then we are devilish ashamed of ourselves and 
 make haste to take to cover." 
 
 "I am sure you do yourself an injustice," said Alicia 
 quickly. "I should hate to think such things could 
 be written without sincerity. It would be almost 
 wicked." 
 
 Stretton Wingfield was startled. This girl did not 
 talk like ordinary women, for he had been so long 
 accustomed to shallow and flippant chit-chat which 
 passes for conversation in modern drawing-rooms that 
 Alicia's candour and truthfulness of expression checked
 
 26 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 the levity with which he usually treated women of 
 his own class and race, and reminded him by some 
 strange psychological freak of conversations he had had 
 in uncivilised places with naked black men and women. 
 
 He stammered for a moment before he could adjust 
 his mind to this sudden challenge to his real self, 
 before, as it were, he could yet get outside his ordinary 
 pose. 
 
 "There is a good deal of the true Ego in that last 
 book of mine, though I believe I exaggerated certain 
 views which I had but felt rather than reasoned out. 
 Coming straight from the Zambesi I was rather like 
 Richard Burton in my desire to shock the orthodox 
 and outrage the conventional. I " 
 
 He pulled himself up and began to question Alicia 
 in a polite, interested way about her own work. She 
 talked of her love for children, and he agreed with 
 her, speaking with a certain tenderness. 
 
 "I always feel a little ashamed, and very old, when 
 I play with little children. One regrets one's loss of 
 innocence, and realises how poor a thing is knowledge." 
 
 "I feel like that too," said Alicia. 
 
 "Ah, no," he answered quickly, smiling at her. 
 "You have not lost the spirit of childhood. I can see 
 that in your eyes." 
 
 She lowered her eyes before him, and a sudden sense 
 of alarm at the intimacy of his conversation made her 
 silent. 
 
 Later, when in Miss Cecily's bedroom she was asked 
 what she thought of "Mr. Stretton," she hardly knew
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 27 
 
 what to say, though as a rule her frankness of speech 
 and quickness of decision never left her with any hesi- 
 tation in answering a question. 
 
 "I should say he thinks a good deal, and observes 
 everything," she said after a pause. 
 
 "Yes," said Miss Cecily in an anxious voice. "I 
 do trust his quick eyes will not notice the hole in the 
 hall carpet by the fireplace." 
 
 Miss Cecily was still excited by the visit of her 
 nephew, and after some trivial talk about his good 
 looks, her disappointment that the trap was not waiting 
 at the station for him, and other such things, she took 
 Alicia's hand and cried a little. 
 
 "My dear," she said, "I felt myself blushing when 
 he kissed me. It was so ridiculous, and foolish! But 
 sometimes I forget how old I am. Our life has been 
 so quiet here, and I often do not realise my sixty years. 
 At times I even find myself dreaming the same old 
 dreams of my girlhood of the lover who would one 
 day take me in his arms and kiss me, as I have never 
 been kissed. And at night I wake up now and then 
 with a vision of a little baby at my breast. . . . Oh, 
 and then I weep for hours when I know that I shall 
 never have the child I used to pray for." 
 
 Alicia returned the pressure of Miss Cecily's hand, 
 and her own eyes were filled with moisture. 
 
 "This is an old woman's confession, my dear. I say 
 it to you, though I could never say it even to poor 
 Agnes." 
 
 Miss Cecily could not have told why she was
 
 28 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 prompted to speak of this sacred little secret of hers to 
 Alicia. But between the old maid and the young there 
 was the communion of a great hunger for motherhood 
 and for man's love. 
 
 Alicia Frensham did not stay to lunch, though she 
 was pressed to do so by the two ladies. As she walked 
 home to the school-house on the edge of the Green, 
 her thoughts were busy with the remembrance of her 
 conversation with Stretton Wingfield. One of his 
 sentences had strangely moved her, and it came back 
 to her again and again, though in a timid way she 
 shrank from its dangerous sweetness. 
 
 "A man of unsettled principles needs the influence 
 of a sincere woman to teach him the way of his true 
 nature." It had sounded almost like an appeal.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE two ladies at Stretton Hall were very happy in 
 the possession of their nephew. There was a sort of 
 rivalry between them for the enjoyment of his company, 
 and if Miss Agnes were busy in the bedroom Miss 
 Cecily would, for example, slip into the library with 
 a glass of cherry brandy and some biscuits for Stret- 
 ton's lunch; or if Miss Cecily had to go into the village, 
 Miss Agnes would seize the opportunity to take Stretton 
 into the garden to see the herbary, which was her 
 especial pride. They lavished a hundred such little 
 attentions upon him during the day, hardly leaving 
 him alone for ten minutes at a time. Miss Agnes was 
 anxious about his health, for he had sneezed three 
 times after his morning bath, and she insisted that he 
 should put on an undervest which she had knitted for 
 the winter club. Miss Cecily, on the other hand, was 
 more anxious about his state of mind. She had a 
 curious dread lest he should be bored, or ennuyi as 
 she called it with a pretty French accent, and she 
 endeavoured to interest him by sending for the newest 
 novels from the village library none of which he 
 would have read if alone on a desert island and by 
 asking him all sorts of quaint little questions about his 
 opinions on foreign politics, on the education contro- 
 
 29
 
 30 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 versy, the condition of British trade, and other subjects 
 which she believed he was in the habit of discussing. 
 Stretton, who had a sense of humour, was immensely 
 entertained by these efforts to keep him interested, 
 but firmly refused to talk upon any abstract problems 
 with his aunt. But he accepted the affectionate little 
 demonstrations of both the ladies with a good-nature 
 that was very gratifying to himself and put a severe 
 check upon a tongue accustomed to flippancy. He 
 did not resist even when at every opportunity one of 
 his aunts would take hold of his hand and lead him 
 about the house and garden, just as they used to do 
 when he was a small boy in petticoats. It entertained 
 him for at least three days to hear the little confessions 
 which each of them made in turn in private. Miss 
 Agnes, for instance, confided to him that she had lately 
 become very High Church in her views owing to the 
 influence of the new Vicar, Mr. Cartwright, who had 
 strong opinions about Anglican Orders, and the Apos- 
 tolic Succession. 
 
 "I trust you will not think I am departing from the 
 traditions of our family, my dear Stretton," she said 
 timidly, laying her hand upon his arm. "Since the 
 Reformation, of course, we have been staunch Prot- 
 estants, but on the other hand, as Mr. Cartwright 
 observes, we were all Catholics once." 
 
 "Cartwright is evidently a very intelligent man," 
 said Stretton, with a quizzical smile that was lost on 
 Miss Agnes. "Pray believe, my dear Aunt, that I have
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 31 
 
 no personal objections to the High Church theory. 
 There is a good deal of beauty in it." 
 
 "I have asked Mr. Cartwright to dinner to-morrow," 
 said Miss Agnes. "Perhaps, after your wine, you will 
 discuss the subject with him. He is so eloquent and 
 learned that I am sure you will find some compensation 
 for our poor conversational powers." 
 
 One of Miss Cecily's confidences was upon the same 
 topic. She confessed to Stretton that she had almost 
 quarrelled with "poor Agnes" over her new ritualistic 
 practices. 
 
 "I cannot forget that our ancestor, Cuthbert Wing- 
 field, was beheaded on Tower Hill by Bloody Mary." 
 
 "But that was not for his faith," said Stretton. "The 
 fellow was a political firebrand. Personally, however, 
 Aunt Cecily, I admire your Puritanism as much as I 
 sympathise with Aunt Agnes's leanings towards mys- 
 ticism and symbolism. I have a touch of both things 
 in my own character." 
 
 "You are so broad-minded, dear Stretton we 
 women are always partisans." 
 
 "That is the strength of womanhood," said Stretton, 
 remembering a sentence in his first novel. "Women's 
 convictions come from their hearts and have the blind 
 inconsistency of a natural law. Men who are ruled 
 more by intellect attain the impartiality and suffer 
 from the weakness which always belongs to unpreju- 
 diced minds." 
 
 "You are so wise, dear Stretton," said Miss Cecily,
 
 32 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 who had hardly grasped the meaning of that ponderous 
 sentence. 
 
 Stretton laughed. 
 
 "There is no wisdom in that, dear Aunt, it's only 
 an old platitude in new words a gift which makes 
 the success of a novelist." 
 
 At dinner that evening the two ladies left Stretton 
 alone with his wine the port which Blinkworthy had 
 eventually brought up as a sacred thing from the cellar, 
 having found the key at the bottom of the hall clock, 
 which he had wound up the previous day. It was an 
 excellent wine, and Stretton suddenly found that he 
 was drinking more of it than was quite discreet with 
 his position as a guest at his aunts' house. But it 
 warmed his imagination, and leaning back in his chair 
 as he smoked a cigar he looked round the old dining- 
 room with a feeling of peace and pleasant sentiment. 
 It was strange and yet home-like to be here again, 
 surrounded by portraits of men and women from whose 
 bodies he had got something of his own blood, to be 
 under the same oak beams, to sit at the same oak table, 
 whose dark polished wood had reflected their figures 
 when they had been in the flesh centuries ago. They 
 had been a brave old English family, never rising very 
 high in wealth or rank, never the favourites or the foes 
 of kings, and therefore never falling low after a rebel- 
 lion, or at the end of a dynasty, but limiting their 
 ambitions to retaining the plot of land which had been 
 given to them in Norman days, and the safeguarding 
 of the family fortunes in a quiet way. Yet the younger
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 33 
 
 sons had taken their parts pluckily enough in national 
 strife and achievements, and some of them were remem- 
 bered in history. 
 
 Stretton stared across the table at the portrait of 
 Rupert Wingfield, his aunt's Cavalier ancestor, whom 
 Alicia Frensham had pointed out as so like himself. 
 As a boy he had read the old diary in manuscript which 
 Rupert had kept for two years. The aunts had been 
 horrified when they found Stretton deep in it one day, 
 for intermingled with a romantic narrative in which 
 the young Royalist had recorded his early exploits in 
 the Civil Wars, with an evident suggestion of his own 
 heroism, there were passages of extraordinary coarse- 
 ness and sensuality. Sipping his wine, Stretton pon- 
 dered over the memory of these family papers, and 
 it struck him with a sudden sense of uneasiness that 
 his own character had certain points of resem- 
 blance with the Rupert Wingfield whose face was also 
 strangely like his own. The man had come to a bad 
 end, for after fighting on the King's side during the 
 rebellion he had betrayed a small company of Royalist 
 horse into the hands of the Parliamentarians, thereby 
 saving the family estate from confiscation. Then two 
 years later he had blown out his brains, either remorse- 
 ful at his treachery or in the delirium of drink to which 
 he had abandoned himself. It was the blackest tale 
 in the history of Stretton Hall, never alluded to by the 
 aunts, with whom the pride of race was a religion. 
 
 Stretton pushed the wine away from him with a 
 queer look in his eyes. He knew that there was a
 
 34 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 strain of weakness in his blood that tempted him some- 
 times into a self-indulgence shocking to his egotism 
 which in tropical Africa, and once in an island of the 
 Pacific, had betrayed him to deeds he now thrust back 
 into the dark cupboards of his memory. He had ambi- 
 tions, and he knew he had the gifts by which ambition 
 might be fulfilled imagination, audacity, oratory. He 
 had come down to Stretton Hall as a quiet retreat in 
 which he might build up the plan of his future life, 
 and think out the moves in a political game, requiring 
 all his imagination and all his audacity, and now for 
 some reason the old Hall had excited his brain with 
 ugly thoughts, and the picture of Rupert Wingfield, 
 smiling down on him with a handsome sensual face, 
 had stirred him strangely. 
 
 He took hold of a heavy brass candlestick from the 
 polished table where its candle made a pool of light, 
 and held it up with an unsteady hand to a mirror, 
 peering at the reflection of his white face, which was 
 like the ghost of the Royalist in Lely's portrait on 
 the wall. 
 
 "Good Lord!" he said aloud. "Shall I fail because 
 of my blood?" 
 
 He stood looking at himself for a minute or two and 
 then returned to the table with a more composed 
 expression. 
 
 "I want a woman to keep me straight," he muttered 
 as he put back the candle, and after drinking off 
 another glass of wine left the dining-room to rejoin 
 his aunts.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 STRETTON found that Alicia Frensham was with the 
 two ladies, Miss Cecily having sent a note round to the 
 school-house asking her to spend the evening with 
 them. She was dressed in white, and as Stretton went 
 into the room she was bending over some music on 
 the piano with the soft light of the candles on her face. 
 Stretton, with his imagination slightly excited by wine, 
 was startled by the Burne- Jones-like beauty of her tall, 
 thin figure and serious face. He went forward eagerly 
 and took her hand, thanking her for coming as if he 
 had known her longer than one yesterday ago. Had 
 she not been rather unaccustomed to men of his class 
 she might have been embarrassed by this warm greet- 
 ing, but she accepted it as friendship shown to her for 
 his aunts' sake and smiled back her thanks with frank 
 pleasure. 
 
 In a little while the two elderly ladies were singing 
 a duet to the sweet and fragrant melody of Home's, 
 with the words of "I know a bank where the wild 
 thyme blows." At Stretton's request Miss Agnes 
 played the accompaniment on the rosewood spinet 
 instead of on the modern grand piano, and he smiled 
 to Alicia as the two silvery voices joined in the simple 
 harmony above the tinkling notes of an instrument 
 
 35
 
 36 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 which had been played upon by many Wingfield women 
 whose fingers had long lain still. 
 
 "How quaint it sounds!" said Stretton in a quiet 
 voice to Alicia, who was sitting near him on a bear- 
 skin rug with her head against the body of the piano. 
 (Stretton learnt afterwards that it was a characteristic 
 of hers to sit on low stools or on the floor.) "It makes 
 me think of old ghosts." 
 
 Alicia pointed to a little oval picture of a lady in 
 Georgian dress sitting at the same spinet which the 
 two ladies were now playing. 
 
 "That is one of the ghosts," she said in a low tone. 
 "She always reminds me of Miss Cecily with her blue 
 eyes and fair complexion. And the poise of the head 
 is the very same like a flower on its stalk." 
 
 The song ended with a ripple of laughter from both 
 the ladies as they had laughed with shy pleasure at 
 their own success when they had first sung it forty-five 
 years ago. 
 
 These few songs included in their "repertoire," as 
 they called it a selection of old melodies which they 
 had "practised" every Wednesday evening for many 
 years were very dear to them, and Miss Cecily used 
 to wonder wistfully whether they would sometimes be 
 permitted to sing "I know a bank" in heaven. 
 
 "Do you sing?" said Stretton to Alicia. 
 
 "Only in silence," said the schoolmistress. 
 
 "How's that?" 
 
 "I have no voice, but I would give almost anything 
 to sing well. It is a passionate regret of mine. Some-
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 37 
 
 times I dream of singing gloriously before a great 
 audience, enchanting both myself and the people with 
 wonderful sound. Even to dream of it is rather 
 comforting." 
 
 Stretton responded to her quiet laughter. 
 
 "I once enchanted a whole tribe of people," he said. 
 "It was when I was at M'bopo on the Zambesi, where 
 I was the only white man among ten thousand blacks. 
 I was on a mission to the chief to get a trade concession 
 from the old rascal, who was more inclined to give 
 me over to his medicine man for a private Ju-ju. The 
 night I arrived at the village they had a sing-song after 
 the palaver, and my head fairly ached with the ugly 
 discords. I had a touch of fever on me and was a bit 
 mad, I think. Anyhow, the idea suddenly came to me 
 to teach the black beggars what real music was like, 
 and then hardly knowing what I was about I stood up 
 and began to sing 'La Marseillaise' for all I was worth. 
 I have a pretty powerful baritone, and in the clear, 
 hot African night it must have carried for a mile or 
 two. It was an extraordinary scene. I was standing 
 next to the chief and his best wives, and before me 
 were crowds of niggers all squatted on their hams star- 
 ing at me with their great glistening eyes. The moon 
 was up and not a breath of wind stirred. Beyond, a 
 forest of rubber trees made a great black belt around 
 us. The intense silence was almost appalling, and the 
 damp heat seemed to clutch at one's throat. But I 
 don't think I ever sang so well. I was excited, and 
 cold thrills ran up and down my spine, but I gave out
 
 38 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 the 'Marseillaise' with as much passion, I should say, 
 as when Rouget de Lisle first sang it in '93. The effect 
 was prodigious. At first the black fellows did not 
 move, and I could hear the breath of a thousand throats 
 panting hard like the sound of sleeping animals. Then 
 when I burst out with 'Aux armes, citoyens!' they 
 stirred uneasily with a kind of fear, and at last when 
 I finished the song, feeling faint with the effort and 
 excitement, they sprang up like demons and waved 
 their spears and shouted themselves hoarse. I thought 
 at first they were going to murder me, but it was only 
 their way of showing enthusiasm. I had to sing again 
 and again, and I gave them all sorts of old ditties, such 
 as 'John Peel' and 'Annie Laurie.' It was not good 
 for a convalescent from blackwater fever, and when I 
 had finished the last verse of 'There is a tavern in the 
 town' I fell into a dead swoon. I was ill for a week 
 after, but the chief's wives nursed me as if I had been 
 the great Bongo himself, and afterwards I got the 
 trade concession all right from the old man I found 
 out I was called 'The Man-with-the-God-in-his-Throat,' 
 and I believe the memory of the 'Marseillaise' is still 
 a miracle in the minds of my M'bopo friends." 
 
 "My dear boy!" said Miss Agnes anxiously. "What 
 perils you have been through, and I don't suppose you 
 even thought of changing your clothes when they got 
 damp!" 
 
 Alicia had listened to the tale with sparkling eyes, 
 and it was to her that Stretton had told it.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 39 
 
 "How splendid!" she said. "Oh, how splendid! I 
 would die for the sake of an experience like that." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know about that," said Stretton, laugh- 
 ing. "Death is a fool's game in an African forest. I 
 came pretty near death several times, but I was jolly 
 glad to give it the go-by, I can tell you. It loses its 
 glamour when you see men dropping like flies round 
 you from every hideous disease you can think of. 
 Drink, of course, is the very devil in Africa. The 
 temptation in a hot stifling climate is terrific, and a 
 certain amount of alcohol is absolutely necessary, but 
 it is certain hell to go beyond the limit. Most white 
 men go beyond the limit." 
 
 The two ladies shuddered. They were a little 
 shocked by their nephew's forcible language. 
 
 "My dear Stretton," said Miss Cecily timidly, "need 
 you use quite such strong words?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Aunt," said Stretton, glancing 
 at Alicia, and glad to see that she did not appear to 
 have been scandalised by his language. "The mem- 
 ories of the old wandering life were too strong for 
 drawing-room descriptions." 
 
 "Tell us some more," said Alicia; "I cannot hear 
 enough about life in natural and uncivilised places. It 
 is so good to know more than the narrow little world 
 of society in an English village." 
 
 Stretton was flattered by her attentive interest, and 
 launched into other tales of his African experiences. 
 He had the gift of story-telling, and with his imagina- 
 tion excited by the audience of a woman whose per-
 
 40 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 sonality moved him strangely, and by the memories of 
 old perils and adventures, his words were vivid and 
 picturesque, and with real eloquence and impressive 
 word-painting he described his nights in African jun- 
 gles, when he had lain tormented by strange insects, 
 maddened by oppressive heat, panic-stricken by the 
 sounds of wild beasts, haunted by the dark fears of 
 nature and the supernatural, which attack even the 
 most civilised of men against the arguments of time, 
 reason, and common sense, when they have lived with 
 loneliness in great tropical swamps and forests, and 
 have heard tales of awful superstition from natives, 
 who with all their courage and physical strength cower 
 at night from ideas of the terrors that lie lurking in 
 the darkness. 
 
 To Alicia Frensham it seemed that the old homely 
 room in which she now sat had dissolved about her, 
 and that she was with Stretton Wingfield in darkest 
 Africa. As his glowing words flowed on it seemed to 
 her that she was really stifling from the moist heat of 
 the tropics, that she also was afraid of horrid spectres 
 conjured up in black men's brains, that the odours of 
 exotic flowers were intoxicating her senses, that the 
 mysterious sounds of an African forest were racking 
 her nerves, so that she was ready to start with fright 
 at the crackling of a twig. 
 
 Yet though her intellect was under the spell of his 
 words in a subconscious way, she realised the egotism 
 of the man, and something that was weaker than 
 egotism mere vanity. For he was always the hero
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 41 
 
 of his tales: it was his strength, his endurance, his 
 sufferings, his audacity, which he recounted with a 
 striking sense of drama. But though she was not 
 altogether unconscious of this, her own sincerity and 
 natural truthfulness helping her to gauge character 
 very rapidly and acutely, she was not at all repelled, 
 but rather fascinated, by this strong personal touch in 
 Stretton's narrative. It was this which most interested 
 her. She had read many travel books, and knew as 
 much as she wanted to about the climate, the fauna 
 and flora, and other educational facts connected with 
 Central Africa; but the effect of those things upon the 
 imagination and character of the man before her, his 
 psychological experiences, his mastery over black 
 minds, his moral attitude towards the problems of life 
 outside the boundaries of modern civilisation, were 
 enthralling to her. She watched him curiously as he 
 was speaking, noticing the gestures of his thin brown 
 hands, the glint of his grey eyes, the determined ex- 
 pression of the mouth, with its Wingfield lower lip, a 
 little weak and sensuous. Never before in her life 
 had she been so attracted to a man, so full of admira- 
 tion for a man's vivid intellect and physical charm. 
 
 He was now telling a story of a chance encounter 
 with a lioness in a jungle of Uganda. 
 
 "I was never so surprised in my life as when I 
 suddenly found myself looking straight into the eyes 
 of the great cat. I was so surprised that for the 
 moment I felt no fear, and I burst into a laugh just 
 as a well-dressed man might laugh if he came full tilt
 
 42 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 upon a chimney-sweep round a sharp corner. I almost 
 believe the brute had a sense of humour. At any 
 rate she drew back her upper lip and showed her teeth 
 in a ghastly grin. That put a sudden check upon my 
 mirth, and I felt, I think I was, absolutely paralysed. 
 Then I did a fatal thing, a shameful thing for a man 
 who called himself a sportsman. I turned and bolted! 
 You see I had no weapon with me, and it is not a nice 
 thing to wait until a lioness condescends to make a 
 dinner of one. I could not have gone more than a 
 yard. I suddenly felt as though a cannon ball had 
 hit me in the back, and then I found myself face down- 
 wards on the ground with five great claws dug into 
 the flesh of my right arm like red-hot irons." 
 
 Miss Agnes interrupted the tale by a little cry. 
 
 "Oh, Stretton! How terrible! Why did you go to 
 such dangerous places?" 
 
 Miss Cecily had grasped Alicia's arm, clutching it 
 in her excitement with almost painful pressure. 
 
 Stretton laughed lightly, pleased with the impression 
 he had produced. 
 
 "I won't harrow your feelings too much," he said. 
 "I was rescued by the appalling yells of my black 
 boy, which so startled the lioness that she suddenly 
 leapt off my back and bounded away into the under- 
 growth." 
 
 "Thank God! Thank God!" said Miss Agnes fer- 
 vently, as if she had not felt quite sure whether Stretton 
 had not been actually eaten up on that occasion. 
 
 Her nephew took off his jacket and turned up the
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 43 
 
 sleeve of his shirt, showing his white arm to the shoul- 
 der blade. 
 
 "Look!" he said, pointing to the marks of the great 
 claws, which were clearly visible. Poor Miss Cecily 
 was rather shocked at this sudden exposure of a man's 
 form, and blushed vividly, though she peered at his 
 arm with an heroic effort to hide her embarrassment. 
 But Alicia, with grave eyes, put her fingers on the 
 man's firm muscles, touching the scars. 
 
 "How terribly it must have hurt you!" 
 
 "Not so much as you might think at the time," said 
 Stretton, "but afterwards I was delirious with the pain 
 and had my seventh attack of fever. It was after 
 that I came home to recruit, and to clothe myself again 
 in civilisation." 
 
 "And I sincerely trust, dear Stretton," said Miss 
 Agnes almost severely, "that you will never go back 
 to such a horrible country." 
 
 "No, I don't think I shall, Aunt. One can have 
 enough of Africa and fever. I suppose I shall settle 
 down and go in for the game of politics like my worthy 
 uncle. But after all I should think a lion is a harmless 
 brute compared to an angry M.P." 
 
 "Oh, I am sure you would do well to go into the 
 House," said Miss Agnes eagerly. "With your gift of 
 language you would be a brilliant success. Don't you 
 think so, Alicia?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," said Alicia earnestly. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I should do pretty well in the 
 Talking Shop," said Stretton.
 
 44 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 So the evening came to an end, an evening which 
 Alicia remembered in after years as the beginning of 
 a new life. She rose to go, and Stretton said he would 
 take her home. 
 
 "That is good of you. But I am not afraid of 
 ghosts, and there are no evil beings of a human kind 
 in Long Stretton." 
 
 "I should like a stroll before bed," said Stretton. 
 "It is one of my inflexible principles." 
 
 On the garden steps Alicia stayed for a moment 
 with the two ladies. 
 
 "I have a piece of news," she said. "David Heath 
 comes down from Oxford to-morrow with all his 
 honours on his brow." 
 
 The ladies ejaculated surprise and pleasure. 
 
 "How pleased you will be to see him again!" said 
 Miss Agnes. "He owes such a lot to you." 
 
 "I shall always think of him as one of my boys," 
 said Alicia, laughing, "though he is such a giant now!" 
 
 She sped down the steps to Stretton, and they went 
 down the dark drive, looking back for a moment at 
 the two figures in the open doorway, through which 
 streamed a flood of yellow light. 
 
 "How well the old place looks at night," said 
 Stretton, "especially when the moon sits on its fantastic 
 old chimney pots, and when there is a light behind the 
 oriel window." 
 
 "I love it," said Alicia. "It brings out all my sense 
 of romance." 
 
 They walked down the village street, which was
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 45 
 
 solitary and silent. The little stone houses gleamed 
 white in the moonlight, and their tiny window-panes 
 glinted with gold on one side of the street, while on 
 the other there were deep shadows under the gables. 
 
 "The place can hardly have changed since Rupert's 
 cavaliers clattered down here at midnight two and a 
 half centuries ago," said Stretton. 
 
 "It is wonderful to think, too," said Alicia, "that 
 these are the very houses in which the plague broke 
 out, that in these very rooms whole families died within 
 a week or two." 
 
 "It's a gruesome memory," said Stretton. "I 
 wouldn't live in one of those cottages for anything in 
 the world. I am sure I should die of the plague through 
 sheer force of imagination." 
 
 They walked silently for a minute or two, then 
 Stretton said 
 
 "What do you think of my aunts?" 
 
 Alicia was amused by the abrupt question. 
 
 "I think more than I can say. They are the very 
 sweetest women in the world." 
 
 "I can't imagine how such an old-fashioned couple 
 could exist in this modern world. They are absolutely 
 early Victorian, and they seem exactly alike to me, 
 except that Aunt Agnes is 'High Church' and Aunt 
 Cecily 'Low Church.' Even that is only a sort of 
 make-believe. They both look out upon the world 
 with the same eyes." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Alicia quickly, "there are great dif- 
 ferences of character between them. Miss Agnes has
 
 46 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 fixed principles of the most unalterable character, and 
 believes in all the old English traditions of religious 
 and moral and social conduct. Miss Cecily, on the 
 other hand, is more imaginative and humanitarian. 
 She has a secret sympathy with heretics and sinners 
 and revolutionaries, though she is not self-conscious 
 of this." 
 
 She was thinking of how a girl in the village had 
 "gone wrong," as it is called, and how, Miss Agnes 
 having excommunicated her from all social intercourse, 
 Miss Cecily had often visited the poor girl and supplied 
 her with clothing for the baby, and all sorts of little 
 luxuries. It had been a great secret between Alicia and 
 her, and Miss Agnes had no inkling of a charity which 
 would have seemed to her a scandal. After a moment's 
 hesitation she told Stretton the story quite frankly, 
 but under a pledge of secrecy. 
 
 Stretton whistled. 
 
 "Well, that is a revelation," he said, laughing. 
 "Bravo, Aunt Cecily!" 
 
 They had now arrived at the school-house, an ivy- 
 covered cottage at the end of the village. Alicia stood 
 inside the gate and held out her hand to Stretton. 
 
 "I enjoyed your conversation this evening," she said 
 quietly. 
 
 Stretton took the girl's hand and held it in his for 
 quite a few moments. 
 
 When he spoke there was a curious little thrill in 
 his voice, but his words were an apology.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 47 
 
 "It was I who did all the talking. It is so rare to 
 find a willing victim to one's egotism." 
 
 Then he turned abruptly as if to go, but stopped to 
 ask a sudden question. 
 
 "By the by, who was that man you mentioned to 
 my aunts David Heath?" 
 
 Alicia hesitated for just a second. 
 
 "I used to teach him Latin and things before he 
 went to Oxford. He has pulled off an excellent degree, 
 though his father is the blacksmith here." 
 
 "Is he a great friend of yours?" said Stretton. 
 
 "Yes, the best I have." 
 
 Stretton laughed. 
 
 "Do not let him have the monopoly of friendship 
 . . . well, good-night 1" 
 
 He strode back again up the high street, his footsteps 
 resounding with a quick, measured tread upon the 
 pavement. Alicia watched him until he disappeared 
 into the dark shadows, and as she turned and unlocked 
 her little door a sudden flush of colour mounted to her 
 face.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 STRETTON WINGFIELD was passing next day down 
 a narrow wynd called Plague Lane, leading to the 
 open fields, where he intended to go for a slogging 
 walk, when his attention was attracted to the rhythmic 
 beating of an anvil. It came from a wooden shed stand- 
 ing back between two old cottages, and the litter of 
 cart-wheels, iron hoops, agricultural machinery, and 
 scrap iron in the front yard showed that here was the 
 village blacksmith. Stretton stopped and wondered 
 why he was interested curiously in the fact that it was 
 the blacksmith shop. Then he remembered that 
 Alicia's "best friend," David Heath, the man who had 
 just come down from Oxford, was the blacksmith's 
 son. Stretton hesitated, then picking his way over the 
 rubbish heaps, he stood at the open doorway of the 
 shed looking into its half-darkness. The forge was at 
 the far end, and a glow of red light, fanned into sud- 
 den spurts of flame as the bellows puffed in and out, 
 revealed the figure of a man who was hammering at 
 the anvil. He was tall and quite young, with a power- 
 ful, clear-cut, clean-shaven face, and a square, heavy 
 jaw. A mass of short, dark, and crisp curls covered 
 a head of unusual size, and were thrust back from a 
 broad forehead. The man had taken off his coat and 
 
 48
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 49 
 
 waistcoat, and had slipped the braces from his shoul- 
 ders, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt so as 
 to show his giant biceps, which rose and fell as he 
 swung the hammer above his head and brought it down 
 with swift and steady beats upon a glowing piece of 
 iron which hissed out a legion of dancing sparks. With 
 the darkness behind him and around him, and a scarlet 
 glare upon his face and leather apron, he seemed a. 
 giant in stature a youthful Thor forging his thunder- 
 bolt. Stretton gazed at him with a sense of admiration 
 which he could never withhold from the sight of muscu- 
 lar strength, listening with fascination to the clanging 
 melody of hammer and anvil, and watching the flight 
 of the savage fire and rising sparks which had always 
 bewitched him as a boy. He could now see who was 
 blowing the bellows a square-built man with grizzled 
 hair and a rugged face that was a rough-hewn counter- 
 part of the younger man's. Stretton remembered 
 having seen him before ten years ago. It was Jona- 
 than Heath, who used to shoe the grey horse which 
 Stretton had ridden in his boyhood when staying with 
 the aunts. Then Stretton, letting his eyes wander from 
 the two men, saw that there was another figure in the 
 shed. It was Alicia, sitting on the corner of a car- 
 penter's bench where the shadows were darkest. She 
 was in her black school dress, but now and then the 
 glare from the fire caught her profile and the loop of 
 her hair with a ruddy light. As Stretton became aware 
 of her he had a twinge of stupid jealousy at this David 
 Heath, Oxford man and blacksmith, whom she had
 
 50 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 called her "best friend." That scallawag in the flannel 
 shirt and with the wild, unkempt hair! A fellow who 
 had been born in a pigsty and brought up like other 
 village louts! What on earth had such a fellow to do 
 with Oxford? Democracy was a noble and righteous 
 thing, but gentlemen should surely have some privi- 
 lege of their own. Stretton checked his thoughts with 
 a jerk, remembering that he was a "democrat" himself 
 and a candidate on the people's side in the General 
 Election next month. 
 
 David Heath dropped the hammer and laughed as 
 he wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of 
 his hand. 
 
 "I feel better after that," he said, filling his chest 
 with a great breath. "By Jove! it's better exercise 
 than rowing." 
 
 "My word, laddie," chuckled Jonathan Heath, 
 "you've not let your muscles go slack." 
 
 Then Stretton heard Alicia's voice from the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 "I love to see you swinging the hammer, David. 
 It's like old times." 
 
 "Ah, Miss Frensham, it's good to be home again, 
 in spite of old Oxford." 
 
 There was a thrill in the man's voice which Stretton 
 understood. He knew that vibrating note of emotion, 
 having heard it in his own voice when speaking to 
 some women in the yesterdays of his life. 
 
 "No admittance except on business, I presume?" 
 
 He stepped inside the shed, taking his hat off. There
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 51 
 
 was a moment's silence, David Heath and his father 
 staring at him with frank surprise, not recognising in 
 this well-dressed stranger the boy they had known as 
 "the young master at the Hall" ten years ago. Then 
 Alicia came forward with a little cry of pleasure. 
 
 "You here, Mr. Wingfield! How nice of you to 
 come." 
 
 She turned to the younger man with a note of excite- 
 ment in her voice. 
 
 "David, don't you remember Mr. Wingfield? You 
 must have known each other when you were both boys 
 here." 
 
 Stretton was startled for a moment at the way in 
 which the girl assumed a perfect equality between 
 the blacksmith's son and himself, the heir to Stretton 
 Hall. But he held out his hand with a good-natured 
 grace, and found it in a powerful grasp. 
 
 "Why, to be sure, it's Stretton Wingfield!" David 
 Heath spoke with cordial gaiety, as one friend to 
 another. Then with sudden self -consciousness he 
 stepped back and said with a shade of deference, "I 
 am glad to see you again, sir." 
 
 "I hear you are down from Oxford, David. You've 
 been doing great things, too, I'm told. What college?" 
 
 "New," said David. 
 
 "Mine was Balliol." 
 
 The two men eyed each other, and in a subtle in- 
 stinctive way they both felt that there was a spirit of 
 antagonism between them, though it was not apparent 
 to the onlookers.
 
 52 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "A funny old place, Oxford," said Stretton, sitting 
 down on a great cart-wheel leaning against the side of 
 the shed. "It seems a lifetime since I came down." 
 
 "How long is it?" asked David Heath. 
 
 "It's ten years as a matter of fact, but I've seen a 
 good deal since then, which makes me feel pretty 
 ancient." 
 
 "You've been a great traveller," said David. 
 
 There was a moment's silence, and then Stretton 
 began to talk in his vivid way, monopolising the con- 
 versation. 
 
 "Oxford is such a young place, the home of eternal 
 childhood. Even the bald-headed old Dons are quite 
 children, and the undergraduates are babies posing as 
 men. They are posing all the time, and each one knows 
 in his heart that he is posing, and that the others know 
 it too. The awful cynicism that is talked in college 
 rooms by youths who are really red-blooded optimists ! 
 The morbid ideas that are solemnly put forth by 
 healthy young animals who don't care a damn saving 
 Miss Frensham's presence for anything but boating, 
 footer, and flirtation! The great impossible ideas that 
 are inspired by whisky and Craven Mixture! The 
 fearful egotism, the wonderful conceit of these blue- 
 eyed boys who think they know life backwards because 
 they have read the satires of Juvenal and the odes of 
 Horace! Oh, it is beautiful! I look back on those 
 days as Methuselah must have looked back on his 
 childhood." 
 
 "Is it quite so bad as that?" said Alicia saucily
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 53 
 
 from her dark corner. "I have always looked upon 
 Oxford as the training school of politicians and Empire- 
 builders, and of the men who do things in the world." 
 
 "So it is," said Stretton, "it's the nursery for the 
 Empire, right enough. But that is because men who 
 have money and influential relations and the things 
 that count for success in life pass through the 'Varsity 
 as a natural, necessary thing, just as they pass through 
 measles and whooping cough and the incidents of child- 
 hood. It is not Oxford or Cambridge that makes them 
 Empire-builders or bishops. It is the prerogative of 
 caste, and the law of opportunity plus a reasonable 
 share of brains." 
 
 "Ah, there's a deal of snobbishness in the world!" 
 said Jonathan Heath, with a sudden blast of his bel- 
 lows which set the fire glowing again. 
 
 "Then you don't believe in a University education?" 
 said Alicia to Stretton. 
 
 "Oh, yes. I'm not running down Oxford," said 
 Stretton, laughing a little. "For one thing it teaches 
 a fellow good manners. Not always though. Some 
 of the biggest cads I ever met were 'Varsity men. Still, 
 generally speaking, it turns out a good type of English- 
 man clean, physically fit, self-reliant, reserved, com- 
 mon-sense men, insular in their ideas, and with a mass 
 of old traditions and vague illogical prejudices, but 
 very well-meaning, and fairly efficient for all the ordi- 
 nary business of life. Snobs, every one of them, of 
 course, as Mr. Heath observed just now." 
 
 "Well, there is one that is not a snob," said Alicia,
 
 54 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 gaily putting her hand on the younger Heath's arm 
 with a gesture of affection that did not pass unnoticed 
 by Stretton Wingfield. 
 
 "Now, David, stand up for Oxford like a man. You 
 have not said a word for its honour." 
 
 David was sitting on the edge of the anvil swinging 
 the hammer between his legs. His eyes had been on 
 the ground while Stretton was speaking, and his broad 
 forehead was knitted in a very characteristic way of 
 his when he was thinking and listening. At Alicia's 
 words he looked up and smiled, flushing slightly. 
 
 "I am not much hand at talking except when I am 
 up for the job." 
 
 "I am glad you added that saving clause," said 
 Alicia. "You were Goliath at the Union though you 
 are called David and banged your opponents with 
 mighty arguments. Don't think we haven't heard of 
 your exploits!" 
 
 Stretton Wingfield could see in Alicia's eyes the 
 almost motherly pride she had in the son of the forge. 
 
 David answered her with a flash from his dark eyes 
 in which the glow of the blacksmith's fire seemed to 
 be reflected. Then with a certain ruggedness and 
 rusticity of speech that had not been quite conquered 
 by Oxford culture, he told something of his experiences 
 of 'Varsity life. He had some of the picturesqueness 
 of Stretton's phrases, but he went more to the heart 
 of things. Stretton could guess more than the words 
 revealed. It was evident rather from what he left 
 unsaid than from what he actually observed that he
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 55 
 
 had had a difficult time, that he had been an outsider, 
 left very much alone in his rooms, and looked upon 
 by the other men in his college as a "half-baked" 
 fellow, a scallawag whose object at the University was 
 to cram hard and strenuously. Probably, however, his 
 reticence, his good-nature, above all, no doubt, his 
 immense physical strength, had gradually won him the 
 respect of men who would have resented the "push" 
 of the ordinary Board School cockney, but were sur- 
 prised into admiration by this young Goth with country 
 speech and manners. It was evident that there was 
 none of the ordinary priggishness of the self-educated 
 scholar in the blacksmith's son. There was a certain 
 grandeur about his simplicity which seemed to have 
 saved him from the petty jealousies, the rankling re- 
 sentment of better-dressed, better-mannered men, from 
 envy and imitation, and crude snobbishness, which 
 make the ordinary democrat so objectionable and so 
 self -tormenting among men of higher social caste. 
 
 "I went to Oxford to work. Of course, that put me 
 at a disadvantage. Most men go there to play. I 
 don't blame them. From the first I was impressed 
 with the social instincts of the men around me. That 
 taught me more than my books. After all, you know, 
 I could have studied those almost as well in the shed 
 to the tune of father's anvil." 
 
 "Ah!" said Stretton, as David came to a full stop 
 with a laugh. "It must have been a revelation to you 
 the enormous importance in life of friendship and 
 sport and manners. When those same men who shirked
 
 56 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 study so light-heartedly take their place in the army 
 or the diplomatic service, or in the Church, their 
 humanity will pull them through without the slightest 
 need of book-learning. They are men; and after all 
 the qualities of manhood, as they are reckoned at 
 Oxford, count for more in the leadership of nations 
 than classical knowledge or advanced mathematics. 
 Don't you agree?" 
 
 David nodded. "I'm not disagreeing." 
 
 "What do you think is the most valuable thing you 
 have learnt at Oxford?" said Stretton. 
 
 David balanced his great hammer in his hand and 
 knotted his brows. He was silent for a minute, then 
 spoke with a certain intensity. 
 
 "I reckon the best thing I learned was to understand 
 the instincts of you English gentlemen." 
 
 "By Jove!" said Stretton, laughing. "That must 
 have cost you something." 
 
 David stared at the forge and was silent again. This 
 lapse into silence was a rather curious character- 
 istic of the man. "They have deep-rooted distrust 
 and hatred of the lower classes," he said, as if 
 arguing the subject out. "It is not because they 
 want to keep us down, or because in a selfish way 
 they want to enjoy all the good things of this life 
 at the expense of the democracy. Some of them do, 
 of course; but with most of them it is because instinc- 
 tively they don't argue about it they are afraid of 
 the stupidity, the greed, and the violence of the people. 
 Most of all because they dislike their manners. Vul-
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 57 
 
 garity of speech, of dress and behaviour, is more ter- 
 rible to them than the loss of some of their wealth. 
 To be put on the same level with men who drop their 
 h's, who are 'loud' in their way of talking and dressing, 
 and whose ideas about life are hard and crude and 
 ugly, is a vision they can't abide. Labour members in 
 Parliament and the leaders of the people in other fields 
 of life are hated not so much because of their princi- 
 ples, but because as a rule they are canting prigs and 
 social hunkses. The first thing we must do to bring 
 about socialism and equality is to mend our manners." 
 
 "By Gad!" said Stretton Wingfield, "I believe you're 
 right. You have got down to the heart of truth. I 
 suppose I am a gentleman by birth and all that, but I 
 am on the side of the people, because in foreign coun- 
 tries and elsewhere I have been able to brush on one 
 side the differences of an accent, and among naked 
 black people to see the real equality of men and women 
 below all caste and the cut of clothes. That is what 
 most of our insular gentry cannot do." 
 
 "Are you on the side of the people?" asked David. 
 
 Stretton hesitated. 
 
 "I will tell you a secret. I shall not be on the Con- 
 servative side in the General Election. I am putting 
 up for South Bermondsey." 
 
 Alicia uttered a little cry of delight. 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad!" she said. "I am so glad!" 
 
 There was an excited light in her eyes, and she came 
 across the shed to where Wingfield sat and took his 
 hand to congratulate him.
 
 58 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 It was one of those unconventional gestures of hers 
 which distinguished her from all other women Wing- 
 field had known. 
 
 "Do your aunts know?" she said, and then she 
 laughed, "Poor dear ladies, it is quite against the 
 family traditions! And your uncle who is in the 
 Cabinet?" 
 
 Stretton joined in her laughter. 
 
 "I'm afraid there will be a family feud," he said. 
 "Don't tell the aunts. It is still a secret." 
 
 "Oh, you may trust us," said Alicia, turning her 
 eyes to David and his father Jonathan. "But I am so 
 glad! I am a democrat to the very heart and bone 
 of me. David and I have talked it out a hundred 
 times." 
 
 Stretton smiled at her excitement. 
 
 "You are the sort of woman to lead a revolution," 
 he said. 
 
 After some lighter conversation, and some slow, 
 deliberate speeches from Jonathan Heath who 
 shrewdly enough, but without his son's facility of 
 speech, summed up the political situation and gave a 
 forecast of the coming election and the war between 
 the Socialists and Conservatives Stretton Wingfield 
 left the blacksmith's shed and went for his walk along 
 the village. He had intended to think out his future 
 actions in the political campaign, but his thoughts went 
 back again and again to the conversation in which he 
 had just taken part. Alicia had been silent most of 
 the time, but he had watched her as the firelight played
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 59 
 
 on her face, and he had noticed her quick changes of 
 expression, the glow of her eyes when David spoke, 
 the look of joy that had crept into them when Stretton 
 had announced his political purpose. She had been 
 silent, but in her silence there was a beauty and elo- 
 iquence which seemed to put a spell upon Stretton 
 Wingfield, stirring his blood in a way that only a few 
 women had ever done. It had a kind of fragrant 
 sympathy that stole into his senses. Though so 
 spiritual in expression there was a caressing touch in 
 the pressure of her hands and a sense of matronliness 
 about her, indescribable and almost unaccountable, con- 
 sidering how young she was, that appealed strongly to 
 the need that was in him to lean upon a woman, to 
 lean intellectually even more than physically upon a 
 woman's breast. This was not necessarily a sign of 
 weakness in him. Many of the strongest minds, 
 thought Stretton, who was always self-analysing, have 
 needed a woman of true instincts and warm sympathies 
 to give them refreshment and encouragement, and to 
 act as a stimulus as well as to exercise a restraint upon 
 their ambition. 
 
 The man halted at a gate, leaning with his arms 
 upon it, and gazing with brooding eyes across the 
 cornfields where the midday sun beat down with a white 
 heat upon the ripening wheat. The air was drowsy 
 with the hum of a myriad insects. From the village 
 came the distant shouts of children, and the clang of 
 the anvil resounded with a faint far-off harmony. But 
 apart from these undisturbing sounds of human work
 
 60 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 and life, and the humming orchestra of the insect 
 world, a great silence was upon the land, and Stretton 
 was alone with his soul. 
 
 "I must have Alicia," he muttered aloud. "She has 
 taken a hold of me." 
 
 Then he thought of David Heath, with his great 
 height, his heavy, rugged face, his dark smouldering 
 eyes, in which there was passion as well as strength. 
 What was the relationship between him and Alicia? 
 Supposing David Heath barred the path between 
 Stretton Wingfield and the woman he desired? 
 
 Wingfield in the clear sunlight, and in the haze of 
 heat that shimmered over the yellowing corn, had a 
 sudden vision of the blacksmith's son standing with 
 the great hammer above his head and with the left 
 arm, bear to the shoulder blade, thrust out in front 
 of Alicia. The picture was so vivid in Stretton's brain 
 that he went slightly pale beneath his tanned skin, 
 as if he were really in danger of being smashed to pulp. 
 Then as he realised the falsity of his own fancy he 
 gave an uneasy laugh, and turned away from the gate. 
 He lit a pipe and smoked it as he strolled along the 
 white road back to the village.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THAT night after dinner at Stretton Hall, Wingfield 
 learnt a good deal about the history of Alicia when he 
 sat over his wine with Mr. Cartwright, the Vicar. The 
 dinner itself had amused Stretton. The behaviour 
 of the two aunts was entertaining, for Miss Agnes 
 could not conceal her devotion to "that saint-like man," 
 as she had called him in private to her nephew, and 
 Miss Cecily, though she could never fail to be sweet 
 and charming, was just a little rebellious in spirit 
 against a man whose personality she admired, but 
 whose principles she abhorred. Miss Agnes evidently 
 thought that the Vicar's asceticism, though a holy 
 thing, was to be counteracted by heavy meals when he 
 allowed himself a social dinner. Shs insisted, in spite 
 of his polite protests, that he should have two serves 
 of roast beef, and would not take a refusal of the jam 
 omelette which she had prepared with her own hands. 
 Miss Cecily, on the other hand, had shown her dis- 
 approval of High Church doctrine by crumbling her 
 bread during the Latin grace with which the Vicar had 
 prefaced his meal. To Stretton, who never failed to be 
 interested by any new acquaintance who was not 
 utterly commonplace, the Vicar was a man worth 
 studying, and he kept a check upon his own tongue in 
 
 61
 
 62 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 order to listen attentively to the clergyman's conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Cuthbert Cartwright was a man of about forty, with 
 a thin refined face, powerful in its profile, and very 
 handsome but for its weak mouth. He had the rather 
 high-pitched clerical tones of speech, intoning his 
 words almost, with an exaggerated sense of the values 
 of small syllables. He was an Oxford man, of course, 
 and Balliol, too, so that Stretton could quickly find a 
 common ground of conversation, but his self-con- 
 sciousness was almost painful, and to Stretton, who 
 was in a cynical mood, it seemed that the man was 
 spoiled by the sense of his own saintliness. 
 
 From the conversation between Cartwright and his 
 aunt, it was evident to Stretton that the Vicar's ritu- 
 alistic ideals had made but little headway in Long 
 Stretton. He was lamenting that so few parishioners 
 attended the daily services which he held morning and 
 afternoon. He seemed surprised also that the villagers 
 were so churlish and unfriendly, and even at times- 
 he was bound to say so impolite; although he had 
 taken occasion to mention the matter in the village 
 school, and privately to the parents, the boys of the 
 place would seldom touch their caps to him. 
 
 This reproach against the manners of the village 
 hurt both the ladies, and even Miss Agnes felt it neces- 
 sary to defend her "dear people." 
 
 "I am sure they do not mean to be rude, my dear 
 Mr. Cartwright," she said, flushing a little, "but coun- 
 try people are always slow in making friends. Your
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 63 
 
 predecessor, poor old Mr. Martin, quite lived among 
 them all his life and they knew all his little ways. He 
 was a family friend of every one of them, and took as 
 much delight in a marriage or a birth as if it had all 
 been his doing. And the amount of sweetstuff he 
 used to buy was really extraordinary. He always had 
 lollipops in his pocket for any small children he might 
 encounter on his morning walks. I often used to tell 
 him it was quite demoralizing. But he was a dear old 
 gentleman, and every soul in the village loved him. I 
 shall never forget the grief of the people and our 
 grief when he died." 
 
 "He was a staunch Protestant, of course," said Miss 
 Cecily, with a little quiver of excitement at her own 
 audacity "an English clergyman of the good old- 
 fashioned school." 
 
 Cuthbert Cartwright flushed a little uneasily and 
 addressed his answer to Miss Agnes rather than to 
 Miss Cecily. 
 
 "Of course those of us who know the sacred meaning 
 of priesthood could not tolerate any such sense of 
 equality between the priest and his people." 
 
 Miss Agnes was silent, but Miss Cecily gave a sig- 
 nificant sniff to hint at her disagreement with this 
 axiom. 
 
 Stretton smoothed over the situation by launching 
 into a disquisition upon "the eternal priesthood," illus- 
 trated by anecdotes of African witch-doctors to prove 
 that even in savage countries the priest was a man 
 apart from his kind. Cartwright took his arguments
 
 64 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 to be in favour of his own claims, but Stretton, who 
 wished him to think so, was secretly amused at the 
 complacency with which the Anglican allowed his 
 office to be compared to the Ju-ju of tropical tribes. 
 
 Stretton's advocacy, however, obtained the clergy- 
 man's friendship, and when the two ladies had retired 
 he warmed a little, and became more human over his 
 wine. Stretton turned the conversation towards the 
 social side of the neighbourhood, and after listening to 
 some portrait-studies of retired colonels, country 
 clergymen, and other local gentry, he casually intro- 
 duced the name of Miss Frensham. 
 
 "It is not usual, is it," he said, "for the ordinary 
 village schoolmistress to* be as much a lady as Miss 
 Frensham seems? My aunts are great sticklers for 
 gentility, but they have admitted the girl to their 
 friendship." 
 
 "She is herself altogether unusual," said the Vicar, 
 after a momentary hesitation, not lost upon the ob- 
 servant Stretton. 
 
 "She comes of a strange stock, you know. Her 
 father was Francis Frensham, the Manchester pam- 
 phleteer. I don't suppose you remember his name, 
 but twenty years ago he wrote a remarkable series of 
 democratic tracts which attracted a good deal of atten- 
 tion in their time. He was an out-and-out freethinker, 
 or rather a fighting agnostic, and yet I believe much 
 beloved in Manchester for the strength and real nobil- 
 ity of his character. That is one of the problems of 
 life which to me are a mystery. I cannot understand
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 65 
 
 how a man steeped in pestilential heresies and most 
 dangerous theories can be in private life so praise- 
 worthy and Christ-like." 
 
 He paused, expecting Stretton to agree with him; 
 but Wingfield, who was himself an agnostic, avoided a 
 direct answer. 
 
 "How about Alicia?" he said. "It was a curious 
 atmosphere for a girl, certainly." 
 
 "Her mother died when she was a child, and Francis 
 Frensham devoted himself to her education. She was 
 almost suckled ou Socialism if you will permit the 
 phrase." 
 
 "Certainly," said Stretton. "It is expressive." 
 
 "And she was brought up in what to all Christian 
 people must seem a lax moral code. Among Fren- 
 sham's extraordinary and most damnable theories 
 pray pardon the adjective " 
 
 "Don't mention it," murmured Stretton. 
 
 " was a disbelief in the sacrament of marriage. 
 
 He was one of the foremost advocates of what we may 
 call perhaps experimental unions." 
 
 "It is a good term," said Stretton. "But does Alicia, 
 Miss Frensham, believe in these things? If so, how 
 on earth did my aunts tolerate her as mistress of the 
 village school?" 
 
 "That has always been a mystery to me, though 
 there is an explanation of a kind. When Frensham 
 died, leaving his daughter penniless at eighteen years 
 of age, she was adopted by an old school-fellow of your 
 aunts', who recommended her as a teacher when she
 
 66 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 had passed through the training-college at Manchester 
 and had qualified as a mistress. I understand your 
 aunts accepted her on that recommendation, knowing 
 nothing of her antecedents, and still being ignorant of 
 her peculiar views. Miss Frensham, with all her high 
 spirits, is very reticent about her private opinions; 
 and wisely so, no doubt. I am bound to say, how- 
 ever, that my conscience is not quite at rest on the 
 matter. Were it not that I believe Miss Frensham has 
 a sincere reverence for the Christian faith, and that I 
 know she teaches the children the Catechism with the 
 most scrupulous care and tenderness, I should have 
 been bound to tell your aunts what I know about her 
 early environment." 
 
 "I shouldn't say anything about it if I were you," 
 said Stretton, looking keenly at the Vicar, who was 
 in a state of some excitement. 
 
 "I am glad you agree with me," said Mr. Cartwright 
 nervously. "The fact is, Miss Frensham has a dis- 
 position which I may say as you have no doubt 
 observed is singularly sweet and attractive. I have 
 also hopes of winning her over to the blessed truths 
 of Christian Catholicism. I have had many conversa- 
 tions with her on the subject, and she is very sympa- 
 thetic, though still intellectually obstinate." 
 
 "I believe the man is in love with her," thought 
 Stretton. He smoked his cigar thoughtfully for a few 
 moments, and then put an abrupt question. 
 
 "How did young David Heath manage to go to 
 Oxford?"
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 67 
 
 The Vicar flushed hotly. 
 
 "Oh, it was one of old Martin's follies my Lutheran 
 predecessor, you know. He left the lad some money 
 to get him to the University. He had a strong belief 
 in young Heath's abilities. In that, of course, he was 
 justified, because he has taken a very good place, I 
 hear. But the foolishness the wickedness of it. A 
 blacksmith's son! It is preposterous!" 
 
 "And yet," said Stretton deliberately, "Christ was 
 a carpenter's son." 
 
 The Vicar could find no answer to these words. They 
 seemed to him singularly wanting in decency. 
 
 "Shall we rejoin the ladies?" he said coldly, after 
 a moment's uncomfortable silence, during which 
 stretton wished weakly that he had not given his 
 
 tongue the slip. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Stretton Wingfield walked home with Mr. Cart- 
 wright after some music in the drawing-room, and 
 parted with him at the Vicarage in a friendly manner, 
 though he was still a little formal and stiff. On the 
 way back he passed the school-house. It was a hot 
 night and a light was showing through the open win- 
 dow, showing that Alicia Frensham had not yet gone 
 to bed. Stretton stopped by the low garden wall and 
 looked into the room, seeing the girl quite clearly 
 bending over the table reading a book with her head 
 resting on the palm of her hand. 
 
 A sudden and irresistible desire seized him to talk 
 with her. The Vicar had bored him towards the end
 
 68 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 of the evening until he had openly yawned, and even 
 the aunts had tired him with their polite little plati- 
 tudes. There in the room was a woman whose words 
 were always sincere and thoughtful. He wanted to 
 see the steady look in the brown eyes that were now 
 turned down to the pages of the book. He felt in an 
 excited, nervous mood, irritable with himself and 
 others, and needed the sympathy and the sweetness of 
 such a woman as Alicia, who could understand him. 
 It was late, but the night was very warm and the moon 
 was high. How charming the little cottage looked 
 with the silver light gleaming on its grey stones and 
 filtering through the ivy leaves! How beautiful 
 yes, beautiful, really Alicia looked with the candle- 
 light gleaming on her hair, giving it a halo and mould- 
 ing the face in high light and shadows. With her head 
 bent down and her serious lips, she looked like a saint, 
 like some St. Cecilia in a coloured missal. 
 
 He called to her softly, so as not to frighten her. 
 
 "Miss Frensham! Are you there?" 
 
 She put up her head suddenly and listened with a 
 startled look. Then she came to the window and 
 looked out. 
 
 "Who is there?" 
 
 "It is I Stretton Wingfield." He laughed quietly. 
 "I have just been seeing the Vicar home. What a man! 
 ... I say, it's a lovely night, so warm, and light as day. 
 Do you ever go for a stroll at such an hour?" 
 
 "Sometimes," said Alicia. He could not see her
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 69 
 
 face now, as it was in front of the light and in the 
 shadow. 
 
 "Well, come out for a few minutes." 
 
 She hesitated, and then said quietly 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 She went away from the window, and after a minute 
 came out of her door with some white lace upon her 
 head. 
 
 "Won't your aunts expect you back?" she said, 
 coming towards the gate. 
 
 "No, they have gone to bed already, and I often 
 walk about before turning in." 
 
 She stood by his side and looked up the road, which 
 wound upwards to the Downs. 
 
 "Where shall we walk?" she said. 
 
 "Oh, let us get on to the hill where the moon shines," 
 said Stretton. "I love walking in the moonlight." 
 
 "All right," said Alicia. "They say there are fairies 
 at night who dance around the dew-ponds. Let us go 
 and see them." 
 
 She laughed softly, and Stretton echoed her laugh. 
 
 "Oh, I am sure we shall see fairies to-night," he said.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 STRETTON and Alicia often looked back in after days 
 to that night walk on the Downs. There are such 
 days and nights in the lives of most of us, which stand 
 apart from all other and commonplace hours; when 
 our souls or spirits, or what other word one may 
 choose, are not quite on the earth, but a little in the 
 clouds; when some prosaic and even ugly environment, 
 a London street, a small restaurant, a railway station, 
 is glorified and made romantic by some intense ex- 
 perience of joy or pain. . . . 
 
 The environment in which Alicia and Stretton 
 walked that night was neither prosaic nor ugly. The 
 road up which they went, rather silently and with only 
 light and casual words, was lined on either side by 
 young beech trees, through which the moonlight 
 streamed, making a pattern of Irish lacework upon 
 the white chalky road. From the fields beyond, on 
 either side, came rich country scents of ripening wheat 
 and haystacks, and the incense of poppies, in flower 
 and seed, and the smell of the brown earth. At a turn 
 of the road there was a stone farmhouse, with old 
 barns and sheds in which the shadows lurked; and 
 in the farmyard great yellow carts, with their poles rest- 
 ing on the ground, waited for the dawn and the coming 
 
 70
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 71 
 
 of the horses. Then higher up a cottage thatched down 
 to the windows stood by the roadside, a solitary thing, 
 far, as it seemed, from the village below. 
 
 Alicia spoke of it. 
 
 "Surely, if one didn't know the shepherd one would 
 think a witch lived there. Can't you see her coming 
 to the door with blinking eyes and hooked nose, and 
 the black cat arching its back beside her?" 
 
 "Yes," said Stretton. "I remember the cottage in 
 fairy-book pictures. It's in the story where the chil- 
 dren were put into the cage. The boy was too smart 
 for her wasn't he? and put a bone through the bars 
 when she wanted to feel how fat he was." 
 
 Towards the end of the road the trees suddenly 
 stopped on either side as if tired of climbing, and the 
 fields ended with them at the foot of the Downs which 
 ran up in undulating waves of close-cropped grass, 
 through which the one road wound to the summit a 
 piece of white tape on a green cloth. In one of the 
 hollows lay a flock of sheep huddled close together 
 a vague grey mass. Occasionally one of them bleated 
 faintly, but then there was silence again an intense 
 brooding silence over the sweeping stretches of pas- 
 tures which were flooded with the light of the moon, 
 except where there was darkness in the depths of the 
 grass valleys. A dew-pond one of those pools about 
 the origin of which there is always a certain mystery 
 among country people had attracted the night 
 mists, and above its still surface there were white, 
 shifting vapours.
 
 72 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Look!" said Stretton. "It does not need much 
 imagination to turn that mist into a dance of nixies 
 and pixies the spirits of the pool." 
 
 "There is a quaint old legend about that pond," 
 said Alicia. "They say it was once haunted by a 
 White Lady who used to meet wanderers on the Downs, 
 beguiling them towards the pool. She was very beauti- 
 ful, and men sometimes went mad at the sight of her. 
 By the side of the pool she would put her arms about 
 them, and whoever kissed her kissed death itself." 
 
 Stretton pointed to the pool. 
 
 "There she is!" he whispered. And truly it seemed 
 for a moment as if the mist circling above the water 
 had taken the shape of a human figure. 
 
 At his words Alicia put her hand on his arm as if 
 she were really frightened, as indeed for a moment 
 she was, having a vivid imagination, and to-night for 
 some reason, high-strung nerves. 
 
 Then they both laughed like children who have 
 scared each other by some goblin story. 
 
 "All old myths and legends have their origin in 
 these natural things," said Stretton. "In Africa I 
 heard many extraordinary tales of devils and spirits; 
 but, analysing them, I could see how they were alle- 
 gories, as it were, of the phenomena of nature as one 
 finds it in tropical countries, where some of its moods 
 are violent and terrible. In the great forests especially 
 there are all sorts of real and imaginary terrors, poison- 
 ous reptiles, and insects, strange and uncanny noises, 
 and a constant sense of unknown dread."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 73 
 
 A buck rabbit scuttled across the road before them, 
 bobbing away across the grass; close to them a cricket 
 chirruped with a tick-tick-tick sharp and distinct. 
 
 "Listen!" said Stretton. "That is the death- 
 watch of the summer. It is the first warning note 
 that autumn is not far off." 
 
 "Yes," said Alicia. "It is curious how in the very 
 harvest time one has a foreboding of the decay of 
 summer. One can smell it a faint, pungent smell 
 like smoke from greenwood fires. Do you notice it 
 now? I suppose it is from the first corruption of vege- 
 table matter." 
 
 "I remember a passage in one of Hawthorne's tales," 
 said Stretton, "which alluded to that feeling and fra- 
 grance of autumn. I quoted it in my first book, 'How 
 early,' he says, 'the prophecy of autumn comes! There 
 is no other feeling like what is caused by the faint, 
 doubtful, yet real perception if it be not rather a 
 foreboding of the year's decay, so obviously sweet 
 and sad in the same breath,' and then he goes on in 
 his poetical way: 'Did I say there was no feeling like 
 it? Ah, but there is a half -acknowledged melancholy 
 like to this when we stand in the perfected vigour of 
 our life and feel that Time has now given us all his 
 flowers, and that the next work of his never idle fingers 
 must be to steal them one by one away.' It is a charm- 
 ing passage, and awfully true!" 
 
 "How can you remember it word for word? That 
 is a thing I can never do," said Alicia wonderingly. 
 
 "I have a rather unusual memory having paid a
 
 74 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 good deal of attention to it, as a matter of fact. I be- 
 lieve a good memory is more useful in debates, and 
 often in writing, than creative power. At any rate, 
 it is the next best thing. But as for Hawthorne, I 
 must confess a volume of his tales was one of the few 
 books I had in Uganda, and I read it again and again. 
 I believe I know pages of it by heart." 
 
 They were now on the summit of the highest ridge 
 of the Downs, and the great stretch of country lay 
 open before them on either side. It was a wonderful 
 panorama, beautiful as a dream in the dew-cold moon- 
 light. Villages and hamlets could be seen for miles 
 away, marked by spots of white in the luminous shad- 
 owland. The woods that crowned the far hills and 
 lay along the village were ink-black, but a clump of 
 trees hiding Long Stretton village down below was 
 touched with light as if snow had fallen on the foliage. 
 Hardly a breath of wind stirred even on the heights, 
 and the pulsating air was warm upon their cheeks. 
 
 Alicia put her hand on Stretton's arm again and 
 gave a little gasp. 
 
 "Oh!" she said. "How magic! I have never seen 
 such beauty!" 
 
 "The world seems asleep," said Stretton, "and we 
 are the only ones awake." 
 
 "And yet in the little village there are men and 
 women lying awake with aching hearts, perhaps; I 
 never can forget the awfulness of life even when it 
 is most peaceful and beautiful." 
 
 She spoke seriously, with a thrill in her voice. To
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 75 
 
 some people the silent night acts as a stimulating in- 
 fluence to the most subtle senses, deadening, as it 
 were, the material side of nature and releasing the 
 spirit from its bondage of the flesh. Stretton stole a 
 glance at the woman by his side and saw how her face 
 was transfigured by a spiritual glamour. The white 
 lace had fallen from her hair, and as she stood in the 
 full light of the moon, her face rather pale, her eyes 
 lustrous, her nostrils quivering a little, Stretton was 
 for a moment almost afraid of her, she seemed so cold 
 and saint-like. 
 
 "You are the White Lady!" he said in a kind of 
 whisper. Then he said after a pause, with a touch 
 of excitement, though he tried to hide it with a laugh, 
 "I believe I should die if I kissed you ! " 
 
 Alicia turned to him, smiling, her face flushed 
 with a sudden colour. 
 
 "Are you afraid of me?" 
 
 She spoke lightly, but dropped her eyes before him. 
 
 "No," said Stretton. 
 
 He moved towards her and took her hands by the 
 wrists. 
 
 "By Jove!" he said, breathing hard, "if I might 
 kiss you I would willingly die." 
 
 He drew her towards him, and she yielded, though 
 her face went white again. Then Stretton kissed her 
 on the lips. For a few moments he held the woman 
 in his arms, and then releasing her, except for the hand 
 which he held, he looked into her face and laughed 
 softly.
 
 76 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Is there any need for me to die?" he asked. 
 Alicia was trembling, and in her eyes burned strange 
 fires. But she laughed also, and said quietly 
 "It is good to be alive."
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THERE was a silence between them. They had be- 
 come aware of a curious shyness towards each other fol- 
 lowing their momentary abandonment. It was Stretton 
 who was most self-conscious. He was wondering 
 whether he had been wise in going so far with the girl. 
 He recognised his weakness in allowing the attraction 
 to break down the restraint which he had solemnly im- 
 posed upon himself with regard to women beyond the 
 need of sympathy and friendship which was essential to 
 his nature. He was uncomfortably startled by the 
 sudden strength of passion which had intoxicated him 
 for a moment at the very time when the strange spirit- 
 uality of Alicia had seemed to be his safeguard against 
 the warmth of his own nature. She was not like the 
 women who will take and give a kiss and then forget. 
 He knew even now, and it made him afraid of himself 
 and her, that she would not play light-heartedly with 
 love as a game of interesting sensations which ends 
 with a laugh. She had thrilled him when he held her 
 in his arms, but though she was not cold, her intellect 
 and her serious spirit made it dangerous to light the 
 fires of her heart. These thoughts came to Stretton 
 not in such words or phrases but as an instinct of alarm, 
 and so he was silent, with the warmth of her answering 
 
 77
 
 78 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 kiss on his lips. It was a relief to him when, in her 
 frank way, matter-of-fact again, she put the shawl 
 round her head, and suggested returning home as the 
 air was getting chilly now with the creeping up of the 
 valley mists. 
 
 "Yes," he said, "you mustn't catch cold, or my 
 aunts will wonder what you have been doing in this 
 warm weather." 
 
 They went briskly down the slope, and with the 
 quick movement through the night air their sense 
 of shyness to each other disappeared as they became 
 more in touch with the ordinary levels of life, leaving 
 that dream and vision on the hill. Down the winding 
 path Alicia took Wingfield's hand, and they ran to- 
 gether like boy and girl, laughing as they sent the 
 rabbits scuttling in fright to the undergrowth. They 
 pulled up panting opposite the farm where the fields 
 began. 
 
 "What children we are!" said Stretton. "I had no 
 idea there was so much youth in my ancient bones." 
 
 "People feel old because they stand on their dig- 
 nity," said Alicia. "It is better to run without shame." 
 
 "You will be a child at eighty," said Stretton. 
 "Lord, how pumped I am!" 
 
 He suddenly checked his laugh, and clutching Alicia 
 by the arm, drew her quickly and without ceremony 
 into the shadow of the cart-shed behind them. 
 
 "What's the matter?" said Alicia. 
 
 "Hush! Don't speak." 
 
 He drew her close to him, holding her tightly, and it
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 79, 
 
 was evident from his strong grip that he was really 
 startled. Alicia was more than startled. Stretton's 
 alarm affected her, and not understanding the reason 
 of it, she was in fear of some unknown danger of a 
 terrifying kind. She was frightened also by her own 
 fear, which made her hands cold and numb. She was 
 naturally a brave woman of steady nerve, and this 
 sudden sensation of dread that made her heart thump 
 in a sickening way was something quite new to her ex- 
 perience of life. This psychological adventure was as 
 brief, however, as it was intense; then she guessed the 
 cause of Stretton's action. 
 
 A man's footsteps sounded on the road, coming 
 nearer, with a steady tread. Peering out of the dark- 
 ness she could see a tall figure walking in the moon- 
 light. From the swing of the arms, the long heavy 
 stride, and the poise of his head, she recognised him 
 at once. 
 
 "It's David," she said to Stretton. "Let us go L o 
 meet him!" 
 
 "Good Lord, no!" said Stretton in a whisper. 
 "It would never do for him to see us ! " 
 
 "Why not?" she asked. She was astonished at this 
 game of hiding from the man who, as she had said, 
 was her best friend. 
 
 "Hush!" said Stretton, drawing her back further 
 into the shed. 
 
 David Heath was now close to them, and then passed 
 on with his steady tramp. They could see his face 
 clearly in the moonlight which encircled him as he
 
 80 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 walked, the strong rugged face, a piece of sculpture 
 with the white light on it, and with deep shadows under 
 the brows. Alicia in the darkness flushed hotly as he 
 went by unconscious of her presence. There seemed 
 something evil and humiliating in this fear of dis- 
 covery. 
 
 When David had turned the bend of the road, Stret- 
 ton released his hold of Alicia's arm, and taking a 
 breath of relief, laughed softly. 
 
 "I say! That was an escape!" 
 
 "But why?" said Alicia, "I don't understand. Why 
 should we be afraid of David?" 
 
 "My dear girl," said Stretton, "don't you see we 
 have been doing a rather unconventional thing? It 
 wouldn't do for people to know that you have been 
 taking a midnight stroll with me." 
 
 "Do you mean to say there is anything wrong in it?" 
 
 "Good Lord, no! But you know what the world is. 
 It puts an evil construction upon everything of this 
 sort." 
 
 "But David is not the world," said Alicia. "He is 
 quite simple and clean-minded. Besides, I hate se- 
 crecy of any kind. The world may know anything I 
 do, whatever they may choose to think." 
 
 "Don't be angry," said Stretton. 
 
 Alicia laughed and smoothed her hair back. 
 
 "I am not angry. Why should I be? You did it 
 for my sake. ... I suppose I haven't enough cau- 
 tion. But I never like hiding anything especially 
 from David. I felt mean and as if I had been doing
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 81 
 
 something wicked when he passed without knowing 
 we were near him." 
 
 "It was rather absurd of me," said Stretton, though 
 in his heart he was profoundly glad that they had not 
 met the blacksmith's son face to face at that hour of 
 night. "But I confess I am afraid of tattling tongues. 
 Of course, I didn't know it was your friend Heath until 
 he was close to us. What's he up to, by the by?" 
 
 "Oh, he is fond of solitary walks," said Alicia. "He 
 often used to start out for a tramp late at night. He 
 used to learn his Latin lessons by heart on such night 
 walks, after I had been through them with him in the 
 evening." 
 
 "What a strange fellow!" said Stretton. 
 
 As they went back to the village, meeting no other 
 soul afterwards, Alicia talked of David, and how she 
 had taught him three years ago. She told Stretton of 
 the long talks she used to have with him in the black- 
 smith's shop while Jonathan was hammering at his 
 anvil, and in her own cottage where he came to do his 
 lessons with her. 
 
 "I am five years older than he is, and it is astonishing 
 what a difference that makes. I always felt like a 
 mother to him." 
 
 Stretton wondered whether David felt like a son to 
 Alicia, but he did not say so. She spoke with enthusi- 
 asm of David's character, explaining how simple he was 
 in the best sense, having no conceit or affectation, but 
 being filled with a great humility in the presence of 
 knowledge. He was not brilliant, it seemed, but plod-
 
 82 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 ding and indomitable before difficulties that would have 
 baffled more sprightly minds. He had also a natural 
 gift for language, and his imagination, though of a 
 rather primitive and natural kind, finding its inspira- 
 tion in his love for the solitude of the woods and in his 
 almost passionate fondness for country life, had, she 
 thought, a kind of Biblical grandeur and strength. 
 Alicia believed this was due partly to the inherited 
 tendencies from generations of Puritan and yeoman 
 forefathers, and partly to the influence of his father 
 Jonathan, who, utterly uncultured in book-learning, 
 had a great store of that simple wisdom and strong 
 natural intelligence which is still to be found among the 
 true-bred stock of English rustics. 
 
 "What's the fellow's philosophy?" said Stretton. 
 
 Alicia laughed. 
 
 "Well, I don't think he has dogmatised to himself. 
 I warned him against that. It doesn't do to begin life 
 with too many settled convictions, does it? But he is 
 a Socialist in politics, and instinctively a Puritan in 
 religion and morality, though broad-minded and open- 
 minded in discussing such things. I was brought up 
 as an agnostic and freethinker, and naturally I am as 
 unorthodox and as much an outlaw in religion as Pavid 
 is naturally Puritanical and conventional. But in our 
 long talks together each of us learned something from 
 the other. I broke down David's narrowness of creed, 
 and I think I broadened his moral outlook; then he 
 taught me to see the beauty of many aspects of Chris-
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 83 
 
 tian beliefs and law which my father had taught me to 
 regard as utterly absurd." 
 
 "What a strange couple of children!" laughed Stret- 
 ton. "I should love to hear you both discussing the 
 problems of life like two philosophers. 'Out of the 
 mouths of babes and sucklings ' ' 
 
 "You forget that I am thirty," said Alicia, smiling. 
 
 "Thirty!" said Stretton. "What does that matter? 
 You know nothing of the world or of life. I am a 
 hundred and fifty and old enough to be your great- 
 grandfather." 
 
 "No doubt I seem very stupid to you," said Alicia 
 with genuine humility. "You have seen and done so 
 much." 
 
 "Stupid! I wish I had a grain of your wisdom and 
 goodness." 
 
 "Oh, I am not wise or good. I just drift about like 
 a rudderless boat. I want some one to take the helm 
 and to steer me into the right channel." 
 
 "Do you?" said Stretton, looking into her eyes. "Do 
 you?" 
 
 They had arrived at the school-house gate. The 
 village street beyond was utterly silent and not a light 
 shone in the cottage windows. Long Stretton was 
 asleep. 
 
 Stretton shivered. 
 
 "It is cold now," he said. "I feel chilled to the 
 marrow." 
 
 "I hope you have not caught cold," said Alicia 
 anxiously.
 
 84 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "I can feel a touch of the old fever," said Stretton. 
 "I suppose it was those mists on the hills. Something 
 hot to drink would do me good. No chance of that at 
 the Hall till eight o'clock to-morrow morning!" 
 
 Alicia hesitated. 
 
 "I could make you a cup of tea or cocoa," she said. 
 "I have a little stove which boils a kettle very quickly." 
 
 "I say! That would be splendid. But what would 
 your maid say?" 
 
 "Oh, my little maid doesn't sleep here at nights. She 
 comes in at seven to light the fire, and leaves at twelve." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you sleep here alone?" 
 
 "Yes, why not?" 
 
 "It's very plucky of you." 
 
 Alicia laughed. 
 
 "I am not such a baby as you think."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 STRETTON accepted the invitation to midnight tea, 
 though not without a mental struggle of some violence. 
 He felt he was drifting along a dangerous current with 
 this girl. What was to be their port? or would there 
 be a shipwreck? He did not want to hurt this woman's 
 soul. All that was best in him was touched by her 
 chaste virtue and by her simplicity. He knew, as even 
 devils must know if there be any, that he was in the 
 presence of a noble soul. If another woman had in- 
 vited him into her lonely house at midnight, he would 
 have accepted, or refused, with a light laugh. But 
 now he accepted with anxiety and self-questioning. He 
 had given her a kiss, and she had surrendered without 
 a protest. Yet it was not the surrender of a light 
 woman or a frivolous one. She had blushed, but she 
 had not been ashamed. She would have let him kiss her 
 in the market-place as on the hill-top. He was sure of 
 that, and this candour, this lack of secrecy and self- 
 consciousness, made him afraid. Because, of course, 
 he could not kiss her in the market-place. He could 
 not afford to let the world see him with this woman. He 
 had gone too far already. That kiss counted more with 
 her than with him. To him it had been stolen fruit, 
 infinitely sweet, a moment to remember. To her it was 
 
 85
 
 86 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 the seal of a bargain by which she had handed over her 
 heart to him. He could not fail to see that, being quick 
 of imagination and of a subtle instinct. No conven- 
 tional words of love-making had passed between them, 
 but Stretton understood that Alicia accepted him as her 
 lover. And he needed love. He needed the inspiration, 
 the intimacy of womanhood. Like all men of imagina- 
 tion he felt that life was a barren thing without it, and 
 yet he must have liberty as well as love. Not now at 
 this turn of his life could he afford to fetter himself. 
 
 But it was delightful to sit in her little room such 
 a quaint and dainty place with its low ceiling and pol- 
 ished floor, its little white curtains and rush-bottomed 
 chairs while Alicia lit the lamp on the gate-legged 
 table, and took the tea-things from the small oak side- 
 board in the corner. A vase full of roses was on the 
 table, and the room smelt sweet with them. On the 
 mantel-board was a portrait of an elderly man with a 
 white beard her father, thought Stretton and photo- 
 graphs of small children on either side of a travelling 
 clock which ticked noisily and jerkily, its hands point- 
 ing to an hour past midnight. On the hearth-rug as 
 they had gone in a black kitten lay sleeping, but now 
 it followed Alicia about, purring loudly with its tail 
 erect. On the table the book which Alicia had been 
 reading when Stretton had called to her from the gar- 
 den lay opened with a pressed flower between the leaves 
 to mark the place. Stretton saw with a glance that it 
 was his last novel A Social Atom and the sight of it 
 gave him more pleasure than when the first copy had
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 87 
 
 reached him from the printers. There were other 
 books about the room on a set of home-made book- 
 shelves fastened to the wall with cords. When Alicia 
 went into the small kitchen to light the stove, Stretton 
 examined the volumes, as he always did instinctively 
 when left alone in a room with any books about. His 
 eyes roamed along the titles Macaulay's History, 
 Green's Short History of the English People, Huxley's 
 Essays, Matthew Arnold's Literature and Dogma, 
 Lewis's History and Philosophy, Mill's Logic, Manuals 
 of Socialism by Karl Marx, six volumes of the Philos- 
 ophie Positive by Comte, Balzac's novels, Rousseau's 
 Confessions, Kipling's Plain Tales, Jungle Books, and 
 Departmental Ditties, a few new novels and a number 
 of children's books and primers. 
 
 "Well, I'm blessed!" said Stretton to himself. This 
 was certainly a queer set of books to find in the parlour 
 of a village schoolmistress. They would not have been 
 out of keeping with the character of an elderly blue- 
 stocking with a pinched face and spectacles, but Alicia 
 was so sweet and so curiously simple, so child-like, 
 almost, in her gay moods. She was merry now, enjoy- 
 ing the midnight meal with its sense of adventure. 
 
 "I cannot give cake and goodies to unexpected 
 guests," she said, spreading a dainty white cloth before 
 Stretton and laying the tea-things. "Bread and butter 
 must be your fare, sir." 
 
 "Dear lady," said Stretton, "I ask nothing better 
 from your hands. I feel like a knight-errant in the 
 castle of an enchanted princess. Surely in a minute
 
 88 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 that cat will change into a witch, and I shall be turned 
 into stone for daring to intrude like this." 
 
 "Brave knight," said Alicia, pouring out two cups 
 of tea, "fear nothing. It is true that Peterkin is not 
 what he appears to be. His wisdom is profound, but 
 he is also virtuous. I think in former life his spirit 
 must have inhabited the body of a philosopher." 
 
 "Now you speak of it I do see a resemblance to 
 Herbert Spencer," said Stretton. "I am reassured. 
 But surely there is a dragon lying in wait outside. No 
 knight receives hospitality like this without having to 
 pay his way by some heroic exploit. Let me prove my 
 prowess, Princess." 
 
 "Prove it on this crust of bread," said Alicia. "You 
 are eating nothing." 
 
 And so they talked fairy tales to each other like 
 two children who have taken their lunch into a dim 
 barn or into the loft above a nursery. They sat oppo- 
 site to each other at the little table, yet not so far away 
 that Stretton could not touch Alicia's hand as it lay for 
 a moment on the cloth. He put his own upon it caress- 
 ingly, and she did not withdraw the hand, but smiled a 
 little about the lips as he went on chatting. 
 
 "It is good to be here," said Stretton. "Just you 
 and me together in this little room with the world asleep 
 outside. I shall be sorry when I go into the darkness 
 alone." 
 
 "Loneliness is a horrid thing," said Alicia. 
 
 "I have been too much alone. Have you ever felt
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 89 
 
 a dread of yourself when you have realised your lone- 
 liness?" 
 
 "Yes, often. Sometimes when I have been read- 
 ing here at night I have suddenly started with terror 
 at the silence and solitude, and have been possessed 
 with a fear of my own soul. It is like being alone in 
 eternity." 
 
 "I know that feeling," said Stretton. "It has come 
 on me in tropical forests/' 
 
 "Oh, but I don't think anything is so lonely as a 
 house in which one is the only living being that is 
 why I adopted Peterkin. He keeps away the devil that 
 seems to torment a lonely person. You will always find 
 an old maid with a cat." 
 
 "Old maid!" said Stretton, smiling. "Come, come, 
 that is not your fate." 
 
 "I hope not," said Alicia, and her lips trembled a 
 little as she looked smilingly into Stretton's eyes. 
 
 "It shan't be," said Stretton. "I will see to that." 
 
 He took her hand and put it to his lips. 
 
 "We will keep each other company," he said, "we 
 two lonely mortals." 
 
 "Oh, I should be no company for you," said Alicia. 
 "I am so stupid, so ignorant!" But then, before he 
 could utter the protest on his lips, she said eagerly, 
 taking both his hands in hers and clasping them to- 
 gether 
 
 "Do you mean it, Stretton? Do you want me to 
 keep you company in your life?"
 
 90 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "I cannot do without you," said Stretton. "Surely, 
 surely you have seen that." 
 
 There was a passionate vibration in his voice that 
 startled himself. He was sincere. By Jove, yes! He 
 could not do without Alicia now. This hour in her 
 room, this intimacy with her in the night, their simple- 
 fanciful talk like that of children, innocent and sweet, 
 the beauty and grace and goodness of the woman which 
 made the room fragrant with her presence, had over- 
 powered his intellectual caution and thrilled his senses 
 and his imagination. 
 
 "I am so glad," said Alicia. "I am so glad." 
 
 She came to him and, sitting on the floor by his side, 
 put her head upon his knees with her arms around him. 
 She was crying a little, but when Stretton kissed her 
 hair and lifted up her face with both his hands, she 
 smiled with a happiness in her eyes that made her 
 strangely beautiful. 
 
 For another hour they talked to each other in low 
 voices. She told Stretton of her former life, of her 
 desire for love, of her craving for an experience of life 
 wider and larger than she could get as the mistress of 
 a village school. She said how good his aunts had 
 been to her, and how happy she had been with the 
 school children, and with the village people, in spite of 
 her occasional despondency, of her growing feeling of 
 being alone in life, and of her longing for other things. 
 And Stretton talked of his former days, of his wander- 
 ings, his rather aimless ambitions. But he was going 
 to work now for a definite object. He believed he had
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 91 
 
 the gifts for a political career. He was going to break 
 from his family traditions by championing the people's 
 cause. He expected to have a big fight at the Election, 
 and looked forward to the fray. If he got in he would 
 become one of the leaders of labour, though he would 
 take an independent line. Some of his college chums, 
 Lord Wallingford and Arthur Champerdowne and Lord 
 Ronald Campbell, were standing also for Labour seats, 
 and they expected to form an independent party of 
 Constitutional democrats or "Individualists," who 
 would hold the balance between the Conservatives and 
 the extreme Socialists. 
 
 The hours passed quickly, like a few moments so it 
 seemed to them, but when the clock struck three Alicia 
 got up from the floor with a word of surprise. 
 
 "Look!" she said, "it is almost dawn. The light is 
 beginning to creep in. You must go hon^e, Stretton, or 
 your aunts will hear of your mysterious disappearance. 
 They would be dreadfully alarmed." 
 
 "By Jove, yes!" said Stretton. "The servants are 
 early risers, too." 
 
 Alicia opened the front door and the fresh air of the 
 dawn came in, cool, and exquisite in its fragrance. 
 
 "It will be a glorious day," said Alicia. 
 
 "It has been a glorious night," said Stretton. 
 
 He took Alicia's hands and drew her towards him, 
 kissing her upon the lips. Then without a word he 
 stepped out into the road, and turning once to smile at 
 her as she stood in the doorway, he walked quickly 
 towards Stretton Hall.
 
 92 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Once he got into the shadow of a doorway like a man 
 of guilt, as a farm laborer trudged past in the dim 
 light of the early morning. Afterwards he entered the 
 garden of his aunts' house by the postern gate, and 
 crept upstairs to his bedroom by the side stairs. An 
 ugly creak on the first landing jangled his nerves, and 
 he stood listening with drawn breath and thumping 
 heart. But the Hall was silent and asleep, and he got 
 to his room without disturbing his aunts or the ser- 
 vants. He flung himself on to the bed with his clothes 
 on, and for an hour or more lay awake thinking 
 over what had happened in the night. Then as the 
 early sun streamed into his room he fell asleep.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 BETWEEN Jonathan Heath and his son David there 
 was a great love. It is not so common a thing as is 
 generally taken for granted the love between parents 
 and children. More often than not there is an invisible 
 but impassable wall between a father and his sons, 
 often even between a mother and her daughters. They 
 dwell in different worlds though the same house con- 
 tains them. The father is absorbed in his business, 
 his principles are fixed, his ambitions satisfied or dis- 
 appointed. The mother watches her children grow, 
 feeds and clothes them, and nurses them, and then 
 one day realises that they no longer need her, that 
 they are anxious indeed for independence and liberty 
 outside her love. The sons are the first to claim this 
 liberty. The wisdom of their father is not their wis- 
 dom; his way of life not their way. Often enough the 
 father of a family is lonely, understanding little of what 
 is in the secret hearts of his offspring, and unable to 
 share their thoughts. He is astonished, wounded 
 (though he hides his wound) by the selfishness and in- 
 gratitude of youth. After they have tugged against 
 his discipline, after their long stress and fretting against 
 his authority, he is not loth to let them go so that he 
 may be at peace with their mother again, as in the 
 
 93
 
 94 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 early days before they were begotten. It is the mother 
 who yearns, and sheds secret tears, when, one by one, 
 the boys and girls depart. It is the almost inevitable 
 tragedy of motherhood. 
 
 With Jonathan and David it was different. The 
 blacksmith's wife had died when the boy was still a 
 child, leaving her husband with a sore place in his 
 heart that had never healed, even in fifteen years of 
 silent grief. A man may think while he is hammering 
 hot iron, and while Jonathan was swinging his hammer 
 and blowing the bellows by his forge the spirit of his 
 wife whom he had loved with the whole strength of his 
 soul and body both body and soul were strong and 
 sturdy was often about him, enveloping him, as it 
 were, with her presence. He was a religious man, and 
 the prayer which he prayed as he worked seemed to 
 bring his dead wife close to him. 
 
 After her going there were many in Long Stretton 
 who urged him to marry again for the boy's sake. 
 But he shook his head at first he had shaken his fist 
 and sworn violently that he would beat any one who 
 dared to say this thing and made it known that 
 he would rather the boy died than that he himself 
 should dishonour his late wife by taking another woman 
 to her bed. But David did not suffer as most boys 
 might have done from the loss of a mother whom he 
 remembered as a dream that sometimes caused him to 
 cry out at nights in an anguish of yearning. Jonathan 
 was both mother and father to him. He would not 
 even let a woman come near the cottage but washed
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 95 
 
 the small boy himself, put him to bed at night, and 
 twice a day, when it was fine, carried him for long 
 lonely walks on the hills. When he was not sleeping 
 or out of doors, the four-year-old boy played on the 
 floor of the blacksmith's shed, finding the iron hoops 
 and horseshoes, the tools and rubbish of the shop, most 
 excellent and entertaining playthings. He loved the 
 music of the anvil, and was never tired of watching his 
 father at work. People of Long Stretton used to go 
 out of their way to pass the blacksmith's shed and 
 watch young David sitting with his dark curls tousled, 
 with his knees tucked up and his chin resting on them, 
 staring with serious eyes at his father, who was making 
 the anvil ring with a melody that could be heard up on 
 the Downs, and was a cheerful and harmonious accom- 
 paniment to the other sounds of village life the clack- 
 ing of the mill-wheel, the lowing of the cattle, the bleat- 
 ing of the flocks, the rhythmic beating in the tanyards. 
 Then when the time came when David went to school, 
 Jonathan took him to and fro on fine days and wet, in 
 sleet and rain and snow, changing his boots and clothes 
 when he got damp with the solicitude that could not 
 have been greater in a mother. 
 
 When David had learned to read the father shared 
 in the boy's delight in the story-books that were bor- 
 rowed from the school library. The favourite of these 
 at first were Grimm's Fairy Tales and the Arabian 
 Nights. After dusk, between teatime and the boy's 
 bed, Jonathan's hammer would be still, and, shutting 
 the door of the shed, the father would bring out his
 
 96 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 pipe, and smoke quietly while David read out the old 
 tales, which at last became so familiar that they both 
 knew them almost word for word. Yet still they did 
 not tire of them. Jonathan was a simple-minded and 
 unlettered man, and he was as genuinely interested in 
 and excited by the adventures of Tom Thumb or of 
 Ali Baba as David himself. 
 
 "My word!" he would say, pulling out his pipe and 
 puffing out a wreath of smoke. "He was a plucked un, 
 an' no mistake. That robbers' cave was a skeery place, 
 Davy! What comes next, my lad?" 
 
 Robinson Crusoe was another book that enchanted 
 these two scholars of the village. David was fourteen 
 years of age when he brought it home. As a rule, 
 Jonathan called "Lights out, Davy" when the church 
 clock struck nine. But on that night, when Robinson 
 Crusoe was begun, they were both too absorbed in the 
 adventures and sorrows of the shipwrecked mariner to 
 notice the passing of the hours. David read on and on, 
 until the fire died down, and Jonathan puffed at a pipe 
 that had long gone out. Now and again the father and 
 son interrupted the reading for a few words of com- 
 ment. Robinson's pious reflections appealed to Jona- 
 than's Puritanism. 
 
 "Ah, he was a good man, was Robinson. Doan't 
 you forget, Davy, as he was held up by the love of 
 God. I reckon he'd have gone daft but for that. It's 
 fine to think of that lonely soul going down on his 
 knees out in the open, the same as if he was in church, 
 and praising the Lord for all His mercies."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 97 
 
 "But, father," said David, "it's a wonder God didn't 
 save him from being shipwrecked. I don't see why God 
 should suffer such things at all." 
 
 "There are but few of us as have any trust in the 
 Lord," said Jonathan. "That's what it comes to. Even 
 Peter came precious near to drowning, though the Lord 
 was at hand." 
 
 The birds were beginning to chirrup in the early 
 dawn when at last David drowsed over his book, and 
 Jonathan got up with a startled look. 
 
 " 'Pon my soul," he cried, "we've forgotten the clock 
 this time! Why, the hours have gone by like minutes! 
 That's what comes o' reading." 
 
 He was seriously disturbed by the extraordinary 
 accident, and during the next day rebuked himself for 
 a carelessness with regard to David which would never 
 have happened if the boy's mother had been alive. 
 
 The school library took about two years to exhaust, 
 and then it was necessary to make a journey once a 
 week to the town of Castlebridge, where there was a 
 good lending library. This six-mile walk of Jonathan 
 and David on a Saturday afternoon was a weekly joy. 
 It was David who always chose the book, but his father 
 never quarrelled with his choice, having a perfect faith 
 in Davy's judgment. The old Vicar, Cartwright's 
 predecessor, had now taken the boy in hand, after he 
 had left the village school, and in an easy-going way 
 superintended his studies. So after roaming through 
 the library of adventure from Hakluyt's Voyages to 
 Stanley's Darkest Africa, David found his way into
 
 98 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 more difficult paths, and brought home such books as 
 Carlyle's French Revolution, John Richard Green's 
 History of England and Plutarch's Lives, Then he had 
 been seized with a passion for novel reading, and 
 father and son went straight through the best works of 
 Scott, Dickens, and George Eliot. Jonathan was en- 
 thralled most by Adam Bede. In the character of 
 Adam he recognised something of himself, perhaps, and 
 he chuckled prodigiously over the humours of Mrs. 
 Poyser, whom he found to resemble the landlady of the 
 "Wingfield Arms." 
 
 So the years had passed till David was no longer a 
 boy, but a young man, taller, ay, and stronger, than 
 his father. Jonathan had taken care of his body, 
 knowing that in this regard he had no need of advice 
 from the Vicar or village schoolmaster or other learned 
 folk. When David was five years of age he had made 
 him a little hammer and taught him to swing it with 
 regularity and rhythm. Every night he felt the lad's 
 muscles, and glowed with pride as they developed with 
 his growth. 
 
 "You'll be a strong man some o' these days, Davy; 
 strong an' straight, I'll warrant." 
 
 And true enough, at eighteen David could handle his 
 father's heaviest hammer, and could beat out a horse- 
 shoe into as clear and well-turned a thing as any black- 
 smith in the countryside. There was health in every 
 fibre of his body, and in his brain, too, for all his read- 
 ing. Father and son had gone birds'-nesting together 
 and blackberrying. They had explored the hills and
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 99 
 
 valleys for miles around on long walks, with a hearty 
 meal at each journey's end; they had bathed every sum- 
 mer morning in the river that went sluggishly through 
 the meadows at the bottom of their lane, and Jonathan 
 and David were the names that had been cut into the 
 bark of many trees in the deepest woods. 
 
 So, when Alicia had come to Long Stretton as mis- 
 tress of the village school, David Heath, the black- 
 smith's son, was a young man distinguished from his 
 fellows both in brain and body. There were other lads 
 of the village who had health and strength, but none 
 had David's inches six feet two in his stockinged feet 
 or anything like his great shoulders and straight 
 back, his strong, rugged young face, refined and spirit- 
 ualised by thoughts and emotions taken from many 
 books. Alicia had been drawn to him at once since her 
 first meeting with him in the old Vicar's study, and the 
 loneliness of her first year in Long Stretton had been 
 made much less lonely by the evenings she spent in the 
 blacksmith's shed with the father and son. To both of 
 them her coming to Long Stretton was a strange and 
 excellent thing, and her friendship was a revelation to 
 them. She had read and thought so much. Her ideas 
 were so fresh and strong, and so candidly expressed. 
 Jonathan was startled and often shocked by her plain 
 speech about the problems of life and by her uncon- 
 ventional, lawless, and even godless views, as he 
 thought, about religion and morality. They had battles 
 royal in the dim shed at night, upon such subjects as 
 free will and the divine inspiration of the old Testa-
 
 100 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 merit, authority versus private judgment, religion and 
 ethics, and other subjects not usually discussed in 
 blacksmiths' sheds. 
 
 The sweat often poured down Jonathan's brow, and 
 he mopped it with a big handkerchief, in the beginning 
 of this friendship with Alicia. He was no match for her 
 in argument, not being learned in books, and he could 
 only fall back upon his simple faith and sturdy alle- 
 giance to the Church Catechism. 
 
 "That's a very dangerous young 'ooman, Davy," 
 he said often when she went back to the school-house. 
 "I'm afeard she'll be led into trouble one of these days. 
 She would argue the hoof off of Satan's leg. Pray God 
 she don't unsettle you, my lad." 
 
 But David laughed at his father's fears in this direc- 
 tion. 
 
 "Miss Alicia is real gold," he said, "whatever her 
 opinions may be." 
 
 "Ay, she's a nimble creature, and the lady born," 
 said Jonathan. 
 
 Secretly, sturdy democrat as he was, he was flattered 
 at receiving the visits of a young lady in whom he 
 recognised, as English peasants do, unfailingly, the 
 refinement that belongs to the true "quality." And 
 Alicia's gaiety, her wide reading, her vivacity of ex- 
 pression brought a new atmosphere and a new life into 
 his workshop. Gradually he built up a romance, and 
 would lie awake at nights like any mother think- 
 ing that perhaps one day there would be "a match" 
 between his son and this young woman. He encouraged
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 101 
 
 their growing intimacy, and when the Latin lessons be- 
 gan he regarded them as a new step towards the domes- 
 tic joy which would one day, he hoped, enter the house- 
 hold of his declining years. He saw, though he said 
 nothing, that David had a boyish love for Alicia, which 
 would one day ripen into real passion. That was the 
 first secret between father and son, though only half a 
 secret. David hugged to himself the new glory that 
 had come to him, though it was difficult, living alone 
 with his father, to hide the emotion that exalted him 
 above the commonplace of life. Alicia was quite un- 
 conscious of his feelings towards her. In her simple 
 way she mothered him. Often she would put her hand 
 upon his arm, little knowing how he thrilled to her 
 touch. In the evenings when they sat talking she would 
 sit on the floor with her head resting against his chair, 
 or against his knee, not guessing that he prayed God 
 she would not move into another position further away 
 from him. She mended his socks and he kissed them 
 as if they had been sacred things. This boyish senti- 
 ment had quickly steadied down into a quieter and 
 stronger way of love. David was a healthy, strong- 
 minded fellow, and did not give rein to fond imaginings 
 after the first mysterious awakening of his young man- 
 hood. And Alicia was so practical, so motherly, so 
 utterly unconscious of any sentimental emotion in him 
 that he had stifled this side of his nature as something 
 unworthy of her splendid gift of friendship. 
 But when the old Vicar, who had been a good friend
 
 102 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 to him, died suddenly and peacefully, like an old man 
 who falls into a happy sleep, leaving him a little legacy 
 that he might go to Oxford, David had welcomed this 
 chance of his life with intense and passionate pleasure 
 though he was characteristically quiet and reserved 
 in the expression of his emotion. He welcomed it as a 
 step up the social ladder by which he would get closer to 
 Alicia. She was so far above him now, but one day, 
 perhaps, if he worked hard and well, he might be less 
 unworthy to declare the great love in his heart. 
 
 She had kissed him on the forehead when he went, 
 on the same spot where Jonathan had also kissed his 
 son, and he had gone from her and from his father with 
 tears in his eyes of which he was not ashamed. It 
 was the first time he had left home, though he was now 
 twenty, and it had cost him not a little to tear up his 
 roots. For the first time, perhaps, even he realised 
 the true meaning of his father's love, and as at the 
 carriage window at Castlebridge, Jonathan had crushed 
 his hand in an iron grip and whispered "God bless 
 you, laddie," there was a hard lump in David's throat 
 that prevented speech. But the last thing he had seen 
 when the train went off with him to London was Alicia 
 smiling and waving, and that was the vision, that coun- 
 teracted the first feeling of loneliness and home-sickness 
 which threatened to overwhelm him. Alicia, whom he 
 had known a year, was more in his thoughts than his 
 father who had been his friend for twenty years. . . . 
 
 During the three years at Oxford David had written
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 103 
 
 home once a week to his father and once a month to 
 Alicia. To Jonathan that weekly letter had been the 
 very thing that made life worth living. Though he 
 did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and did not let his 
 neighbours see how much the separation from his son 
 meant to him, his heavy hand always trembled when 
 the village postman gave him his weekly budget. 
 
 "Good news from Oxford, I do hope, Jonathan?" 
 
 "Ay, Davy's a good lad. He'll not forget his 
 feyther." 
 
 With strange self-discipline the blacksmith would not 
 open the letter till the evening when his day's work 
 was done. Then he would read it over slowly, study- 
 ing every word and phrase of it, and turning from the 
 last sheet to the first to read it again. They were long 
 letters telling every detail of his daily life a wonderful 
 Vita Nuova for a blacksmith's son, and Jonathan him- 
 self lived spiritually more in Oxford than at Long 
 Stretton, and as he hammered at a horseshoe he would 
 imagine what David was doing at that precise hour of 
 the clock. 
 
 Alicia's monthly letters were of a different character. 
 They dealt not with details so much as with ideas, and 
 in them from month to month she could trace the evolu- 
 tion of David's mind, from crudity to a real culture, 
 from vague youthful wanderings in fresh fields of 
 thought to more fixed and manly convictions, from rash 
 judgments, hasty prejudices, quick enthusiasm, to a 
 wiser doubtfulness, a broader tolerance, a greater cau-
 
 104 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 tion. She wrote back, answering and discussing the 
 problems he had raised, in her usually motherly way, 
 imagining herself ever so much his senior. She gave 
 him advice, warned him against taking himsdf and life 
 seriously, urged him to keep his freedom, to develop his 
 individuality. Once he wrote to her, "I shall never be 
 individual. I am your intellectual offspring." And 
 she had written back at once and angrily, "If you say 
 such stupid things I will never write to you again." In 
 spite of his long letters and their revelations, he was 
 never candid in them, because never once did his pen 
 write the words which would have told the inmost 
 thoughts that moved him. Alicia imagined that he had 
 set out in quest of truth. She believed that he had 
 devoted himself to knowledge for its own sake. In 
 truth, it was not so. Oxford would have been a hell 
 to him, of course, if he had not loved learning, if his 
 imagination had not caught fire in her old halls. But 
 there was only one object before him, to raise himself 
 nearer to the level of Alicia, to win his spurs, as it were, 
 that he might go to her not as common clay. The first 
 two years had gone quietly and patiently with him, and 
 in the vacations he had come home to Jonathan and had 
 revived his old intimacy with Alicia, exactly on the 
 same footing as before. But in the third year he had 
 been conscious of a change in himself. He was no 
 longer patient. He was passionate, with a strong pas- 
 sion that was physical as well as intellectual. As he 
 neared the end of the goal, seeing success, he trembled
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 105 
 
 lest this should be of no avail in giving him the prize 
 of that success Alicia herself. Her quiet motherly 
 letters plunged him often into despair and doubt. 
 Would he ever be able to establish a different relation- 
 ship with her? Did he dare to hope that she should re- 
 gard him as an equal instead of a protege? Sometimes 
 he cursed the fortune that had lifted him above the 
 condition of his birth. If he had followed his father as 
 the village blacksmith he might still have worshipped, 
 but would never have dreamt of equality. Once he 
 had written to her a letter in which he gave free rein 
 to his emotion, and confessed what was in his soul re- 
 garding her. And then reading it over with a growing 
 feeling of terror at the written words, he had torn up 
 the closely-written sheets and watched them burn. 
 Once also in his rooms he had had a vision of Alicia in 
 the arms of a man that was not himself. He had been 
 half sleeping, and he awoke with a groan that was al- 
 most a shout, and then had gulped down whisky to cure 
 a strange feeling of sickness and faintness. These 
 moods were not constant. They seized him only at in- 
 tervals, between which he took his part in Oxford life, 
 in its sport as well as in its work, with his usual strength 
 of purpose whatever might be on hand. And now here 
 he was home again with more than a village glory on his 
 head he had his name in the Honour Lists but with 
 humility in his heart. He had seen Alicia twice, once in 
 the afternoon when Stretton Wingfield had interrupted 
 them, and once in the evening of the following day
 
 106 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 when she had sat listening and rather silent, for an hour 
 that had brought back old memories, but was very 
 short. That was the evening of the night when Alicia 
 had gone to the hill-top with Stretton, and David did 
 not know, when he woke fresh to the dawn, that his 
 own destiny had been shaped in the womb of the night.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IT was Saturday and the village children were at 
 play. In the old days how those years at Oxford had 
 drawn a line across his life! David used to go to 
 Alicia's garden on Saturday morning to mow her small 
 lawn and work with her among the flowers. So to-day, 
 using this old habit as an excuse for a visit, he found 
 himself at her gate. 
 
 Alicia was with her roses. She had on her garden 
 gloves and wore a sun-bonnet. As David came in she 
 looked up at the sound of his footsteps, and, plucking 
 a rose, held it out to him. 
 
 "That is for a good and worthy scholar," she said, 
 "who is also a gardener. ... I knew you would come." 
 
 She put it into his buttonhole and then laid her hand 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "It's good to have you back, David." 
 
 "Did you miss me, then, a little?" 
 
 David looked down at her, and he was tempted by 
 the face that smiled up at him. It seemed to him that 
 Alicia had grown in beauty since he had been away, 
 since, even, he had seen her yesterday. There was a 
 soft and gleaming light in her eyes, and a new expres- 
 sion, the glamour of some inward joy, upon her face. 
 David, whose eyes had often rested long upon that 
 
 107
 
 108 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 face, so that by its lights and shadows and by the 
 lines about the mouth he knew whether Alicia were 
 tired, or troubled, or peaceful, or gay, saw now that 
 some mood possessed her which was reflected in the 
 pools of her brown eyes. He wondered what that ex- 
 pression meant, and his heart gave a sudden leap at the 
 thought that perhaps it was because of his home- 
 coming. 
 
 "I missed you more than I can say. We were always 
 good friends, David, you and I." 
 
 Her eyes suddenly moistened, and she turned away 
 to lift a drooping rose. David's heart gave another 
 leap. Great God! then he had not deluded himself with 
 stupid hope! He was prompted to take her hand, in 
 the sight of the village over the gate, and to say some 
 of those things which he had once written and then torn 
 up. But a butcher-boy came whistling up the path with 
 half-a-pound of steak in a basket that would have held 
 a joint, and he was worse than a village. 
 
 Alicia herself was startled by the tears that had sud- 
 denly filled her eyes. She could not explain her emo- 
 tion, except that the thought of David's friendship 
 brought back to her mind how blessed she was among 
 women. For now she not only had David as a friend, 
 but Stretton, who had promised her more than friend- 
 ship. She had not yet got used to that knowledge, or 
 rather the wonder of it kept throbbing at her heart so 
 that for no reason she would have cried or laughed, and 
 one as easily as the other. Indeed, as she took the 
 raw meat from the basket, after drawing off a glove,
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 109 
 
 she broke into gay tremulous laughter, and to David 
 watching her this was another sign of some unusual 
 excitement, and a question knocked at the door of his 
 heart for an answer. For though he had often heard 
 Alicia laugh at trivial things, she did not laugh at noth- 
 ing at all and it was difficult to see the comedy of a 
 piece of meat. 
 
 Perhaps she saw that he was puzzled. Meeting his 
 eyes upon her she suddenly blushed. It was the first 
 time he had seen her do so in his presence, and he 
 coloured, too, with a sense of embarrassment that was 
 new to him. 
 
 "Come inside, David," she said nervously, after a 
 silence in which they had watched the butcher-boy go 
 out of the gate, gloriously, with the empty basket as a 
 hat. "There are so many things I want to ask you." 
 
 He followed her into the sitting-room where she had 
 sat with Stretton until the dawn of that very morning. 
 She looked at the chair in which Stretton had sat, and 
 she moved it on one side, bringing up another for 
 David. Then she took a seat opposite to him and leant 
 forward with her arms on the table. 
 
 "What is the next chapter, David? You have done 
 more than I expected. Now what are you going to 
 make of your achievements?" 
 
 "It depends on you," said David, and his breath 
 came rather quickly, though he controlled his voice. 
 All his instincts prompted him now to confession, yet 
 he was horribly afraid of himself, of the woman who 
 held his life in her hands. In the room where he had
 
 110 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 sat night after night it seemed not many yesterdays 
 ago learning Latin with her, it was as if again he was 
 in his old position of pupil to a mistress. She was still 
 above him and beyond him. 
 
 "On me?" 
 
 "On your advice, I mean," he said, hating himself for 
 blunting the edge of his first words. 
 
 "My advice is simple," said Alicia. "Go in and win. 
 You have the world before you." 
 
 "The world?" said David, shrugging his shoulders. 
 "It has no need of me." 
 
 "There is only one goal for you London. When 
 are you going, and what will you do? Aim at some- 
 thing big, David ! " 
 
 She spoke in her old serious straightforward way. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I shan't stay here. I can make 
 pretty good horseshoes and average ploughshares." 
 
 "David!" she cried out at him. 
 
 "I mean it. After all, I might do worse than follow 
 in my father's footsteps. I should make a harmonious 
 blacksmith." 
 
 "You must hammer at other things than horse- 
 shoes," said Alicia. "We have no room for you in 
 this village." 
 
 "Seriously, I am thinking of my father. He has 
 spared me for these years, but you know how it is 
 between us. I should hate to stride away to selfish 
 ambition, and leave him to grow old alone." 
 
 "You say 'seriously,' " said Alicia. "Don't talk such 
 nonsense, David ! Do you think I don't know Jonathan
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 111 
 
 Heath his pride in you, and in himself? Of course, 
 it will be a wrench to say good-bye again, but do you 
 think he would smoke his pipe in peace if he saw 
 you spoiling your life at his side, knowing that your 
 affection for him was dragging you back from the great 
 work you have been shaped for? Now tell me do you 
 think that would make him happy?" 
 
 "No," said David humbly. "I suppose not." 
 
 "And would you be happy, knowing that the friends 
 you made at Oxford were doing big work while you 
 were blowing a blacksmith's bellows?" 
 
 David did not argue. Of course, she was right, and 
 it was no good posing with Alicia. What he had meant 
 was that unless he could work for her, in what she 
 called "the world," he would rather knock his brains 
 out with the biggest hammer in his father's shop. If he 
 could only say so, instead of still hiding the secret that 
 was red hot in his heart! Well, he would say so, though 
 not yet not yet! He must be more sure of his answer. 
 He must see further into her soul before he risked his 
 fate. 
 
 "I have an offer to go to London," he said. 
 
 "There now!" cried Alicia, her eyes aflame with 
 gladness. "Tell me, David," she said eagerly. "Tell 
 me." 
 
 "They have not asked me to be Prime Minister!" 
 
 "David!" 
 
 Alicia took up an inkpot and threatened his head. 
 
 "It is an honour, though," said David. "I am not 
 sure that I am equal to it."
 
 112 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense. Tell me quick!" 
 
 "Well, the fact is, the Master of Balliol whom I 
 fear more than any man alive has recommended me 
 the Lord knows why for the post of Master of the new 
 working-man's settlement at Stepney Erasmus Hall." 
 
 "David!" 
 
 Alicia rose from her chair, and looked at her friend 
 with eyes that were full of pride. 
 
 "It gives one an opportunity," said David, dropping 
 his eyes, but colouring to the roots of his black hair. 
 Alicia's pleasure and excitement sent the blood tingling 
 through his body. 
 
 "Of course, oh, of course! Bravo! Bravo! That 
 will give you plenty of blacksmith's work with men's 
 hearts and souls, and you will shape them well! I 
 have faith in your handicraft, David." 
 
 "It will carry me far," said David. His face went 
 white now, and a little sweat broke out on his broad 
 forehead. 
 
 "I will do my best if I may still have your faith." 
 His voice thrilled like the string of a 'cello. 
 
 Alicia took hold of his coat lapels. 
 
 "Oh, David," she said. "I am proud of you. I 
 am proud of having had something to do with you 
 just a little in the shaping of your mind. May I claim 
 that?" 
 
 She spoke wistfully, touched with awe at the thought 
 that she had taught David as a boy, who one day she 
 was sure of it would be great. 
 
 Her words broke down David's haunting timidity.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 113 
 
 But as he touched her hands, which she held frankly 
 out to him in friendship, a sudden little cough at the 
 open window startled him so that his blood ran cold 
 and the passion that had flamed in him turned to anger 
 at this intrusion.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 IT was Cuthbert Cartwright, the Vicar, who stood in 
 the garden looking in, with what Stretton had spoken of 
 to Alicia as his ecclesiastical smile. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Frensham," he said. "Pardon me. I 
 have a case in the village where your help would be 
 most useful. It's poor Mrs. Neale. Bronchitis again, 
 you know." 
 
 "Thank you," said Alicia. "I will go this afternoon. 
 It's hard on her with all those children." 
 
 The Vicar hesitated. 
 
 "May I come in for a few minutes? I see you have 
 David Heath there. I should like to congratulate him." 
 
 David cursed him and his desire to congratulate. 
 
 "Oh, do come in," said Alicia. "David has been 
 telling me great news. May I make it public, David?" 
 
 David grunted with a surliness that surprised Alicia, 
 and she wondered at the scowl on his face. As the 
 Vicar went round to the door she whispered, "Have I 
 been indiscreet?" 
 
 "I don't see what interest he has in my private af- 
 fairs!" said David. Then seeing that she took his 
 displeasure seriously he smoothed the knot from his 
 forehead and made apology. 
 
 114
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 115 
 
 "Forgive me ... I'm a brute!" 
 
 The Vicar came in, taking off his wide-brimmed hat. 
 He did not shake hands with David, but in his cold 
 polite way, looking at Alicia and avoiding the eyes of 
 her guest, he expressed his gratification that "Mr. 
 Heath had done so well at Oxford." He hesitated 
 again, putting his face forward to smell the flowers. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "that our young friend will 
 not rest on his laurels in Long Stretton?" 
 
 David Heath resented that term of "our young 
 friend." His brows lowered over his eyes and his 
 mouth drooped at the corners. Alicia, who had waited 
 to give him a chance of answering, darted a quick 
 glance at him and became a little frightened as to what 
 David might say. But David said nothing, as was his 
 habit, when not in congenial company, having the 
 great gift of silence. 
 
 "I have been telling him," said Alicia, "that Long 
 Stretton is proud of him, but must not keep him." 
 
 "No," said the Vicar, "we must not keep him." 
 
 To himself he thought that the sooner this young 
 bear left the village the better it would be. Through 
 the open window he had seen the clasp of hands, and 
 it had filled him with a sense of alarm and anger. 
 Surely Alicia would not throw herself away on this 
 surly giant. God had destined her for higher things. 
 
 He watched Alicia as she moved across the room to 
 chirrup to the linnet which hung in a cage by the 
 window, and the spiritual beauty of the woman, her 
 quiet grace, appealed almost painfully to his imagina-
 
 116 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 tion. If only he could make her see the beneficent 
 authority of his Church! 
 
 "I hear there is an assistant-mastership vacant at 
 Holmwood School," he said. "If Mr. Heath would 
 accept my influence " 
 
 "Oh, that is kind of you," said Alicia. "But David 
 would never make a schoolmaster. He would never 
 put up with the pettiness of a county boarding schooL 
 I am sure he would be rude to the wife of the Head 
 and that would be fatal to promotion!" 
 
 She laughed across at David, and as he met her eyes 
 he joined in her laughter, and thrust back his ill-temper 
 at the Vicar's interruption. 
 
 Mr. Cartwright looked straight down his nose at 
 Alicia's last words. 
 
 "I was a schoolmaster once, yet I did not realise 
 the pettiness of my life, nor intrigue with the head- 
 master's lady." 
 
 "You must not take me seriously," said Alicia 
 hastily, seeing that she had hurt the Vicar's pride, and 
 always quickly remorseful that she should give pain to 
 any sensitive soul. "There is nothing nobler than teach- 
 ing. In a humble little way I am a teacher myself, and 
 very, very proud of that. But I meant that David is 
 too big, too strong in a sense, to deal with boys. I 
 think he would be more successful with men." 
 
 The Vicar recovered his equanimity. 
 
 "He has a heavy hand, I admit," he said, smiling. 
 "He could knock them into shape."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 117 
 
 It was curious how they spoke of David in the third 
 person, as if he was not present in the flesh. 
 
 "I hope I shall not use physical force." David, with 
 a deep note of laughter, took part in the conversation 
 for the first time, to the good pleasure of Alicia, who 
 threw him a glance of thanks. Then he told the Vicar 
 of his offer. 
 
 Mr. Cartwright was taken aback. 
 
 "Master of Erasmus Hall! You!" His surprise 
 broke down his usual courtesy. It seemed to him in- 
 credible that the village youth should step straight into 
 such a position. Surely it was rather preposterous. 
 
 "It is a great opportunity," said David humbly, 
 speaking to Alicia rather than to the clergyman. "I 
 know that I am hardly equal to the task." 
 
 "You were born for it," said Alicia decidedly. "You 
 are the one man in the world for it." 
 
 "Accept my congratulations," said the Vicar. So 
 David would not be long in the village! He was glad 
 of that, at any rate. 
 
 "Thanks," said David briefly. 
 
 The Vicar got up to go, but there was a fresh invasion 
 of Alicia's garden, and the voices of the Wingfield ladies 
 could be heard outside. Alicia darted up and went to 
 the door, and as she opened it David saw that the two 
 ladies were accompanied by Stretton Wingfield. 
 
 "My dear," said Miss Agnes in her high, silvery 
 voice, "forgive us this intrusion, we have been down to 
 Jonathan Heath's. Miss Cecily and I wished to ex-
 
 118 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 press our pride in dear Mr. David's success. Finding 
 that he had come here, we followed." 
 
 As David rose the little lady took his hands and 
 pressed them with gracious affection. 
 
 "Well done!" she said; "well done!" 
 
 Miss Cecily also uttered her felicitations, though 
 more shyly. "What a handsome young man he is," 
 she thought. 
 
 "Mr. Stretton explained what high honours you have 
 carried away from Oxford," said Miss Agnes. "We 
 hardly realised it before. It is a great thing for Long 
 Stretton." 
 
 She turned with a little cry of pleasure, seeing the 
 Vicar, and Alicia's small room was noisy with the 
 chatter of the two ladies and with Alicia's own laughter 
 and gaiety. 
 
 Stretton Wingfield was the only silent one, for even 
 David found himself obliged to answer the many ques- 
 tions and congratulations of the two ladies. Between 
 Stretton and Alicia there had been a swift glance of 
 greeting and a smile. Then Alicia with heightened 
 colour had dropped her eyes before his and turned 
 nervously to answer Miss Agnes. David had not 
 caught the meeting of eyes, but he noticed that no 
 words passed between Stretton and Alicia, and that in- 
 deed Alicia seemed to avoid this visitor. He was glad. 
 He had an instinctive dislike to this well-dressed man of 
 the town. 
 
 Stretton, who had put his cap on the table, and had
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 119 
 
 sat down quietly, chirruping a little to the bird above 
 his head, looked round the room. Every detail of it 
 was familiar to him. But was it possible that he had 
 only left it in the dawn of this very day? What would 
 his aunts and the Vicar and David say if they knew 
 that he had been here through half the night? He 
 smiled at the thought. It was a pretty secret! And 
 he was on the same chair where he had sat for hours 
 with Alicia's head nestled against his knees. His eyes 
 sped swiftly to her. How alluring she looked this 
 morning, flushed with the excitement of her company! 
 It must not be long before they were alone together! 
 Alicia had taught him the meaning of love. He had 
 played with it before, and believed that he possessed it 
 Now he knew better. Love was not a fitful flame, 
 blowing hot and cold. It was the poetry of the soul, 
 chaste and pure. Alicia had baptised him in a new 
 spirit. What a fool he had been in the past, what a 
 weak passionate fool I 
 
 "My dear, how glad you must be to have David 
 back." It was Aunt Cecily speaking in a low voice 
 to Alicia in the window corner. "Yes," said Alicia, 
 "I am glad." 
 
 Aunt Cecily patted her on the hand. 
 
 "One day you will have a pretty story for us!" 
 
 She smiled meaningly and glanced at David, who 
 was talking to Miss Agnes. Alicia followed her glance, 
 and a look of surprise and then of alarm came into her 
 eyes, while a flush of colour swept into her face.
 
 120 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "What nonsense!" she said in a low voice. "How 
 can you, Miss Cecily?" 
 
 The maiden lady smiled upon her with twinkling 
 eyes. 
 
 "We shall see what we shall see!" 
 
 Stretton caught some of these words, and guessed 
 at the rest. He could smile now at Aunt Cecily's suspi- 
 cions. They gave him no twinge of jealousy. On the 
 contrary, he felt a sudden glow of friendship towards 
 David. "Poor devil!" he thought. "Poor devil!" 
 
 David was the first to break up the small party, and 
 after renewed congratulations from the company which 
 caused him some embarrassment, he strode out of the 
 cottage. Alicia; walked with him to the gate, the others 
 following into the garden to see the flowers and Alicia's 
 beehive. 
 
 "You will not be foolish now? You will accept your 
 good fortune?" 
 
 She spoke in her usual tone, though Aunt Cecily's 
 words made her feel embarrassed for the first time in 
 David's presence. 
 
 "I will take your advice," said David, "now as al- 
 ways." 
 
 She gave him her hand at the gate, and he noticed 
 how cold it was. 
 
 "I will come to the forge to-morrow," she said. "We 
 will have another talk." 
 
 "Yes, do. I want to tell you something else to-
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 121 
 
 There was surprise in her face as she looked up at 
 him. 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 Then something in his eyes frightened her, and she 
 turned and ran quickly back to the Wingfields.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THAT evening David and Jonathan sat talking long 
 over their pipes, talking with long silences between the 
 words. David for the first time spoke of his love for 
 Alicia, of the ambition that had burnt in his heart these 
 three years and more. He had spoken bluntly, hiding 
 his emotion, as men do in these matters, and especially 
 to a father. He had expected some expression of aston- 
 ishment, but the secret, it seemed, was no secret. 
 
 "I knew it, Davy," said Jonathan, blowing out a 
 long puff of smoke. "It's no news to me, lad." 
 
 "And what d'you think of it, father? Do you think 
 I'm mad to dream of her?" 
 
 Jonathan smoked on for a minute before answering. 
 
 "I reckon you are mad," he said; then, with just the 
 flicker of a smile, "Love is all madness, for it makes 
 men do things that are above them, beyond their 
 strength as it might be according to the flesh. Now 
 when I first met your mother I remember I carried that 
 anvil across the shed as if it were no more than a 
 feather-weight, while she looked on with wide-open 
 eyes as though 'twere a miracle; and so it was: I 
 could never do it again without two men's help. But 
 
 that day when she first sat here I did it out of silly 
 
 122
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 123 
 
 pride in my strength, and that was madness and 
 love." 
 
 He fell into silence again, and then lit another pipe. 
 
 "When you went to Oxford I reckon you lifted 
 heavier weights than most sane men. 'Twas love 
 that partly gave you strength to beat the best brains of 
 England. I knowed it all along, Davy." 
 
 "Does she guess?" 
 
 "No," said Jonathan. Then after another pause: 
 "I don't think she has a notion. Yet all the same she 
 loves you well, does Alicia. When you go to her, lad, 
 she'll be fair surprised to find that she's been so igno- 
 rant of what was in her all the time. It's like a bit of 
 iron that has a lot o' latent heat afore the hammer 
 strikes it." 
 
 "I'm afraid to say anything. I had no idea I was 
 such a coward ! " 
 
 "Don't use the word," said Jonathan. "I hate it." 
 
 "You see, father, if she said no, where should I be? 
 Darkness! It would' be the death of me." 
 
 "You'll be a man whatever happens," said Jonathan. 
 "I trust you for that, Davy. Don't fret. No good 
 ever came of that! Miss Alicia will not refuse the 
 only man as could give her happiness and that's 
 yourself." 
 
 "Ah, you think the world is a ball at my feet!" said 
 David, sending a smile over to his father. 
 
 "And so 'tis." 
 
 This talk, and his father's perfect confidence in 
 Alicia's good sense, as he called it, filled David with
 
 124 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 a hopefulness that no doubts could stifle. He felt 
 elated in spirit above the world's clay. His soul sang 
 within him, though he sat smoking quietly as though 
 he had not a seething cauldron in his heart. As the 
 clock struck twelve Jonathan got up and knocked the 
 ashes from his pipe. 
 
 "Time to be abed, sonny!" 
 
 He held out his hand for a good-night grip. In 
 the earlier days when David was a boy he used to 
 kiss this iron hand when saying good-night, and now 
 after many years something moved him to bend his 
 head and put his lips to it. 
 
 "You've been a brave father to me. I owe all I 
 have to you, dad." 
 
 Jonathan gripped his son's hand harder. 
 
 "We've been good friends, laddie good friends. 
 God be praised!"
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 AN hour after he had gone to bed David put on an 
 old straw hat and went quietly out of doors. If Jona- 
 than heard him he would not be surprised. He gener- 
 ally took a nightly prowl before turning in. 
 
 The moon was high again and it was a silver night. 
 David plunged down the lane towards the river and 
 walked quickly along the path that meandered by the 
 bank, sometimes leaving the stream to strike through 
 the heart of an arrow wood, and then returning again 
 to the water's edge. For a time his brain had been 
 hot and excited, but presently the cool night breeze 
 calmed him, and in the silence of the woods, and there 
 in the dim aisle where the moonlight filtered only 
 faintly through the entangled foliage, he regained a 
 peace of soul in which he could think reasonably and 
 normally. After all, his father was right. He must 
 not play the coward. He must be a man whatever 
 happened! And surely Alicia had to-day revealed her 
 heart to him. Surely she was too good to play with a 
 man's soul . . . and she must have seen that his soul 
 was subject to her. 
 
 He took off his hat and gazed bareheaded down to 
 the bright moon that floated through a drift of snow- 
 clouds in the reflection of the quiet water. He uttered 
 
 125
 
 126 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 a secret prayer of thanksgiving to the Fate which had 
 given him such a hope of happiness. He was unworthy 
 of such a blessed life as he would have with Alicia. 
 He knew his own faults his silent nature, the shyness 
 that checked the slightest outward sign of sentiment, 
 the evidence of peasant up-bringing that no years at 
 Oxford could ever hide away, the inner self-confidence 
 that in spite of shyness gave him a certain intellectual 
 arrogance and pride, a touch of brutality that came 
 out sometimes in moments of passion and ill-temper. 
 But with Alicia he would mould himself into a nobler 
 shape, and he would be humble under her instruction. 
 In the mirror of the stream he saw her face smiling to 
 him, mistily. . . . 
 
 David was startled from his thoughts by two figures 
 who came walking slowly along the river's bank, from 
 out the trees which filled an angle made by the sudden 
 bend of the stream. They were walking as country 
 lovers do, with an arm round the other's waist and the 
 girl's head inclining to the-shoulder of her lad. David 
 smiled to himself, feeling a kind of friendliness to those 
 two young people who were defying all the laws of 
 village propriety by "walking out" at this hour of the 
 night. They were happy with each other, and the 
 world might sleep or wake for all they cared ! Perhaps 
 he and they were the only mortals out of bed in Long 
 Stretton at that time. 
 
 He drew back into the darkness of the wood that 
 margined the river path. He of all men at that moment 
 would not disturb the harmony of this lovers' walk!
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 127 
 
 The couple came nearer, and the moonlight shone 
 full on the faces of Alicia and Stretton Wingfield. 
 Stretton's head was bent down to the woman whose 
 face pressed against his shoulder, and he spoke low 
 words to her. 
 
 And to David who saw them, there, passing before 
 him, it was as if hell itself mocked at him. 
 
 He uttered the strangled cry of an animal in pain, 
 and staggered back against a bramble bush, grasping 
 the thorns, which pierced his hands. 
 
 "What is that?" said Stretton, stopping a moment 
 to listen. 
 
 "It sounded like some poor beast caught in a trap," 
 said Alicia. They stayed listening for a few seconds, 
 but hearing nothing more went on again, Alicia press- 
 ing closer to Stretton, who had his arm about her.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 STRETTON WINGFIELD had overslept himself two 
 mornings running, and his aunts were getting anxious 
 as to his health. They held private consultations on 
 the subject, and agreed that "the poor boy," as they 
 called him, must have been sadly overworked in town. 
 Miss Agnes begged him to go to bed earlier. 
 
 "It is not," she said, "that I object to your coming 
 down late to breakfast, dear Stretton though it is true 
 that Blinkworthy grumbles a little and Mrs. Hibbert 
 is sadly put out by having to cook a second meal. I 
 have told them, however, that as my nephew and guest 
 your comfort must be considered above the usual 
 rules of our household. Believe me, I have no com- 
 plaint to make on that score. But for your own sake 
 I do venture to remind you that the early hours of 
 the night are always most restful for the brain and 
 body." 
 
 "My dear Aunt," said Stretton, who had strolled 
 down at eleven, "I am really tremendously sorry to 
 cause all this trouble. But, you see, habit is stronger 
 than nature, and for years I have never been to bed 
 before one o'clock. I couldn't go to sleep, I assure 
 you." 
 
 128
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 129 
 
 "My dear boy!" said his aunt. "Surely you can 
 break yourself of a bad habit?" 
 
 "Too old to try," said Stretton good-temperedly. 
 "But I really will endeavour to struggle to bed at a 
 more respectable hour. I know how it must shock 
 your country ways." 
 
 "What time did you go to bed last night?" said 
 his aunt. "I did not hear you come upstairs." 
 
 Stretton knocked the top off an egg, and sprinkled 
 the yolk with salt. "We don't get eggs like this in 
 town," he said with sudden enthusiasm. 
 
 "Ah!" said Miss Agnes, falling into the booby trap. 
 "We country people do have some advantages. I shall 
 never forget an egg I tasted at your father's house 
 thirty years ago. 'Rupert,' I said, sadly impolite I fear, 
 'this egg has a most peculiar flavour!' 'Ah,' said your 
 father, refusing as usual to take anything seriously, 
 'it was laid by a hen of genius, and genius, dear Agnes, 
 as you have so frequently observed regarding myself, 
 is always eccentric ! ' ' 
 
 "Poor old governor!" said Stretton. "That was just 
 like him." 
 
 He launched his aunt on other conversational topics, 
 away from the inconvenient subject of his late hours. 
 It would never do for her to know that the first glamour 
 of dawn was in the sky when he had unlocked the gate 
 in the garden wall on his way to bed. He had had a 
 perilous encounter at that hour which still made his 
 nerves jump at the thought of it. He had been pouring 
 himself out a glass of port wine in the dining-room as
 
 130 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 stealthily as any thief, for fear of disturbing the house- 
 hold, when his hand had knocked against a brass tray, 
 sending it with a clatter to the polished oak floor. 
 
 He swore softly, bending to pick the thing up, almost 
 as much panic-stricken as if he were indeed a thief with 
 a fear of penal servitude as a consequence of his care- 
 lessness. A moment later the dining-room door creaked 
 and then opened slowly. 
 
 "Who's that?" said Stretton, in a quaking voice, 
 expecting to see one of his aunts, and preparing a 
 plausible explanation of his actions. 
 
 But it was Blinkworthy. The old man had come 
 down in his night-gown with a poker in his hand. His 
 withered old legs were bare to the knees, and the candle 
 he held high in his other hand, which trembled violently 
 so that the flame flickered to and fro, glistened brightly 
 on his bald head. 
 
 "Good Lord, Mr. Stretton!" said the old man. "I 
 thought 'twas a burglar. Whatever be you a-doing?" 
 
 "Got a raging toothache," said Stretton, catching 
 hold of a handy lie. "Couldn't bear it any longer, so 
 I came down to get some wine." 
 
 "Haven't you been to bed yet?" said Blinkworthy, 
 eyeing him suspiciously. 
 
 "No, I've been pacing up and down like a wild 
 beast." 
 
 Stretton burst out into a chuckle of laughter and sat 
 back in a chair. 
 
 "Blinkworthy, you're the funniest old sight! For
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 131 
 
 heaven's sake get back to bed, man, and cover up 
 those legs. You'll catch your death of cold." 
 
 "Like enough," said the old man severely; "but I 
 had my duty to your aunts, sir." 
 
 "Well, don't tell them about this adventure." 
 "I never keep anything back from them." 
 Blinkworthy intended to show this young man that 
 his fidelity was not to be tampered with. 
 
 "What!" said Stretton. "You'll tell them? Then, 
 by Gad, I'll give them a description of you in your 
 night-gown! You'll never be able to look them in the 
 face again, Blinkworthy!" 
 
 "Good Lord, Master Stretton!" said the old man, 
 frightened at this awful threat. "I beg of you not to 
 hold me up to ridicule." 
 
 "Ay, and I'll tell Mrs. Hibbert, too." 
 "Oh, Mr. Stretton, I trust you are joking." 
 Blinkworthy was now thoroughly alarmed. 
 "Well, we'll strike a bargain. Don't tell them about 
 my toothache you know how they would worry, don't 
 you? and I'll not breathe a word about those bare 
 legs of yours." 
 
 The bargain was struck, and Blinkworthy con- 
 descended to drink a glass of port. But he insisted 
 that Stretton should precede him upstairs. 
 
 He also had grave suspicions of a young man who 
 did not go to bed till the dawn. He wondered whether 
 some village girl . . . well, well, young men who came 
 down from London were not to be trusted from all he 
 had heard tell.
 
 132 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Stretton breathed a sigh of relief when the old man 
 had gone back to his room and shut his door. "I'm 
 glad I frightened him," he thought. "He is sensitive 
 about those legs of his ... and no wonder in a house- 
 hold of elderly ladies, with strict notions of propriety!" 
 
 Stretton had received a solemn wink from him as he 
 brought in the late breakfast. The old fellow was to be 
 trusted, he felt sure, and he was glad of it, because he 
 did not want any awkward discovery which would com- 
 promise Alicia. As yet his aunts had not a notion that 
 anything was "going on" between him and their pro- 
 tegee. He must keep the secret at all costs. Even 
 Alicia agreed that it was advisable not to tell the old 
 ladies yet. Though she hated secrecy, she recognised 
 the force of his requests that with his political cam- 
 paign in front of him he could not settle down in town 
 with her, or elsewhere, and that until then the ladies 
 should not be confided in. They had all the traditions 
 of caste, and Stretton knew well that with all their 
 graciousness and charming amiability to Alicia, they 
 would never regard her as a match for the heir to 
 Stretton Hall. He hinted this to her, and she did not 
 shirk the truth of it. 
 
 "Your aunts are very fond of me, and I love them 
 this side of idolatry. But they do not look upon me as 
 a social equal. Their condescension is sweet and 
 gracious, but it is the old-fashioned idea of noblesse 
 oblige. Oh, I know that well, and it does not hurt me 
 in the least; it just amuses me." 
 
 Stretton was indeed in an awkward position. His
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 133 
 
 aunts allowed him three hundred a year, and now, at 
 this important period of his career, he could not afford 
 to relinquish his income. 
 
 "I am sometimes afraid I shall offend them by tak- 
 ing the wrong side in politics," Stretton had told 
 Alicia as they had walked hand-in-hand through the 
 woods last night. "But probably they will not pay 
 much attention to that, as they live so much out of 
 the world, and do not understand or pay the slightest 
 attention to the political situation. But we must keep 
 our secret from them, Alicia. It's a wretched thing, 
 but I cannot do without their allowance yet awhile. 
 So we must not risk a quarrel." 
 
 This had frightened Alicia. 
 
 "Stretton," she said, her hand trembling upon his 
 arm, "do not let me jeopardise your career. Your 
 love is very precious to me. But I would rather oh, 
 ever so much rather! have it as a beautiful dream, as 
 a spiritual reality, than that I should drag you down. 
 That would only make me hate myself." 
 
 He had soothed her with tender words and brave 
 assurance. There was no question of dragging him 
 down. She had already lifted him up to great heights 
 of joy. In her love the base metal of his nature had 
 been transmuted into something nearer gold. For the 
 first time in his life, he told her, he felt that there was 
 something higher than self-seeking. The scales had 
 fallen from his eyes when they had met her shining 
 vision, and he had seen, now, that ambition was a poor
 
 134 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 sordid thing unless its object was to serve a cause or 
 a nation with self-sacrifice. 
 
 "You shall be my inspiration, my Egeria," he had 
 said, his imagination aglow with an enthusiasm that 
 was new to him, and with a sincerity to which he 
 yielded with a passionate pleasure, finding an infinite 
 refreshment and hopefulness in having, for once check- 
 mated the little devils who had so often sat grinning in 
 his soul when he had been moved by sentiment. "I 
 do not speak idly, Alicia, or indulge in high-falutin 
 phrases of old love tales" (in this he deceived himself 
 a little, for his language was exotic at times and echoed 
 the Elizabethan poets), "but you are now my North 
 Star, and without you I should go astray across the 
 dark waters." 
 
 Alicia had in her simple way gone. back to the prac- 
 tical point of their argument. 
 
 "I am not one of those women," she said, "who think 
 that marriage must always be the condition of love. 
 There would be more love in the world, and happier 
 women, if men were not bound down at once by legal 
 documents and religious ceremony. That is mere self- 
 ishness on the women's part. It is not right that they 
 should spoil a man's career because they are impatient 
 at once for home life, beautiful vision as it is to us 
 lonely ones. If you leave me for ten years, Stretton, 
 1 will wait, and wait ever so patiently, so long as I 
 know that our souls have not been separated." 
 
 "It's dangerous doctrine," said Stretton honestly, 
 though her words eased him of a growing anxiety.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 135 
 
 "Most men need binding down. We are such selfish 
 and careless brutes. You see the woman who allows 
 her lover liberty is herself bound down ... if they 
 have been intimate in love." 
 
 "How?" said Alicia. 
 
 "What if she has children?" 
 
 "Oh, then," said Alicia eagerly, "then surely she can 
 be more patient in waiting. Then, indeed, it is not 
 waiting, but the most precious possession." 
 
 "But why should there be any waiting . . . any sepa- 
 ration? Why not marriage in the normal way?" 
 
 Stretton put this question bluntly, though inwardly 
 he was afraid of the subject. But he must sound the 
 depths of Alicia's soul. This was a problem in which 
 they were both vitally interested, and there must be 
 no disguise. 
 
 "Surely there are many cases," said Alicia quietly, 
 "where the man must not be fettered too soon by the 
 ties of domestic life. Perhaps he is a soldier who is 
 ordered abroad, or a traveller who is called into wild 
 places. Perhaps he has to keep a father or a mother 
 whom he has no right to desert in the loneliness of 
 their old age. Perhaps he is a writer who needs solitude 
 to find his genius. Then . . . there is your own case." 
 
 "Ah!" said Stretton thoughtfully, "there is my own 
 case." 
 
 To himself he thought, "Good God! how the woman 
 gives herself into my hands!" And, though it made 
 his path smooth before him, he had a secret loathing 
 for himself for not resisting her arguments. In all
 
 136 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 honour he should guard her against herself. He was 
 silent, utterly perplexed by Alicia's philosophy of life, 
 by his own secret consciousness that it was a false and 
 dangerous philosophy . . . however sweet, however con- 
 venient to his own career. 
 
 Alicia laughed shyly, becoming self-conscious after 
 an argument which had been mainly theoretical to her, 
 though not to him. 
 
 "Why should you cross-question me like any devil's 
 advocate? I am merely quoting your own opinions as 
 you put them in your last book. Have you forgotten 
 that?" 
 
 "I wrote many foolish things in that utterly stupid 
 novel." 
 
 Stretton spoke almost savagely. The truth was that 
 Alicia's words had disconcerted him in an extraordinary 
 way. The sins of passion, done in mere passion, seemed 
 to him more decent and respectable than this philoso- 
 phy calmly preached by a pure woman. He saw it in 
 all its hideousness, knowing men and his own soul bet- 
 ter than Alicia did, who was ignorant of both. Yes, he 
 had written such things in his novel, and now he saw 
 his frightful insincerity. The temptation of the devil 
 himself could not be more appalling than the easy way 
 of betrayal offered to him in all purity by the most 
 chaste woman he had ever known. 
 
 Who could resist the seductive sweetness? Not 
 Stretton Wingfield, who had never made a habit of 
 resisting.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 137 
 
 Alicia asked what time he would be at her cottage 
 that evening. 
 
 "Do you think I ought to come?" said Stretton, 
 knowing in his heart that whether he ought or ought 
 not, he could not keep away from the house where he 
 had played knight-errant to Alicia's fairy princess. 
 
 "Why not?" said Alicia in surprise, and then added 
 quickly, "Oh ... I am selfish. . . . You have work to do, 
 and I cannot have you every night." 
 
 "Good heavens, no!" said Stretton. "I shall do no 
 work while I am down here. . . . But ... I am afraid of 
 compromising you." 
 
 "Yes," said Alicia. "We must be careful for your 
 sake. But after twelve there is no risk. Every soul 
 in the place is snoring by that time." 
 
 "But is it right?" said Stretton. "Is it right, my 
 love?" 
 
 "If I am your love, it is right, Stretton," said Alicia 
 quietly. She leant her head upon his shoulder. "You 
 do not want me to doubt your love?" she asked, as 
 though she could doubt that the moon were above them 
 though its light lapped their feet rather than 
 Stretton's sincerity. 
 
 He answered her with low and passionate words. It 
 was then that they had been startled by the strange 
 noise in the wood which Alicia had said was the cry 
 of an animal caught in a trap.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THAT afternoon, after the children had left school 
 and when Alicia was home again sitting at her lonely 
 tea, there came a knock at the door. She knew it was 
 not David, though she had half expected him, because 
 he used the knocker with a hammer-and-anvil stroke, 
 which could not be mistaken. Her thoughts flew to 
 Stretton. "How rash! How rash of him!" she 
 whispered, seeing that it was still some hours before 
 the darkness, when he might come to her without fear 
 of village gossip. But when she went to the door it was 
 not Stretton, but the Vicar. He did not often come to 
 her cottage, except when there was sickness in the vil- 
 lage and he needed her help. This, no doubt, was the 
 explanation of his visit now, and she asked him who 
 was ill. 
 
 "No one," he said, somewhat nervously, she thought, 
 glancing past her into the room, "unless it is myself," 
 he added. 
 
 "Are you unwell?" asked Alicia, with quick con- 
 cern. "Can I do anything for you?" 
 
 "Perhaps you can." 
 
 Then he said with more composure, taking a seat 
 while she still stood, "There is nothing much the matter 
 with me. I am a little overwrought, that is all." He 
 
 138
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 139 
 
 passed a thin hand over his high forehead. "It is so 
 refreshing to have a quiet talk with you now and again. 
 My conversation is chiefly restricted to inquiring into 
 old women's ailments or listening to the domestic griev- 
 ances of ignorant yokels. 'Parish poking' is not the 
 most intellectual of pursuits." 
 
 "No," said Alicia. "I often marvel at your patience." 
 
 "Not that I complain, God forbid! I try to do 
 my duty by my poor people. But you understand, to 
 a man who has some reminiscences of scholarship and 
 has a larger life in the past, the society of village folk 
 is not altogether soul-satisfying! " 
 
 Alicia could understand. She also fretted some- 
 times against the narrow cage of life. 
 
 "Of course, it has its value," said the Vicar, speak- 
 ing, as usual, a monologue rather than taking part in a 
 conversation. "It thrusts a man back upon himself 
 and enables him to live the inner life. Even the pagan 
 Marcus Aurelius saw, as well as Thomas a Kempis, 
 that the empire of the soul was of more importance 
 than the pomp and vanity of the court or the dominion 
 of the world. After all, we who live in the village have 
 opportunities denied to those who are in the whirlpool 
 of great cities. They rub shoulders with many people 
 and fritter away their time in small pleasures and small 
 talk, but we, in solitude, may learn at least to know 
 ourselves, and the human heart which is in us. That 
 is the deeper knowledge, and most profitable." 
 
 Alicia smiled to herself at his inconsistency begin- 
 ning with a grievance and ending with self-satisfaction.
 
 140 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 She wondered, too, why he should come to plunge into 
 a philosophical discussion in this unusual way. She 
 glanced at the clock. It would be awkward if Stretton 
 came before his time! 
 
 But argument was a weakness with her, and she took 
 up his challenge. 
 
 "I am not sure that those who live in solitude, as 
 you say, do know their own soul, or, if so, whether it 
 is worth knowing. Self-consciousness so often breeds 
 a morbid view of things, and even the peace which 
 comes from cultivating 'the inner life' may often be 
 self-complacency at one's virtues and narrow princi- 
 ples." 
 
 "Do you think so?" said the Vicar, shifting in his 
 seat uneasily, as if her words had stung him a little. 
 
 "Well," said Alicia, less dogmatically, "I am per- 
 sonally so ignorant of the world, of humanity in 
 crowded places, that I would barter some of my soli- 
 tude for a wider experience. One needs, I think, to be 
 jostled and elbowed before retiring into the desert. I 
 do not agree with the hermit ideal. Some of the saints 
 seem to me to have been so anxious to know their own 
 souls that they were utterly careless of other people's 
 needs! Oh, I am sure solitude is an overrated thing!" 
 
 "Then you agree that it is not good for man to live 
 alone?" 
 
 The Vicar leant forward and spoke eagerly, as if 
 some issue of his own fate hung upon her answer. 
 
 Alicia laughed, not noticing his anxious look. 
 
 "I am sure it is not good for women to live alone."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 141 
 
 "Ah! "said the Vicar. 
 
 He sank back in his chair and his eyes studied the 
 carpet, as if searching for something. 
 
 "There was a time," he went on seriously, "when 
 I believed firmly in the ideal of a celibate clergy. As 
 an Anglican, I held that a priest should live solitary 
 without the cares of wife and children without the 
 joys of home-life devoting himself solely to the cause 
 of his Church and to the service of God. 
 
 "It is a false ideal," said Alicia in her decided way. 
 "No man should be denied his manhood. To bring 
 children into the world is God's law to humanity. No 
 man or woman has lived a whole and complete life 
 until he, or she, has obeyed this natural and divine com- 
 mand. I believe that with absolute faith!" 
 
 The Vicar searched her face with his eyes, and into 
 his own eyes there leapt a sudden look of hunger and 
 appeal. 
 
 He flushed deeply and then became paler than usual. 
 It was evident to Alicia that he was strangely excited, 
 and a thought that flashed into her mind caused her a 
 sudden panic. 
 
 "Perhaps," said the Vicar, twisting his hands nerv- 
 ously, "perhaps you rather wonder at my visit to- 
 night. I came to ask you something that for many 
 weeks I have been urged to ask." 
 
 "What is that, Mr. Cartwright?" said Alicia, now 
 thoroughly scared by his manner and words. 
 
 "I ask you to be my wife," said the Vicar. "I can-
 
 142 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 not conceal my love for you. It is a passion that is 
 a torture to me." 
 
 Alicia rose and dropped her needlework. There was 
 a hint of anger and even of scorn in her voice as she 
 answered him. 
 
 "It is a strange confession of love that it tortures 
 you!" 
 
 The Vicar held out his hand with a gesture of appeal 
 that touched her a little. 
 
 "Pray do not misunderstand me. When I say that 
 my love for you is a torture, I mean that it has caused 
 me a severe spiritual conflict. I recognise now that my 
 ideals of celibacy are, as you say, false ideals, and the 
 struggle between a new revelation and old convictions 
 is always painful. I beg you to believe, Miss Alicia, 
 that I love you with a single and pure heart." 
 
 Alicia was utterly perplexed as to a reply. 
 
 "I like to be loved," she said at last, simply enough. 
 "I have had too little love in my life . . . but ... I 
 cannot be your wife, Mr. Cartwright." 
 
 He did not seem to heed her, but went on talking 
 with his eyes studying the carpet again. 
 
 "I believe we should be very happy together. I 
 would endeavour to make you happy, and you would 
 be a good clergyman's wife. I have every confidence 
 that you would share my labours. Perhaps you still 
 have some doubts about the fundamental truths of 
 Christianity. I would remove them." 
 
 Alicia smiled at this characteristic speech. In her 
 rather hysterical mood, startled as she was by this
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 143 
 
 extraordinary interview, she had to hold herself in 
 check to prevent the laughter or the tears that would 
 have given her relief. 
 
 "You are very good . . . but I really cannot be your 
 wife," she said, almost as if she were refusing some 
 favour to a child. 
 
 "Faith, after all," said the Vicar, "is a matter of the 
 will rather than of the intellect, and simple and sincere 
 belief is not incompatible with vague doubts and in- 
 tellectual difficulties." 
 
 He paused, looking at Alicia, and for the first time 
 he seemed to realise that she had refused him. 
 
 "Good heavens!" he said in a strangled voice. "If 
 you do not love me . . . will you not have pity on me? 
 This passion consumes me. I am in hell ! " 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry!" said Alicia, filled now with utter 
 dismay at the abject figure of the man who until to-day 
 had seemed to her so cold and self-contained, passion- 
 less, if any man were so. 
 
 Then her own self-restraint and the knowledge that 
 such weakness was not to be pitied steadied her. 
 
 "Mr. Cartwright," she said quietly, "this passion you 
 talk of is not true love it cannot be. You say you love 
 me yet you know nothing of what I am. There is 
 nothing in common between us nothing!'' 
 
 "I have watched you every day for three years," 
 said the Vicar more quietly, "and I know you are the 
 only woman in the world for me." 
 
 "There are other women," said Alicia, 
 
 He smiled wretchedly.
 
 144 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "I thought yesterday that God had sent us both to 
 Long Stretton for a purpose. I believed that we were 
 destined for each other. Now you ask me to believe 
 that He has sported cruelly with my soul." 
 
 "I don't ask you to believe any such thing," said 
 Alicia. "I do not believe God is so much concerned 
 with you." 
 
 She was sorry immediately for her words, which were 
 more cruel than she had meant. 
 
 He paled and swayed a little as if he had been 
 stabbed. Then he groped for his hat and went towards 
 the door. 
 
 "I see," he said bitterly. "David Heath has been 
 before me." 
 
 He went out and closed the door quietly. All his 
 self-control had returned to him. 
 
 Alicia, standing as he had left her by the side of the 
 table, put her hands to her temples, her face flushing 
 scarlet. 
 
 "David!" she said in a whisper. "Do they think 
 that?"
 
 CHAPTER XVH 
 
 ALICIA called that evening at the forge, as she had 
 promised, but David Heath was out. 
 
 Jonathan met her at the door. 
 
 "I can't think what's come over the lad," he said 
 with a worried look, twisting his leather apron nerv- 
 ously. 
 
 "Do you happen to know?" he said, throwing her a 
 keen glance from under his rugged eyebrows. 
 
 "I?" 
 
 Alicia was surprised. She pondered for a moment, 
 and then flushed uneasily as certain vague thoughts 
 crept out of their hiding places and confronted her with 
 a sudden fear. 
 
 "How should I know?" she added, with just a hint 
 of temper. "What is the matter with him?" 
 
 "The Lord knows! I can't get a word from him. 
 He went out late last night you know his habit and 
 came home as I was just rising in the dawn. He 
 looked scared as if he'd seen a sperrit. When I asked 
 him he said, 'Yes I've been walking wi' ghosts, 
 feyther,' and laughed so that I saw something was 
 wrong. I thought p'r'aps you might know summat." 
 
 He eyed her keenly, almost angrily, and Alicia saw 
 that he suspected her of something. She groped her 
 
 145
 
 146 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 way back to yesterday, wondering if she had said any- 
 thing to hurt David in the afternoon. 
 
 Then she looked honestly at Jonathan, and he could 
 not doubt the truth in her eyes. 
 
 "I have said nothing done nothing. How could I ? 
 You know my love for David?" 
 
 "Ah!" Jonathan looked down at the white dust in 
 the roadway. He was utterly perplexed. If Alicia 
 loved the lad, what was ado with him, then? What 
 had happened in the night that had sent him home 
 with a white haggard face and despairing eyes? 
 
 It was the most frightful shock that Jonathan had 
 had in his life since his wife died in his arms. Getting 
 out of bed at five o'clock, as was his habit in the sum- 
 mer, and throwing back the window curtain to let in 
 the fresh morning air, he had heard a stumbling step 
 on the stairs, and turning, saw his son standing in the 
 doorway. His boots and leggings were white with dust, 
 and his black hair was in wild disorder over a face of 
 deathly pallor. 
 
 "David!" said Jonathan, awakening to a sense of 
 horror, knowing swiftly and instinctively that he was 
 in the presence of some grave catastrophe. "David! 
 . . . What's the matter? where' ve you been?" 
 
 David gave a short grim laugh. 
 
 "I've been in hell, father." 
 
 He passed a trembling hand over his face, and sat 
 down heavily on a bedroom chair. "Don't ask me, 
 father," he said in a tone of infinite weariness. "I'll
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 147 
 
 tell you another time. I've been walking with ghosts 
 this night." He laughed again, weakly. 
 
 "I'm a bit mad, and that's a fact; I've got no pluck. 
 . . . I'm an infernal weakling." 
 
 Jonathan endeavoured to get at the truth in a round- 
 about way, but to no purpose. David talked of having 
 kept company with the devil, which was vague and 
 not illuminating. Then Jonathan put an abrupt ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Have you spoken to Alicia?" 
 
 The words roused David into a sudden passion. 
 
 "Don't, father!" he said, springing up and pacing 
 the floor with drunken steps. "For God's sake! Don't 
 mention her! D'ye hear, father? If you'd have me 
 keep sane, don't speak of her. Oh. . . . Curse him! 
 Curse him!" 
 
 "Him! What him?" said Jonathan. Then with a 
 sudden anger, though he was a patient man, he said, 
 "Have you been drinking, that you treat me like this?" 
 
 "Yes, drinking poison, all through this cursed night!" 
 
 Jonathan was silent. He believed his son to be 
 fever-stricken. 
 
 "I'll get you some coffee," he said simply. 
 
 He went downstairs to the kitchen, and by some 
 strange psychological freak the ticking of the grand- 
 father's clock brought back the memory of the night 
 when his wife had lain upstairs dead and he had 
 warmed some milk here for the child who lay sleeping 
 quietly in his cradle. Superstitious as all countrymen 
 are, Jonathan wondered with a nvrpb terror if David
 
 148 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 now were going to die. He stood listening, but there 
 was not a movement in the bedroom, and only the 
 ticking of the clock sounded, with an unusual noise, in 
 the cottage. Its steady beat excited the blacksmith's 
 nerves, and he strode towards the old grandfather, and 
 fumbling the case open, stopped the pendulum. This 
 brought him a curious sense of relief, and he went 
 quietly to work to brew the coffee. 
 
 David would tell him in good time. He would not 
 fret the lad. Quietly he went upstairs again with the 
 coffee and some bread and butter. 
 
 "You'll be famished," he said. "Warm yourself 
 with this drink." 
 
 David drank his coffee, and it brought a more healthy 
 colour into his face again. 
 
 Thanks, father." 
 
 Jonathan left him alone, and went to the forge ac- 
 cording to his usual habit. Work brought relief to his 
 anxiety, steadying his nerves. Muscular exercise is 
 the best antidote to an aching heart, and as Jonathan 
 swung his hammer, getting into a glow of heat, he grew 
 more cheerful. After all David was not much more 
 than a boy, and in youth the mind, though easily de- 
 pressed, soon recovers its normal poise. And he was a 
 good healthy lad; there was no bad blood in him, thank 
 God! At midday the father and son ate their dinner 
 almost silently. David was gloomy, but his natural 
 appetite asserted itself, and he made a square meal, 
 to the secret joy of his father, who watched each 
 mouthful with increasing satisfaction. Whatever was
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 149 
 
 on David's mind had not affected his body . . . which 
 was something to be thankful for. In the afternoon 
 David shut himself up in his room his own little den 
 which he had had to himself since childhood, and where 
 the first books he had read as a child were ranged by 
 the side of his student books. In the evening he went 
 out after a casual word or two. 
 
 "Don't sit up for me, father." 
 
 All Jonathan's anxiety was revived at the thought of 
 his son wandering again on the Downs or in the lonely 
 woods, wandering with a brain that some blow from 
 without or within had put out of gear. 
 
 "You'll not be long, lad?" There was a touch of 
 fear in his voice that made David's eyes lose some- 
 thing of their gloomy retrospective despair. 
 
 "Don't be scared for me, father. I must walk this 
 humour off. I'm making a fool of myself, I know; 
 but there it is, I can't help it to-day. To-morrow " 
 
 He laughed, as if to-morrow all would be well with 
 the world and God in His heaven but at the end of 
 the laugh there was something like a sob in his throat, 
 and Jonathan knew that David was receiving a baptism 
 of pain. Going back to the forge he groaned aloud, 
 and then prayed inarticulately that his son might pass 
 through the fire unscorched. 
 
 When Alicia had come that evening he was tempted 
 to confide in her. After his first suspicion he regained 
 his old faith in her love for David and in her womanly 
 wisdom. But Alicia denied him the opportunity. Her
 
 150 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 face was rather cold, and she turned with a word of 
 farewell. 
 
 "I must be going back. I hope there is nothing 
 much the matter with David." 
 
 Jonathan watched her down the lane, and then went 
 back with a shake of the head to his workshop.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 DAVID wrestled with himself on the lonely Downs. 
 For twenty-four hours now he had been in agony of 
 spirit, and hardly sane. That sudden vision of Alicia 
 and Stretton Wingfield had snapped something in his 
 brain. He had passed from blind passion to weak 
 tears, tears that moistened the turf upon which he had 
 thrown himself under the stars. Then he had got up 
 numb and cold, walking again with blank despair. 
 This, then, was the end of all his work ! He had been 
 robbed of his love by a stranger, who, in three days, 
 had won easily what he, David, had struggled for and 
 lived for during three years at Oxford, and dreamed of 
 since his boyhood. At times a doubt that perhaps he 
 had been mistaken, that perhaps in the half-darkness 
 he had seen wrongly, tortured him afresh because it 
 revived a hope which in his inner consciousness he 
 knew to be false. Perhaps his excited imagination had 
 given him a stupid vision. Good God! what a fool he 
 would be. ... But no! He had seen clearly in the 
 moonlight Alicia's arm around the man's waist, her 
 head against his shoulder. He had seen more than 
 that ... the look of happiness and love upon her face 
 as it was raised upwards with the pale light on it. 
 There could be no doubt, unless he had been mad. 
 
 151
 
 152 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 He must struggle to face this new fact which had 
 wiped out his old self. Without Alicia as part of his 
 scheme of life he was no longer himself. He was a 
 new man, a stranger with whom he had no acquaint- 
 ance. He must get to know this unknown. He must 
 work out some new scheme . . . without Alicia. He 
 must at least play the man. He must master the fright- 
 ful weakness of passion that was tearing at him and 
 sapping him. In the midst of his abandonment he was 
 ashamed. It was not right for any man to have been 
 so subject to woman's mind, to be the slave even of 
 love. .It was not right! It was utterly and damnably 
 wrong! 
 
 So he argued and fought with himself, incoherently, 
 at times rather madly, and walking as though be- 
 witched, in order to get a grip over the machine, to 
 steady his brain down to a normal pace. 
 
 He must have walked thirty miles, tramping on 
 without a thought of his whereabouts, stumbling down 
 the hollows of the Downs, staggering up to the hills, 
 and striding along their heights like a hag-ridden crea- 
 ture. Twice he passed through a village where not 
 a light glimmered in its windows, though once a blind 
 was drawn and a white face pressed against the window 
 pane to watch his dark figure pass down the street with 
 thudding footsteps. It was in the grey dawn when, 
 with damp hair, and wet with dew to the knees, he 
 came back again to Long Stretton. And then Fate, or 
 God, or perhaps the Spirit of Evil who shall say which 
 or what? brought him face to face with the one fact
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 153 
 
 which, by this time, he had thrust, as a horrid thought 
 to be forgotten, into the dungeons of his brain. 
 
 He passed Alicia's cottage at the corner of the lane 
 leading to his father's shed, or rather he reached it 
 without passing. At the very moment, as in his weak- 
 ness, which he had not quite conquered, he shuddered 
 ever so slightly when his eyes rested on the small 
 house with the garden of flowers, which sent a belt of 
 fragrance across the road, the door opened, and Alicia 
 herself stood under the light of a red lamp. With her 
 in the narrow hall was a man, who stepped down into 
 the darkness of the garden path. 
 
 "Can you see? It is very dark! " 
 
 It was Alicia's voice, low and sweet. 
 
 A man's laughter answered her, not loudly. And 
 David knew it was Stretton. 
 
 "I can't see to the end of my nose. But I can 
 find my way blindfold. Good-night, dear heart!" 
 
 Alicia answered him good-night, and the red light 
 glowing dimly on her showed that she kissed her hand 
 to the darkness. Then she shut the door. 
 
 Stretton stepped out briskly, dark as it was, and 
 his footsteps made a regular beat in the dusty road. 
 Then suddenly he was swung round by some force that 
 leapt at him from the black night. 
 
 He gasped out an oath of terror, startled in his whole 
 being by this sudden and unseen attack. 
 
 David had his shoulder in a clutch of iron. 
 
 "Stretton Wingfield . . . it's I ... David Heath 
 
 You blackguard ! You blackguard ! "
 
 154 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Wingfield was not a coward. In wild places he had 
 been attacked before swiftly and suddenly, once by a 
 human beast, once by a beast not human. His brain 
 cleared swiftly, and his jangled nerves steadied with a 
 sort of psychological click. 
 
 "Get off!" 
 
 He spoke fiercely and swung himself free. 
 
 But David had him now by the throat. 
 
 "What are you doing with Alicia? Tell me, or I'll 
 choke you. . . ." 
 
 Stretton put his fist up, and it struck David's face 
 with the sound of a breaking plank. The blacksmith's 
 son staggered back, an unspoken word rattling in his 
 throat. Then in the darkness he raised his arm swiftly, 
 an arm that since boyhood had swung great hammers, 
 and it struck Stretton senseless in the road.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 IT was one of those actions which a man does perhaps 
 once in a lifetime and remembers eternally surely 
 eternally if the soul is immortal. To David the sight 
 of the dark thing lying stark in the roadway was for 
 more than a moment without meaning. He wondered 
 at it. How did it come there? What had happened? 
 How chilly it was to-night 1 The wind seemed to 
 have changed suddenly. Then he remembered. With 
 the blow all anger, and passion, and doubt had left him. 
 He was sane again. Thank God he was sane! And 
 there was Stretton Wingfield in the roadway . . . per- 
 haps dead. God! Not dead! 
 
 He knelt down, and with steady hands lit a match 
 and held it close to the man's face. A dark little 
 stream trickled down his forehead making a pool in 
 the white dust. David put his ear to Stretton's mouth. 
 God! Not a breath! 
 
 David did not feel any sense of guilt or horror at 
 himself. He only hoped with a great anxiety that the 
 man was not dead. 
 
 Then a thought flashed into his brain and turned him 
 to stone. 
 
 "Alicia loves this man! What would she say if he 
 
 155
 
 156 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 were dead? How Alicia would suffer! He must not 
 die! Good God, no! Good God, no!" 
 
 With extraordinary strength David lifted Stretton 
 up a sheer dead-weight and putting him over one 
 shoulder, staggered down the lane till he came to his 
 father's house and shed. Stumbling across the yard 
 with its litter of scrap-iron he got the door of tht shed 
 open with one heavy kick, and then, almost spent, laid 
 down the body on the floor. The long room was in 
 absolute darkness, and for the first time David felt 
 a fear of the silent body at his feet. Fumbling for a 
 match, he cried out in a strangled voice 
 
 "Father! Father!" 
 
 In a moment there was a heavy thud overhead, and 
 with a shout of "Coming, lad," the blacksmith crashed 
 down the wooden stairs with an oil lamp in his hand. 
 He held it over his head so as to throw its light across 
 the room, and then he saw a picture that made him 
 falter, while the lamp waved wildly for a moment, as 
 though it would fall. On the floor lay what looked too 
 much like a dead body, and David, white as marble, 
 stood above it, haggardly. 
 
 Jonathan put the lamp on the table. "What's this?" 
 he said. 
 
 "It's Stretton Wingfield. I believe I've killed him." 
 
 Jonathan stared at his son in a wondering way. 
 
 "Why did you do it, David?" 
 
 "He spent the night with Alicia." David spoke with 
 the same terrible calm that his father showed. Calm 
 that broods over troubled waters.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 157 
 
 "Spent the night with her?" 
 
 "Yes. She loves him. D'you think he's dead? I 
 hope not." 
 
 But Stretton Wingfield was not dead. Presently, as 
 the two men watched him, he moved his head a little 
 and then flung out an arm, groaning. Jonathan went 
 to the sink, and soaking a cloth, came and wiped the 
 blood off Stretton's face. 
 
 Stretton opened his eyes and watched the two faces 
 above him wonderingly. They stared at him silently. 
 Only the heavy ticking of the grandfather's clock 
 sounded in the room. 
 
 Then after a minute Stretton sat up. 
 
 "Where the devil am I?" 
 
 He put two hands to his head and groaned. Then, 
 staring at David, he remembered. 
 
 "You came near to murder, my friend . . . precious 
 near." 
 
 The two men were still silent, watching him. 
 
 "Why did you do it, eh?" 
 
 "I'm glad I didn't kill you," said David quietly. 
 
 Stretton looked at him with heavy eyes. Then a 
 smile flickered on his white lips. 
 
 "You're a queer sort of brute! D'you often play 
 that game in the dark?" He got no answer, and there 
 was silence again. Stretton took the damp cloth and 
 pressed it to his forehead. 
 
 "Why the devil don't you say something? Can't you 
 take your eyes off me?" 
 
 David breathed heavily. The man's cool courage
 
 158 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 stirred him to something like admiration, and this 
 caused him to hate him all the more. 
 
 "You blackguard. You've got less than you de- 
 served. I give you fair warning ... if you play the 
 knave with Alicia I'll hurt you more than I've done 
 now." 
 
 "Fight in the daylight, you damned coward I It's 
 easy to hit a man down in the dark." 
 
 David flushed deeply at the taunt. 
 
 "I strike a snake when I see it." 
 
 Stretton half rose with a threatening arm, but his 
 head seemed to be crushed by an iron band, and he had 
 to shut his teeth to stop a groan. 
 
 "I got you one on the jaw. That's a comfort, any- 
 how!" 
 
 His eyes burned fiercely at David. 
 
 "We'll finish this fight another time. If you'll meet 
 me at a safe distance from Long Stretton we won't 
 scandalise the village, my friend I'll wipe the floor 
 with you." 
 
 David laughed grimly. 
 
 "I could choke you with two fingers." 
 
 Jonathan broke into this dialogue. 
 
 "Stretton Wingfield, if you're strong enough, I ask 
 you to leave this house o' mine. If you aren't strong 
 enough I'll carry you out . . . and I pray God you may 
 never darken the doors again. What you are doing 
 with Miss Alicia as good a woman as ever stepped 
 rests between you and her and the Almighty. If you 
 injure that woman's soul, 'twere better a millstone were
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 159 
 
 round about your neck. I'll finish what my son has 
 begun. ..." 
 
 Stretton got up from the floor, and leant against the 
 wall. He was faint and sick, but he struggled passion- 
 ately with his weakness. 
 
 "You're a nice pair of murderers! ... As for Alicia, 
 if you bring her name in, it'll be the worse for you." 
 
 He stopped to breathe heavily, then, swaying a little, 
 looked at David, less angrily, and with anxious eyes. 
 
 "I warn you not to hurt Alicia's reputation. If you 
 blab about what you have seen in the village to-night 
 you will quarrel with her as well as me. D'you under- 
 stand that?" 
 
 In spite of his aching head his thoughts were clear 
 enough to see the danger to himself if a word of the 
 night's work leaked out in Long Stretton, and he must 
 shield the girl. 
 
 "Her reputation is safe with me," said David, with 
 a bitter laugh. "It's you that she has to fear." 
 
 Stretton looked at him curiously. 
 
 "Look here," he said, "I don't bear you any grudge 
 for what's happened. I know you love the girl. I'll 
 play straight with you. ... If you'll keep your tongue 
 quiet I'll leave the village to-morrow." 
 
 "What about Alicia?" 
 
 "Ay," said Jonathan. "What about her?" 
 
 "We won't discuss that, my friends." 
 
 "We will discuss it ... by the Lord!" said David 
 passionately. 
 
 Jonathan checked him again.
 
 160 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Hush, my lad! Alicia must look after herself. 
 She is not a child now. We are outside this business. 
 Let the man go, and may he show some spark of con- 
 science." 
 
 Stretton laughed, moving towards the door. 
 
 "Good-night. Remember what I say." 
 
 He staggered and held on to the doorpost. 
 
 "I'd best come with you," said Jonathan. "You're 
 still weak." 
 
 "Thanks. I'll go alone." 
 
 The two men listened to his footsteps stumbling 
 across the courtyard. 
 
 David Heath leant forward over his knees and buried 
 his face in his hands.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 STRETTON WINGFIELD had his faults, but he was not 
 a coward. He came from a fighting stock, and in his 
 adventures had only shown the white feather when 
 strictly necessary to save his skin. Of course, not one 
 of his more remote ancestors would have considered it 
 necessary to save his skin by such a symbol, whatever 
 the situation; but Wingfield, it must be remembered, 
 lived in a common-sense age when life's vital spark is 
 not to be extinguished upon a sentimental issue. It 
 must not therefore be accounted unto him for cowardice 
 that after the episode of last night he was anxious to 
 leave Long Stretton at the earliest moment. He had no 
 physical fear of David Heath, but as he argued to 
 himself in his bedroom, while bathing his head in hot 
 water, it was "devilish awkward" to stay in the same 
 village with a barbarian raging with jealousy and dog- 
 ging the neighbourhood of Alicia's cottage. He already 
 knew their secret. Stretton did not blink at the fact 
 that David had seen him come out of the cottage in 
 the early dawn and had drawn undeniable conclusions. 
 Possibly he would not keep the secret to himself. To 
 keep any secret in a village requires infinite tact, and 
 young Heath seemed to him the most tactless person 
 Stretton had had the misfortune to meet. For Alicia's 
 
 161
 
 162 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 sake as well as for his own he must change his camp. 
 It was seriously of importance that the little aunts 
 should be kept in ignorance of what had passed. He 
 could not do without their contributions to an income 
 already too small for his needs. 
 
 Being a man of quick decision, Stretton acted at 
 once. At breakfast he had three letters and a telegram. 
 The last was from his friend Edward Moorhouse, who 
 wired: "What the blazes are you doing? Can't move 
 without you" It was a good excuse. 
 
 Stretton folded it face downwards on the table and 
 looked across to Miss Cecily, who was pouring out the 
 coffee. It was then eleven o'clock, and both the ladies 
 had had breakfast three hours before, but they liked 
 to sit with Stretton while he had his leisurely meal. 
 
 "I'm sorry, Aunt, I must go to town at once. There's 
 a twelve train, isn't there?" 
 
 Miss Cecily put down a cup hurriedly. 
 
 "Stretton! and I have arranged a garden party this 
 very afternoon in your honour! " 
 
 "Oh, you really cannot go," said Miss Cecily. "Our 
 guests would think us mad!" 
 
 "A thousand apologies, dear ladies," said Stretton 
 firmly. "If the whole county were coming this after- 
 noon they would have to do without my insignificant 
 self. My whole career depends upon an interview this 
 afternoon. I have been wired for by my political 
 chief. It is most important." 
 
 "Teddy" Moorhouse, as he was invariably called at 
 the "Travellers'," would have howled with laughter at
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 163 
 
 his title of "political chief." At Eton he had fagged 
 humbly to Stretton Wingfield, and at Oxford Wingfield 
 had graciously favoured him with an intellectual com- 
 panionship. As a hopeless duffer in anything but 
 sport, Teddy had a profound reverence for Wingfield's 
 superior wisdom. This, however, was unknown to the 
 aunts, and when Stretton mentioned the name of Lord 
 Edward Moorhouse they were duly impressed and 
 depressed. 
 
 "I suppose you cannot possibly wire 'Unavoidably 
 detained' or 'Family reasons prevent?' " said Miss 
 Agnes. 
 
 "Impossible! dear Aunt." 
 
 Miss Cecily cried a little. 
 
 "After all our letters about you! We shall look so 
 very foolish." 
 
 Stretton, however, was resolute, and the aunts re- 
 signed themselves to a disappointment which in their 
 quiet lives was naturally more bitter than seemed at 
 all justified to Stretton. 
 
 It was half -past eleven when he had finished break- 
 fast, and he had but half-an-hour in which to get his 
 bag packed Blinkworthy gasped at the idea of per- 
 forming the task in less than an hour to write a letter 
 to Alicia, and to rattle the trap down to the station. 
 That gave him ten minutes all told in the house. Blink- 
 worthy begged to say that to pack a portmanteau re- 
 spectably in ten minutes was not possible, even to an 
 archangel. Stretton in the smoking-room, where he 
 seized pen and notepaper told him not to be a silly
 
 164 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 old idiot, but to get the job done sharp. Shutting the 
 door on the grumbling old gentleman, he sat down to 
 write a letter that was not easy even to a man who had 
 two novels to his name. But there was no time for 
 style, and in five minutes he sealed the envelope with 
 a sigh that was half regret for the literary opportunity 
 that had been wasted through want of time and half 
 satisfaction at a delicate task not quite unsuccessfully 
 achieved. 
 
 "My DEAR LADY OF THE MIST, 
 
 "(I shall always think of you as rising out of 
 the dew-pond on the Great Downs as Love out of the 
 sea-foam, a vision to me of infinite beauty, cleansing 
 to a heart too familiar with the ugly things of life.) 
 
 "I write my first letter to you, as I am leaving Long 
 Stretton by the twelve o'clock train in twenty min- 
 utes' time from now. I have been called suddenly to 
 town. I go because to-night I will take the first step in 
 the career of my future life. As you will share that 
 life, it is for you that I go, though my grief is infinite 
 that I cannot hold your dear body in my arms and tell 
 you that your spirit is my guidance, now and always. 
 You know this, do you not? I need not ask you to 
 have faith in me. It is your faith which gives me good 
 confidence in what, for you and for me, will, I believe, 
 be a future full of joy. 
 
 "STRETTON WINGFIELD. 
 
 "P.S. You will remember what I said about the 
 aunts. You must keep our secret."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 165 
 
 It was a little ragged, and the grammar would hardly 
 bear analysis, but to write a letter such as this in five 
 minutes is not a thing that many men could do, even 
 so well. At least Stretton thought so, and it cheered 
 him a little. While the words slipped from his pen he 
 had realised what he had not done before in the in- 
 tellectual activity of the early morning that he would 
 not see Alicia for for how long? He pondered over 
 the question. For how long? He could not find an 
 answer, and a sudden sense of guiltiness and shame 
 surged through him. He took up the letter and made a 
 motion to tear it up. Yes, by God, he would not gol 
 He would play the game straight. The world was well 
 lost for Alicia. 
 
 But Fate intervened in the person of Blinkworthy. 
 
 "Your bag is packed, sir." 
 
 There was a gleam of triumph in the old man's 
 eye. He had accomplished the impossible! 
 
 Stretton saw the hand of Fate. 
 
 "Good man!" he cried. 
 
 In three minutes he said good-bye to his aunts. 
 
 Miss Agnes embraced him with all the fortitude of 
 a Roman matron saying farewell to her warrior son, 
 but Miss Cecily clung to his hand, crying with red 
 eyes. The elder lady slipped an envelope into his hand. 
 In the train afterwards he found that it covered a 
 check for a hundred pounds, and he blessed her as a 
 good soul. 
 
 "Come again soon, dear Stretton. Your visit has put 
 new life into us," said Miss Agnes.
 
 166 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "We shall be m-m-miserable without you," said poor 
 little Aunt Cecily. 
 
 He embraced them both, feeling very tender towards 
 them. They were dear ladies. Then distributing 
 largesse to the servants, with the artificial secrecy 
 requisite for this ceremony, he sprang into the trap, and 
 shaking the ribbons, frisked up the cob and was away. 
 The groom, who was also under-gardener, a man of 
 fifty, and a mere youth compared to the other servants, 
 clung on to his seat, and prayed fervently to the Lord 
 that he might reach the station alive. 
 
 At the market-place Stretton pulled the cob on to 
 its haunches, and leant down to hand his letter to a 
 small boy, who narrowly escaped sudden death, and 
 not knowing the peril stared at the cart with open 
 mouth. 
 
 "Look here, Tommy, take that to Miss Frensham, 
 and here's sixpence for you. Understand?" 
 
 "Yes," said the boy. 
 
 "Who have you got to give it to?" 
 
 "School marm." 
 
 "Right, and don't you forget." 
 
 The trap swayed again, and Robert the groom was 
 nearly pitched out. But by the blessing of God, or 
 sheer luck, they reached the corner and steered a 
 straight course for the station. Once more Stretton 
 pulled up the panting cob. 
 
 It stopped by the side of David Heath, who was 
 walking with a steady pace along the dusty road. 
 
 "Morning!" said Stretton cheerfully.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 167 
 
 David looked up at him and did not answer. His 
 mouth hardened a little, and he stepped back on to 
 the path. 
 
 "I am just off to town. You'll forget what hap- 
 pened last night? You won't tell any one?" 
 
 He spoke lightly in order not to rouse the suspicion 
 of the groom, but his eyes were anxious. 
 
 "I shall not forget," said David slowly. Then with 
 a grim, contemptuous laugh, "But I won't tell. Don't 
 be afraid." 
 
 "Good man! I thought you wouldn't." 
 
 He used the whip, and in a moment had left David 
 on the roadside. For a mile he gave the horse no 
 mercy, but slackened within sight of the station, and 
 caught the train with a minute to spare.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHEN Alicia opened the letter from Stretton her 
 instinct told her it was from him when she saw the 
 florid, picturesque writing on the envelope it was not 
 with the ordinary emotion of a girl who receives her 
 first love letter. She became white, and trembled, 
 possessed by fears. The small boy had told her that 
 it was from the gentleman down at the Hall who was 
 a-driving like mad to the station. 
 
 So ... he was leaving Long Stretton . . . sud- 
 denly . . . though yesterday or rather this very morn- 
 ing, after midnight, he said that he would stay another 
 week! 
 
 What did it mean? 
 
 She read the letter slowly, and then laid it down 
 on the round table, staring with serious eyes through 
 the open window to the brown hills beyond. So he 
 was gone . . . and she had the memory of those four 
 days and nights which had changed her life much more 
 than the four years preceding them! 
 
 But she had more than the memory, she had faith 
 and hope faith in Stretton's love, and hope in a 
 future meeting with him, when there would be no such 
 sad parting as this. 
 
 Faith in his love. She clung to that. She would 
 
 168
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 169 
 
 not have acted as she had done without absolute faith. 
 And yet faith may be built upon doubts, and upon the 
 knowledge that it exists because of doubt. For faith 
 is not the belief in facts we can see plainly before our 
 eyes. It is the passionate assertion of the soul in a 
 truth beyond the proof and test of facts that can be 
 seen and touched and demonstrated. 
 
 Alicia had yielded to Stretton's love because her 
 soul demanded such yielding. Yet she knew him to 
 be weak, to be easily led by the passing mood or pas- 
 sion, to be insincere to himself, more often uncon- 
 sciously than consciously. She knew that he was a 
 dangerous man for any woman who gave her heart into 
 his keeping. She had listened quietly while he talked, 
 sometimes excitedly, sometimes boastfully, and always 
 egotistically, and she had weighed him in her mind, and 
 found him wanting in that sureness of principle and 
 fixity of purpose which were her own characteristics. 
 If she had had a sister, and often she imagined how 
 blessed that would be to her, she would have been 
 terrified at the thought of such a man as Stretton com- 
 ing into the girl's life. She would have warned her, on 
 bended knees if necessary, to beware of him. Her 
 heart fluttered, and sank down at the thought that 
 Stretton had only perhaps played with her, and now 
 was leaving her, perhaps for ever. But her soul was 
 stronger than the weakness of her heart. She was 
 sure she was sure of his love. She had faith in the 
 power of love, which however base or weak may be 
 the man or woman is a natural, a spiritual attraction,
 
 170 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 stronger and more binding than principles, or honour, 
 or laws, or ceremonies. That was her creed, for which 
 she would suffer even death gladly. 
 
 Oh, but it was sadl He had left her for how 
 long? and she was alone. He would send for her, 
 but she must wait in loneliness after his blessed com- 
 panionship. 
 
 He was weak . . . she could not hide that, but he 
 was kind. He was an egoist, but gay, and exquisitely 
 genial. He was tempted to boast, but he had little 
 tendernesses and a charm of manner that warmed one's 
 heart in his presence. He had been passionate, his 
 love had been a' flame at times, but it was an ethereal 
 fire that had not left her scorched, filling her rather 
 with infinite sweetness. 
 
 She had nothing now but the dream of a dream . . . 
 and the great hope. She would wait patiently. That 
 was part of her creed to wait ... if need be for a 
 lifetime . . . until the meeting on the other side of death. 
 
 She would give him the uttermost loyalty however 
 long he kept her waiting, and when one day he said 
 "Come" she would go to him on the instant with a 
 heart in which his image had lain as in a shrine. . . . 
 
 There was a secret between them. No one in the 
 world knew of their love; she was glad of that, though, 
 as a rule, she hated secrecy. But love was in itself 
 so sacred and secret that publicity seemed to her like 
 sacrilege. She had often wondered, and sometimes 
 blushed, at young girls talking and gossiping about their 
 lovers. It seemed like exhibiting their naked souls in
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 171 
 
 the market-place. She was glad that there was some 
 necessity for secrecy. She would have hated con- 
 gratulations from village people, to have been obliged 
 to answer them with silly smiles, knowing how shy and 
 sad a thing love is. Now she could be alone with her 
 little lamp, worshipping at the flame in solitude. . . . 
 
 How lonely it was! . . . How empty the chair looked 
 where Stretton had sat such a few hours ago! And 
 though she must wait for him patiently, how far away 
 to-morrow morning seemed when to-night Stretton 
 would not come to take her in his arms and kiss her 
 lips . . . How long! . . . 
 
 She turned from the window, suddenly roused by a 
 conflict of emotions tearing wildly at her heart, though 
 she had seemed to think so calmly. She fell on to her 
 knees, and with her head upon the little sofa, and her 
 arms clasping its cushions, wept silently, convulsively, 
 until she was exhausted with her tears.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THAT evening David called upon Alicia;. He looked 
 pale and older since she had last seen him, though it 
 was but a short time. The lines had deepened under 
 his eyes, and his mouth seemed harder and more 
 resolute, though, indeed it had never been weak. Alicia 
 saw at once an indefinable difference in him, and for a 
 few moments while they talked quietly she wondered 
 with vague uneasiness as to the cause of this change. 
 
 Then he explained it simply, without embarrass- 
 ment, and she was reassured. 
 
 "I've been ill. It was very stupid, a sort of nervous 
 breakdown after hard work, I suppose. A black- 
 smith's son with nerves!" 
 
 He laughed, though his eyes were serious as he 
 watched her. 
 
 "Dear friend!" said Alicia very tenderly. "Of 
 course you must be run down after your big grind at 
 Oxford. You must rest, and get all your strength back 
 before starting your new life in London." 
 
 After the excitement of her love for Stretton it was 
 infinitely soothing to have this quiet friendship with 
 David. Her secret, which was a fire within her, 
 seemed to give a new warmth and tenderness to this 
 old companionship. She felt more of a mother's love 
 
 172
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 173 
 
 for David because her heart had been kindled by a 
 spiritual passion for the other man. She was so glad 
 that it would make no difference between David and 
 herself. Foolishly, she had been afraid. . . . 
 
 "I hope to get a rest before taking up my new work, 
 but it won't be in Long Stretton." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Alicia gave a little gasp of surprise. 
 
 "Canon Bentley has asked me to stay with him in 
 town for a few weeks so that I may be inspired with 
 his ideals and follow in his footsteps at Erasmus Hall ! 
 He doesn't put it like that, but that's what he means." 
 
 "Oh . . . then you are leaving the village, too?" 
 said Alicia, with a sudden despondency. She had so 
 hoped that with David her parting from Stretton would 
 be solaced by this good friendship. 
 
 David noticed that she had said, "You are leaving 
 the village, too?" The word stabbed him, and he 
 flushed to the temples. But he had worked out a new 
 philosophy, in great travail of spirit, after the mad, 
 tempestuous passion of which he was now sick and 
 ashamed. He had laid down for himself the law of 
 self-sacrifice. Having abandoned his hopes, he would 
 at least suck the bitter sweetness of resignation. And if 
 he could not have the blessedness of Alicia's love he 
 would not deny himself her friendship. He would be 
 loyal to that though his heart bled to death. He be- 
 lieved that in the future Alicia would need his friend- 
 ship, would need at least some honest man to advise
 
 174 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 her in despair. An infinite pity, a ghastly fear for her 
 stifled his selfishness and purified him. 
 
 "I'm sorry that I can't stay at home for some 
 months," he said. "I have looked forward so eagerly 
 to long walks and talks with you. But I can hardly 
 refuse the Canon's wish. It is almost a command, and 
 I have accepted service under him." 
 
 "Oh ... of course, of course," said Alicia quickly. 
 "You must think only of your work, of your future. 
 But I am disappointed in a selfish way. ... I shall 
 be very lonely . . . and just now I want the comfort 
 of your dear friendship." 
 
 David was frightfully moved by her words. This 
 tenderness, this leaning upon him was almost unbear- 
 able in its sweetness. 
 
 "In London, or wherever in the world," he said 
 huskily, "I am your friend always. If ever you are 
 in any kind of trouble, if I can help you by any serv- 
 ices, you know that I would walk barefoot on thorns to 
 come to you." 
 
 Alicia reached for his hand, and her tears fell upon it. 
 
 "I am blest to have such friendship," she said. "It 
 is a precious gift." 
 
 Then suddenly, the meaning that lay behind his 
 words dawned upon her. Still holding his hand she 
 looked up at him wonderingly, and white to the lips. 
 
 "You know?" she whispered. "You know what has 
 happened?" 
 
 David went to the window, white also. 
 
 "Yes," he said quietly, "I know."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 175 
 
 There was silence between them, and David gazed 
 out of the window, seeing nothing. 
 
 "How did you know, David?" said Alicia presently. 
 "I thought ... I hoped ... we had kept our secret." 
 
 "I saw you in the wood together," said David in 
 a strangled voice, still staring into the garden, "... and 
 afterwards I saw him leave your house ... in the 
 dawn." 
 
 Alicia bent her head, while a deep flush crept into her 
 cheeks. She thought silently and swiftly. It seemed 
 to David that the world was swimming round him, 
 and it made him feel sick. 
 
 "Does any one else know?" 
 
 "My father ... we will not tell." 
 
 Alicia rose and touched him on the arm, and he 
 started as though awakened from a sleep. 
 
 "You understand? . . . You do not blame me?" 
 
 David gripped the back of a chair, and his eyes met 
 those of Alicia, which were dim with tears. He 
 breathed heavily and almost noisily, and a blue vein 
 throbbed in his forehead. 
 
 "I do not blame you. . . . Good God! who am 
 I ... to blame you? . . . You are a saint. Your purity 
 would shame the devil. . . . But you are too innocent. 
 You do not understand what you are doing. Don't 
 you see ... don't you see that Stretton Wingfield will 
 destroy you, and will drag you down to the dirt? He 
 is ruthless ... oh, he is a ruthless hound ! I know that 
 type of man, charming and weak and hellish in their 
 selfishness. Alicia . . Alicia! For God's sake .
 
 176 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 think what you are doing . . . draw back before it is 
 too late!" 
 
 He had begun quietly, determined to keep himself 
 in check, but his fierce emotion broke down his self- 
 restraint and surged into his brain so that at the end 
 his words were loud and passionate in their appeal. 
 
 Alicia turned to the fireplace and put her hands on 
 the mantel-board, with her forehead against them. "I 
 cannot draw back. It is already too late." 
 
 David stared at her, an expression of horror gradu- 
 ally blanching his face. 
 
 "Already . . . too late!" he whispered hoarsely; 
 " . . .oh, my God!" 
 
 He gave an awful groan, and sinking into the chair 
 behind him let his head fall upon his chest, a haggard 
 and broken man. 
 
 Alicia crossed from the fireplace and put her hand 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "David," she said gently, "do not be frightened on 
 mjy account. Stretton is not such a man as you 
 imagine. His love for me is perfectly sincere and 
 pure. I have faith in him." 
 
 David groaned again. 
 
 "Do you not trust me?" said Alicia, with a note of 
 anger in her voice. "Do you not believe me when I 
 say that this love is the proudest, most joyful thing in 
 my life? Oh, you are like the others! You imagine 
 ugly and horrid things. You do not understand the 
 meaning of love! You judge and condemn because 
 you have no charity, nor faith in human nature."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 177 
 
 David lifted his head. Her angry words sobered 
 him, and he remembered his secret vows and resolu- 
 tions. Had he not said to himself that he would be the 
 true friend of this woman? 
 
 "Alicia," he said in a broken voice, "do not be angry. 
 I should not have spoken like that ... I was a brute! 
 ... I do not judge or condemn. And I understand 
 your perfect goodness. I pray to God that man will 
 be worthy of you ! " 
 
 Alicia burst into tears and wept hysterically, so that 
 David was frightened. 
 
 "Alicia! . . .Alicia! . . .Alicia!" 
 
 He repeated her name pleadingly, soothingly, 
 tenderly. 
 
 Presently she grew calmer, and brushed her tears 
 away, trying to laugh. 
 
 "I am very foolish. . . . But I could not bear to 
 hear what you thought of Stretton." 
 
 "Don't let us talk about it any more," said David 
 quietly. "Only remember that nothing may ever break 
 our friendship." 
 
 "I know that, David. You are the best of friends." 
 
 They talked of other things, of the garden, and the 
 gossip of the village. David told one or two stories of 
 Oxford, and Alicia laughed. In half an hour no one 
 looking in upon them would have guessed the passion- 
 ate little drama that had been played in the room. 
 
 "And when do you go to town?" said Alicia presently. 
 
 "To-morrow morning, early." 
 
 "So soon?"
 
 178 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 She became very grave, and her lips trembled, but 
 she mastered herself and spoke hopefully, enthusiasti- 
 cally of his future. 
 
 "You will write to me often?" 
 
 "How often?" said David, smiling. 
 
 "Once a week, without fail, David?" 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 When he said good-bye to her they looked into each 
 other's eyes and read many things which neither said. 
 
 At the door she put her hands on his shoulders, and 
 as he bent his head she kissed him twice on the fore- 
 head. 
 
 "Good-bye, my friend," she said.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 ALICIA was more lonely than ever in her life before 
 when David and Stretton had both left the village. 
 Her loneliness was partly of her own making. In 
 spite of repeated invitations she avoided going up to 
 the Hall, as much as she could without actual dis- 
 courtesy to the two ladies. On the Wednesday eve- 
 nings which they set apart for their At Home nights 
 she pleaded a headache, or home-lessons to correct, or 
 letters to write. The truth was that she felt a hypocrite 
 and a false friend in the presence of the Wingfield 
 ladies. For many weeks after Stretton's departure he 
 was the constant subject of their conversation. They 
 asked Alicia her opinion of him. They lamented that 
 he was such a bad correspondent, only dashing off a 
 few lines at rare intervals. They wondered often what 
 the work was upon which, as he said, he was so fright- 
 fully busy. Such conversations as these were pain- 
 fully disconcerting to Alicia. She felt that the sim- 
 plicity of her nature was being warped by the secret of 
 her relations with Stretton, of which these two dear 
 ladies were utterly innocent. Though she parried their 
 questions and sat silent while they talked of Stretton, 
 she was tortured by the thought that she was living a 
 lie. She would have liked to take each one apart and 
 
 179
 
 180 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 make confession. Sometimes when Miss Cecily spoke 
 to her alone and intimately, in the little bedroom up- 
 stairs, it was almost painful to check the words which 
 would have dispelled this horrid secrecy. During the 
 first two months of his absence she heard from Stretton 
 frequently, though not with the weekly regularity of 
 David. Long letters full of details about his move- 
 ments day by day, his plans, his ambitions, his most in- 
 timate thoughts. So when Miss Agnes or Miss Cecily 
 craved to hear from him, and sighed that he kept them 
 so much in ignorance, it was hard for Alicia to keep 
 silent, to say nothing of what she knew. For the first 
 time in her life she accused herself of deceitfulness, and 
 was humiliated in her own eyes. She was tempted 
 often to write to Stretton begging to be released from 
 her pledge of secrecy, but she knew that he considered 
 it most necessary for his own sake twice in his letters 
 he laid stress on the importance of it and she knew 
 in sober thought that any revelation to the two ladies 
 would be unwise at this time. Miss Cecily, no doubt, 
 would be led to sympathise, in her pretty sentimental 
 way, but Miss Agnes, who was as firm as a rock when 
 what she called her principles were involved, would 
 certainly not continue her favours to Stretton. The 
 fact that Stretton's relation's with Alicia had been kept 
 secret from the beginning, and had been established 
 without any of "the proprieties," would be a scandal 
 and an outrage to this sensitive and decorous soul. No I 
 for Stretton's sake Alicia must keep silent. 
 Her loneliness was increased because the Vicar
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 181 
 
 avoided her strenuously, and she on her side could not 
 forget or forgive the scene in which he had discovered 
 his curious passion. When they met now he lifted his 
 hat, but kept his eyes on the ground. Occasionally 
 they encountered each other in the cottages, but 
 then only a few conventional phrases passed between 
 them. 
 
 And Jonathan was no longer the good friend he had 
 been. She went sometimes to his forge, but she realised 
 that the bonds of affection between them had been 
 snapped, and not by her, but by him. He was silent 
 and abstracted when she came, sometimes even sullen. 
 He seemed to eye her with distrust and disapproval, 
 and knowing that he knew her secret and resented it, 
 she was embarrassed and self-conscious with him. So 
 gradually she went less often, though it pained her 
 excessively that this friendship should have grown 
 cold. 
 
 She lived more and more with her own thoughts, and 
 her face began to show the influence of this intro- 
 spective life. Her eyes became more luminous and 
 dark, and an air of mysticism about her, which had 
 always been characteristic of her in serious moods, was 
 now more settled in its Rossetti-like expression. She 
 was kept alive, as it were, by her letters from Stretton, 
 and from David, too. The postman's knock now beat 
 upon her heart, for though David's letter came regu- 
 larly every Wednesday morning, Stretton's came at all 
 times, flying notes of a few lines, then a pause of a 
 few days, sometimes of more than a week, until, when
 
 182 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 she began to pine, a long budget would come of many 
 closely-written pages. 
 
 She read them with a fluttering heart. 
 
 They were passionate at first, written late at night, 
 when imagination is excited by the silence that follows 
 a noisy day, and when words flow on to the paper with- 
 out premeditation or restraint. She could see how 
 the pen had moved swiftly, covering the sheets with a 
 running style. His expressions were vivid and heated. 
 His choice of words was unconventional though not 
 strained. He used metaphors a little far-fetched, yet 
 perfectly expressive. He dashed off quick sketches and 
 lightning impressions. 
 
 At times he was very merry and wrote nonsense let- 
 ters filled with paradox and epigrams and fantastic 
 caricatures. But at the beginning he was ardent and 
 sensuous, and put such a warmth of love into his words 
 that Alicia read them with a flushed face, while her 
 pulse throbbed nervously; and when she went to bed 
 with his letter under her pillow the words burned 
 through their covering into her brain, so that she tossed 
 feverishly through the night. 
 
 From the turmoil and tumult of his days she un- 
 ravelled the thread of his plot. He was playing for 
 the leadership of the new party of Independent Demo- 
 crats or Individualists, as they began to be called, a 
 name ridiculed and scoffed at in both the Ministerial 
 and Opposition papers, but recognised, in spite of 
 caricatures, as a possible "Third Party" in the House. 
 He sketched out the political situation for her. There
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 183 
 
 had been a reaction in the tide for Socialism. The cam- 
 paign against the House of Lords and the attack upon 
 landowners had turned over public favour to the Con- 
 stitutionalists. There was every prospect that the 
 women would give their votes to the Government, and 
 in that case the Constitutionalists would come back 
 with a more respectable majority than they now held. 
 The Ministers were prophesying a sweeping victory, 
 but it was certain that they were afraid of the Inde- 
 pendent Democrats, who, as a middle party, might 
 capture many seats. They were putting up candidates 
 in most of the boroughs, and Stretton's energy and 
 oratory already marked him out as a possible leader of 
 the new party. His name, and his father's fame, which 
 still lingered as a tradition, counted for much. It was 
 certain also that as the nephew of the Minister for War, 
 his independent stand against the Government had a 
 piquancy which was at least an excellent advertisement. 
 In the Press they called him, among other nick- 
 names, "Individual Wingfield," and in The World there 
 was an anonymous prose satire of him, written, he told 
 Alicia, by one of his most intimate friends Ralph 
 Sutton, the novelist which pilloried him ruthlessly as 
 "the popinjay of politics." The whole campaign of the 
 Individualists was regarded as a huge joke by the 
 majority, though some of the leader writers prophesied 
 that it might have serious consequences. It certainly 
 lent itself to satire. Quite a number of the candidates 
 were sprigs of aristocracy; among them Lord John 
 Hutton, Lord Percival Percy, the Hon. Charles
 
 184 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Munster, Sir Philip Wainwright, Sir Horace Brympton, 
 Sir Bulwer Ashton, and Sir Courtenay Clandon. They 
 also numbered such men as Hilary Osgood, the painter, 
 Adam Inchbold, the novelist, Frank Swiveller, the 
 dramatist, Paul Ainsworth, the poet, and Cuthbert 
 Waynefleet, the author of Individualism and Ethics in 
 Evolution. 
 
 The Times, which was becoming almost merry in its 
 leading articles, published a list of the Individualists 
 with the dates of their birth, deducing therefrom that 
 three had just attained their majority, five were under 
 thirty years of age, four were under thirty-five, and 
 only one had passed his fortieth year. 
 
 "We suggest," said The Times, "that these political 
 babes and sucklings should be sent back to the nursery 
 of life. They should be seen but not heard. At pres- 
 ent, like spoilt children, they are making far too much 
 noise in our household, and their elders can scarcely 
 make themselves heard. We trust that at the general 
 election John Bull, as a discreet parent, will give them 
 all a good whipping and send them to bed." 
 
 The Daily Mail, who turned on their funny man 
 and their oracle alternately in order to make the 
 most of the situation, drew an ingenious parallel be- 
 tween the Independent Democrats and the leaders of 
 the French Revolution of '89. They dubbed Stretton 
 Wingfield as Lafayette, and Lord John Hutton as 
 "the sea-green incorruptible," and Lord Percival Percy 
 as the Marquis de Narbonne. In the imagination of 
 this ingenious young gentleman, whoever he might be,
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 185 
 
 Cuthbert Waynefleet was a reincarnation of Marat 
 with a touch of Chadband, Hilary Osgood was "Dainty 
 Desmoulins," and Sir Courtenay Clandon "a dummy 
 Danton." 
 
 "Already," said the Daily Mail, "the English aris- 
 tocracy is beginning to tremble before the ominous 
 signs of the forthcoming election, and a tide of emigra- 
 tion has set in. Referring to our Society and Personal 
 column, it will be seen that Paris is already full of 
 English visitors. How soon, we wonder, will the guillo- 
 tine be set up in Trafalgar Square and a Committee of 
 Public Safety sit in the House of Lords?" 
 
 Stretton sent these cuttings to Alicia, who read them 
 with indignation. To her the Individualist campaign 
 was intensely serious, and these caricatures in the Press 
 seemed to her slanderous and abominable. 
 
 In Stretton's letters she found frequent portrait 
 sketches of the leaders of the campaign, many of whom 
 were his old college friends, and Alicia soon seemed 
 to be familiar with their characteristics. 
 
 "Our strong man," wrote Stretton, "is Cuthbert 
 Waynefleet. He is our philosopher and high priest. I 
 suppose you have read his Individualism. That is the 
 gospel of our revolution, and the Magna Charta of Eng- 
 lish liberty. The man himself is complex. I have not 
 yet sounded the depths of him. He is a libertine, of 
 course, and is not tolerated in society, yet his chivalry 
 to women is old-fashioned, and his manners with them 
 exquisite. With men he is cross-grained, and often 
 violent. My knuckles ache at times to break his head.
 
 186 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 But in his quiet moods, when not engaged in argument 
 (which is not often), he is gentle and good-tempered. 
 He speaks best and then like a very Demosthenes 
 when nearly drunk. He haunts the taverns off Fleet 
 Street, and soaks port wine while he writes those amaz- 
 ing tracts which will, I believe, change the political 
 constitution of this country. They call him 'Marat/ 
 and there is something in the idea, though the real 
 Marat had not the human qualities of Waynefleet. 
 There is more of Mirabeau about him." 
 
 Another portrait that stood out in Stretton's letters, 
 and which he filled in afterwards with many little 
 touches, was that of Hilary Osgood, the painter, who, 
 according to the Daily Mail, was "Dainty Desmoulins." 
 
 "You must know Hilary one of these days," wrote 
 Stretton. "He is a delightful creature, a child younger 
 than Cupid, but with the wisdom of the serpent. He 
 dresses like an eighteenth-century dandy, and looks a 
 very pretty kind of ass. One could almost kiss him for 
 his blue eyes and fair skin, but for all that he has a 
 diabolical audacity, and the things he says without a 
 blush, with the most winsome smile imaginable, must 
 make the Government squirm. The ladies flock to his 
 platforms, and they will vote solid for him. He prom- 
 ises to give a kiss for every vote, which I believe is 
 bribery and corruption, according to the new election 
 laws. He is a dangerous young devil, but the best of 
 fun." 
 
 "Between ourselves," wrote Stretton in another 
 letter, "we have some choice fools among us. Hutton
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 1S7 
 
 and Percy are almost enough to ruin any cause. They 
 are constantly in a state of funk, as they well might 
 be, being the younger sons of dukes, and I have to bully 
 them by word of mouth, by letters, by telegrams and 
 messages, to keep them to their pledges. And yet 
 they believe we could not do without them, and take 
 themselves quite seriously! Lord John looks like a 
 groom on a holiday, and, indeed, what he doesn't know 
 about horseflesh is not knowledge. He is scared to 
 death of women, and in a campaign in which women's 
 votes count for so much he is almost useless. 
 
 "Percy, on the other hand, is a portentous idiot, who 
 would have made an excellent curate. He speaks with 
 a frightful lisp, and casts sheep's eyes at everything in 
 a skirt. He lives in terror of his mother, 'the dear 
 Duchess,' who is a most formidable lady, and would, 
 I am sure, spank him across her knee if she could get 
 hold of him. But he hasn't been near Winchilsea 
 House since his name appeared on our first manifesto."
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 STRETTON had certainly thrown off his old dilettant- 
 ism and easy-going life. He seemed to be possessed of 
 wings, and was in a different part of the country ad- 
 dressing great audiences every twenty-four hours. He 
 wrote from Bristol and Birmingham, Sheffield, Leeds, 
 Manchester, Bolton, Oldham, Exeter, Plymouth, Lin- 
 coln, Norwich, and a score of other towns. At first 
 he was only reported at length in local papers, of 
 which he sent scraps of cuttings to Alicia, who read 
 his speeches with as much excitement as if she had 
 experienced the electricity of the audience. She could 
 see his gestures, and hear his voice in every phrase. 
 His glowing oratory, flamboyant, sarcastic, vivid, and 
 picturesque, astonished her with its enthusiasm and 
 variety. She detected sometimes a certain insincerity 
 of sentiment, a dangerous facility for playing upon 
 the popular passions, and a light-hearted disregard of 
 strict accuracy of fact, which filled her with a vague 
 sense of uneasiness. In one of her letters she warned 
 him against these tendencies, and begged him to sacri- 
 fice effect for sincerity. "I know very little of these 
 things," she wrote with humility, "but, my dear, I feel 
 very strongly that truth is always the best of argu- 
 ments. The influence of a clever phrase may be great 
 
 188
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 189 
 
 at the moment, but if it lacks sincerity it is a double- 
 edged weapon." 
 
 She reproached herself afterwards for having writ- 
 ten in this strain, knowing that in the excitement of a 
 public meeting the imagination of a speaker is not to 
 be fettered by caution. But Stretton answered her 
 letter in his frank way of consent. 
 
 "You are quite right, dear heart. My tongue wags 
 fast and foolishly, and I am filled with self-abasement 
 when in the cold morning I read what I spoke at night. 
 But the leopard cannot change his spots, and if I 
 played for safety I should be dumb." 
 
 As the months passed and the great fight came near, 
 Stretton's letters became less frequent, and then were 
 brief and hurried notes. Alicia read them with a grow- 
 ing fear, which she tried vainly to thrust back from 
 her soul. Brief as they were, she detected a change 
 of tone in them. They no longer contained those 
 burning words which still glowed in his earlier letters 
 locked in her box. He no longer spoke of a future 
 which they would share together. He was living only 
 in the present. He wrote excitedly, but it was always 
 of the political situation. A postcard with a despondent 
 line reached her "We shall be badly beaten." A 
 week later he wrote, "I believe we shall win." Then, 
 "My last speech did me a lot of harm," and later, 
 "Waynefleet is stealing all my thunder; I am only his 
 satellite." 
 
 Alicia pined for that communion of thought which 
 he had given in his earlier letters, when he had sat
 
 190 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 down late at night remembering his love. Was he 
 forgetting? Had he already forgotten? 
 
 It was natural that he should be entirely absorbed 
 in his political work. She must not complain or fret. 
 Yet, oh, surely he might forget the world for at least 
 a few minutes, and remember the woman who was 
 waiting in loneliness! 
 
 There came a time when he did not write at all. 
 Four weeks passed and not a word! She wondered 
 if he were ill, if he had broken down under the strain. 
 But no; in the papers she followed him across the 
 country, where he was always speaking. The London 
 papers now reported him at length. "The Individual- 
 ist" was a prominent heading. They were no longer 
 laughed at. They were beginning to be feared. 
 
 Why did not Stretton write? She sent him long 
 letters, not complaining, but wistful and pleading for 
 news of him. He did not answer. 
 
 Alicia was growing thin and careworn. She lay 
 awake at night and got up languidly with weary eyes 
 next morning. It was a struggle to do her duty in the 
 school. The children worried her, and she lost her 
 sweet tranquillity with them. The Wingfield ladies 
 and other friends in the village asked her what was 
 the matter. They thought she was sickening for an 
 illness. 
 
 Miss Cecily, always solicitous for her health, brought 
 her bowls of soup and jelly, and begged her to take 
 every care of herself. 
 
 She began to get frightened at her own languor and
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 191 
 
 weakness, and then one day she wrote to Stretton 
 confiding to him. a secret which would have been joy to 
 her but for his long silence. 
 
 "My dear Stretton," she wrote. "I am going to 
 have a child. It will be your child as well as mine. 
 Will you not write to me?"
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 ALICIA wrote three letters to Stretton after that note 
 in which she told him her news, and there was a week 
 between each of them. 
 
 In the first she wrote: 
 
 "My DEAR LOVE, 
 
 "Oh, I may call you that though you do not answer 
 now with any love! A week has passed since I told 
 you what would surely bring some response, and move 
 you with a remembrance of the woman to whom you 
 made so many promises. You have forgotten me 
 and I have just been reading, though I could hardly 
 see for tears, your earlier letters, so tender, so full of 
 comradeship, so passionate in protestation (oh, verily 
 you protested too much!) and even now, after these 
 long weeks of silence, I can hardly believe that you 
 have quite forgotten. I make allowances for the ex- 
 citement of your great campaign. I do not demand, 
 like some women, that my lover should give up the 
 world for love. I have told you many times that I 
 am content to wait with patience longer than my 
 life but when I said so it was with the thought that 
 though we might be parted by distance, always we 
 should be close in spirit. My spirit goes out to meet 
 
 192
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 193 
 
 you, but you are not there. I wander in the darkness 
 and you do not come to me. I wait for you, but my 
 loneliness becomes despair. Oh and I believed in 
 you! I believed in you, Stretton! The doubts and 
 fears that rose in my woman's heart I stifled down as 
 unworthy of your love. I gave myself to you in joy, 
 in purity, in absolute trust. If I do not hear from 
 you, how can I keep that trust? I hate to tell you, 
 but the truth is best. My faith in your honour is 
 ebbing away, and in its place comes pitiful contempt. 
 Stretton, for the sake of our love, for the sake of the 
 child coming from eternity into time, answer me. Send 
 one word to your unhappy 
 
 "ALICIA." 
 
 In her second letter Alicia reproached herself for 
 the one before. 
 
 "I was weak and feverish. I take back all I wrote 
 in bitterness. I will be patient, still, dear Stretton, be- 
 lieving that when this political uproar has calmed 
 down you will write to me again. I have been think- 
 ing of those four days when you sat and walked with 
 me, and a hundred little things you said come back to 
 reassure me. I see your grey eyes, so candid, sincere 
 they are not lying eyes. I cannot believe that a man 
 could speak and write as you did, Stretton, and in a 
 few months deny himself by absolute forgetfulness. 
 Your words were so passionate, my love, that I felt 
 ashamed, knowing my colder nature. It is I now that 
 am tempted to passion. Oh, if I did not check this
 
 194 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 pen I should pour my heart out on the paper. If I 
 did not resist the foolishness I should put into words 
 some of the fever that burns me now. But I think 
 of the little child, and I try to be calm, be hopeful 
 even for the sake of the little life that must not be 
 clouded before its birth with a mother's despair and 
 fretfulness. ... In a little while, dear Stretton, I shall 
 not be able to keep this secret. I confess I dread that 
 time when inevitably people must guess. What shall 
 I do then? I should not be ashamed if I had words 
 of comfort from you; if I had not to hide a secret as a 
 guilty thing. I would rejoice before the world in the 
 promise of motherhood if I could name the father of 
 the child, or at least boast of his love. Will you 
 deny me that, Stretton, my dear? Surely not! Surely 
 not!" 
 
 The days passed, and Alicia waited still for the letter 
 that did not come. Every morning she rose with a 
 new eagerness in spite of the languor of her body, 
 believing that to-day the silence would be broken. But 
 the morning post would pass without a letter, and she 
 would brace herself anew to wait expectantly again 
 for the second post in the evening. Yes, before the 
 night came she would hear from him, and her pillow 
 would be wet with tears of joy instead of tears of 
 anguish. Alas! And the night would pass without 
 the words that would have given her courage. The 
 strain wore her down in body and spirit. She grew so 
 listless that after the school hours she could do noth- 
 ing but pace up and down her little room, and at night
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST: 195 
 
 she could not lie still, but tossed feverishly with moans 
 and inarticulate cries that passed her parched lips, 
 though she tried to stifle them. It was after one such 
 night that she sat down before breakfast, limply and 
 with dark, burning eyes, to write a last letter to Stret- 
 ton. Her self-control was gone-. She could put no 
 check on her pen, and she was blind to the words she 
 wrote, incoherently and wildly. 
 
 "God knows I have waited long enough. I will 
 not write to you again. My faith is not only destroyed 
 in you, it is destroyed in all that I believe to be true. 
 What I thought was love was lust. What I thought 
 was purity was vile and obscene. I will burn your 
 letters, which I have kissed a thousand times and 
 blotted with my tears, as I would burn foul rags reek- 
 ing with disease. I would burn my hands that you 
 once held to your lips, because they are impure. But 
 for the child I would burn myself, because you have 
 made me vile. What sort of man you were, I do not 
 know. You must be something devilish that you hide 
 so false a heart behind such outward candour and 
 apparent honesty. Why did I not see the devil grin- 
 ning in those grey eyes that stared into my soul? If 
 there were a God He would have warned me. You 
 have thrust me aside as a woman you once played with 
 and would now be bothered with no more. So also 
 I will forget you, or if I must remember, it shall be to 
 teach my child what a dastard was its father. For 
 that alone I thank you. I shall have a little one. My 
 motherhood will not be denied all its joy. I will be
 
 196 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 happy in that. I will be kinder than God, and will 
 not visit the sins of the father on the child. I think 
 I hate you . . . and yet I do not! . . . Even now, 
 if you came to me, I should fall at your feet. Even, I 
 think, in twenty years, if you call to me across the 
 silence I shall speed to .you. But I shall not write 
 again. Oh, Stretton, my love, my heart is broken. 
 Oh, God! Oh, my love! Oh, my poor unborn child! 
 Good-bye, my Stretton, I shall not write again." 
 
 She became calmer after this, and the sorrow of 
 resignation was easier to bear than feverish expectancy 
 and doubtful hope. She had, even, some strange satis- 
 faction in the burning of Stretton's letters, the exqui- 
 site pleasure of self-torture which is the most subtle 
 and exciting form of sensual enjoyment. She lingered 
 over them, not casting them in a heap to the flames, 
 but burning them one by one, watching each one curl 
 and blacken with eyes that reflected the fire within her 
 soul, the fire in which, spiritually, Stretton's passionate 
 words were burnt to ashes. 
 
 In the days that followed she turned to David Heath 
 for comfort and restfulness, as she had found peace in 
 his strong friendship after the first passionate joys of 
 love. His letters now took the place of Stretton's, 
 and she read them many times, finding in their calm, 
 well-balanced, unemotional expression an antidote to 
 the fever of her mind. 
 
 He wrote fully of his new experiences, but without 
 vanity, and knowing that she would be most interested 
 in his new life.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 197 
 
 He was not altogether satisfied with it. 
 
 "I find," he said, "hypocrisy, selfishness, and cant 
 masquerading as philanthropy and reform. This 
 settlement is run by young University men who come 
 to the East End in a spirit of self-conscious martyrdom 
 and self -righteousness. They believe themselves to be 
 mighty fine democrats, but they have no real under- 
 standing of the people and treat them de haul en bas. 
 So it follows that the working-men attracted to our lec- 
 tures and social gatherings are those who have not the 
 spirit to resent being patronised, or who arc eager to 
 get something for nothing, or wish to climb up in the 
 social scale so that they can kick those on the rung 
 beneath. Our debates are examples of vanity, crass 
 ignorance, and low vulgarity. The absurd airs of our 
 'Varsity young men are only less objectionable than 
 the violent conceit and 'uppishness' of the working- 
 men. I am not popular. Last night I went for the 
 lecturers and pounded them for their insincerity. I 
 told them that they reminded me of the worst type of 
 missionary who goes blundering among native races 
 with a fine notion of his Heaven-sent vocation and, 
 without the slightest knowledge of native morality and 
 law, outrages the strongest and noblest traditions of 
 their race. The only converts he makes are those he 
 buys and bribes. They do not like that, I can tell you ! 
 They made a formal complaint to the Warden, who, 
 to their amazement, agreed cordially with every word 
 I said, and told them to take the truth to heart. He 
 is the only man among them, and in spite of his sub-
 
 198 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 lime self-confidence and vanity, which clothes him in 
 impregnable armour, he is sincere, earnest in his devo- 
 tion to the intellectual and social progress of the people, 
 and amazing in his energy. He believes in me, I think, 
 and will not listen to slanderers and scoffers who would 
 undermine my position. I have started a series of lec- 
 tures on 'The Spirit of Democracy,' and I am glad to 
 say that they are attracting a more honest class of 
 working-men than generally find their way to Erasmus 
 Hall." 
 
 Not once in all his letters did David Heath let slip 
 even one word that betrayed emotion or sentiment. 
 Not once did he write the name of Stretton Wingfield, 
 or mention the Individualist campaign, which must 
 have been in his thoughts, as in every one's thoughts, 
 during those days of political strife. 
 
 Alicia thanked him in her heart for this. David was 
 a source of infinite comfort to her .because of his 
 strength, his reticence, his calm common sense. 
 
 She did not see the white face of the "Master of 
 Erasmus," as he was called now, nor how he stifled 
 back his passion when he wrote those letters of quiet 
 gossip.
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 ONE morning, a week after she had written her last 
 letter to Stretton, Alicia sent her little servant round 
 the village to tell the parents of her children that there 
 would be no school that day as she was very unwell. 
 
 She sat by the open window, or rather lay, with her 
 head back on a pillow, faint and sick. Her face had 
 thinned since Stretton saw the beauty of it, and to-day 
 the deep carnation of her cheeks had almost faded. 
 Her eyes were closed, and she breathed so softly and 
 was so very still that she might have been the image of 
 beautiful Death. 
 
 She was thinking in a dreamy mist of thought, in 
 which nothing was denned, and nothing clear except a 
 feeling of fear. She could no longer go on like this. 
 In a little while her secret must be known. What 
 would she do? To what place could she go for sanc- 
 tuary from the rude eyes of the village? She had not 
 a relation in the world and hardly a friend. David? 
 He was her friend. He had said he would help her 
 in any time of trouble. Oh, she would be glad to go 
 to David ! He was so kind and strong and wise. But 
 she would be ashamed. No, she could not go to David. 
 She must bear her loneliness. She must grapple with 
 
 199
 
 200 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 this deadly fear that was crushing out her courage. 
 Why was she so weak? This terrible languor of body 
 and soul! 
 
 There came a knock at the door. Was it a knock? 
 She listened with a heart that beat so loudly that she 
 could not tell whether that was the knocking. Yet it 
 was a knock! It sounded again with a sharp tapping 
 at the door. 
 
 She rose and went slowly into the hall, with her 
 hand to her side, trying to steady her quick breathing. 
 Then she opened the door and saw that her visitor was 
 Miss Cecily. 
 
 "My dear, are you ill?" 
 
 The little lady looked at her anxiously, and then 
 taking her hand led her into the sitting-room. 
 
 "I am a little queer to-day," said Alicia. "It is 
 nothing, absolutely nothing." 
 
 She sat down quietly, and tried to hide her faintness. 
 
 Miss Cecily looked round the room with a timid 
 glance, and then going down suddenly upon her knees 
 before Alicia took her hands, her own faded, withered, 
 little hands trembling excitedly. 
 
 "My dear," she said in a kind of whisper. "My dear 
 . . . what is the matter with you?" 
 
 "I have a little headache," said Alicia. 
 
 "Is it nothing more than that?" said Miss Cecily, 
 and as she gazed with a strange searching look into 
 Alicia's face the schoolmistress veiled her eyes and 
 flushed deeply. She put a hand to her bosom.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 201 
 
 "Yes," she said. "It is something more." She 
 looked up and met the elderly lady's gaze, and her 
 confession was made in that moment. 
 
 Miss Cecily rose from her knees, and wrung her 
 hands in a kind of anguish. 
 
 "Alicia! " she said presently, still in a whisper. "You 
 ... of all women! How could you! How could you!" 
 
 A tiny smile fluttered for a moment about Alicia's 
 lips. 
 
 "I am a woman," she said. 
 
 Miss Cecily began to cry gently, and wiped the tears 
 away as they welled into her blue eyes. 
 
 "I cannot understand it ... it is a great shock to 
 me. What poor Agnes will say I really do not know." 
 
 "I hope she will not love me any less," said Alicia. 
 
 Miss Cecily put out a trembling hand. 
 
 "My dear . . . you . . . you do not know poor 
 Agnes. I have left her in a state of great nervous ex- 
 citement. She says that if it is true it will be the 
 greatest disgrace to Long Stretton." 
 
 "Are they talking about me already?" said Alicia 
 with a sudden look of fear. 
 
 "It was Mr. Cartwright," said Miss Cecily, breaking 
 down now into sobs. "He spoke to poor Agnes 
 privately, and . . . and warned her of your condition. 
 When she told me I vowed he was speaking falsely 
 . . . but, oh! ... my dear, that it is true is worse 1 
 How could you! Alicia! How could you!"
 
 202 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 She mopped her eyes with a delicate lace handker- 
 chief, and Alicia was touched by her grief. 
 
 "Do you think badly of me?" she said, with tender 
 reproach. "Do you shrink from me as a sinner? Oh, 
 do not let your dear heart be spoilt by cruelty." 
 
 Miss Cecily took her hand again and pressed it 
 convulsively. 
 
 "You are a good woman ... I can believe nothing 
 bad of you, my dear, but . . . poor child, what is the 
 truth? Who is the villain that . . . ?" 
 
 Alicia paled. 
 
 "Do not call him that!" she said faintly. 
 
 Miss Cecily flared into a little fury. 
 
 "Oh, he must be a very wicked man, whoever it 
 is. That he should have brought you to shame, 
 Alicia!" 
 
 "Not to shame!" said Alicia quickly. "I am not 
 ashamed ! I shall be proud to be a mother." 
 
 Miss Cecily looked at her in timid surprise. 
 
 "Do you mean that? Are you not ashamed? 
 ... I ... I do not understand! " 
 
 "Is it a shame to bring a child into the world?" 
 
 Alicia's eyes glowed with anger. "Oh, I hate the 
 cruelty which is called purity. I hate those hard people 
 who will stone a woman because she has been willing 
 to suffer motherhood without legal sanction or church 
 ceremony. That is Christianity! But there is little 
 of Christ in it!" She checked her wildness, seeing 
 the terror of Miss Cecily at what was blasphemy to her.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 203 
 
 "Forgive me!" she said. "Forgive me! But surely 
 you understand, dear Miss Cecily! You have desired 
 the joys of love and motherhood. You will not hate 
 me because my desire for love was stronger than 
 prudence!" 
 
 Miss Cecily bowed her head, which was shaking 
 tremulously. 
 
 "I am a hypocrite. . . . God forgive me! ... I came 
 to reproach you, my dear, and yet I know that in my 
 young days if love had come to me I should have gone 
 to meet it without any prudence." 
 
 There was a silence, and the little lady bled at the 
 heart in self-pity because her life had been without 
 love, and from that moment she had no blame for 
 Alicia, but infinite tenderness and pity, that was not 
 without a little secret envy. 
 
 But presently her fears came back, for she knew that 
 punishment awaits the woman who breaks the social 
 law. 
 
 "My dear, what are you going to do? You cannot 
 stay here. What shall I say to Miss Agnes? She is 
 inflexible and unforgiving in such a case as this. She 
 is terribly scandalised. I fear she will never speak to 
 you again." 
 
 "I am sorry for that," said Alicia. "But I see that 
 I cannot stay here. I must go away ... at once." 
 
 "Will you go to him?" said Miss Cecily timidly. 
 "Surely there is no reason why he should not marry
 
 204 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 you. He is in a good place now, I hear. He could well 
 afford to keep you." 
 
 Alicia raised her head and stared at the lady with 
 astonished eyes. "Do you know who it is?" she said 
 faintly. 
 
 Miss Cecily flushed, with a look of painful embar- 
 rassment. 
 
 "It was the Vicar who told my sister. He said there 
 was only one man who could be accused." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 Alicia sat up in her chair, gripping its long arms. 
 
 "I suppose he was right. I have long guessed 
 David's love for you." 
 
 Alicia gasped. 
 
 "David!" she cried in a hoarse voice. "Did he say 
 David?" 
 
 "Yes, my poor child. It was not difficult to guess. 
 And the Vicar said he has another proof." 
 
 Alicia rose, white to the lips, and there was pas- 
 sionate anger in her eyes. 
 
 "How dare he!" she said, clenching her hands. 
 "How dare he!" 
 
 "It cannot be kept secret. All the village knows 
 your friendship with him." 
 
 "With David?" 
 
 The anger in Alicia's eyes faded out, leaving a look of 
 absolute dismay. 
 
 "Oh, God!" she cried. "Will they think that?" 
 
 She sank down and buried her face in the sofa,
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 205 
 
 weeping passionately and hysterically. Then, sud- 
 denly, as Miss Cecily bent over her with soothing 
 words, she became quite quiet, and slipped to the floor 
 in a deep swoon.
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THAT night all the village knew that Alicia Fren- 
 sham, the schoolmistress, was dangerously ill. The 
 windows in her little house were ablaze with light, and 
 outside the garden-gate the doctor's horse was tethered 
 to the hedge. For an hour or more a little group of 
 men and women stood in the darkness talking in low 
 voices and staring up at the bedroom window, where 
 occasionally the shadow of Dr. Bramwell passed across 
 the blind. Sudden illness is always a cause of excite- 
 ment in village life, and there had been dramatic inci- 
 dents in this case. Miss Cecily had been seen flying 
 down the little street to the doctor's house, and a few 
 minutes later the doctor himself sprang into his saddle 
 and galloped furiously to Alicia's cottage. Then Miss 
 Cecily walked back, panting for breath. She stopped 
 at Mrs. Orpington's, the washerwoman and village 
 nurse, and after a brief conversation hurried her off 
 to the little school-house. By the round O of Mrs. 
 Orpington's mouth and the solemnity of her old pippin 
 face the villagers knew that something out of the 
 ordinary had happened to Miss Frensham. Rumours 
 chased each other down the high street. In the allsorts 
 shop Mrs. Goodyear heard tell that scarlet fever had 
 come like a roaring beast to Long Stretton. An hour 
 
 206
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 207 
 
 later, and a few doors further up, Mrs. Featherfew 
 gasped out the awful word smallpox, which she had 
 heard from the grocer's assistant at the Stores, who 
 had had it from the haberdasher's young lady. Further 
 excitement 'had been caused by an interchange of 
 notes between the school-house and the Hall. Miss 
 Cecily had come to Miss Frensham's door and, in a 
 high quavering voice, had called for a volunteer to 
 carry the letter to Miss Agnes. It was the butcher's 
 boy who sprang first to the occasion, the others hav- 
 ing hung back with a dread of infection. Half 
 an hour later he came bounding back with an answer, 
 and a long tale of how Miss Wingfield had been white 
 and skeery when she wrote the letter as he waited. It 
 was then that the rumour of smallpox reached the 
 group of waiters in the lane, sending a shudder among 
 them and dispersing them quickly. 
 
 "Better not stay here, ladies and gentlemen," said 
 Mr. Toms, the barber, in a hollow voice. "We must 
 think of our wives and childer. The pox is a poxy 
 thing, and very secretive." He moved off down the 
 lane like a bell-wether, and the others followed as 
 sheep, and huddled together with a common fear. 
 
 Only one remained, and he stayed in the darkness 
 for an hour more, standing quite motionless with his 
 hands resting on a gnarled stick. It was Jonathan 
 Heath, who, at the news of Alicia's illness, had been 
 plunged into deep reproachfulness for the sullen way in 
 which he had behaved to her of late. All his resent- 
 ment had been melted now by the remembrance of
 
 208 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 the many gracious hours she had spent in his work- 
 shop, and of her generous gift of friendship which had 
 been to him a new intellectual awakening and an educa- 
 tion. Strong, simple man, it was intolerable to him to 
 be inactive while Alicia was ill. If only he could serve 
 her by muscular exertion, by riding on some errand, by 
 nammering something out of hot iron for her! Jona- 
 than waited until the doctor came away from the house, 
 and then went up to him as he unhitched his horse. 
 
 "Be it good news or bad, Doctor?" he asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 Doctor Bramwell started at this figure looming sud- 
 denly out of the darkness, but he recognised Jonathan 
 by his height and voice. 
 
 "It was touch and go, my man. But she's right 
 now. Nature will do the rest." 
 
 "Praise the Lord," said Jonathan. 
 
 "That's right enough. We doctors never get any 
 thanks." 
 
 He gave a short laugh as he got on to his horse and 
 took it at a canter down the lane. Upstairs in the 
 bedroom Alicia lay still moaning, not now in pain of 
 body, but in despair. 
 
 Miss Cecily sat by her side fondling her hand. The 
 little lady's eyes were red with weeping, but now her 
 eyes glowed with thankfulness that Alicia was out of 
 danger. 
 
 "I have nothing to live for now," said Alicia. "Why 
 has God, or Fate, or whatever the Power may be, 
 allowed this cruelty? Why am I denied my child?"
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 209 
 
 "Perhaps it is best, my dear," said Miss Cecily 
 gently. "It saves you from much suffering and shame." 
 
 Alicia groaned bitterly, and turned her head away 
 from Miss Cecily. 
 
 "I do not mean that you would deserve the shame, 
 my poor friend," said the lady soothingly. "But the 
 world is very cruel, and you are a woman." 
 
 "Yes I am a woman!" 
 
 Alicia laughed faintly, and her eyes glowed with 
 anger. 
 
 "Men go their way carelessly. It is the weak woman 
 who bears the pain and is stoned for it. Oh, Christian 
 charity!" 
 
 "My dear," said Miss Cecily, "the world is hard be- 
 cause it forgets the charity of Christ. I pray that I 
 may remember it." 
 
 Alicia's eyes flooded with a sudden gush of tears, 
 and she pressed Miss Cecily's hand upon the coverlet. 
 
 "You are all that is sweet and loving. I owe my 
 life to you. Oh ... but it is hard that I have lost that 
 other life!" She wept broken-heartedly, and Miss 
 Cecily could not soothe her.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 AFTER her breakdown Alicia recovered her health in 
 a way that was surprising and even humiliating to her- 
 self. Her grief was so intense that she would gladly 
 have given up life as now a hopeless thing. Yet in 
 three days, so wonderful is nature when youth is on 
 its side, that she was able to leave her bed and lie upon 
 the couch in her small parlour by the open window 
 through which the scent of roses came. Miss Cecily 
 called every day with jellies and other comforts, and 
 the village folk vied with each other in bringing little 
 gifts of eggs and fruit and flowers. The smallpox 
 rumour had been quickly disproved, and they were 
 rather ashamed of having listened to the lie. 
 
 On the sixth day, when Alicia was quite convalescent, 
 she received a note from Miss Agnes Wingfield. She 
 opened it reluctantly, knowing that whatever words 
 were in it would wound her. Miss Agnes had not once 
 called at the school-house, and from certain timid 
 phrases let fall by Miss Cecily, Alicia knew that the 
 elder lady could not forgive her. 
 
 But the letter stabbed her cruelly. She loved Miss 
 Agnes for her many gracious qualities, and for that 
 reason each sentence smote her as a blow. 
 
 "Madam," the letter began, and Alicia paled as the 
 210
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 211 
 
 cold word met her eye, "I have waited until you were 
 in a state of health strong enough, I trust, to read with 
 calmness what I write with pain. It is not necessary 
 for me to tell you how terribly my dear sister and I 
 have suffered from this shame that has come to us 
 through your sin. We gave you our friendship I will 
 not enlarge on that and you betrayed our trust. We 
 had so much confidence in your virtue and propriety 
 that we placed you in charge of the innocent little chil- 
 dren of our village school. To know that you of all 
 young women should have succumbed to temptation is 
 still almost incredible. It is, indeed, a grievous reflec- 
 tion upon my dear sister and myself, who should have 
 been more watchful and prudent. I have permitted my 
 dear sister, whose tender heart bleeds even for the 
 worst of sinners, to comfort and nurse you during your 
 illness. But I must beg you to understand that this 
 Christian charity is in no way a sign of forgiveness 
 for what to all good and pure women is an unpardon- 
 able sin. Henceforth our friendship towards you is at 
 an end, though the memory of your innocent days and 
 of the happiness we had in your companionship will 
 always remain to us as a great and bitter regret for so 
 deplorable an ending. 
 
 "You will, of course, not fail to resign your position 
 as mistress of Long Stretton School. Our responsibility 
 to the poor children makes this immediately necessary. 
 I pray that God may grant you His mercy and that He 
 may restore you to His infinite grace. 
 
 "AGNES WINGFIELD."
 
 212 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Alicia read the letter until the end, when her tears 
 blinded her. Then tearing it into small bits she let 
 them fall upon the floor. She had reached the depths 
 of anguish, and in her lonely room she struggled with 
 a deadening despair. That afternoon she wrote an 
 answer to the letter: 
 
 "I resign my position as mistress of Long Stretton 
 School, where I have tried to do my duty. I am 
 grateful for the loving goodness shown to me by all in 
 the village, and I shall never forget the infinite kindness 
 of you and Miss Cecily." 
 
 An hour after this note had been sent up to the 
 Hall by the little maidservant the postmistress came 
 with a telegram. 
 
 Alicia returned the greeting of the woman and closed 
 the door upon her before she opened the pink envelope. 
 
 Her heart leapt within her with a sudden and terrible 
 excitement. The telegram was from Stretton Wing- 
 field. 
 
 "Have just received six letters not delivered because 
 of constantly changing address. Am overwhelmed with 
 sorrow and self-reproach. Come to me. My love 
 awaits you. STRETTON, 10, Duke St., St. James's, 
 London, W." 
 
 Alicia gave a great cry and fell face downwards upon 
 the floor with her arms outstretched.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 ON the afternoon of the next day Alicia stood on the 
 platform at Victoria. The first fog of the autumn 
 filled the station with a damp grey mist through which 
 the electric lights gleamed with a clouded radiance. 
 A crowd of people waited for an outgoing train, eddy- 
 ing backwards and forwards behind the line of porters 
 clamouring for luggage from the passengers in Alicia's 
 train, which had just arrived. She stayed motionlessly 
 under one of the lamps, her brain dazed by the dull 
 roar and by the tangle of humanity. She watched the 
 line of cabs move slowly down the further side of the 
 platform as those in front drove away into a whirl- 
 pool at the entrance, with hoarse shouts and the clack 
 of whips. 
 
 A few people waiting for friends turned to look at 
 her this solitary woman in black, whose quietude was 
 strangely in contrast to the general restlessness. The 
 electric light made a glamour about her, accentuating 
 the shadows under her eyes and the pallor of her face. 
 Three portmanteaux lay around her, and as she stood 
 with her face slightly raised, and her eyes gazing into 
 the station distances, utterly unobservant of individ- 
 uals, she was a picture for a French impressionist. 
 
 213
 
 214 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Manet would have caught that attitude of patient ex- 
 pectancy, and the mysticism of her face. 
 
 A man fought his way through the crowds to her and 
 took her hands. 
 
 "Alicia!" 
 
 It was Stretton Wingfield. He looked at her with 
 a kind of shame, and spoke in a voice that was strange 
 to her. 
 
 "How ill you look and how beautiful! My God, 
 what a brute I have been to you! " 
 
 Alicia's face flamed with a sudden joy. 
 
 "Stretton . . . my love!" 
 
 He gripped a porter's arm and pointed to the bags. 
 Then he guided Alicia swiftly towards the line of han- 
 som cabs, and hailed one. As they drove out of the 
 station, he took her hand again, stroking it gently. 
 He could find no words but those of self-reproach and 
 passionate excuses. 
 
 "I have been a brute . . . utterly selfish. ... I was 
 so rushed with work I could not find time to write . . . 
 hardly to eat. . . . Those letters lay at my flat. I ought 
 to have sent for them. I have been a brute! My poor 
 child!" 
 
 She let her head slip to his shoulder and wept quietly 
 with excess of joy. 
 
 "I should not have written those stupid letters," she 
 said presently. "Forgive me, Stretton. I was too 
 impatient." 
 
 "You?" 
 
 Stretton laughed bitterly.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 215 
 
 "I shall never forgive myself!" 
 
 "I doubted your love. I have been wicked. But 
 let us forget all that. I am dazed with joy." 
 
 She sat forward in the cab drinking in the moist, 
 misty air, breathing in the sour smell of the streets, and 
 dazzling her eyes with the flare of the shop windows. 
 
 "London ! " she said, as they drove through the Green 
 Park, where the long vista of lights gleamed before 
 them, and a constant stream of carriages passed with 
 flashing lamps, to the tune of jingling bells and harness, 
 and with a swirling noise as of rushing waters. She 
 breathed quickly and gave a low, excited laugh. 
 
 "Glorious!" she whispered to herself. 
 
 They were held up in the traffic by Marlborough 
 House. A dense block of carriages waited their turn 
 to drive through the gates. Through their windows 
 Alicia caught glimpses of women in white gowns, their 
 flesh gleaming softly, and with glittering jewels. By 
 the side of some there were men in scarlet uniforms, or 
 in naval blue. 
 
 "Who are they all those people? Where are they 
 going?" 
 
 "It's Marlborough House. The Prince gives a dinner 
 to-night." 
 
 A carriage moved close and then got jammed close 
 to the cab. An elderly man in Court dress unfastened 
 the window, leaning forward on his seat to stare at 
 Stretton and Alicia. It was a thin, clean-shaven, dis- 
 tinguished-looking man, and a smile played about his 
 thin lips.
 
 216 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Good evening, Stretton," he said, with a laugh 
 which to Alicia did not seem altogether pleasant. 
 
 She felt Stretton suddenly stiffen at her side. He 
 gave a start as the voice greeted him. Then he laughed, 
 too, nervously. 
 
 "Hullo!" he said. "Doing the gold-stick business?" 
 
 He went forward to hide Alicia from the man's 
 cool stare. 
 
 "Yes, my Individual youth! I suppose you are too 
 much of a democrat to envy me, eh? Or do you some- 
 times put off the democrat pose?" 
 
 "Wait till the House meets," said Stretton, with a 
 more natural gaiety. "We are going to make things 
 move!" 
 
 "You will certainly add to the gaiety of nations, my 
 amiable young ass! Well, au revoir!" 
 
 He leant back with another laugh, and the carriage 
 moved forward in the queue and disappeared through 
 the gates of Marlborough House. 
 
 "Who is that?" said Alicia. "I don't like him, who- 
 ever he is." 
 
 "My worthy uncle, Lord Hugh Unstead, the Minister 
 of War. What a coincidence that he should have come 
 alongside like that! Confound him!" 
 
 He sat back and was silent as the hansom now shot 
 forward through the two lines of carriages. 
 
 "We shall not be alone until late to-night," he said, 
 as he took Alicia's hand and helped her out of the 
 hansom. "It is a terrible nuisance, but I could not
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 217 
 
 postpone a dinner to the party leaders. It is our first 
 rendezvous. Do you mind, Alicia?" 
 
 Alicia's eyes widened with a frightened look. She 
 turned on the doorstep and gazed into the dark and 
 quiet little street. 
 
 "I shall be in your way, Stretton. Shall I go some- 
 where else ... to some hotel?" 
 
 Stretton laughed softly. 
 
 "Hush! This is your home now." 
 
 He opened the door with his latch-key, and Alicia 
 looked into a lighted hall, the walls covered with old 
 engravings and hunting trophies. 
 
 A manservant came forward quickly. 
 
 "The gentlemen are here, sir." 
 
 "Never mind the gentlemen. Fetch in the bags." 
 
 Alicia still hesitated on the doorstep. 
 
 "Stretton," she whispered, "are you sure you want 
 me?" 
 
 He took her hand, and started to find it stone cold. 
 
 "My dear! How cold you are!" he said in a low 
 voice. Then he drew her into the hall and took off her 
 fur boa. 
 
 "I told them to make a fire in your bedroom. Let me 
 take you up at once." 
 
 He put her arm through his own, and took her up 
 the stairs. On the landing he whispered the words, 
 "Courage, darling." 
 
 In the bedroom, lit with the soft light of many 
 candles and a glowing fire, Alicia stood silently and 
 swayed a little.
 
 218 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Stretton strode towards her and put his arms about 
 her. 
 
 "My dear . . . you are not ill? ... You are happy . . . 
 and trust me?" 
 
 She struggled for composure. "No, I am not ill. 
 ... a little faint, that is all. ... It is all so strange 
 ... so wonderful!" 
 
 She put her hands upon his shoulders and let her 
 head drop upon his breast. 
 
 "Stretton . . . you are not making a mistake? . . . 
 You want me to live with you? . . . You have not 
 lost your love for me?" 
 
 She panted, and Stretton saw that she was moved 
 with a great emotion. 
 
 He pressed her close to him. 
 
 "I love you better than life. I cannot do without 
 you. By God's truth I will be good to you!" 
 
 He spoke passionately in a low voice. Then as 
 he heard the baggage being brought upstairs he stepped 
 quickly to the door. 
 
 "We will wait dinner for you," he said. "Dress as 
 you like. There are no other ladies." 
 
 His eyes met those of Alicia, and he saw that they 
 were moist with tears. But a colour had come into her 
 face, and she smiled at him with infinite tenderness. 
 
 As he went downstairs his lips moved and his hand 
 trembled on the baluster. From the dining-room came 
 the sound of men's voices and laughter. He paused 
 before the door, breathing heavily, and from the iron 
 lamp, swinging above, the light fell upon a rather hag-
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 219 
 
 gard and very serious face. He swept it with a hand, 
 and forced a smile as he opened the door. 
 
 The laughter pealed at him, and then there was a 
 shout of "Wingfield! Wingfield!" and a fluty voice 
 which asked, "Where the devil's that dinner, young 
 man?"
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 "Gooo luck to the Individualists," said Stretton. "| 
 only wish there were more of us ! " 
 
 "What we lack in quantity we have in quality," said 
 the fluty voice which belonged to Hilary Osgood, the 
 "Dainty Desmoulins" of the halfpenny Press. He 
 wore a velvet dinner jacket, and since Stretton had last 
 seen him he had grown his hair longer, and its gold 
 gleamed round a fair boyish face, singularly sweet and 
 merry. 
 
 "Yes," said a deep and rather hoarse voice, "we 
 look a pretty set of scoundrels, don't we? Our little 
 friend Hilary, par exemple, is a typical leader of 
 revolution!" 
 
 The man who spoke was Cuthbert Waynefleet, the 
 author of Individualism, which Stretton had called the 
 new Magna Charta. 
 
 Hilary sang a bar of "La Marseillaise" and bowed to 
 Wingfield. "Vive 1'Empereur!" he cried gaily. 
 
 A tall, gaunt, long-nosed man, Lord Percival Percy, 
 raised a drawling voice. 
 
 "We have had a devil of a time. Those women! 
 . . . Well, thank heaven it's all over." 
 
 "It's just beginning, old Praise-God-Bare-Bones, and 
 
 don't you make no mistake," said Hilary. 
 
 220
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 221 
 
 "We'll have a run for our money," said a sporting- 
 looking young man who happened to be Lord John 
 Hutton. "Don't funk the ditches, is my motto, and 
 a dashed good one." 
 
 "None of your beastly stable slang, Johnny," said 
 Hilary Osgood. "Remember, you're a legislator." 
 
 "I'm dashed if I am," said Lord John. "I'm an 
 Individualist, I take it!" 
 
 There was a burst of laughter. 
 
 "Be quite sure, dear boy," said Hilary. "Don't make 
 a mistake in the House and vote on the Government 
 side." 
 
 "Well, I'm a sportsman," said Lord John placidly. 
 "Ill follow the Whip." 
 
 "Like a hound," said Hilary. 
 
 "Stretton, my noble chief," said a whimsical person 
 who had a distinct resemblance to George Grossmith, 
 junior. "Forgive me for reminding you that, intel- 
 lectual as we are, our flesh is weak. Where in the 
 pointed phrase of our friend Hilary where the devil is 
 that dinner?" 
 
 "Lord Edward Moorhouse," said Hilary, "remember 
 your manners, and try to be a gentleman. You won't 
 succeed, but there's nothing like trying." 
 
 Stretton pulled out his cigar-case and handed it to 
 Lord Edward. 
 
 "Take a weed, Teddy, it'll help you to wait a bit 
 longer." There was a general dismay. 
 
 "Wait?" cried Hilary Osgood, falling backwards
 
 222 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 with a light grace. " 'Those also serve who only stand 
 and wait!' Alas, I cannot stand, I faint." 
 
 "Mine host," said the deep bass of Cuthbert Wayne- 
 fleet, "I should be loth to call a pox upon your house. 
 But as one of us has well observed, in a particularly 
 bright epigram, the flesh is weak." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Stretton calmly. "But I am 
 expecting a lady to join us. We cannot begin without 
 her." 
 
 There was a sudden silence, which was interrupted 
 by a ripple of laughter from Hilary Osgood. 
 
 "Tout vient a qui sait attendre. Cherchez la femme! 
 Ce n'est que la premier pas qui coute! Liberte! 
 Egalite! Fraternite! Pip! Pip!" 
 
 He hummed the "Marseillaise" again with an agree- 
 able smile. Lord Percival Percy walked over to Stret- 
 ton with a blank stare. 
 
 "I say, old boy. This is hardly playing the game, 
 is it? If you'll excuse me I'll be going. Important en- 
 gagement. Beastly sorry, you know." 
 
 "Sit down," said Stretton. "Don't be a damned 
 idiot." 
 
 "As a sportsman," said Lord John Hutton, "I object 
 to a dark horse." 
 
 "It's a mare, you ass," said Hilary. 
 
 Stretton flushed angrily. 
 
 "Look here, you fellows," he said quietly. "I sup- 
 pose you weren't brought up in Houndsditch?" 
 
 "Houndsditch?" said Hilary. "Hounds-ditch. 
 Twig? Very neat that. Ha! ha!"
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 223 
 
 "The lady I am going to ask you to meet," said 
 Stretton, "is not accustomed to cads. Perhaps you 
 will remember you are gentlemen." 
 
 "Oh lor, are we?" said Hilary. "Now, who'd have 
 thought it?" 
 
 "I'm an Individualist," said John Hutton. 
 
 Cuthbert Waynefleet bore down their voices. His 
 heavy face, pockmarked and square-jowled, frowned 
 on the other men. 
 
 "When I behave with any discourtesy to a woman, 
 may my soul go straight to hell!" 
 
 "I second that proposition," said Hilary, with his 
 exquisite smile. 
 
 The door opened, and Stretton's man announced 
 Alicia Frensham. 
 
 She came into a silent room. 
 
 She wore a black lace dress with a white point collar, 
 a simple gown that became her tall figure. Her brown- 
 red hair was looped loosely at the back, and she held 
 her head high. She did not show the nervousness that 
 possessed her, and the expression of her serious eyes 
 and sensitive mouth was softened by a rather wistful 
 smile as she went across to Stretton. 
 
 "I have not kept you waiting too long?" she asked. 
 
 Stretton's friends looked at her curiously and with 
 astonishment, in which perhaps there was a little 
 shame. They had not expected, though perhaps they 
 could not have explained why, a woman of this unusual 
 and spiritual beauty. Perhaps Stretton's character 
 had led them to expect another type of woman. Hilary
 
 224 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Osgood drew in his breath quickly, and the impudence 
 of his expression was for the moment extinguished. 
 
 "We have not been too impatient," said Stretton, 
 smiling in answer to her question. He felt the swift 
 effect of Alicia's appearance on his guests, and his spirit 
 was greatly elated. Her apparent self-possession, her 
 quiet grace dispelled his anxiety as to her behaviour in 
 a trying situation. 
 
 He took her hand and led her to Cuthbert Wayne- 
 fleet, who bowed deeply with an old-fashioned dignity. 
 
 "You know Mr. Waynefleet by name, Alicia? Here 
 he is in the flesh the father of Individualism. His is 
 the spirit that moves us." 
 
 Waynefleet took the hand Alicia held out to him, and 
 bent low over it. 
 
 "Our friend Wingfield is always generous with his 
 words. My spirit, madam, is fettered by the flesh, 
 which as you see is gross. But I am your servant." 
 
 A smile flickered in Alicia's eyes. 
 
 "I have heard you will always be master," she said. 
 There was a laugh at this, but Waynefleet looked at her 
 seriously. 
 
 "They accuse me of an overbearing temper," he 
 said. "It is an outrageous lie, madam. I am as gentle 
 as a dove." 
 
 "When everybody gives way to him," said Hilary. 
 
 Alicia smiled at the young painter, who had moved 
 towards her. 
 
 "You are Mr. Hilary Osgood, are you not?" she said. 
 "I recognise you by Stretton's description."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 225 
 
 "What cruelty!" cried Hilary. "I shrink at the 
 thought of Wingfield's witticisms. He does not spare 
 his friends." 
 
 "Oh, I flattered you," said Stretton, laughing. "To 
 describe you as you are would be too candid a carica- 
 ture." 
 
 "Miss Frensham," said Hilary earnestly, "believe 
 me that the diabolical appearance that my mother gave 
 me hides an innocent and guileless heart." 
 
 Alicia looked at the face, with its daintily clear-cut 
 features and girlish mouth, and she laughed with a 
 merriment that was infectious to the others. 
 
 Stretton did not introduce them all to her. 
 
 "You will pick them out later on," he said. "As 
 Individualists they are more or less individual, and 
 they cannot get away from their portraits in the half- 
 penny papers." 
 
 "Yes, we are labelled for life," said Hilary. "What 
 we shall do when we become respectable " 
 
 "You never will," said Stretton. "But let us eat 
 and be merry. Waynefleet, will you take in Miss 
 Frensham?" 
 
 He opened the door, and Cuthbert Waynefleet lum- 
 bered over to Alicia and gave her his arm with grave 
 deference. 
 
 "I am not worthy," he said. The other men fell 
 back to let them pass. Alicia's face was now flushed 
 so that her beauty was more striking. But the anguish 
 of her recent life had left its marks upon her, and on
 
 226 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 her face there was always, as it were, the memory of 
 pain. 
 
 Hilary held back to the last and whispered to 
 Stretton 
 
 "Who is she? Have you brought St. Cecilia back 
 to life?" 
 
 Stretton took his arm and marched him off. 
 
 "Keep a civil tongue in your cheek, my impertinent 
 cherub." 
 
 At dinner there was silence over the first plates. 
 
 Cuthbert Waynefleet was hungry and lapped his 
 soup steadily, and as he sat next to Alicia, the others, 
 who were less interested in each other than in this 
 new appearance at Stretton's table, followed his suit, 
 though with less evident gusto. Stretton was becoming 
 nervous again, and was afraid of the silence, without 
 having the courage to break it. But when Cuthbert 
 Waynefleet had eased his hunger pains he turned to 
 Alicia and rolled out a sonorous stream of talk. With 
 a genius for monopolising conversation, he made his 
 own opening and plunged into a vivid description of a 
 walk he had taken that afternoon in the slums of 
 Westminster. He had met a dozen strange characters, 
 from whom he had got their life stories over a bottle of 
 wine in a dirty tavern. He seemed to have the habit 
 of getting to the heart of any wretched human creature, 
 and as a philosopher every one he met seemed a type, 
 a personification of vice, or misery, or folly, or heroism. 
 Alicia was fascinated, and hardly ate a morsel while 
 listening to his grim, powerful portraits and pictures.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 227 
 
 She had no need to answer him, even by conventional 
 phrases, for he talked best when he had a good listener, 
 and preferred a monologue. 
 
 But presently his natural courtesy put a check upon 
 his tongue, and he endeavoured to give her equal oppor- 
 tunity. 
 
 "What do you think of the Election results, madam? 
 They surprised you?" 
 
 Alicia was a little confused. 
 
 "I did not know there had been an Election. Has 
 it taken place?" 
 
 Stretton flushed uneasily. 
 
 "Alicia!" he said, with a touch of annoyance in his 
 voice. He felt, rather than saw, that these words had 
 caused a sensation among his friends. 
 
 Cuthbert Waynefleet laid down his knife and fork 
 and gazed, at Alicia with an amazement which changed 
 gradually to admiration. 
 
 "Prodigious! Here in their egotism are gathered 
 together the leaders of a new party who imagined they 
 had made something of a stir in the world. England 
 has been hideous with the vulgarity and obscene noise 
 of party strife. Yet the gracious lady has not heard 
 a rumour of it! Good God, what a lesson for the vanity 
 of fools! Madam, I thank you, I thank you." 
 
 Alicia flushed deeply. 
 
 "I am stupid. But I ... I have been ill. I have not 
 seen a paper for a fortnight. Before then I followed 
 all your movements and read all your speeches." 
 
 "You have been ill?" said Waynefleet, with an
 
 228 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 instant tenderness. "You grieve me. And I must 
 have made your head ache with my foolish flow of 
 words. I can hardly hope for forgiveness." 
 
 He poured out a glass of port wine. 
 
 "It will strengthen you," he said. "Pray give me 
 the pleasure of seeing you drink it. Ah, that is better ! 
 I was afraid for a minute you might be too severe in 
 the principles of temperance." 
 
 "Perhaps," he went on, with the object of covering 
 Alicia's evident embarrassment, "London does not 
 agree with you? To me it is the healthiest and happiest 
 place in the world and I have lived in many places 
 of the world. But there are some natures, delicate and 
 sensitive, who need the solitude and silence of the coun- 
 try. The noise of London appals them, and they are 
 distressed in its world of streets. Do you find that so?" 
 
 "I have only been in London half -an -hour, and never 
 before to-day. But in spite of living all my life in the 
 country, I think I shall like the town best." 
 
 At this confession Hilary Osgood kicked Lord John 
 Hutton on the shin so that he spilt his wine. 
 
 "You have never been in town before!" said Wayne- 
 fleet, recovering from his surprise. "That is most inter- 
 esting. I hope you will let me show you some of the 
 wonders. I know every street and every alley of it, 
 and I love each one of its grimy stones." 
 
 "Johnny," said Hilary Osgood to his neighbour in 
 a low voice while Waynefleet went on speaking, "I have 
 a theory."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 229 
 
 "I wish you'd keep your feet to yourself." 
 
 "My theory," said Hilary, "is that our young 
 friend Stretton has been playing Pygmalion, and has 
 brought another Galatea to life." 
 
 "I don't mind taking a sporting bet with you," said 
 John Hutton, "that her father is a country clergyman." 
 
 "Hushl " said Hilary, looking scared. "She's not one 
 of that sort." 
 
 "What's she here for?" said Horsy Hutton, as he 
 was sometimes called. 
 
 "If she ain't a goddess, she's a saint," said Hilary. 
 
 "Ah!" said Lord John. "I never put my money on 
 a saint; d'ye remember Saint Agatha? She broke my 
 jockey's back at the first hedge." 
 
 "Did she, by Jove!" said Hilary. He looked ear- 
 nestly at Alicia, and then at Stretton Wingfield. 
 
 "I fancy one of us will come a cropper." 
 
 The conversation among the others had become more 
 general, and there was a lively rally on the subject of 
 literary London. Stretton and Waynefleet tried to 
 trip each other over the localities where famous writers 
 had lived. They both were at fault over the house 
 where Shelley dwelt in his youth. It was Alicia who 
 put them right. 
 
 "Was it not in Poland Street? I remember reading 
 in the biography of his friend Hogg how Shelley was at- 
 tracted by the trellised paper, and touching the wall 
 said, 'We must stay here for ever!' ' 
 
 Cuthbert Waynefleet patted her hand approvingly.
 
 230 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Well done! Well done!" he said. "You have never 
 been to London, yet you have beaten us all." 
 
 Naturally in any conversation on literary London the 
 works of Charles Dickens came up for review. It is 
 an evidence of the wide and wonderful popularity of 
 Dickens that in almost any company the remembrance 
 of his character reveals enthusiasm and knowledge. 
 Stretton, Waynefleet, Moorhouse, Hilary Osgood, and 
 even Percy, who hitherto had been quite silent, joined 
 in the tracking down of Dickensian characters in the 
 highways and byways of London. Alicia gave them the 
 lead, and baffled them several times by naming charac- 
 ters which they had forgotten until she recalled the 
 scenes in which they appeared. She mentioned Tom 
 All-alone in Bleak House. 
 
 "I can imagine that gloomy place, with its iron rail- 
 ings, looking through into the dark courtyard, where 
 rats scrambled for the scraps. Does it still exist? 
 
 Waynefleet was the only man who knew the spot, 
 and he launched into a eulogy of Dickens' wonderful 
 realism. "But it is impertinent of me," he said, touch- 
 ing Alicia's hand with his great paw. "I thought I 
 knew my Dickens, but you have revealed my igno- 
 rance." 
 
 "Alicia is a great reader," said Stretton. He was 
 happy that she had impressed these men of culture like 
 Waynefleet and Osgood, and he flashed a look of warm 
 approval at her, which she answered with a grateful 
 smile. After dinner Stretton took his guests back to the
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 231 
 
 smoking-room, where Hilary Osgood sat down to the 
 piano and sang gay little French songs in a charming 
 tenor, while the other men talked politics with Stretton 
 over cigars and coffee. Alicia sat by Hilary, and it 
 was to her he sang, swinging round between each song 
 to explain the meaning of the old French words. 
 
 "Now it is your turn," he said. "These little foolish 
 things have been but the chirruping of cherubs to St. 
 Cecilia." 
 
 "I do not sing," said Alicia. 
 
 "Not sing?" said Hilary. "Why you sing with your 
 eyes, and there is music in your hair and in the move- 
 ment of your hands! When you speak I hear the 
 thrill of harp strings, and when you laugh it is the 
 song of running water." 
 
 Alicia laughed softly at his serious foolishness, and 
 he listened to her with his head on one side and with 
 devout expression. 
 
 "Et cum spiritu tuo," he said, as if her laughter 
 were a benediction. 
 
 From that moment he called her St. Cecilia, and it 
 pleased him when she dubbed him "Bambino mio." 
 
 Stretton, listening with one ear to a monologue by 
 Cuthbert Waynefleet, watched Alicia as Hilary prattled 
 to her, and she, feeling in some instinctive way that his 
 gaze was upon her, turned once or twice to send him 
 a message of the eyes across the room. His pulse 
 throbbed, and he was nervously excited. Remorse 
 flogged him as he thought of his carelessness and forget-
 
 232 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 fulness of the beautiful woman. These men admired 
 her; Hilary, the spoilt plaything of duchesses and 
 smart women, fastidious man and almost blast, was in 
 awe of her, and at her feet. Cuthbert Waynefleet had 
 whispered to him in his violent way that she was the 
 most "exquisite soul who did honour to the Almighty, 
 and was as wise as she was good." 
 
 What a blackguard he had been to her! And yet 
 he had not really forgotten her. He had never meant 
 to forsake her. Directly the fierce excitement of the 
 Election was over he had felt the need of this pure and 
 restful soul. And when those letters had reached him 
 it was not without passionate remorse and an irresist- 
 ible yearning that he had read her words of love and 
 bitterness and final reproach. He was not worthy of 
 her. But he would make amends. By all that was 
 holy, he would do his best to make her happy! 
 
 When his friends took their leave he watched with a 
 secret pleasure with what reverence and courtesy they 
 bent over Alicia's hand. He was thankful they had 
 behaved well, and had not treated Alicia with the 
 familiarity they would have shown to another type of 
 woman. 
 
 When they were all gone she came to him and put 
 her arms on his shoulders, all her gaiety dying out 
 
 "Thank God! we are alone at last," she said. 
 
 "You behaved splendidly, my dear." 
 
 "Oh! ... it was a great strain! . . . Stretton, let 
 me sit at your feet, and forget everything in your love! "
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 233 
 
 The candles burned dim, and then flickered and 
 faded out, and only the firelight glowed upon Stretton 
 as through the hours Alicia's head rested upon his 
 knees, and he spoke of his remorse, of his love, of his 
 desire to make her happy, and of all the good days 
 that the future held for them.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 To Alicia Frensham London was a wonderland, 
 through which she roamed during four weeks dreamily. 
 Or rather it seemed to her as if she had been asleep 
 during all her former life and was now awake. She 
 exulted in the tumult of the streets as a Midland man or 
 woman who first visits the coast and is excited by the 
 sound and fury of the sea. She loved the crowd, and 
 came from the jostlings and hubbub with flushed 
 cheeks and sparkling eyes. Yet she loved also the 
 quietude of back streets and such haunts of ancient 
 peace as the courtyards of the Temple and the Abbey 
 cloisters, where she went with Stretton and lingered 
 silently, with old memories and old ghosts about her. 
 She had a child-like desire for exploration and a 
 curiosity that was never satisfied. A dark alley with 
 an archway in Fleet Street or the Strand was a tempta- 
 tion to stray from the straight path of a journey which 
 she could not resist, and plucking at Stretton's sleeve, 
 she led him into narrow courts or slummy little streets 
 in spite of his laughing protests. 
 
 "I like to know what is at the back of things." 
 Her imagination was stirred by things that seemed 
 commonplace to Stretton. The tablet in the house 
 in Bread Street to the memory of Milton made her 
 
 234
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 235 
 
 thrill with excitement. Before Cleopatra's Needle on 
 the Embankment she stood long, and as though she 
 looked backwards through the three thousand years 
 when it was first raised on Egyptian sands. In West- 
 minster Abbey she was shocked at Stretton's levity 
 about the sculptured monuments. She did not see how 
 hideous many of them are, how horribly disconcerting 
 in this place of solemn peace where Death and Time 
 show the stupidity of fame. She was thrilled with 
 thoughts of the dust that lay beneath them, and her in- 
 stincts of art were destroyed here by her historical 
 imagination. The atmosphere of the Abbey and its 
 dim majesty overwhelmed her, and to Stretton's alarm 
 she suddenly disappeared from his side, and he found 
 her in the cloisters in tears. 
 
 To Stretton these weeks of sight-seeing with her 
 were surpassingly pleasant. He forgot himself in 
 studying the woman at his side, whose freshness of 
 emotion and impression gave him a new sense of en- 
 joyment in life, and brought back something of his old 
 boyishness. Her astonishing simplicity and the purity 
 of her nature took the sting from the vague, feeling of 
 uneasiness with which he sometimes regarded their 
 unconventional alliance. He fooled himself into a 
 sense of security and virtue which enabled him to 
 enjoy her presence as if so he put it to himself in a 
 pretty phrase she were his sister. The passion of 
 his first love for her seemed to have left him though 
 sometimes the touch of her hand, or the glint of gold 
 in her hair, or the tremulous quiver of her throat when
 
 236 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 she was excited thrilled him. But, as he argued with 
 inward satisfaction, she was now a quiet and refreshing 
 influence, a source of intellectual sweetness, in which 
 he could forget for a time the hot ambitions and his 
 restlessness. It was characteristic of him that after a 
 harassing political campaign, with the excitement of a 
 parliamentary session before him, he abandoned him- 
 self absolutely to an interregnum of love-in-idleness. 
 Yet they were seldom alone, not really alone, as they 
 had been at Long Stretton in the school-house. Wing- 
 field's bachelor friends came to his house in Duke 
 Street at all times of the day Hilary Osgood arriving 
 even at breakfast-time on many mornings. As a 
 painter he allowed himself the privileges of Bohemian- 
 ism, among which was the habit of visiting at an early 
 hour. It was impossible to resent his intrusion, at 
 least to a man of Stretton's temperament, for he 
 brought an early morning sunshine with him. 
 
 "There is one thing," he said, "which makes me 
 sigh at my bachelorhood. I cannot eat my breakfast 
 alone in a studio which reeks of last night's cigars and 
 the rumpled memories of midnight conversation. 
 Stretton, dear noble friend, let me pay for my break- 
 fast with you if you will, but do not deny me your 
 morning table." 
 
 Stretton was accustomed to this little habit of 
 Hilary's, which had been amusing enough in his single 
 days, but now that Alicia served the coffee he was 
 inclined to protest against this domiciliary visit. But 
 Hilary ignored his frown and his coolness, and with
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 237 
 
 a charming grace served his host with his own bacon, 
 while he regaled him also with tit-bits of gossip and 
 news. So it happened that in their morning expeditions 
 Hilary often accompanied them, swearing that to-day 
 he felt in a holiday mood, and would rather face a tiger 
 than a blank canvas. Indeed, he had always a hundred 
 suggestions for the entertainment of Alicia, and argued 
 in their favour with such sham eloquence that Stretton 
 would have to let him take the lead for the sake of 
 peace while he read the newspaper. And Alicia was 
 amused beyond measure by the Bambino, as she called 
 him. 
 
 "What a child it is!" she said to Stretton. "And to 
 think that he is a member of Parliament! " 
 
 "Unless ye become as little children," said Hilary, 
 who had heard the remark, "ye shall not enter the 
 House of Commons." 
 
 He insisted on taking them to the Zoo one day, and 
 Stretton had a pang of jealousy, swift and sudden, so 
 that it brought the blood to his face, when he saw 
 Alicia and Hilary sitting on the side saddle of an ele- 
 phant and holding hands like two babies. He had re- 
 fused to take part in such childishness, protesting that 
 old age sat too heavily on his shoulders to permit of 
 such a public exhibition. But as he stayed by the lad- 
 ders and saw Hilary's ecstatic look and Alicia's smiling 
 face, as the great beast lumbered off, he felt this stupid 
 resentment at the familiarity between his friend and his 
 . . . mistress. The word by which he called her slipped
 
 238 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 into his thoughts unconsciously, and then he became 
 aware of it and was curiously shocked. His mistress! 
 Yes, that was the plain brutal truth of it. His friends 
 had not said a word about his relations with this woman 
 in his house. They had taken everything for granted, 
 as men of the world do in such cases. But among 
 themselves they would talk about it. And they would 
 call her by a coarser name, "Wingfield's keep." That 
 was the modern way of putting it. Hilary up there, 
 looking as discreet as a cherub, told stories in the 
 smoking-room that would make the devil blush. He 
 behaved with propriety to Alicia, but in his mind she 
 was just "Wingfield's keep". . . . Damn him. 
 
 Stretton stuffed his last bun into an elephant's trunk, 
 and paced up and down moodily till the other beast 
 came back. His imagination was startled by a look 
 into the future. What was he going to do with Alicia? 
 What would happen when she found out, as inevitably 
 she must do, that she was not an honest woman in the 
 eyes of the men who were so amiable to her . . . that 
 they would never dream of introducing her to their 
 sisters . . . that she was) as much a social outcast as any 
 painted woman in Piccadilly? By God! Could he 
 trust Hilary, and the others who had praised Alicia's 
 beauty and her serious grace? There was no honour 
 among thieves, and where women were concerned they 
 were all thieves. A black suspicion settled upon him, 
 and when Alicia and Hilary came riding back Stretton's 
 face was white and gloomy.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 239 
 
 Hilary scampered down the ladder, and held out 
 his hands to Alicia. She took them and jumped lightly 
 to the ground with a ripple of laughter. 
 
 "It was great and glorious!" cried Hilary. "The 
 spirit of eternal childhood has its home in the Zoo." 
 
 "Yes, you have all the characteristics of the 
 monkey," said Stretton. 
 
 Alicia was startled by his tone of speech and by the 
 ruffled expression of his face. She wondered what had 
 happened to annoy him, and put her hand through his 
 arm. 
 
 But Hilary was taken up with his own enjoyment. 
 
 "It is good for us to be here," he said. "Let us build 
 three tabernacles, one for you, and one for Alicia, and 
 one for me." 
 
 For the rest of the afternoon Wingfield was silent 
 and distrait, but Hilary's pranks and merriment kept 
 Alicia laughing. His observations in the monkey-house 
 brought a little group of people about them, much to 
 Stretton's annoyance. 
 
 "How humanity caricatures its ancestors," said 
 Hilary, pointing to a group of serious apes. "If only 
 the House of Commons had the dignity of those primi- 
 tive men!" He put a hand on Stretton's arm. "My 
 dear old chap," he said, "look at that young baboon. 
 It is absolutely like you! And that old chimpanzee, 
 upon my soul he is the living image of my respected 
 grandfather! How heredity does count!" 
 
 "I suppose you're a sort of throw-back," said
 
 240 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Stretton. "I've often wondered why you're so fond 
 of nuts." 
 
 "Yes, and now I come to think of it, that's why 
 you always put your feet on the mantel-piece," returned 
 Hilary. "It's the nearest thing to hanging head down- 
 wards by your tail!" 
 
 Stretton smiled grimly, but his moodiness continued 
 for the afternoon, until at last under the depressing in- 
 fluence of it even Hilary, after some wild adventures 
 with jam tarts and a polar bear, suggested that it was 
 time for a cab home. He slipped out at the corner of 
 Portland Place, and kissed two hands to them through 
 the window. 
 
 "A golden memory!" he said. "God bless you 
 both." 
 
 Alicia put her hands into Stretton's. 
 
 "My dear, what is the matter? Have I annoyed 
 you?" 
 
 "Aren't you getting a bit too friendly with that 
 young jackanapes?" said Stretton with a touch of 
 irritation. 
 
 Alicia was thoughtful. 
 
 "I will not speak to him again if you would rather 
 not," she said. "I thought you wanted me to be friendly 
 with your friends." 
 
 Stretton laughed, thrusting back his ill humour as he 
 saw that he was on the verge of making himself ridic- 
 ulous. 
 
 "Forgive me for being an ass ! I had a stupid jeal-
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 241 
 
 ousy when I saw you playing the babe with Hilary! 
 I found that I was feeling elderly and it gave me a 
 twinge." 
 
 "Oh, Stretton," said Alicia tremulously. "You will 
 never have cause for jealousy. I only live in your 
 love. If I ever doubted that I think I should die." 
 
 "Do you ever doubt it?" 
 
 Stretton put his arm about her and pressed her to 
 his side. 
 
 "Not now," said Alicia softly. 
 
 "Ah!" said Stretton, wincing. "You still remember 
 my cruel carelessness!" 
 
 Alicia put her hands on his lips. 
 
 "I only remember your goodness to a lonely village 
 girl. . . . Indeed, my dear, I remember nothing, but 
 live only in this present dream." 
 
 This was the real truth. Since Alicia had come to 
 London, she had not allowed herself to think in the 
 past or in the future. Not in the past because the 
 terror of those recent weeks and the loss of the child 
 life to which she had looked forward so passionately 
 remained as a deep wound which she dared not probe; 
 and not in the future because to be with Stretton, to 
 share his daily life, to live in the turmoil of London, 
 to listen to the conversation of men who were distin- 
 guished in letters, in art, or in the social world, gave her 
 no time or wish to peer into what was to come. . . . 
 
 Hilary was only one of the men who came to the 
 quiet house in Duke Street. In the afternoon many of
 
 242 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 the Individualists came to tea. Lord Edward Moor- 
 house, Stretton's "Teddy," was a frequent visitor. 
 Alicia liked him because he seemed to her so typical of 
 all she had read or imagined of the young English 
 gentleman. He had not the whimsicality of Hilary or 
 the eccentric beauty. He was a smart, well-groomed, 
 clean-shaven man with no ideals, no literary taste or 
 knowledge, and absolutely no pose. But he was fresh 
 and wholesome, laughed easily and showed strong white 
 teeth, was always amiable in a quiet, self-contained 
 way, and had grey eyes that looked out upon the world 
 with kindness. He had a profound respect for Stret- 
 ton's intellect, knowing his own ignorance, and to Alicia 
 he was always polite and attentive, eager to jump up to 
 hand round cups when she poured out tea, and always 
 ready to make conversation with her when the other 
 men were taken up with their own arguments. He was 
 the most ordinary and undistinguished of Stretton's 
 visitors, but Alicia liked the plain, well-dressed young 
 man with the brown face and tanned, well-kept hands. 
 For Lord John Hutton, with his stable slang and 
 horsy manners, and for Lord Percival, with his drawl 
 and stupid conceit, she had no liking at all but an 
 instinctive aversion, which she tried to overcome for 
 Stretton's sake, and Cuthbert Waynefleet did not 
 altogether please her, for there was something about 
 this unwieldy, heavy-faced man that gave her a vague 
 dread of him. But, on the other hand, he fascinated 
 her with his Johnsonian eloquence, his domineering
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 243 
 
 manners, his old-fashioned dignity, and his never- 
 failing courtesy to herself. 
 
 She put a question one day to Stretton about him, 
 so abruptly that he was rather startled. 
 
 "Is he really a bad man?" she said. "You once 
 told me he was a libertine." 
 
 "Waynefleet?" said Stretton, with momentary hesi- 
 tation. "Well, he is not an angel . . . but he is an 
 intellectual giant, and in these days of pigmy people 
 it is no use bothering about the private life of such 
 a man." 
 
 He fulfilled his promise to Alicia to show her some 
 of the sights of London, and arrived one day at eleven 
 o'clock, dressed with rather more care than usual, in 
 a frock-coat with full skirts, and a sword-stick under 
 his arm, with an invitation to take her to the Tower. 
 
 "Don't you ask me, too?" said Stretton. 
 
 "No, my young friend, it is time you wrote an article 
 for The Tribune on the future of Individualism or 
 some other subject of 'light topical interest.' I could 
 not be interrupted by cynical modern comments in the 
 last stronghold of medisevalism." 
 
 "I have never been to the Tower in my life," said 
 Stretton. "I thought only suburban fathers took their 
 children there." 
 
 "That shows again the intellectual superiority of the 
 suburbs." 
 
 Waynefleet would not listen to Stretton's wish to go 
 with him, or to Alicia's pleadings on Stretton's behalf.
 
 244 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "This is my day out," he said, "and I prefer a 
 tete-a-tete with madam. If she prefers not to come, 
 let her say so, and I will beg forgiveness for my selfish- 
 ness, and return to my article for the New Encyclo- 
 pedia." 
 
 So Alicia went with him, a little reluctantly, but was 
 soon bewitched by his vast store of knowledge and 
 power of expression. He took the Tower as his test, 
 and for three hours revealed to her the meaning of Eng- 
 lish history and the spirit of mediaevalism. The stones 
 spoke to him, and he met old ghosts in those grim 
 walls. Alicia was strangely moved by his emotion. 
 Over the stone on Tower Green, and in the chapel of 
 St. Peter of the Chain, he wept quite frankly, great 
 tears that rolled down his cheeks as he spoke of the 
 fair and noble heads that had fallen, and of the great 
 dust buried there. The poetry, the spiritism, the 
 brutality and cruelty, the simple faith and endurance, 
 the unconscious and self-conscious heroism of the 
 Middle Ages became revealed to Alicia by this strange 
 guide more vividly, and with more intense impression- 
 ism, than ever before, and her sensitive nature was ex- 
 cited painfully by the magic spell of his gloomy 
 imagination and powerful impressionism. 
 
 "People call me a modern," he said, "because I pre- 
 tend to deal with the political situation of the day, and 
 to analyse the social conditions of this present civilisa- 
 tion. But by instinct I am a mediaevalist. I should 
 have been at home in Chaucer's days when individual- 
 ism counted far more than now. Perhaps who
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 245 
 
 knows? I might have sat at the right hand of a king, 
 and directed the destiny of a nation." 
 
 Though he was a poor man and frugal in his habits, 
 excepting the deep draughts of port wine in which he 
 found warmth, he had taken Alicia to the Tower in a 
 hansom, and as a symbol of magnificence, kept it wait- 
 ing during the three hours of their visit. On the 
 journey home he thanked Alicia in his grave courtly 
 way for the great favour she had given him. 
 
 "It has been a day, madam, that I shall remember 
 always. Such hours of imagination come only rarely 
 in a lifetime. Only a woman women are always gen- 
 erous and self-sacrificing would have been so full of 
 sympathy with a man of moodiness like me, a man 
 gross and battered and ugly. I am deeply indebted to 
 you." 
 
 "It has been a wonderful day to me," said Alicia 
 quickly. "I, too, shall never forget it. I have learnt 
 so much!" 
 
 "You have been very patient and beautiful," said 
 Waynefleet. "Beauty and patience are to me the best 
 of virtues." 
 
 "Is beauty a virtue?" said Alicia, smiling. 
 
 "The crown of virtue," said Waynefleet earnestly. 
 
 "Alas, then!" said Alicia, "I have no crown." 
 
 Waynefleet looked at her gravely again, and then 
 in a strange and thrilling voice he said 
 
 "By God, madam, you are much too beautiful and 
 good for such as Stretton Wingfield." 
 
 Alicia went white and shrank from his side.
 
 246 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "How dare you say that?" she said angrily. 
 
 "Nay," said Waynefleet hurriedly. "I meant noth- 
 ing against my young friend. You are too good for 
 any man less than a saint." He put his great hand on 
 Alicia's and said gently, "Forgive me, forgive me, dear 
 lady, you misinterpreted my words."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 HALF-WAY down Pall Mall, on their way home to 
 Duke Street, Alicia suddenly put her hand on Cuthbert 
 Waynefleet's arm, and in ai queer voice said, "Will you 
 stop the driver, please?" 
 
 Waynefleet thrust open the trap and called "Stop I" 
 with a violence which caused the man to pull his horse 
 on to its haunches. 
 
 "What is wrong?" said Waynefleet, searching the 
 flushed face of the woman as she put the doors open. 
 
 "Nothing," said Alicia hurriedly, "but I see a friend 
 of mine. ... I must speak to him. Forgive me ... 
 and a thousand thanks." 
 
 She flashed a smile at him, so that the clouds that 
 had gathered on his brow were almost dispelled. 
 
 As the hansom rattled off Waynefleet saw her race 
 lightly through the crowd after a tall figure going down 
 Pall Mall with a heavy stride. 
 
 The glimpse was enough to satisfy Waynefleet that, 
 whoever it might be, it was not Stretton, and he smiled 
 grimly into the little mirror of the cab. 
 
 Alicia overtook the man and came breathlessly to 
 his side. 
 
 "David!" she said, "David!" 
 
 It was David Heath in a grey tweed suit with a soft 
 
 247
 
 248 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 felt hat. He turned instantly at her voice and flushed 
 deeply with an uneasy look in his eyes. 
 
 "Alicia? I ... I ... I did not expect to see you." 
 
 He stammered miserably and stared down Pall Mall 
 towards Trafalgar Square, which was a golden place 
 in the afternoon sun of an October day. 
 
 Alicia's face fell, and a sudden mist of tears came 
 to her eyes. His coldness hurt her. She had expected 
 him to be so glad at their meeting. 
 
 "You . . . you heard I had been ill?" 
 
 "Yes," said David gravely. "Are you better?" 
 
 "Did you know I had left the village?" 
 
 "Yes . . . my father wrote." 
 
 He pulled out his watch and looked at it, but his 
 hand trembled violently. 
 
 "I think I must be off. Good-bye." 
 
 He raised his hat, but as he looked at her white face 
 and saw the sorrow in her eyes he faltered and moved 
 closer to her. 
 
 "Shall we talk somewhere? The National Gallery 
 ... a tea-shop? One can say nothing in the street." 
 
 "If you are in a hurry I will not worry you. I 
 thought perhaps you would be glad to see me again." 
 
 There was a break in her voice which moved David 
 painfully. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said. "I ... I did not mean to 
 be so boorish. Of course I'm glad." 
 
 They went down Pall Mall. 
 
 "Perhaps the Gallery would be best," said David. 
 "It's student's day, and we could get a quiet room."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 249 
 
 They went into the Tuscan School and found a seat 
 in a small gallery with the Saint Sebastian of an early 
 master. 
 
 "Tell me," said David. "Are you well ... and 
 happy?" 
 
 "I think I am well," said Alicia, "and I know I am 
 happy. My happiness is like a dream, David." 
 
 David looked up at her and then down at the floor. 
 
 "I pray God there will be no awakening." 
 
 "You know I am with Stretton?" 
 
 David groaned. 
 
 "I guessed it." 
 
 "And are you sorry? . . . You blame me?" 
 
 "I am profoundly sorry. But I do not blame you. 
 It is not for me to blame." 
 
 Alicia was silent. 
 
 "I think you do blame me," she said presently. "I 
 think you imagine all sorts of horrible things and look 
 upon me as a woman who has betrayed every moral 
 law. Oh, but surely you are not so narrow-minded, 
 David?" 
 
 "I suppose I am as narrow-minded as most men. 
 Anyhow, I believe in law. The more I see of life, the 
 more I believe in law." 
 
 "Do you mean religion the stupid, stuffy, cruel 
 old laws of orthodoxy?" 
 
 "I mean moral law, which is the basis of all religion." 
 
 Alicia laughed softly. 
 
 "My dear David, at the end of all our arguments I
 
 250 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 have always found we were in absolute agreement. Do 
 you think I revolt against moral law?" 
 
 "Tell me one thing," said David with deep anxiety. 
 "Are you married to Stretton Wingfield?" 
 
 Alicia was thoughtful. 
 
 "Yes," she said. "I think so. Yes, certainly we 
 are married. I told you we were living together." 
 
 David passed a hand over a haggard face. 
 
 "You think so!" he said, with a grim and hollow 
 laugh. "You think you are married I" 
 
 Two lovers came into the gallery and passed through 
 hand in hand, giving but a glance at the pictures. 
 David lowered his voice, but spoke huskily. 
 
 "Alicia! oh my God, you are making a fearful mis- 
 take! You are not married. I tell you you are not 
 married! One of these days that man will tire of you 
 and break with a brutal hand the partnership that now 
 seems to you so blessed and enduring. What will you 
 do then?" 
 
 "I should die perhaps, or go mad; who knows?" 
 
 "And yet you take this risk?" 
 
 "Yes. I take it gladly." 
 
 "It's the risk," said David, "the risk. Good God, 
 I don't pose as a Christian hero or a moral philosopher. 
 This is not a question of faith. But don't you see you 
 are putting aside the experiences of a million women? 
 They believed as you do that it would last for ever. 
 And they were abandoned by the men who had sworn 
 fidelity. You set on one side the experience of a million 
 broken hearts!"
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 251 
 
 Alicia said simply 
 
 "I believe in Stretton's love, dear David." 
 
 "Then why doesn't he marry you? Tell me that!" 
 
 "He does not think it necessary. Love is a stronger 
 bond than law." 
 
 "Oh, folly!" groaned David. "Horrible, ghastly 
 folly!" 
 
 He got up and paced up and down before her. 
 
 "If ever he deserts you," he said, "I will see that 
 he does not escape scot free like other scoundrels. I 
 will break him into bits, and trample him into mother 
 dirt." 
 
 "Hush!" said Alicia, white to the lips. "Hush! 
 they will hear you! I would not hear such words 
 from any one but you." 
 
 "Tell me," said David. "Does he treat you like 
 an honest woman? Does he introduce you to his 
 friends?" 
 
 "Yes. They come every day to our house." 
 
 Alicia's voice had a touch of triumph in it 
 
 "To his women friends?" 
 
 Alicia hesitated. 
 
 "He is a bachelor. I do not know that he has 
 any women friends." 
 
 David laughed cynically. 
 
 "A society man and no women friends! Where are 
 the sisters and the wives of the men you meet?" 
 
 Alicia laid her hand on his arm. 
 
 "We are talking stupidly. Tell me about yourself, 
 David. How are you getting on?"
 
 252 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 David could not answer, and strode silently through 
 the galleries, looking so haggard and stern that the 
 students turned to stare at him this long lean, power- 
 ful man of democratic type, with a beautiful woman by 
 his side, who held her head high with its sad eyes and 
 pain-drawn mouth. 
 
 "What drama is that?" said a young painter to a 
 girl in a long sketching coat. 
 
 "Paolo and Francesca, I should say!" 
 
 "A good model for Beatrice that Rossetti head." 
 
 David and Alicia said good-bye at the bottom of the 
 Gallery steps. 
 
 "I am sorry I spoke like a brute. You know it's 
 because we have been such friends." 
 
 "My poor David! You have been my best of 
 friends." 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 "Won't you come and see us sometimes? Stretton 
 would be glad." 
 
 David started. 
 
 "Good heavens, no! ... I couldn't! . . . But I am 
 always at Erasmus Hall, always in the mornings and 
 evenings. If you would come there " 
 
 "Perhaps I will, one day ... if you would not be 
 ashamed of me." 
 
 "Good God!" said David, "ashamed 1" 
 
 Alicia gave him her hand, and he crushed it in his 
 grip so that she almost cried out. Then he turned and, 
 lifting his hat, strode away into the crowd.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 THE Individualists, as Alicia had learnt on the 
 night of her arrival at Duke Street, when she had be- 
 trayed her ignorance of the Election, had just saved 
 themselves from ignominious defeat. Out of sixty 
 candidates twenty had been returned to Parliament. 
 The Constitutionalists, who had held their majority, 
 could afford to laugh at them good-humouredly. But 
 the Socialists, whose votes they had split, and to whom 
 they were both nearest and furthest in political doc- 
 trines nearest because they posed as representatives 
 of the democratic party, and furthest because they blas- 
 phemed against the gospel of Socialism poured vitriol 
 upon their heads as heretics and hypocrites. 
 
 Stretton Wingfield, who had made a bid for the 
 leadership of the new party, was frightfully disheart- 
 ened by the Election results. Alicia never knew, or 
 guessed the suffering of the man during the suspense 
 of the polling days, when he had been like a general 
 who receives news of defeat after defeat upon his 
 scattered forces. This acute mental tension it was 
 that had caused his neglect of her letters, which had 
 remained unopened not at his flat, as he had said in 
 self-excuse, but at the hotel which had been his head- 
 quarters, and to which they had been duly forwarded. 
 
 253
 
 254 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 By an extraordinary and unfortunate coincidence the 
 defeats had come first, like a volley of knockdown 
 blows to Stretton. Pauncefoote was thrown at Man- 
 chester, Montgomery at Hull, Sidgwick at Bolton, 
 Winkworth at Oldham, Stubbs at Preston, Halliday at 
 Sheffield, Macarthy at Leeds, Swainton at Lancaster, 
 and Barnaby at Newcastle. Within three days the 
 Individualists had lost all their best men barring Wing- 
 field and Waynefleet themselves, and a tail of nonenti- 
 ties like Percy and Hutton, who only counted because 
 of their names, and not at all because of brains. In 
 all those places the Socialists had come in with fat 
 majorities, and the Constitutionalists themselves began 
 to grow cold at the thought of an overwhelming tide of 
 Socialism. But quickly the balance swung to the other 
 side when the Midlands and London were declared. 
 London was Constitutional to a man, and the Socialists, 
 who had been shouting victory with a tomahawk dance 
 over the imaginary mangled remains of "Feudalism" 
 and "the Old Regime," sang smaller when they saw 
 themselves defeated in many of their old strongholds. 
 Stretton Wingfield gathered only small crumbs of 
 comfort from the carelessness of both parties. It was 
 noticeable that the only successes of the Individualists 
 were in small rural boroughs where the personality of 
 local influence of the candidate counted for more than 
 political creed. The net result was twenty and Stret- 
 ton had believed he would sweep the country with this 
 new middle party between the revolutionary Socialists 
 and the old Tory-Liberal forces!
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 255 
 
 Waynefleet dined with him at the Savoy when the 
 last results had been declared. The heavy face of 
 the man seemed calm and impassive as usual, when in 
 repose, and the anxiety of the weeks of strife had not 
 made another furrow on his high forehead. Stretton, 
 on the other hand, was white, haggard, and tremulous, 
 with tattered nerves. He drank more than Waynefleet, 
 who was more used to wine. 
 
 "The game is up," said Stretton. "We have made 
 historical fools of ourselves. We are the damned 
 laughing-stock of the nation." 
 
 "With twenty seats, my young friend," said Wayne- 
 fleet calmly, "we can do something in the House. We 
 are not to be ignored! There is nothing to complain 
 of, except lack of brain in the rank and file. You are 
 young, my dear Wingfield, and therefore impatient. 
 When you are as old as I am you will realise that to 
 educate a nation to a new political idea is the slowest 
 work a man may attempt. We are only the fore- 
 runners." 
 
 "We are utterly discredited," said Wingfield irrita- 
 bly. "I see now that Conservatives are the only In- 
 dividualists. They are the one force which can hope 
 to check the Socialists at this time of day. Individual- 
 ism and democracy is an impossible alliance. 
 
 "My friend," said Waynefleet, "you think so because 
 all your instincts are conservative, and your democratic 
 ideals are only a pose." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that I have been playing a 
 traitor's game?" said Stretton fiercely.
 
 256 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "I did not say so. But frankly I am the only demo- 
 crat among our small crowd. You are all tainted by 
 blue blood or romantic sentiment. I, sir, am the son 
 of a Derbyshire butcher." 
 
 "What the devil has that to do with it?" said Stret- 
 ton, pouring out another tumbler of wine with an un- 
 steady hand. 
 
 "It means that I am a democrat in blood and bone, 
 whereas you are all democrats only because you dislike 
 Socialism more than you love society. The distinction 
 is subtle, I own." 
 
 "By God! Waynefleet," said Stretton, "I believe 
 you are playing for your own hand all through." 
 
 "I am an Individualist and a democrat," said Wayne- 
 fleet. "I shall live by my faith." 
 
 Well, all that was past history now, and Stretton 
 walked arm-in-arm with Waynefleet through the Green 
 Park, to take his seat on the opening of Parliament. 
 There was a big crowd around Buckingham Palace 
 waiting for the King, and it was not without difficulty 
 that the two Individualists made their way through the 
 dense masses at Westminster. Here they were recog- 
 nised, and there were an ironical cheer and some hoarse 
 laughter as some fellow shouted, "Vive Lafayette! 
 Vive Marat!" 
 
 Waynefleet smiled grimly. 
 
 "They think it an insult to call me Marat. Well, 
 he was the one man who had sincerity. L'Ami du 
 Peuple! I could ask for no better name."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 257 
 
 Wingfield had flushed deeply and scowled on the 
 people. 
 
 'They love a nickname. But why they should call 
 me Lafayette is a mystery. I have nothing in common 
 with that vain noodle who gloried in constitutions and 
 top-boots." 
 
 "I am not sure that you haven't, my friend." 
 Waynefleet glanced at Stretton's careful dress and 
 his clouded cane. "He was a sort of democratic aris- 
 tocrat like yourself. What's wrong with the name?" 
 
 Wingfield released his friend's arm. 
 
 "I believe you despise me at heart," he said coldly. 
 
 "Humbug!" said Waynefleet gruffly. "That is 
 school-girl talk." 
 
 The twenty Individualists were to sit on the cross 
 benches between the two great parties. Moorhouse, 
 Hutton, Percy, Osgood, Langdon, Huddersfield, 
 Wingate, Fairhurst, Mathews, and Osbaldistone were 
 already in their places looking uncomfortably self- 
 conscious and rather scared. They were thin benches 
 on the Government side, but the Left had come down 
 early to the House and kept up a continual clamour of 
 applause or groans as other members took their seats. 
 The Strangers' Gallery was packed, and in the Ladies' 
 Gallery, which several sessions before had been en- 
 larged and relieved of its grille, Stretton caught a 
 glimpse of Alicia looking down with a white face. 
 
 As Wingfield entered with Waynefleet, the Constitu- 
 tionalists broke into loud laughter and jeers, which 
 brought the blood to Stretton's face. But from the
 
 258 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Left came a deep groan, followed by prolonged hissing, 
 Waynefleet turned upon them with a calm and im- 
 pressive stare, putting back his mane with a heavy 
 white hand. But Wingfield hurried to his seat and 
 shook hands with Hilary Osgood and Moorhouse. 
 From the Front Bench the Right Hon. Lord Hugh 
 Unstead, who was now Colonial Secretary, Mr. Words- 
 worth having changed places with him, crossed over to 
 the Middle and held out his hand to Stretton, an action 
 which seemed extremely comical to the Left, who 
 cheered derisively. 
 
 "Well, my dear nephew! This is an historical occa- 
 sion. This is the first time a Wingfield has sat on the 
 democratic side." 
 
 "It's time the tradition was broken," said Stretton 
 lightly. 
 
 "There's something in that! But you will allow us 
 a little amusement?' It is decidedly entertaining to see 
 so many younger sons of the old stock on the side of 
 the mob. Devilish funny! What does Percy's mamma 
 say, I wonder, and Teddy's good father?" 
 
 He leant over to Moorhouse, and put his hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "So you have turned politician and intellectual, 
 Teddy? You'll find it a poor game 1 " 
 
 "Oh, it's good sport so far, sir," said Moorhouse. 
 
 "Sport!" said Hugh Unstead. "Good heavens! 
 This is a chamber of horrors. Well, good-bye, boys. 
 Be good!" He smiled at them in his quizzical way
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 259 
 
 and strolled back to greet the Prime Minister, whose 
 arrival was heralded by a burst of cheering. 
 
 The Debate on the King's speech was not so utterly 
 dull and dreary as that performance usually is. The 
 Socialists, smarting from a defeat which at the first 
 had seemed like victory, were in a fighting mood and 
 had many amendments on the paper, and as all the 
 eloquence was on their side they made a really formi- 
 dable attack on the Government programme. Their 
 strongest men, Ricardo, Vesey, and Fillimore, waxed 
 furious over the domestic policy of the Constitutional- 
 ists, which, they said, had been more reactionary than 
 in the days of the old Conservative party. 
 
 Fillimore scored an epigram in the tail of his speech. 
 
 "The nation," he said, "like a sensitive medium, is 
 hypnotised by staring at a fixed and shining point 
 the Constitutional head of the Prime Minister." 
 
 All eyes were turned towards Charlton, whose bald 
 cranium glimmered brightly above the Front Bench, 
 and there was a hearty laugh both on the Right and 
 Left. 
 
 "This hypnotic state of the country," continued Filli- 
 more, "will be followed, according to all pathological 
 law, by mental excitability, which is often dangerous to 
 the hypnotist." 
 
 Ricardo made a hammer-and-anvil speech in which 
 there were none of Fillimore's flippancies, but a sincer- 
 ity that was not unimpressive. 
 
 "The Socialists," he said, "have been retarded by a
 
 260 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 temporary barrier of caste influences thrust across their 
 way. But Socialism has moved the spirit of the people. 
 It is a great tide which may be momentarily checked 
 by a reef or a breakwater, but which no barrier may 
 ultimately resist. It will sweep onward with a silent 
 and irresistible force. It will dash to pieces any futile 
 obstruction, and with the mighty impulse of a great 
 spirit will break upon the shifting sands of folly and 
 prejudice, and class bigotry, drowning them beneath 
 deep waters." 
 
 Vesey in a less oratorical manner was more effective. 
 With a brilliant handling of figures he set out to prove 
 that the Government had wasted ten millions of money 
 on the native rebellion on the Gold Coast which, he 
 said, had been fostered to serve the private ends of a 
 Chartered Company; that they had sunk five millions 
 in bolstering up a scheme of pauper-relief which was 
 simply an attempt to destroy the social labour colonies; 
 that they had thrown away two millions upon the build- 
 ing of prisons at Dover and Canterbury which were 
 chiefly occupied by political criminals who were the 
 children of their own reactionary policy. He was inter- 
 rupted several times from the Front Bench and once 
 by the Prime Minister, who abruptly challenged a 
 statement regarding the number of criminals con- 
 demned for political crimes. 
 
 "My figures," said Vesey, "include a number of pris- 
 oners who have not yet been condemned by law, but 
 who have been on remand for more than three months. 
 It is a system of terrorising which has only had its
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 261 
 
 counterpart in the French Revolution and in modern 
 Russia. It is the blackest stain upon English history, 
 but not so black as the letters in which the right 
 honourable gentleman's name will be written in the 
 future annals of this country." 
 
 The Prime Minister at once appealed to the Speaker, 
 and the whole of the Right rose with shouts of "With- 
 draw!" The Speaker gave his ruling that the Hon. 
 Member for Bermondsey East had used an unparlia- 
 mentary expression reflecting on the private character 
 of the Prime Minister, and amidst an uproar Herbert 
 Vesey withdrew the offending words. 
 
 It was at ten o'clock that Stretton Wingfield rose 
 to move an amendment: 
 
 That His Majesty's Government do take meas- 
 ures to prevent the municipalisation of building, 
 provision, and sundry trades, which is destructive 
 oj individual enterprise and of national economy 
 and efficiency. 
 
 From each side of the House there came jeers and 
 derisive laughter, and from the Left the shout of 
 "Lafayette! Lafayette!" showed that the nicknames 
 in the halfpenny Press had been adopted by the House. 
 
 Stretton stood before the tumult silently. He seemed 
 a tall slim figure in his well-cut frock-coat, the lapels of 
 which he held tightly. His head was thrown back a 
 little, with an air of challenge, and his lips were firmly 
 set. Yet, as a new-comer in the House, he was nervous
 
 262 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 of this sudden demonstration. The groans that came 
 from the Left did not scare him, but he was troubled 
 by the laughter on the Right. Ridicule hurt him more 
 than passion. Among the crowd of faces before him he 
 saw his uncle leaning forward with that quizzing, ironi- 
 cal smile which was always disconcerting. For a few 
 moments his mind was a blank. He could not remem- 
 l?er a word of the speech which he had rehearsed during 
 a week of anxious preparation. To save his life he 
 could not have spoken a sentence of it. Good God! 
 was he going to make a fool of himself? He was thank- 
 ful for the continued noise, which gave him time to mas- 
 ter himself. He could not distinguish a word of the 
 shouts from the Right and Left, but the Speaker's 
 deeply intoned "Order! Order!" was like the clanging 
 of a bell in his brain. Something impelled him to turn 
 his head and look upwards. He saw Alicia's face again, 
 and her burning eyes were upon him. She seemed to 
 look upon him from a vague mist, and her face was 
 shadowy and undefined, but it seemed that she smiled 
 across the House to him. He thought he saw her lips 
 move and say something. She was sending a message 
 of confidence. 
 
 Gradually the groans and the shrill laughter ceased, 
 and Stretton found himself alone in a great silence. 
 Waynefleet's hand touched his sleeve, and Moorhouse 
 gave a dry little cough. 
 
 Then Stretton found himself speaking, and he was 
 surprised to hear the sound of his own voice. But 
 his brain cleared and he remembered his words.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 263 
 
 It was an actor's speech, impassioned and elocutional 
 with well-marked pauses, and phrases that had been 
 thought out and learnt by heart. He quoted a passage 
 from Emerson, and a line from Tennyson. His voice 
 thrilled, and loosing his hands from his coat lapels, 
 he flung them out with a dramatic gesture. His perora- 
 tion was spoken quickly and in a resonant tone, and 
 he was heedless of the interruptions that came from 
 both sides of the House. 
 
 "The Individual," he said, "has been crushed under 
 the wheels of this blind machine of Socialism. [Jeers 
 from the Left.] The liberty of the soul has been stifled 
 by the tyranny of State control. Private enterprise has 
 been deadened by the overwhelming competition of 
 State trust under the name of Municipal Government. 
 England owed its former greatness to individualism. 
 [Laughter.] The citizen was spurred on to great 
 achievements by the knowledge that upon his own 
 strength of character and his own powers of intellect 
 depended his very life. Now he has no need of initia- 
 tive and no opportunity for progress. He has been 
 sentenced to the treadmill of the State prison. [A 
 Voice: "Claptrap."] In return for his unintelligent la- 
 bour he is housed and fed and educated and amused. 
 His very pleasures are regulated by his municipality. 
 Municipal theatres, municipal baths, municipal music, 
 municipal recreation rooms, municipal libraries sur- 
 round him with a deadening influence. [Laughter.] If 
 he is foolish enough to work beyond the minimum re- 
 quired of him, the profits of his labour go to pay for the
 
 264: THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 pleasures of those who do not work, and for public ad- 
 vantages which he does not perhaps wish to share. [A 
 Voice: "Why not?"] The home life of the people has 
 been pervaded by a moral decadence. Municipal nurs- 
 eries have destroyed the spirit of motherhood. Munic- 
 ipal meals have destroyed the responsibility of parents. 
 Municipal inspection has destroyed the privacy and 
 the self-respect of family life. The small trader has 
 been crushed out by municipal trading, and instead of 
 the struggle for existence which is the divine law of 
 life [cries of "Oh! "], instead of the noble individualism 
 by which the hard worker and the man of intellect 
 gained the best rewards, there is now a soft bed for the 
 lazy and the inefficient, who have equal opportunities 
 and equal rewards with those who are their masters by 
 nature and justice. The advancing tide of Socialism 
 has swept over the nation [cheers from the Left], 
 smoothing down individuals to a dead level of inertia 
 and inefficiency, and the private liberty of the soul has 
 been drowned in a sea of State authority. The Con- 
 stitutional party has opposed Socialism only in the in- 
 terests of caste and in the defence of the Crown. 
 [Jeers from the Right.] They have so far secured the 
 prerogatives of wealth and rank, and the fabric of the 
 old regime. But the fabric is undermined, and the 
 Crown itself is threatened by this destroying Socialism. 
 [Cries of "Order!" and "Withdraw!"] They have not 
 given a thought to the well-being of the people or to the 
 true progress and liberty of a noble democracy. The 
 people, therefore, have been seduced into Socialism be-
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 265 
 
 cause of the indifference and the reactionary policy of 
 the wealthy classes. [Cheers from the Left.] It is 
 only in a new party, imbued with the true spirit of 
 democracy, prepared to oppose the doctrine of Social- 
 ism to the death, and to defend the liberty of the in- 
 dividual, that the nation may be rescued from this 
 dreadful decadence. [Laughter from both sides of the 
 House.] It is to the Individualists, or the Independent 
 Democrats as we prefer to be called, that the people of 
 England must look for a renaissance of liberty and 
 national life." [Laughter.] 
 
 Stretton sat down with an instinctive feeling that he 
 had made himself ridiculous. The derisive laughter 
 of the House whipped his ears, and his nerves were so 
 highly strung that he put a trembling hand on Wayne- 
 fleet's knee and gripped it hard to steady himself. 
 Waynefleet bent his head towards him and whispered. 
 
 "It was all right," he said. "A bit too oratorical, 
 but you got home." 
 
 Then Waynefleet rose, a giant of a man with the 
 shoulders of a coalheaver and a lion's head. His mas- 
 sive face, pock-marked and with heavy jowl, was as 
 impassive as a mask, and there was a rugged grandeur 
 in his look which silenced the noisy members of the 
 Left and Right. It was characteristic of the spirit of 
 the House that they were willing to listen to a man 
 who had been identified for years with the philosophy 
 of Individualism, and whom both the Constitutionalists 
 and Socialists recognised as a strong opponent, though
 
 266 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 they had treated with derision the speech of a younger 
 man who had no reputation of his own. 
 
 Waynefleet indulged in no oratory, though in private 
 life he was always an orator. He knew that the rhetoric 
 which stirs enthusiasm at a public meeting is out of 
 place in an assembly which is impatient of all but hard 
 facts and plain common sense, which enjoys irony and 
 hard hitting, but will not tolerate fanaticism or ideal- 
 ism. It was a hard measured speech, in which every 
 sentence was a statement of fact. Occasionally a keen 
 flash of humour shot like forked lightning upon the 
 Left or the Right, bringing an angry murmur from 
 them. Once a strong and brutal phrase stung the 
 Socialists into fierce cries of "Withdraw!" But with a 
 grave dignity Waynefleet substituted a set of words 
 which were more parliamentary in expression but more 
 deadly in their hidden meaning. The Constitutionalists 
 cheered him, with laughter at the discomfiture of the 
 Opposition. But he turned upon them with his heavy 
 face, and silenced them by an attack, so bold and men- 
 acing in its satire that the Socialists broke into counter 
 cheers at the broadside among their enemies. 
 
 When Waynefleet sat down there were murmurs of 
 applause from both sides of the House. Though he 
 had not spared them, they admired a good fighting 
 man, and old parliamentary hands whispered to one 
 another that the House had heard the best speech since 
 ParnelFs great challenge to the Tory Government. 
 
 At the Division Stretton's amendment was lost by
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 267 
 
 425 votes to 22, and as the numbers were declared 
 another wave of laughter swept through the House. 
 
 Stretton Wingfield left Waynefleet in the smoking- 
 room and accepted Lord Hugh's invitation for a walk 
 along the Embankment. Alicia had left the House 
 immediately after his speech, sending through a note 
 to tell him that she would wait supper for him at home. 
 "Your speech was worthy of you," she scribbled, "but 
 I could not bear, nor understand, the cruel laughter. 
 Never mind! They will not laugh when they have 
 learnt to fear you." Stretton had crushed the note in 
 his hand and thrust it into his pocket. He was so con- 
 scious of failure that even Alicia's sympathy stung 
 him to a keener sense of irritation. His uncle gossiped 
 cheerfully about the beauty of the night, and stopped 
 to look upon the river flooded with silver. 
 
 "Wonderful, isn't it? And yet some asses talk about 
 the ugliness of London. Why, Venice is not so fine 
 as this!" 
 
 Stretton did not answer him. 
 
 "How did my speech go down?" he said abruptly. 
 "Did I make an absolute fool of myself?" 
 
 Unstead laughed carelessly. 
 
 "A pretty considerable one, I think!" 
 
 Then, more seriously, he gripped his nephew's arm. 
 
 "My dear Stretton, why the devil didn't you take 
 my advice? This individualism is a poor sort of busi- 
 ness. I rather admire that scoundrel Waynefleet. 
 He made a first-rate attack. But you are in the wrong
 
 268 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 box altogether. You belong to our side, body and 
 soul, and yet you voluntarily adopt a pose which is 
 perfectly transparent. Believe me, in the House noth- 
 ing succeeds like sincerity." 
 
 "Do you mean to say there is any sincerity at St. 
 Stephen's?" said Stretton with a scornful laugh. "My 
 dear uncle, you know as well as I do that every one 
 is posing all the time. It is a Parliament of poseurs." 
 
 "To a certain extent, yes. But most of us pose on 
 the right pedestals. You are on the wrong one and 
 you are sharing it with another man. There is no room 
 for you and Waynefleet on the same stone. He has 
 pushed you off already." 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Stretton sharply. 
 
 "My dear fellow. He monopolises the situation. He 
 is the only Individualist. The rest of you are hangers- 
 on." 
 
 "Damn him!" said Stretton fiercely. "He hasn't 
 played straight from the very first." 
 
 Unstead laughed in his light quizzical way. 
 
 "Of course you will quarrel before a week is out. 
 You can't help being a Wingfield, though you do for- 
 sake the family tradition." 
 
 He changed the subject abruptly. 
 
 "By the by, who is that woman you have taken up? 
 I like her face, but don't you think you're rather 
 foolish?" 
 
 "It is my private affair," said Stretton coldly. 
 
 "Quite so. I have no wish to poke my nose into it. 
 But as your uncle and a man of the world I advise you
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 269 
 
 to be a little careful. One of these days you will want 
 to marry. There's Betty Huddlestone waiting for a 
 husband, and she was always fond of you I believe. 
 Take my tip, dear Stretton, and settle down into a 
 comfortable family. Poverty and romantic love are 
 all right when one's young. I enjoyed them myself and 
 do not regret it. But one must look ahead, you know." 
 
 The nephew and uncle parted at the comer of St. 
 James's Square. 
 
 "We never hit it off very well," said Unstead, smil- 
 ing, not unkindly, "but blood is thicker than water. 
 Chuck Individualism, my dear Stretton, and come 
 over to our side. In a few years I will find you a place, 
 and if you leave fair women alone and marry a nice 
 plain girl with a family influence you'll go far yet." 
 
 At home Alicia was waiting for Stretton and as he 
 came in with a hard, white face she put her arms about 
 him. 
 
 "My love I" she said, "my love! How proud I am!" 
 
 Stretton kissed her, but his lips were cold. 
 
 "My dear girl, there's nothing to be proud of. I've 
 failed miserably. I shall never recover the effect of 
 that fatal speech." 
 
 He sat down moodily, and pushing aside the tea that 
 Alicia poured out for him took a strong dose of whisky. 
 
 Alicia sat down on the floor beside him clasping his 
 arm. 
 
 "You are disheartened, dear one ! It is the reaction 
 after your long excitement. But you must not lose 
 heart so soon! I was spellbound by your speech, and
 
 270 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 although your enemies jeered, that was only natural. 
 The more effective you are in debate the more they 
 will hate you and try to discourage you. But you are 
 speaking to a large public. Your words will be read to- 
 morrow by the world. It is the great public that you 
 must educate and convince. I believe public opinion 
 is always on the right side in the long run." 
 
 Stretton laughed irritably. 
 
 "How can you think or believe anything in such 
 cases? You know nothing about politics." 
 
 His words stabbed Alicia as though each one were a 
 knife. They were the first unkind thing he had spoken 
 to her, and she could not check the tears that suddenly 
 filled her eyes. 
 
 She became silent, and Stretton, unobservant of her 
 pain, drank his whisky, staring moodily into the fire. 
 Presently he pushed the empty glass away from him 
 and got up. 
 
 "Aren't you going to bed to-night? Good heavens, 
 how white you are!" 
 
 "Yes, perhaps I had better go to bed," said Alicia. 
 "Are you sitting up later?" 
 
 "Yes; I must write some letters." 
 
 He turned at once to his desk and lit an electric 
 lamp. 
 
 Alicia stood at the door, looking at him with strange 
 wistful eyes. 
 
 "Good-night, Stretton," she said. 
 
 "Good-night."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 271 
 
 His pen was already moving swiftly over a sheet 
 of notepaper, and he did not turn his head. 
 
 Alicia went out and closed the door after her quietly. 
 But before going into her bedroom she stayed for a 
 moment on the dim landing, with tears falling upon 
 her clasped hands.
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 ALICIA, who had not had time to think during the 
 month of her London life, when Stretton had been 
 with her all the days and when his friends had made his 
 house a rendezvous, now had too much time to think, 
 and it was not good for her. Stretton went down regu- 
 larly to the House at three o'clock in the afternoon and 
 did not return, as a rule until midnight. Then in the 
 morning he lay late in bed, reading newspapers or mak- 
 ing notes, and often he would lunch away from home 
 with political friends as he explained, to whom the 
 lunch hour was a time of preliminary debate upon sub- 
 jects occupying the attention of the House. 
 
 To Alicia it was a puzzle sometimes why all his time 
 should be absorbed by parliamentary duties, especially 
 as he rarely spoke in the House. That again was a 
 source of anxiety to her. Like many people who do 
 not understand the working of the parliamentary 
 machine with all the wheels that revolve silently behind 
 the scenes, she had imagined that a member must be 
 always on his feet making speeches or taking part in 
 full-dress debates. Yet days passed without Stretton 
 opening his mouth, and when on rare occasions some 
 expression of Individualistic opinions was made in the 
 House the speaker was generally not Stretton but Cuth- 
 
 272
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 273 
 
 bert Waynefleet, who thrust in an ironical remark, or 
 a brief statement of fact, that caught the attention of 
 the newspapers. 
 
 Once or twice Alicia asked the reason of Stretton's 
 silence, or hinted that he should speak more frequently. 
 But he laughed at her ignorance, or replied with a cer- 
 tain irritation of manner that always hurt her sensitive 
 nature. 
 
 "One can't be for ever talking nonsense." 
 
 Alicia laughed quietly. 
 
 "I want you to talk sense, Stretton!" 
 
 "My dear girl, the work of an M.P. is done mostly 
 in the Committee-room, registering his vote in the 
 right lobby, and in hammering things out in the 
 smoking-room. Surely you know that." 
 
 "No, dear, I'm sorry I didn't." 
 
 "You will always be a country mouse," said Stretton, 
 laughing more amiably. 
 
 So Alicia had too much time to think. She sat often 
 for an hour or more with her hands in her lap, staring 
 into the fire in Stretton's study. She brooded over 
 hasty words, or cold words, that Stretton had spoken 
 to her. He was very over-wrought just now, she could 
 see. His nerves had gone wrong. So he said several 
 times with a sudden apology when he had been abrupt 
 to her. Even when he said nothing, she could see that 
 sometimes he was putting a restraint upon himself in 
 trying to master a sense of irritation. If she came to 
 him when he was writing and put her arms about him,
 
 274 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 or laid her head upon his shoulder, he would smile, but 
 not with his old tenderness, and an unconscious move- 
 ment of his head, or a stiffness in his attitude, showed 
 her too clearly, and too sadly, that he would be relieved 
 if she left him alone. Perhaps she was too sensitive. 
 She reproached herself bitterly for not being more 
 patient and cheerful, for taking too much to heart these 
 little signs of nervous irritability which were surely 
 caused by overwork, and not by any loss of love. She 
 was sure he loved her still. How could she doubt it? 
 He was not always cold and absent in his manner. 
 Sometimes coming home late at night he would be ex- 
 cited by his old passion, and would take her close to 
 him, and kiss her lips and hair, and call her "Lady of 
 the Mist," and old love-names that would make her 
 forget a long day of weariness and faint heart and 
 miserable loneliness. 
 
 One night, when he came back from St. Stephen's, 
 Alicia had fallen asleep in the armchair by the fire. 
 Her face, half pillowed by the soft cushion, was flushed 
 by the heat, but there were undried tears upon her 
 cheek, and as she slept she breathed with quivering 
 sighs as if she dreamed sadly. Stretton, who had come 
 in quietly, stood looking at her, and the hardness 
 melted from his face, and a sudden wave of tender- 
 ness swept over him. He knelt down and took her 
 hand, kissing it, so that she opened her eyes. 
 
 "My darling!" he said, "what a brute I am to you. 
 How beastly selfish I am!"
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 275 
 
 She smiled at him with exquisite gratitude, and 
 pulled his head down to her breast. 
 
 "Oh, my love!" she cried. "How good you are 
 tome!" 
 
 They talked late into the night as they had done in 
 the school-house at Long Stretton, and Alicia confessed 
 her great loneliness and her unfulfilled desires. 
 
 "I must have something to do some work, Stret- 
 ton," she said. "If you are to be away from me so 
 much I must have something to occupy my mind. You 
 have no idea what it is like the long, long hours, the 
 interminable day, the dreadful loneliness of the evening, 
 waiting for you while the clock goes round." 
 
 "But my dear girl, surely there is plenty to occupy 
 your mind London, the picture galleries, the British 
 Museum, all the books there. You should take up 
 some course of study." 
 
 "I can't," said Alicia; "that is not what I meant. 
 I try to read books, but my eyes only read the pages 
 and my thoughts are far away. Sometimes I have 
 read whole chapters without realising a bit what the 
 subject of them is. I want some definite useful work, 
 mere drudgery that must be done with accuracy. Can't 
 I help you, Stretton? Can't I be your secretary?" 
 
 "Oh, I get all I want in the House of Commons 
 Library, or the morning papers." 
 
 Alicia bent down her head upon his shoulder. 
 
 "You don't tell me things, Stretton. You don't 
 give me your confidence. You come home after being
 
 276 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 away a whole day, and you don't tell me what you 
 have been doing, or what has been going on, or what 
 people you have been talking to. There is a great gulf 
 between us, and I cannot see what is on the other side." 
 
 Stretton was silent, and the firelight flickered on a 
 brooding face. 
 
 "There is nothing to tell you," he said. "Every day 
 it is the same, deadly dull committee work, or land 
 taxation, or workhouse inspection, or prison reform, or 
 death-rates, deadly dull conversations with stupid 
 people of all sorts, smoking-room gossip, lobby-running, 
 visits from constituents, party manoeuvres, personal 
 quarrels and bickerings, and all the rest of the trivial 
 things that go to make a parliamentary career." 
 
 "But those are just the things I want to know, all 
 that is deeply interesting to me," said Alicia. 
 
 "Oh, my dear girl, how can you expect me to go 
 over all that dreary business when I come home to get 
 away from it and forget it?" 
 
 Alicia pondered rather sadly. 
 
 "At least you might tell me something about your 
 own work, your ambitions, and the prospects of the 
 Individualists." 
 
 Stretton laughed, with a note of bitterness. 
 
 "A new member soon loses his ambitions. He 
 goes into the House with the hope of a Cabinet place 
 before him, but in a little while he finds himself a mere 
 spoke of an insignificant wheel in a great and com- 
 plicated machine. If he hasn't unusual influence or
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 277 
 
 extraordinary luck, he has no chance whatever of 
 advancement without years of steady drudgery. On 
 the other side, of course, I should have had influence, 
 but I burnt my boats, except the cockle-shell in which 
 I float upon the political sea." 
 
 Alicia took his hand and kissed it. 
 
 "What has happened to Cuthbert Waynefleet and 
 the others? They have not been here for some weeks 
 since, except Hilary." 
 
 "Oh, nothing has happened to them," said Stretton 
 carelessly. "But they begin to bore me." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you have quarrelled with 
 them?" said Alicia anxiously. 
 
 "Oh, they are not worth quarrelling with. Whenever 
 any one of them opens his mouth, which is seldom, 
 thank goodness, the House laughs into his throat. The 
 Individualists are not a success." 
 
 He smiled at Alicia's serious face, but with a hard 
 mouth and no mirth in his eyes. 
 
 Alicia was moved intensely. When the world had 
 been laughing at the campaign of the Independent 
 Democrats, she had taken it quite quite seriously. 
 She had believed beyond all in Stretton, in his audacity, 
 his courage, his eloquence, his knowledge of human 
 nature, his confidence of success. And now within a 
 few weeks of the new Parliament he seemed to have 
 abandoned hope. 
 
 Oh, this was weakness! She tried to rally him by 
 cheering words, she appealed to his fighting instincts,
 
 278 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 to his blood. She stung him sharply by recalling brave 
 words in which he had sworn never to be beaten. But 
 he listened moodily, and then, impatiently, unwreathed 
 her arms from his neck. 
 
 "I was a fool when I said those things. Let us go 
 to bed. It's deuced late."
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 HILARY OSGOOD asked Stretton for permission to 
 paint Alicia's portrait. 
 
 "I have waited half a lifetime for a face like hers," 
 he said, "and I believe I could do something like justice 
 to it. It inspires me. I can feel genius itching at my 
 finger-tips." 
 
 "You are a dashed impudent young monkey," said 
 Stretton. "I am not going to let Alicia be the model 
 of any canvas messer." 
 
 "My friend," said Hilary, with a gesture of tragedy, 
 "if you refuse you rob the world of a masterpiece." 
 
 "Masterpiece be hanged!" said Stretton. 
 
 Hilary seized his hand and kissed it. 
 
 "You consent! "he said. "Praise be to Allah! The 
 masterpiece shall be hanged on the walls of next year's 
 Academy." 
 
 Stretton smiled grimly. 
 
 ( I shall see you hanged first, in a hempen noose." 
 
 The idea, however, was not so displeasing to him 
 as he made out that Alicia was very lonely. She was 
 becoming nervous and highly strung, pleading always 
 for work to occupy her mind. Well, the portrait would 
 give her some interest in life, and Hilary would amuse 
 her. Besides ... he pondered deeply with frowning 
 
 279
 
 280 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 brow, and when Alicia came into the room he looked at 
 her searchingly, and gave a quick sigh. 
 
 "Hilary wants to paint your portrait. Do you ob- 
 ject?" 
 
 Alicia flushed a little and smiled. 
 
 "My portrait? 'A Study of a Plain Woman, No. 
 235, by Hilary Osgood.' Is that it?" 
 
 "Yes, that's it exactly," said Hilary, gazing at her 
 with a look that showed the irony of his acquiescence. 
 
 "It's not a bad idea . . . though he is a shocking bad 
 artist," said Stretton. "What do you say, Alicia?" 
 
 "Would you like me to sit for it?" said Alicia. She 
 remembered that twinge of jealousy to which Stretton 
 had confessed regarding Hilary. 
 
 Stretton strolled to the window before he answered. 
 
 "I have no objection," he said. 
 
 "Blessings to you both," said Hilary. "I see myself 
 famous. I see great crowds gazing at a spiritual face 
 with the soul's beauty in the eyes. I see myself listen- 
 ing to whispers of homage, though those around know 
 not that the artist is among them. ... I spare you 
 the rest of this wondrous vision." 
 
 "Thanks," said Stretton. 
 
 "Not at all. To-morrow, then, at ten o'clock?" 
 
 "Isn't that too early?" said Alicia. 
 
 "Too early! Think of the brief hours of light. Ars 
 longa, lux brevis est! Art is long, light is short." 
 
 When Hilary had gone Stretton had lunch with 
 Alicia, and at the end of it hesitated a little as he said
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 281 
 
 "By the by, I think of going out of town for the 
 week-end. Do you mind very much?" 
 
 Alicia's face fell. She had been looking forward so 
 eagerly to this week-end, when Stretton would be with 
 her again for two whole days. 
 
 "I do mind very much," she said, smiling a little 
 wistfully. "But that is my selfishness. Where are you 
 going?" 
 
 Stretton coloured slightly. 
 
 "Well, the fact is my uncle has asked me down to 
 Unstead Park. I haven't been there for years, and I 
 feel I ought not to lose this opportunity of patching 
 up a family quarrel. Don't you agree?" 
 
 "Yes," said Alicia, though rather doubtfully. 
 
 "You don't agree," said Stretton. "Why?" 
 
 "I think you are right quite right. But somehow 
 or other I rather distrust your uncle. I only saw his 
 face that day in the carriage and heard him speak a 
 few words, but they made me afraid of him instinct- 
 ively." 
 
 "Instinct," said Stretton, "is another name for blind 
 prejudice. It's a stupid thing." 
 
 "Yes . . . when do you start, dear heart?" 
 
 Stretton pulled out his watch. 
 
 "I must be off in another half-hour. I got James to 
 pack my bag." 
 
 Alicia got up from the table, going rather white. 
 
 "Why did you not tell me before? Surely I could 
 have packed your bag! Oh ... but you tell me noth- 
 ing! You keep everything back from me!"
 
 282 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 Her emotion touched Stretton's nerves, and he 
 flushed angrily. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake don't be hysterical." 
 
 She held on to a high oak chair. 
 
 "Haven't I a right to be hysterical? You do not 
 trust me. For weeks you have been cold and silent. 
 You keep your life in the world dark from me. You 
 . . . you treat me as your mistress, and nothing else!" 
 
 It was Stretton now who became white. 
 
 "What do you want?" he asked. "I have brought 
 you to this house and have played a straight game with 
 you so far. You have every comfort; I deny you 
 nothing." 
 
 "You deny me your trust and confidence." 
 
 Her voice faltered, and she broke into sobs. 
 
 Stretton went to the window and stared out with hK 
 hands in his pockets. Then suddenly he turned and 
 went to her. 
 
 "Alicia," he said in a low voice, "do not let us part 
 angrily. Forgive me." 
 
 He took her in his arms and she let him kiss her. 
 Then she put her arms about his neck and clasped 
 him passionately. 
 
 "Oh, Stretton! I love you, I love you!" 
 
 "I know," he said gently. "My dear girl, you have 
 been very good to me!" 
 
 He soothed her, and then, when she wept no longer, 
 he asked her to fetch his writing-case. 
 
 "I am tremendously sorry," he said. "I ought to
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 283 
 
 have told you before about the week-end, but it slipped 
 my memory until the last moment." 
 
 She pressed his hand tightly, and then went to his 
 study for the case. He had one or two letters to finish, 
 and she sat by his side while he wrote them. 
 
 "You needn't forward any correspondence," he said. 
 "It isn't worth while. I shall only be away four or 
 five days." 
 
 Alicia looked up with a new surprise. 
 
 "Four or five days, Stretton?" 
 
 "Yes, possibly. I have paired at the House, and I 
 want a change. There'll be some shooting and I'm 
 beastly run down." 
 
 The man came to say the cab was waiting. Stretton 
 sprang up and took Alicia's hand, drawing her close 
 to him. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said, "good-bye, my darling. For- 
 give me for having been a brute to you!" 
 
 Alicia kissed him. 
 
 "Don't talk like that, Stretton. It is I that should 
 ask forgiveness. I have been so impatient and ill- 
 tempered." 
 
 They stayed in each other's arms with a lingering 
 embrace. Then Stretton went out to his cab. 
 
 Alicia waited at the front door, and kissed her hand 
 to him, with moist but smiling eyes, as he drove off. 
 He smiled back and waved his hand, but his face was 
 white and rather haggard.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 STRETTON'S genuine emotion at leaving Alicia for 
 a few days reconciled her tenfold to the parting. 
 There was no doubting the tenderness of his words, 
 the strength of his passionate embraces. He had 
 kissed her upon the lips; to her it was a long spiritual 
 kiss, which had melted all his coldness into the memory 
 of their first communion, and after he had gone she 
 found her loneliness easy to bear because of the new 
 trust she had in the endurance of his love. Her 
 thoughts flew back a month two months to the day 
 when she had come to London, almost mad. Stretton 
 had been good to her, and so chivalrous and kind, so 
 passionate in his repentance for what had really been 
 an accident, or at most a little carelessness in the midst 
 of harassing and exciting work. For a month for 
 nearly a month they had been perfectly happy to- 
 gether, and Stretton had given his days to her un- 
 grudgingly, with a kingly generosity. 
 
 Alicia thrust back the remembrance of another 
 month of coldness, of impatience, of hasty words, of 
 brooding silences. That was an unhappy dream, and 
 had now passed. She kissed Stretton's photograph in 
 a silver frame upon the piano, and then opening the 
 
 284
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 285 
 
 instrument played dreamily, until tears fell upon her 
 hands and wakened her. 
 
 She wandered into his study and sat down at his 
 desk where she had been beside him as he wrote his 
 letters before going, and with the same pen she now 
 covered several sheets of paper with expressions of 
 love and self-reproach, and simple words of thanks 
 for all the joy he had brought into her life, ending with 
 a laughing plea for forgiveness that she should plague 
 him on the first morning of his well-earned holiday 
 when he would read her foolish words. 
 
 She sent the man out with the letter after her dinner 
 in solitary state when she had smiled at the reflection 
 of herself in the silver mirror a woman in black with 
 a full white neck, sitting very straight in a high-backed 
 wooden chair like a figure in a pre-Raphaelite picture, 
 and on either side of her a tall silver candlestick drop- 
 ping a pool of light upon the polished table. 
 
 She told the servants not to wait up for her, and, 
 pulling a low stool to the fire, sat there with her head 
 against the arm of the sofa. In her fanciful way she 
 was playing a game of make-believe, and pretended 
 to herself that Stretton was close to her, and that her 
 head was pillowed against his knee. The idea pleased 
 her and a smile was about her lips, and presently her 
 head dropped and she fell asleep. 
 
 But as the fire burned low and the candles flickered 
 out and the chilliness of the early hours crept upon 
 her, she whimpered in her sleep, and then woke with 
 a sudden cry and a white face with frightened eyes.
 
 286 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Oh, God!" she whispered, and struggled to her 
 feet. "What a frightful dream!" 
 
 She groped about the wall for the electric button, 
 and then switched on the light. As the room became 
 bright again she caught sight of her own haggard face 
 and tumbled hair in the mirror above the mantel- 
 board, and a sudden terror seized her. 
 
 "Was it a dream?" she whispered again, putting her 
 hand to her temples. She stared round the empty 
 room as though she scarcely realised that Stretton was 
 not with her, and as though the knowledge of his ab- 
 sence came to her with a fresh shock. 
 
 She put her hand to her throat with a little strangled 
 cry, and then, picking up her long skirt, sped out of 
 the study and up the stairs to her bedroom, where she 
 stood panting against the door. 
 
 "What a fool I am!" she said. "What a fool and 
 coward!" 
 
 But it was only when the morning broke that she 
 fell asleep, and during her waking hours her mind 
 had gone back to the words Stretton had said when he 
 kissed her good-bye. 
 
 "He meant to say no more than that," she said to 
 herself a hundred times. "What made me dream so 
 horribly?" 
 
 It was not strange that when she went in the morn- 
 ing to Hilary Osgood's studio he started at the sight 
 of her. 
 
 "How white you look and ill! What on earth is 
 the matter?"
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 287. 
 
 "Do you mean to say I am too ugly for you to paint, 
 Bambino?" 
 
 She laughed, deceiving him with a touch of her 
 old merriment. 
 
 "Nay, Madonna. I am not worthy that you should 
 come into my poor hovel. But your beauty will trans- 
 figure all into gold and amethyst, and Parian marble. 
 I scatter flowers before your feet." 
 
 He took a rose from a glass and strewed the petals 
 on the floor before her. 
 
 "Is this what you call a poor hovel? What is your 
 notion of luxury, Signor Bambino?" 
 
 Alicia looked round the studio, a high panelled room 
 with a timbered ceiling, like an old English hall. It 
 was the room of a man of artistic and antiquarian taste, 
 with the money to carry out ideas. Trophies of arms 
 were ranged about the walls, and at each corner stood 
 dummy men-at-arms in complete suits of German mail 
 richly chased. The floor was strewn with Persian 
 rugs, and before the great chimney-place, where a log 
 fire burned merrily, was a great black bearskin. In 
 an alcove half hidden by a hanging piece of faded 
 tapestry was a copy of the Venus of Milo, before 
 which burned a dim red lamp. 
 
 "Do you worship that creature?" said Alicia. 
 
 "Yes, that is my religion the Idea of Beauty." 
 
 A number of canvases stood faced against the walls, 
 and a blank one stood ready on an easel before a dais, 
 but there was not a single painting displayed. 
 
 ''I cannot afford to buy good pictures," said Hilary,
 
 288 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 answering a question, "and I could not bear to be 
 stared at by my own or other people's failures." 
 
 "That is not very encouraging to me, and I have a 
 good mind not to sit to you. I should not care to be 
 another of your failures." 
 
 She teased him with this threat so that he became 
 alarmed. 
 
 "Madonna! You will not be cruel! You are to 
 be my great success. I feel at last the spirit of beauty 
 has visited me, and I am blessed among men." 
 
 "You are a blessed young egotist," said Alicia, 
 laughing. "Well, where do you want me to sit down, 
 and how?" 
 
 Hilary held out his hand and took the tips of her 
 fingers, leading her to the dais, upon which he had 
 placed an old oak chair, quaintly carved. 
 
 "That was once a queen's chair," he said, "and 
 shall be so again if you deign to sit on such a worm- 
 eaten thing." 
 
 Alicia sat back with her hands upon the heads of 
 two lions couchant, which supported the arms of the 
 old chair. She sat very straight, with her head erect 
 and a far-off look in her eyes. She had suddenly for- 
 gotten the existence of Hilary, and was wondering 
 what Stretton was doing, and whether he had read her 
 letter yet. 
 
 But Hilary drew a deep breath, and seized his 
 palette and brushes. 
 
 "Oh!" he said. "Stay like that, for dear God's 
 sake. Do not move!"
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 289 
 
 This, of course, caused Alicia to wake out of her 
 reverie, and to lose her look of mysticism in laughter 
 at Hilary's "high-falutin," as she called it, which led 
 immediately to a mock quarrel, ending in Hilary's 
 sudden abandonment of palette and brushes 
 
 "My inspiration is gone," he said. "Your cruelty 
 has mined my hopes of fame for this day at least, 
 O belle Dame sans merci!" 
 
 Then he saw that she was shivering with cold in a 
 studio that would never get warm however big the 
 fire in the great chimney-place. He was seized with 
 sudden remorse, and rushing to an oak chest produced 
 an elaborate set of utensils for making coffee. 
 
 "Let art go hang," he said. "I shall never do any- 
 thing at that, but I should have made a giddy fortune 
 as a cook. Now sit on that fire, or as near it as you 
 can get, and in ten minutes I will give you the most 
 exquisite cup of coffee to be found nearer west than 
 Constantinople where I learnt to make it." 
 
 There was no painting that morning, therefore. 
 Alicia was really cold, chilled spiritually as well as 
 physically, by a night of wakefulness. She was glad 
 of the fire and of the coffee, and of Hilary's friendli- 
 ness. This morning she felt more drawn towards the 
 young eccentric than the amusement he had given her 
 before had allowed. He dropped his fantastic way of 
 speaking, and became more reasonable and serious, 
 and she believed that beneath all his foppishness and 
 folly there was the heart of an honest gentleman. 
 
 She spoke to him presently of Stretton.
 
 290 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 "Do not let him work too hard/' she said. "He is 
 not so strong as he believes, and I am afraid he will 
 break down if he goes on like this." 
 
 Hilary gave a queer, short laugh. "Does he work 
 so hard?" 
 
 "He is at that wretched House from the early after- 
 noon till the small hours of the morning. It is too 
 great a strain." 
 
 Hilary was thoughtful, and smoked a cigarette till 
 it burnt his finger-tips. 
 
 "I suppose you know he has thrown overboard his 
 Individualism?" 
 
 Alicia put her coffee down and looked at Hilary 
 with frightened eyes. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she said faintly. 
 
 Hilary hesitated. 
 
 "Hasn't he told you? Then it's hardly my place 
 to " 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, nonsense," said Alicia quickly. 
 "Stretton has told me nothing lately. He has been 
 so moody and silent. Tell me what has happened." 
 
 Hilary laughed uneasily. 
 
 "Oh, nothing much has happened. Stretton had a 
 quarrel with Waynefleet, and then a long interview 
 with the Government whip. Since then he and twelve 
 of our party have voted consistently on the Govern- 
 ment side. It has smashed up the little Individualist 
 party that's about all that has happened and it has 
 no great significance in the history of mankind."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 291 
 
 "Then Stretton has broken all his pledges and ship- 
 wrecked his own party?" 
 
 "That's about it. He hasn't played the game." 
 
 Alicia bent her head as though before a blow. 
 
 "Don't take it too seriously," said Hilary, looking 
 rather anxiously at Alicia's white face and tragic eyes. 
 
 Alicia put her hand to her temples and gave a little 
 moan. 
 
 "Oh, I do take it seriously, I do take it seriously. 
 I know nothing about Individualism, but I believed in 
 Stretton. I did not think he would play a traitor's 
 part." 
 
 She took Hilary by the wrist and bent forward to 
 him. 
 
 "Tell me," she said. "Has he been at the House all 
 these hours every day ... or was he lying to me?" 
 
 Hilary was silent, and fidgeted with uncomfortable 
 embarrassment. 
 
 "Tell me," said Alicia. "I must know the truth. I 
 can't afford not to know it. Don't you see that?" 
 
 Hilary jumped to his feet, and paced up and down 
 the studio. 
 
 "Look here," he said, speaking excitedly and in- 
 coherently. "Stretton is my friend and I have an 
 old-fashioned idea of friendship. But ... I ... I 
 think you have a right to know the truth. I think I 
 ought to give you a warning, and I should like to say 
 that I love you . . . but that would be a caddish 
 thing, just now. . . ." 
 
 Alicia laughed bitterly. "No, don't say you love
 
 292 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 me, else I shall think you are a liar, too. Tell me 
 . . . what is your warning?" 
 
 "Well," said Hilary, "the fact is that Stretton has 
 been spending most of his afternoons lately at Haver- 
 ing House . . . with Lady Betty Huddlestone. Jack 
 Huddlestone tells me they are practically engaged." 
 
 "Who are practically engaged?" said Alicia stupidly. 
 
 She pressed her hair back from her forehead, and 
 moistened her lips with a sip of coffee. 
 
 "Why, Stretton and Betty." 
 
 Hilary wondered at Alicia's quietude. She sat star- 
 ing into the fire, and only the pallor of her face showed 
 that she felt any unusual emotion. 
 
 "Perhaps I ought not to have told you. But Stret- 
 ton was not playing the game with you. I thought 
 you ought to know." 
 
 He bent over her and put a hand lightly on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Madonna!" he said. "If you would let me look 
 after you " 
 
 She stood up, shaking off his hand as if it had stung 
 her. 
 
 Then she shuddered violently. 
 
 "I thank you for telling me. If you say anything 
 more I shall hate you as much as I hate Stretton 
 Wingfield." 
 
 She put on her hat and furs with trembling hands, 
 and Hilary watched her with a scared look. 
 
 "I'm beastly sorry," he murmured. 
 
 She swept through the studio with her head high
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 293 
 
 and a strange expression of scorn upon her pale 
 
 face. 
 
 Hilary opened the door for her humbly. 
 "Madonna!" he said tenderly, "Madonna!" 
 But she did not answer him or look at him, and 
 
 went out into the street as if so it seemed to Hilary 
 
 as if she were walking in her sleep.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 ALICIA went home in a stupid, dazed condition. She 
 was only conscious of one thing that Stretton had 
 betrayed her, that her love for him had changed into 
 hate, suddenly and swiftly, but irretrievably. Her 
 own honesty and sincerity made her hate a lie worse 
 than anything in life, and the man she had loved had 
 lied to her, not once, but many times. He had given 
 her to believe that though he had lost hope in his 
 party it was still his party. He had admitted failure, 
 but he had put the blame of it upon the stupidity of 
 his followers. He had not confessed his own betrayal. 
 Oh, that was bad, a black and wicked thing, but there 
 was something worse and meaner. He had been a 
 living lie to the woman who loved him. He had pre- 
 tended to her to be overworked at the House. He 
 had gone down early in the morning, and she had 
 given him her sympathy, wept in loneliness that he 
 should work so hard, kissed his forehead and sighed 
 that his brain should be so overstrained! And he had 
 found time to spend part of each day with some other 
 woman Betty Huddlestone Lady Betty and they 
 were "practically engaged"! Oh, God! she had been 
 nothing but his mistress after all! He had violated 
 her love as though she were a shameless woman! 
 
 294
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 295 
 
 Alicia stood in the studio where only a few hours 
 before he had held her in his embrace. She shuddered 
 at the thought. With a sudden fierce passion she 
 tore off a brooch he had given her and flung it on the 
 floor. She tore at a ring which he had kissed before 
 placing on her finger. It was tight, but she screwed 
 it over the knuckle so that her finger went numb, 
 and was bruised at the joint. Then she threw the ring 
 into the heart of the fire, where it glowed with an 
 intense brightness, so that her eyes could not bear it, 
 and she broke down black coals upon it. Her intense 
 excitement had maddened her, and she wandered up 
 and down the room uttering little moans of pain as if 
 she were in some physical torture. But when a knock 
 came at the door she struggled into momentary self- 
 command, and pressing back her disordered hair, cried 
 "Come in" in a cold voice that was steady enough to 
 keep up appearances. Stretton's man brought in a 
 letter on a silver salver. For a moment she wondered 
 whether she could take it. By a curious psychological 
 sensation it seemed impossible to do anything but 
 stare at it. Her will-power was not strong enough to 
 command her muscles. Yet really her hesitation was 
 only momentary, and when she stretched out her hand 
 it did not tremble. The letter was from Stretton, and 
 when the man had gone she opened it with extraordi- 
 nary calmness. Her emotions had been so violent that 
 when they were arrested by the sudden need of ap- 
 pearing at ease before a servant she suffered a reaction
 
 296 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 and felt as though nothing would ever excite her again. 
 It was a long letter, and sitting at the table by the 
 electric lamp she read it slowly with cold and scornful 
 eyes. 
 
 "My DEAR ALICIA [wrote Stretton], 
 
 "I am writing what I know will hurt you terribly, 
 yet it hurts me more to write it. In the first place I 
 must tell you that I have resigned my seat in the 
 House. For some weeks now I have seen the folly of 
 my position. Individualism is not only a failure, it 
 is a sham. At the beginning I had a certain sincerity. 
 Waynefleet converted me to his views, and I plunged 
 into his campaign with real enthusiasm, inspired to a 
 great extent by your own dear sympathy and en- 
 couragement. But it was only a half-conversion, and 
 a superficial sincerity. At the bottom of me, and 
 instinctively, I am a Conservative. My democratic 
 ideals were only intellectual playthings. Really, I 
 have never been able to get away from my blood, or 
 to break with the traditions of my class. In the ex- 
 citement of fighting a campaign I was kept up by 
 the mere lust of fighting when one cause is as good as 
 another, and any cry is good enough to carry into 
 battle. But when the campaign was over, and the 
 glamour of the excitement had worn off, I began to 
 discover my fatal error. I was in the wrong camp! 
 Gradually I sickened at my own insincerity. I con- 
 fess, too, I shrank from the ridicule of the House.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 297 
 
 My father's ghost confronted me. I was dishonouring 
 his name. He was the Rupert of the House, and I, 
 his son, was the butt for every man's wit! I was 
 labelled with a name which was a public mockery, the 
 leader of a party of court fools. No, I was not even 
 leader! Waynefleet, low scoundrel and libertine as 
 he is, was the only Individualist, and the House would 
 listen only to him, while I sat by his side contaminated 
 by his malodorous reputation without even the prestige 
 of his ill-fame. Could I go on like this? Perhaps if 
 I had more pluck and less honour I could have won 
 a place by perjuring my better instincts. God knows! 
 Anyhow I have decided to abandon an ignominious 
 position and to start from a fresh place. I have re- 
 signed my seat on the democratic side, in return for 
 the promise of a safe seat by the Government. My 
 uncle Unstead has promised other things, which will 
 at least give me a chance to redeem a miserable 
 failure. 
 
 "This is only half of what I set out to tell you, 
 though it will explain some of the motives for what is 
 the most painful decision of my life. 
 
 "My dear Alicia, the time has come when we can 
 no longer live together! Alas! Alas! I hear you cry 
 out that you still love me, and that you believe in my 
 love for you. I know, I know. No man has been 
 more blessed than I have been in your generous, your 
 splendid, your beautiful love. It has encircled me with 
 a kind of spiritual fire, purifying and ennobling, and 
 infinitely comforting. And I love you, too, with a
 
 298 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 passion that will never fade from my heart. In years 
 to come when perhaps I have a wife and children I 
 shall look back upon these recent months as a beauti- 
 ful and sacred dream. I shall never know another 
 woman so good. You are the purest and the noblest 
 woman on God's earth. 
 
 "But I am a weak man and not strong enough to 
 resist the blind and hideous force of Fate. I know 
 my temperament and I cannot struggle against it. 
 You, I know, would be happy in poverty and insignifi- 
 cance. I should be so miserable that I should be a 
 curse to you and to myself. And that is what would 
 happen if we obeyed the promptings of our love. Pov- 
 erty and squalid domesticity would be the atmosphere 
 of our lives. Already I am heavily and damnably in 
 debt. I can only clear myself by beginning a new 
 life without you, my beloved. I can only avoid social 
 shipwreck by selling myself I was going to say to the 
 devil but Betty Huddlestone, who is willing to marry 
 me with all my debts, is hardly the devil! She is a 
 good ugly girl and very rich, and in her way she loves 
 me. It was Unstead who put the temptation in my 
 way, though really it is Fate which has shuffled the 
 cards and dealt out Betty! Perhaps I have sold my- 
 self to the devil. Now that I write I think I have, 
 and if I were a religious man I think I should go 
 down on my knees and pray that I might be delivered 
 from the Beast. But I am not religious. I am a
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 299 
 
 weak, ambitious, selfish wretch, who cannot be blind 
 to his weakness or throttle his ambition. 
 
 "My dear Alicia, my good angel, I suffer torment in 
 writing these things. But you will see my position, 
 and you are more unselfish than I am. I have made 
 arrangements to pay you 300 a year for life. Betty, 
 who knows everything, agrees to that. I enclose a 
 cheque now which will, I hope, make things comfort- 
 able for you from the beginning. Do not leave Duke 
 Street until it suits your convenience. I shall not be 
 back for a month. 
 
 "God bless you. I have sometimes been cold to 
 you and ill-tempered, but only because of my worries. 
 I am not worthy to kiss your feet. Yet I kiss you 
 once more upon the lips, with a spiritual kiss in which 
 there is all the love of my soul and body. 
 
 "SXRETTON." 
 
 Alicia's eyes burned with a cold fire. Not once in 
 reading the letter had any sign of tears softened her 
 scornful look. The letter revealed to her in a white 
 and ghastly light the rottenness, the vicious weakness, 
 the essential selfishness of the man, and there grew 
 upon her a sickening sense of shame that she should 
 have loved this liar and coward. 
 
 She sat down at his desk, and taking up his cheque 
 hid it quickly in an envelope, with her head turned 
 away from it, as though the sight of it were horrible. 
 Then she wrote an answer to the letter. 
 
 "I send back your money," she wrote. "I am no
 
 300 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 longer your paid woman. I leave your house to-day, 
 and your life for ever." 
 
 She rang the bell for the servant and told him to 
 post the letter. Then she went upstairs to pack her 
 few personal belongings.
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 ALICIA'S packing did not take long. She got into 
 the same dress she had worn when she came to Duke 
 Street, and put into her bags only the few simple 
 gowns that she had brought from Long Stretton. Once 
 during this work she broke down for a minute, and 
 sinking to her knees with her arms stretched upon the 
 bed broke into convulsive sobs. But she quickly mas- 
 tered herself and washed her smarting eyes, and swept 
 the last things into her bags with a quick and nervous 
 energy. Then she rang the bell and ordered James 
 to fetch a cab. 
 
 He hesitated for a moment at the door. 
 
 "When will you be back, miss?" 
 
 "I am not coming back, James." 
 
 For a moment a human look came into the man's 
 face, which was ordinarily like a mask. 
 
 "I ... I am very sorry, miss ... if you'll allow 
 me to say so." 
 
 "Thank you, James." 
 
 She took a sovereign from her purse and gave it to 
 him. 
 
 "You have been very good to me. I hope I have 
 not been much trouble." 
 
 "Not in the least, miss." 
 
 301
 
 302 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 The man cleared his throat. 
 
 "Me and the other servants have always felt it was 
 a pleasure to wait on a lady so so unsolicitous, if I 
 may say so, miss." 
 
 "Ah! The other servants," said Alicia. She took 
 another couple of sovereigns, the last but one. It 
 was her own money, not Stretton's. "Give this to 
 them, with my grateful thanks. They have all been 
 very kind." 
 
 "Thank you, miss. I am sure they will reciproke 
 your feelings." 
 
 The man's face became a mask again, and he dis- 
 appeared to fetch a cab. 
 
 But Alicia did not leave the house so soon as she 
 had thought. 
 
 The housekeeper came up a minute later, in a state 
 of flurry. 
 
 "If you please, miss, there's an old lady downstairs 
 what says she is the aunt of the master. 'I am in 
 great trouble, my dear,' she says, 'and I must see Mr. 
 Stretton at once.' 'Mr. Stretton's away, mum,' I says. 
 'Away!' she says, that startled and white. 'Then he 
 can't have got my letter. Good gracious! what shall 
 I do?' she says. She went all faint-like, miss, and I 
 asks her to come in and take a cup of tea. And there 
 she sits, miss, in the droring-room, all in black and 
 misery, like a widder waiting for the funeral." 
 
 Alicia was startled, and at the thought that one of 
 the dear ladies was under the same roof she forgot her 
 eagerness to leave the house.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 303 
 
 "I will go down to her perhaps she is ill." 
 
 "Ah! she looks that frail a draught might puff her 
 away, bonnet and all, miss." 
 
 Alicia went downstairs and quietly opened the draw- 
 ing-room door. 
 
 There she saw Miss Cecily. The old lady was sit- 
 ting very quietly in a high chair with her hands in 
 black mittens clasped upon her lap. Her white deli- 
 cate face, framed in fair curls, beneath a bonnet with 
 black sequins, was hanging down sadly, like a flower 
 withered on its stalk. 
 
 Alicia went to her swiftly and softly, and knelt 
 down by her side, taking her hands. 
 
 "Miss Cecily!" 
 
 The old lady looked up with a nervous little start. 
 
 "Alicia? Oh, my dear. I am so glad to see you! 
 Where is Stretton?" 
 
 In her agitation she did not realise the significance 
 of Alicia's presence in Stretton's house. For a few 
 moments it seemed to her the most natural thing to 
 see her protegee again in London. 
 
 "Stretton is away." 
 
 "How terribly unfortunate!" said Miss Cecily, with 
 excitement. "He cannot have got my letter telling 
 him the dreadful news." 
 
 "What news, dear Miss Cecily?" 
 
 The little lady burst into tears. 
 
 "My dear sister is dead. She died yesterday at 
 our friends' house in London. The cold journey was 
 too much for her! Her poor heart stopped when she
 
 304 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 lifted a cup of tea. It was spilt all over her new 
 gown." 
 
 She put her head on Alicia's shoulder and shed sad 
 tears. 
 
 "Poor dear Miss Agnes!" said Alicia. 
 
 "I am left alone now, my dear," sobbed Miss Cecily. 
 "And I used to pray that I might be taken first. . . . 
 We shall never sing another duet." 
 
 Alicia tried to soothe her, but the old lady wept 
 like a little child. Presently she pushed her chair 
 back and stared at Alicia with a sudden astonishment. 
 
 "My dear," she stammered, "what are you doing 
 here ... in this house?" 
 
 Alicia bent her head and was silent. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" repeated Miss Cecily. 
 "I I do not understand." 
 
 For a moment Alicia wondered whether she should 
 lie to her, whether she should hide Stretton's infamy 
 and her own shame from this dear soul. But her de- 
 spair, her infinite need for sympathy and for a woman's 
 love, her bitter anger against Stretton's treachery, broke 
 down her hesitation, and she told the truth, simply. 
 
 "I have been living here with Stretton." 
 
 Miss Cecily gave a little gasp. 
 
 "With Stretton?" she said, with a kind of frightened 
 wonder in her voice. "You have been living with 
 him?" 
 
 Something seemed to dawn upon her, and raising 
 trembling hands, as though she would hide Alicia from 
 her sight, she said in a whisper
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 305 
 
 "Then it was Stretton ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Alicia; "it was Stretton." 
 
 Miss Cecily drew a deep breath and buried her face 
 in her hands. 
 
 Alicia sat with her hands in her lap, and there came 
 to her in the silence that followed a feeling of awful 
 loathing for the man who had stolen her heart and 
 then flung it bleeding into the dust. 
 
 Miss Cecily clutched the arms of her chair, her pale 
 eyes dimmed with tears. 
 
 "How terrible! . . . What would poor Agnes say?" 
 
 Then she bent forward eagerly, ever so anxiously. 
 
 "My child . . . tell me ... he has married you? 
 ... he has made you an honest woman?" 
 
 "He has abandoned me," said Alicia, a sudden flush 
 of anger stinging her face. "He has betrayed me, and 
 tired of me. I am leaving his house this morning. I 
 should already be in the streets if you hadn't come." 
 
 "In the streets?" said Miss Cecily, with a look of 
 horror. 
 
 "Yes ... or in the river." 
 
 Miss Cecily raised her hands again. 
 
 "Not that!" she whispered. 
 
 Alicia bent her head. 
 
 "No, I should not do that. I was a hypocrite when 
 I said that. I should not let a man's baseness lower 
 me so far. I shall have to struggle on somehow. Lon- 
 don is a great cruel world, but there is always work to 
 be got by strong and willing hands. It is only the 
 weak who really go under, but I am strong. I sup-
 
 306 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 pose, even though I have no 'character/ I can get a 
 place somewhere, in a factory, or some low-class shop. 
 There is plenty of dirt in London that wants cleaning, 
 and I suppose they are not too particular about the 
 soul of a woman who scrubs a floor." 
 
 Miss Cecily listened to her with growing horror. 
 
 "My dear!" she said. "My dear! . . . This is too 
 terrible!" 
 
 "No, it is not too terrible," said Alicia. "There are 
 thousands of women like me, women who have been 
 worse dealt with and have to suffer more. It is not 
 more terrible for me than for them." 
 
 "Oh, why did you not tell me?" said Miss Cecily. 
 "You never wrote to me, though I prayed for you 
 every night that you might be kept from harm." 
 
 "You prayed for me? Oh, that was good of you 
 . . . and yet, as you see," she smiled wistfully 
 "your prayers were of no avail. I suppose I am too 
 wicked?" 
 
 Miss Cecily shook her head. 
 
 "You are not wicked. ... I shall never believe 
 that! I said so often to poor Agnes, who is now in 
 heaven, 'Alicia was weak,' I said, 'but she was not 
 wicked. It is the man who deceived her who is 
 wicked.' Oh, to think that that was Stretton, my own 
 nephew." 
 
 She struck her frail hand upon the arm of the chair. 
 
 "I will never speak to him again!" Then she 
 mopped her eyes with her handkerchief, and broke 
 into reproaches and lamentations.
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 307 
 
 "To think that he should have come down to our 
 village to bring such misery . . . and after we had 
 treated him with such love and kindness! I used to 
 think he was so good, so true, so brave! Many a time 
 I have stinted myself to send him money. I know how 
 expensive it is in London, and the shop-people are all 
 thieves, my dear. And poor dear Agnes used to say 
 when she sent him his cheques, 'Stretton is a good 
 young man, we must not begrudge him this money, 
 though we are not rich.' Oh, but he was a serpent 
 in our own bosom. To think that our own nephew 
 and a Wingfield should be so base!" 
 
 Alicia began to fear that this excitement would 
 make the old lady ill. She tried to soothe her. 
 
 "Don't think about it any more, dear Miss Cecily. 
 I can never forgive him, because, because he has ruined 
 my life . . . but I shall build up a new life, I hope. I 
 am not going to be faint-hearted or yield to despair." 
 
 She stared out of the window as if she looked into 
 that new life, as indeed she did, and finding it so grey, 
 and cold, and cruel, she had a momentary weakness, 
 and burst into tears. To a woman the sight of another 
 woman's tears is always an appeal to her motherhood 
 and tenderness. Miss Cecily rose from her chair and 
 went over to the girl, taking her head in her hands. 
 
 "My child," she said. "My poor injured child. I 
 I am a weak ignorant woman, and I feel quite lost 
 without my dear sister . . . but, but I feel that per- 
 haps God has brought me to you at this time of your 
 despair . . . with a definite purpose. My own sor-
 
 308 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 row made me selfish. I think I should have dwelt with 
 it too much, and gone down to the grave a lonely and 
 selfish old woman. . . . My dear . . . save me from 
 that! Come back to me to the village. Come and 
 share my lonely home. It shall be yours until I die." 
 
 She trembled excessively as she spoke, and her tears 
 fell upon Alicia's hair. 
 
 Alicia looked up with a kind of frightened joy in 
 her eyes. She clasped the old lady's hands and cov- 
 ered them with kisses, but she could not speak a word. 
 
 "I think poor Agnes would approve of what I say," 
 went on Miss Cecily. "In her lifetime she was some- 
 times a little severe . . . but always kind, always 
 merciful, my dear. And now that she is in heaven, 
 I think, oh, I am sure, she would wish me to shelter 
 you, and do something to redeem our nephew's sin. 
 You will come with me then, my dear?" 
 
 "No, no," said Alicia, in a. broken voice. "I 
 couldn't!" 
 
 "It would be for my sake; I have no one to take 
 care of me. I should pine away in loneliness. You 
 hardly know what my dear sister's loss means to me. 
 Every room is empty without her . . . but not so 
 empty as my heart! So you will take care of me, 
 Alicia? You were always so good to me ... I should 
 be very happy to have you." 
 
 Alicia refused again and again, though she wept 
 with joyful gratitude at the invitation, which seemed 
 to come straight from the goodness of God, offering
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 309 
 
 her a haven in which to find shelter for her wounded 
 heart. 
 
 But at last Miss Cecily's earnest entreaties over- 
 came her opposition, which sprang from a reluctance 
 to accept so great, so infinite a favour, as it seemed 
 to her, in her sense of shame and despair. 
 
 "May God reward you," she said, kneeling on the 
 floor before Miss Cecily, with her arms about the old 
 lady's waist. "I think you have saved me from a pit 
 of hell." 
 
 "Hush! hush!" said Miss Cecily. "It is most kind 
 of you, my dear, to share an old woman's life. I 
 shall always be grateful to you."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 IN front of the Brixton Town Hall a great crowd, 
 packed so densely that there was none of that sway- 
 ing to and fro or those ceaseless combinations of in- 
 dividuals and groups that characterise a crowd loosely 
 coherent, stared upwards at a white board on which 
 certain figures suddenly appeared, and then disap- 
 peared, and then reappeared with different totals. And 
 on the board two names in large black letters stood 
 out unchanging, while the numbers against them al- 
 tered at regular intervals. The names were 
 
 DAVID HEATH (S.) 
 STRETTON WINGFIELD (C.) 
 
 Every window in the Town Hall was blazing with 
 light, and occasionally dark shadows passed across 
 them, sometimes vague and blurred, but sometimes so 
 clearly silhouetted that the outline of a man's profile 
 was easily recognisable. A battalion of policemen kept 
 a hollow square before the building. To those press- 
 ing behind them or feeling the heavy weight of those 
 stalwart men in blue who leaned backwards upon them 
 with outstretched arms it was difficult to see the rea- 
 sonableness of that open space which would have given 
 
 310
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 311 
 
 breathing room to many who were being crushed and 
 stifled. But an English crowd takes its discomforts 
 generally with good humour, and though now and 
 again there was a sudden and dangerous pressure from 
 behind and a deep and menacing roar which might 
 perhaps have jangled the nerves of a foreigner who 
 did not know the abiding lawfulness of a great gath- 
 ering of respectable English citizens, it always sub- 
 sided quickly as mounted policemen backed gently on 
 to the front ranks, to the mirth of those behind. 
 
 Into the hollow square a little white dog wriggled 
 its way by some miracle of canine ingenuity, and then, 
 scared by its solitude, sat down and shivered. A great 
 roar of laughter clattered against the windows of the 
 Town Hall, and when the dog howled in terror of the 
 awful noise another great shout drowned its yelping. 
 It is one of the standing jokes of an election, and the 
 little white dog in the hollow square is like an old 
 "wheeze" at a music-hall which never fails to bring 
 the house down. 
 
 In an upper room of the Town Hall a small group 
 of people listened to the laughter and the groans and 
 the hoarse cheering of the crowd outside. But though 
 they listened, smiling sometimes, because the laughter 
 of a great concourse is strangely infectious, their eyes 
 watched the tellers at the board of green cloth where 
 piles of voting papers were being counted and sorted, 
 each paper fluttering from hand to hand, swiftly as if 
 it had a life of its own, until it lay dead upon one of 
 the last piles. A voice shouted out the numbers, a
 
 312 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 hoarse, husky voice, and another voice repeated them, 
 a thin, querulous Cockney voice. 
 
 Wingfield . Six hundred 
 
 Heath . . Four hundred and two 
 
 Heath . . Four hundred and three 
 
 Wingfield . Six hundred and one 
 
 Heath . . Four hundred and four 
 
 Heath . ... Four hundred and five 
 
 Heath . . Four hundred and six 
 
 Wingfield . Six hundred and two. 
 
 Although at first sight it seemed as if the people in 
 the room belonged to the same company, an observer 
 would have realised that in reality they belonged to two 
 groups, between whom there was antagonism. 
 
 A low buzz of conversation met from either side of 
 the room, but did not intermingle across an invisible 
 barrier. The centre of one group was a man who does 
 not need special description. It was David Heath, the 
 blacksmith's son, now a rather methodistical-looking 
 man in a frock-coat, with a white collar, into which 
 his firm chin was buried as he sat with his legs stretched 
 out and with folded arms. His heavy brows were drawn 
 down into a frown as he listened to the monotonous 
 counting in while his name was repeated fifty times a 
 minute; but his eyes were keen and alert, and he smiled 
 when frequently a friend at his side patted his shoul- 
 der with an encouraging gesture, or another tapped him 
 on the knees with a word of triumph. 
 
 "You are winning, my boy. You are creeping up."
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 313 
 
 "He is still two hundred ahead." 
 
 "It was two hundred and fifty a few minutes ago." 
 
 "It will be a close thing." 
 
 "Wingfield doesn't look too happy." 
 
 On the other side of the room Stretton Wingfield 
 stood by the side of his wife, a handsomely dressed 
 woman with a plain, good-humoured face, of which the 
 most noticeable features were an upturned nose and 
 rather large black eyes. She whispered merrily at 
 times with six or seven young men surrounding her, 
 tapping one on the arm when he burst into a rather 
 noisy laugh, and shaking a finger at another when he 
 swore softly as there was a run of votes for Heath. 
 Stretton was restless, and walked several times to the 
 window to look on the crowd and to breathe the fresh 
 air of the night. It was his face that was seen in profile 
 by the crowd, who greeted him with mingled groans 
 and cheers. Stretton listened to the noise and tried to 
 understand its significance. Sometimes the groaning 
 was loudest and heralded his defeat, sometimes the 
 cheering was predominant and promised victory. 
 
 He tried to hide his uneasiness, and spoke a few 
 joking words to his wife. But he bit a finger-nail to 
 the quick, and every now and then passed a cold hand 
 over a haggard face. He glanced frequently at his 
 opponent, and envied him his calmness. Once after a 
 long spell of votes for Heath their eyes met with a 
 flash of triumph on the one side and hatred on the 
 other. 
 
 To all but those two men in the room, whose political
 
 314 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 fate was being counted out, the contest had nothing 
 unusual in its character, and was no more nor less 
 exciting than any other election. They did not know 
 that a more intensely human drama was being played 
 out to its climax in that room. They did not guess 
 that one man was seeking vengeance and the other 
 sanctuary and self-defence. Only the two candidates 
 knew that this was a duel, with Fate or Luck, as the 
 umpire. David Heath, as he sat there with folded 
 arms, outwardly so calm, was praying God that he 
 might come out on top with Wingfield crushed and 
 broken at his feet. He thought of Alicia, who had been 
 betrayed and abandoned by that smiling scoundrel who 
 had sold himself to a rich wife, and he prayed in- 
 articulately, but with devotion, that to-night he might 
 give him his punishment. Six months had passed since 
 he had heard of Stretton Wingfield's abandonment of 
 Alicia, and he had been like Hamlet, who kept putting 
 off the vengeance upon his uncle. He had sworn to 
 break the man's body, but it was better to crush his 
 soul. And the chance had come. God had given his 
 enemy into his hands ! When David Heath heard that 
 Wingfield was standing for Brixton on the Constitu- 
 tional side his heart leapt within him, for the "S.F.L." 
 had already chosen him David Heath the Master 
 of Erasmus to contend the seat for the Socialists. 
 He sent a personal challenge to Stretton: 
 
 "We fought once before in a dark lane. Now we 
 shall fight in the open and in the light of day. But
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 315 
 
 I will complete the punishment this time, and the 
 memory of the woman whom you betrayed will not 
 make your defeat less bitter." 
 
 He regretted having sent this letter, which he had 
 written in a moment of unbalanced mind when anger 
 and hatred blinded him. But he knew that he had 
 stung Wingfield to the quick, and he was not sorry for 
 that. On both sides the contest had been fought with 
 the gloves off. David Heath had not scrupled to attack 
 his opponent's private character, and the name of 
 "Judas" was the watchword of the Socialists. Wing- 
 field had retorted with equal animosity, and jeered at 
 "the village blacksmith" as an ignorant demagogue and 
 a political prig. But "Judas" was the more effective 
 word, for the British public hates a turncoat, and they 
 still remembered the Individualist campaign. 
 
 As the figures neared their totals conversation 
 ceased, and all in the room crowded to the tables. 
 David Heath left his chair, and stood motionless by 
 the tellers. Wingfield gnawed at his finger-nail again, 
 and his anxiety was evident. 
 
 He still led. He had a thousand and fifty votes to 
 David Heath's thousand and twenty. But Heath's 
 numbers had been steadily mounting up, and now he 
 came closer and closer until they stood even at a thou- 
 sand and eighty. Wingfield was white to the lips, 
 though he smiled cheerfully as his wife glanced at him 
 with an expression of concern. 
 
 There was only one ballot-box left, and as the
 
 316 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 papers tumbled out and flew from hand to hand there 
 was no doubt as to the result. Heath's name was re- 
 peated monotonously, and Wingfield scored but ten 
 more votes. The totals were flashed from the board 
 outside. 
 
 DAVID HEATH (S.) . Total 2225 
 
 STRETTON WINGFIELD (C.) . Total 1090 
 
 Socialist gain 
 
 A storm of cheering battered the Town Hall, shak- 
 ing the floors and windows; it rolled upwards in great 
 volleys of dull sound, and the silence in the upper 
 room seemed more intense because of the tumult with- 
 out. 
 
 A dozen hands patted David Heath on the back. 
 But for a few moments he was not conscious of these 
 congratulations. He stood motionless still, with his 
 arms folded across his broad chest. He glanced at 
 his opponent, but strangely enough, now that victory 
 was in David's hands, he did not feel that sense of 
 triumph over a fallen foe which he had anticipated 
 as one of the sweets of victory. 
 
 As the result was declared Stretton swayed a little 
 and breathed heavily. The room was hot and he felt 
 faint, and there was a loud singing in his ears which 
 drowned the shouting of the mob. So he had failed! 
 Curse it, he had failed! . . . 
 
 Then he remembered. He must play the part of a 
 man. Hang it all, he was a Wingfield, and he must not
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 317 
 
 show the white feather before his own class! His 
 brain cleared, and he laughed, quite naturally and 
 easily. 
 
 "Better luck next timel" he said. 
 
 He went over to David Heath. 
 
 "I congratulate you," he said. "It has been a splen- 
 did fight . . . and the best man has won." 
 
 He spoke the words gallantly and held out his hand. 
 
 David hesitated for a moment, and in that moment 
 he realised the admirable courage, the splendid "good 
 form" of his opponent. 
 
 He took Stretton's hand and grasped it. 
 
 "You are very generous," he said. 
 
 A week later David Heath, M.P., travelled down to 
 Long Stretton. He wore a rough brown suit and a 
 felt hat, in which he was more easy than in the frock- 
 coat of his London life. As he strode down the village 
 his friends greeted him with deference, not perhaps 
 without a touch of hostility. They felt that he had 
 "got beyond them." But in his native air he lightly 
 assumed his old yokel slouch and the broad burr of his 
 country speech. Jonathan was standing at the door 
 of his shed, and father and son met each other after 
 many months with that silent hand-grip which, to most 
 Englishmen, is more eloquent than many words. 
 
 That evening as David in his shirt sleeves was play- 
 ing on the anvil again, "to pull his muscles up," as he 
 explained to Jonathan, who sat smoking and watching 
 him with placid enjoyment, a woman's figure stood 
 framed in the doorway. David saw her, and dropped
 
 318 THE INDIVIDUALIST 
 
 his hammer and then, to hide a sudden embarrassment 
 that seized him, unrolled his shirt sleeves and but- 
 toned them at the wrist. 
 
 It was Alicia who came in quietly. 
 
 She was looking thin, and there were a few grey 
 threads in the brown coil of her hair. But there was 
 a healthy colour in her cheeks and a look of quiet 
 peace in her eyes. She was dressed in white with a 
 rose at her breast, and a broad straw hat shaded her 
 face. 
 
 She gave both her hands to David, and smiled at 
 him with her old steady friendliness, without a trace 
 of that affectation which spoils so many women's smiles. 
 
 "It is always good to see you at home," she said. 
 "You are so naturally a blacksmith." 
 
 David laughed. 
 
 "You mean to say I am so unnatural as a member of 
 Parliament." 
 
 "Well, it is difficult to imagine the fact. But I am 
 very glad of it. You have done splendidly, and it was 
 always my hope for you." 
 
 She took a seat on the anvil, just as she used to in 
 the old days, and to David it seemed then that all that 
 had happened between that time and this was nothing 
 but a dream. 
 
 Jonathan got up presently and, on the pretext of 
 stoking the kitchen fire, left them alone. 
 
 For a while they talked casually, and Alicia gave 
 him the gossip of the village and news of Miss Cecily,
 
 THE INDIVIDUALIST 319 
 
 who was now a prisoner in the Hall, a very frail and 
 delicate little invalid. 
 
 Presently David spoke abruptly of what was in his 
 heart. 
 
 "Will you still refuse what I have asked so long?" 
 
 Alicia looked at him gravely and without emotion. 
 She put her hand upon his knee as he sat beside her 
 on a wooden bench. 
 
 "It is too soon to talk of that. ... I am very grate- 
 ful to you, David. Your friendship has been so loyal 
 and good and true. I have sometimes thought lately 
 that such friendship would be a better security in mar- 
 riage than the feverish passion that is called love. . . . 
 But I could not go to you with a heart that is only 
 half-healed, that is, indeed, often raw and bleeding." 
 
 "I will not be impatient," said David humbly. 
 
 "No, let us have patience. There is a wonderful 
 magic in that. I find that patience brings peace, and 
 that is better and more enduring than the excitement 
 of joy, which so soon passes Don't you think so?" 
 
 "No, I don't," said David. "I am an optimist, and 
 t believe in joy . . . though I have not yet tasted it." 
 
 Alicia smiled, and there was a soft light in her eyes 
 as she looked up at him. 
 
 "Be patient, my friend," she said. 
 
 THE END
 
 "The Books You Like to Read 
 at the Price You Like to Pay" 
 
 There Are Two Sides 
 to Everything 
 
 including the wrapper which covers 
 every Grosset & Dunlap book. When 
 you feel in the mood for a good ro- 
 mance, refer to the carefully selected list 
 of modern fiction comprising most of 
 the successes by prominent writers of 
 the day which is printed on the back of 
 every Grosset & Dunlap book wrapper. 
 
 You will find more than five hundred 
 titles to choose from books for every 
 mood and every taste and every pocket- 
 book. 
 
 Don't forget the other side, but in case 
 the wrapper is lost, write to the -publishers 
 for a complete catalog. 
 
 There is a Grosset & Dunlap Book 
 for every mood and for every taste
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACIL ' 
 
 n 11111 iiiii iiiii 11111 mil 11111 mil mi mi ill 
 A 000127930 6