THE FRUIT OF THE TREE
 
 THE 
 FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 BY 
 
 HAMILTON FYFE 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE WIDOWS CRUSE' 
 
 'Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistlest" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THOMAS SELTZER 
 
 1922
 
 Copyright, 1922, by 
 THOMAS SKLTZEB, INC. 
 
 All rights reterved 
 
 PBINTED UX TBX UfllTCD STATES OF AMEBIOA
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 2135461
 
 THE 
 
 FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WE often hear it pleaded that "the facts of 
 nature" should be explained to children. It may 
 be desirable to make such teaching general, yet 
 it is certain that those who plead for it exaggerate 
 the number of children who require instruction. 
 In large families there is never any ignorance of 
 natural processes. 
 
 Muriel Oversedge and her elder brothers and 
 sisters were well acquainted with the causes 
 which yearly turned their household upside down, 
 took their mother away from them, brought the 
 doctor as a daily visitant, added to the family 
 another boy or girl, and at last returned their 
 mother rather paler and more flaccid and less 
 energetic than before. 
 
 They all hated these interruptions to the flow 
 of daily life. To begin with, they resented the 
 disappearance of their mother. They were used 
 to resort to her in any difficulty or distress. She 
 never failed them, never came the disapproving 
 parent over them. If she were alarmed by their 
 rash or criminal designs (such as introducing a 
 
 5
 
 6 [THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 swarm of bees stupefied by smoke into church on 
 a Sunday morning before service, or getting up 
 an Ellerslie Derby on Derby Day with horses 
 borrowed without leave, in the dinner hour, from 
 the nearest farm) she would beg that for her sake 
 these designs should not be pursued. If she 
 scolded them, she did it as one of themselves, 
 using their own expressions, giving vent to a 
 personal grievance, never taking the high line 
 of reproof or assuming the pontifical air of a 
 grown-up. 
 
 When "Mims" was withdrawn from them, 
 there was no one to send word to the kitchen 
 that sandwiches were to be cut for large exciting 
 excursions which would be spoiled by return for 
 midday dinner; there was no one to read to the 
 smaller children before they went to bed; rents 
 in the boys' trousers had to be exhibited to the 
 disapproving gaze of Aunt Sybilla; difficulties 
 in the girls' "prep" could only be solved by 
 confronting father in his study, and trying to un- 
 derstand his grunting explanations. And then 
 there was always in the hearts of the older chil- 
 dren the fear that "something might happen" 
 to Mims. They suspected the doctor; he was an 
 "old stuff er" who treated them all with a con- 
 descending patting joviality, as if they were 
 imbeciles or little dogs. Suppose he made a 
 muddle of it? 
 
 Luckily there was Nurse. She could be 
 trusted. Ever since they could remember she 
 had arrived at these uncomfortable seasons, 
 smiling her queer smile, which gave you confi-
 
 I 
 
 dence, moving about with alert decision of move- 
 ment, taking charge of everything and every- 
 body, with ironical self-assurance and good 
 humour. She was the only compensating element 
 in a world gone suddenly awry. The whole 
 pleasant machinery of life was thrown out of 
 gear. It had to be remembered that noise was 
 forbidden. And what enjoyment could there be 
 without noise? One had to tiptoe about the 
 house, to close doors quietly, to use the stairs for 
 descent and not the banister-rail. Sometimes it 
 was as much as the children could do to get their 
 meals served to them from a kitchen distracted 
 by unusual and urgent demands. 
 
 Father at such periods was really less than no 
 help at all. The truth was, they perceived, that 
 he more desolately than any of them missed Mims 
 from her customary seat at table opposite to him, 
 and from her corner of the Chesterfield that was 
 always drawn up in front of the drawing-room 
 fire. He never liked the tea that Muriel poured 
 out for him, sniffed at it discontentedly, asked 
 either for more water or more sugar or less milk. 
 He hated sitting down to dinner by himself, yet 
 he hated worse having Muriel and Douglas, the 
 two eldest of the children, to keep him company 
 and being obliged to make conversation. To his 
 wife he read out always at their evening meal 
 scraps from the evening paper and could rely 
 upon hearing from her placid lips appropriate 
 comments. Deprived of this soothing expedient 
 for getting through dinner comfortably, he took 
 no pleasure in his food. The news in the paper
 
 8 -THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 seemed trivial because she was not there to share 
 it with him. 
 
 He was a helpless kind of man; even the 
 younger children could see that. How he made 
 so prosperous a living none of his acquaintances 
 could understand. Those who were in the ivory 
 trade with him knew that he owed his good in- 
 come to a rare capacity for judging tusks by 
 touch. It was a gift, inherited, as he believed, 
 from his father, but more probably communi- 
 cated by imperceptible training while they were 
 in business together. As the family grew, so did 
 his business, and this was fortunate, for Minis 
 had no money nor had he any private fortune. 
 The men who travelled up and down with him 
 every morning and evening between Ellerslie and 
 the city used to tell each other that they ought to 
 offer him sympathy rather than congratulations 
 as each new baby arrived. Yet they could not 
 see that his responsibilities made any mark upon 
 him. He regarded children in exactly the same 
 way as he regarded the weather ; both came as it 
 pleased some Superior Power; he had no control 
 over either. 
 
 On the whole he disliked the climate, and on 
 the whole he would have preferred to be without 
 children. Not that he had any particular objec- 
 tion to his own children; they seemed to him 
 rather good specimens, well-grown, good-look- 
 ing, steady-eyed. But he would have preferred 
 to enjoy the society of his wife without distraction 
 and without having to share her affection with 
 their offspring. He did not grumble, however,
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 9 
 
 any more than he grumbled at fog in November 
 or cold winds in June. He was a man who took 
 everything as it came. 
 
 His only approach to revolt, even in thought, 
 was at the periods, recurring regularly, when 
 Nurse took charge of the household and he was 
 robbed of his wife's gentle companionship. The 
 only one of the children with whom he had ever 
 established intimacy was the fourth boy, Gerard, 
 in whom he thought he detected a feeling for 
 ivory, as sensitive as his own. But they all did 
 their best to be kinder than usual to him at these 
 periods, which caused him more embarrassment 
 than consolation, and might have even prompted 
 him to stay out until after they had gone to bed 
 but for his lacking entirely the resources to oc- 
 cupy or amuse himself in any way outside his 
 office and his home. 
 
 u * 
 
 Muriel, being the eldest of nine, was at fifteen 
 beyond her years in thought and capability. To 
 please her mother she would cheerfully have seen 
 her father chopped up small, yet she felt towards 
 him, as a rule, a half -tolerant, half-contemptu- 
 ous pity which almost amounted to affection. He 
 was proud of her tallness, her straightness, of the 
 firm moulding in her lips and the ripple in her 
 chestnut hair. But he did not know what to say 
 to her when they were alone. Indeed, save 
 at such times as these, they never were alone. 
 When his wife was withdrawn from activity, he 
 was compelled to accept Muriel as her substitute
 
 10 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 for fear of having Aunt Sybilla thrust herself 
 into the household. 
 
 Aunt Sybilla was his sister. She had brought 
 him up, after both their parents had died; she 
 was chiefly responsible for his diffidence and help- 
 lessness. A sharp, sarcastic tongue and a genius 
 for managing had won for her general dislike; 
 it is scarcely too much to say that her brother 
 hated as well as feared her. Never could he in 
 childhood set about a task, feeling sure of him- 
 self; the thought of her frosty smile and ironical 
 comment made his hand shake and paralysed his 
 perceptions. Never as a boy could he learn to do 
 anything under her instruction : in her impatience 
 she would snatch from him his book or the chisel 
 he was using or the pencil with which he was try- 
 ing to draw, and with swift, magnificent compe- 
 tence translate or carve or sketch. 
 
 She was so self-assured, so ready to mock at 
 everybody, so defiantly independent of any man's 
 support that she had not married until she was 
 almost in her fortieth year. Then she consented 
 to become the wife of an old friend who had been 
 elected warden of an Oxford college. It was the 
 position rather than the man that appealed to 
 her, but she did not long enjoy it. Her husband 
 died in the second year of their union, which 
 caused her intense annoyance, seeing that she had 
 found, as a leader of scholastic society, all the 
 satisfaction for which she had hoped. However, 
 she took a house close to her brother's, in Ellerslie, 
 and promised herself scope for her talents in 
 helping to mould and polish his children.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 11 
 
 This benevolent intention was frustrated by 
 the firm refusal of the children to be either pol- 
 ished or moulded. If it had not been for their 
 mother's entreaties, they would have declined to 
 speak to their aunt. From the moment of set- 
 ting eyes on her they recognised that she was an 
 enemy of the human kind, and were on their 
 guard against her. They were proof against 
 her sarcasm, for they had made up their minds 
 that everything she said was bound to be "rot." 
 When she met two of them in the village one day, 
 covered with mud splashes after clinging on be- 
 hind a farmer's slow-going motor-lorry, her com- 
 ment, delivered with the slight catch of the breath 
 which usually added point to her gibes, fell flat 
 before a glare of defiance from the culprits' un- 
 abashed eyes. 
 
 Muriel was the only one of the family who had 
 ever allowed Aunt Sybilla any degree of intim- 
 acy, and that only when the girl began to feel the 
 need of enlightenment, clearer than she could 
 get at home, as to certain aspects of life that set 
 her mind at work. 
 
 "Why," she asked, one day, "don't women 
 have to go to work like men?" 
 
 "Because they have been cunning enough so 
 far to make men work for them." 
 
 "I'd rather work for my own living," Muriel 
 said. "I think it would be much more fun to go 
 out every morning and be out all day." 
 
 "That's because you h-haven't tried it." 
 
 "Have you?" inquired Muriel politely. 
 
 "I know p-plenty who have."
 
 12 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Of course all women couldn't. Minis couldn't. 
 She's got to look after us and keep on having 
 babies. But I shan't do that." 
 
 "It's the proper f-function of women. That's 
 what they are made for." 
 
 "But they don't all do it a You didn't, did 
 you?" 
 
 "I was occupied with the ungrateful task of 
 bringing up your father," Mrs. Hunter explained 
 hastily. 
 
 "Well, at any rate, I shan't be like Minis I 
 mean in that way. In every other way I hope 
 I shall be. But the truth is, Aunt Sybilla, I 
 don't like tiny babies. I've seen too much of 
 them, I suppose." 
 
 Muriel had a conversation on the same theme 
 with Nurse. This was soon after the tenth Over- 
 sedge infant had come into the world. 
 
 "Your mother doesn't pick up as well as I 
 should like to see her," Nurse said, looking a 
 little worried. 
 
 "Oh, Nurse, you don't mean she's ill." 
 
 "Nothing definite. It's weakness more than 
 illness, and I don't wonder at it." 
 
 "Why, Nurse?" 
 
 ^There are nine of you, aren't there, and the 
 new baby makes ten, and how many died two? 
 Isn't that reason enough? But there, I oughtn't 
 to say such things to a child like you." 
 
 "Doesn't it do people good to have babies, 
 Nurse?" 
 
 "Yes, it often does. If they're really healthy
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 1S( 
 
 and strong, it ought to be good for them. But 
 not too many." 
 
 "Do you think Mims has had too many, 
 Nurse?"* 
 
 "My dear, I don't know. I sometimes think 
 the whole arrangement is a bad one, but then 
 that's only because we've got too civilised and 
 don't keep all our muscles taut and whippy. I've 
 seen so many tragedies. I do wish your mother 
 could get her strength up, and not lie back there 
 so listless and exhausted as she does." 
 
 In time vigour did return, and interest and 
 energy, though not the same energy as of old. 
 Still, there was Mims sitting in the corner of the 
 Chesterfield again before the drawing-room fire 
 and busy always for one or other of the family 
 and listening to father's tit -bits from the evening 
 newspaper. Dear Mims ! How glad everybody 
 was to have her back! Even Aunt Sybilla re- 
 frained from sarcasm. The servants tried to 
 spare her every exertion. The children rushed to 
 her as soon as they came into the house, never 
 went off to school or play without kissing her 
 good-bye. There was at first only one speck 
 upon the apple of her contentment and gratitude 
 (dear soul! She was always grateful, not osten- 
 tatiously, as some are who parade the virtue, but 
 with a deep, quiet enjoyment of life ) . The speck 
 was that the doctor would not let her try to nurse 
 the new baby. She knew that he was right, but 
 she sighed over the little creature.
 
 "He won't have the same chance as the others," 
 she thought, and sighed again, half with relief, 
 half with regret, for the passing of her fruitful- 
 ness. She had the same feeling as might come to 
 an artist warned that he must never paint or 
 mould clay again. Her art was the making of 
 children, and she had every reason to be proud 
 of the array of her "works." Now it was to be 
 taken from her; strength failed for the task; 
 she could not even now complete her labours 
 faithfully and with fairness to the result. 
 
 "What was there left?" she asked herself in 
 moments of depression. She had lived far more 
 for the new babies than for the children growing 
 up about her. The children were so healthy and 
 there were enough of them to bring each other 
 up: they were like young animals who only 
 needed food and warmth, and for the rest could 
 look after themselves. The new babies had to be 
 lived for, all the energy of life had to be concen- 
 trated upon them, nothing could be allowed to 
 interfere with that. Some women fancied they 
 could use their brains and produce children too. 
 She knew better. She had seen how poor were 
 their productions, white-faced, with nerves a- jar, 
 in some direction or other abnormal. Her chil- 
 dren had had poured into them all the vital force 
 that she could spare; she would spend it on no 
 other exertion. 
 
 As a girl, she had cherished ambitions, had 
 promised herself travel and acquaintanceship 
 with foreign tongues, had dreamed of devoting 
 herself to music and becoming famous as a com-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 15 
 
 poser, and knowing all the people who added to 
 the joy and beauty of their age. From the day, 
 early in her married life, when she first knew 
 that motherhood was her destiny, she had made 
 it also her art, her one absorbing occupation. 
 There had been no opportunity to travel since her 
 honeymoon, spent among the Italian Lakes, with 
 a memorable extension at her entreaty to Flor- 
 ence. Music had been turned to the purpose of 
 a sedative, a banisher of melancholy humours. 
 She had made few friends, had let her mind lie 
 almost fallow. Nor, until now, had she regretted 
 all this. 
 
 But, as she sat in her corner of the Chester- 
 field and reflected over all that she had given up 
 for the sake of her art, the doubt whispered in 
 her mind whether she had been wise to put all 
 her eggs into one basket. From now on she had 
 to change her way of life. She must busy her- 
 self not with the unborn, but with those who were 
 growing up. Was she qualified for this ? So long 
 as they were helpless, their needs elemental, their 
 minds undeveloped, she thought she might say 
 "Yes," though hints reached her of new modes 
 in the bringing-up even of infants. But as com- 
 panion, guide, developer of children who had 
 begun to reason and to form their own impres- 
 sions, who were in contact with ideas strange to 
 her, who had passed on from the standards of con- 
 duct and the limits of thought accepted by her 
 generation into a region where she felt uneasy, 
 out of place there she was ready to admit her 
 short-comings.
 
 16 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Could she overcome these now? Surely it 
 was too late to begin an attempt to catch up all 
 that she had let go by without attention in sixteen 
 years. True, she was scarcely past her thirty- 
 seventh birthday. Women at thirty-seven, she 
 knew, were now considered young were young. 
 But she had no illusions about the road her own 
 youth had taken. She had poured it out with 
 generous, unstinting hand into the works of her 
 art. In time she might recover some of the spring 
 in her step, some of the activity in her mind, 
 which had been drained out of her. But by that 
 time would not the children have gone out into 
 the world? At all events they would have passed 
 out of the orbit of her influence. Of their affec- 
 tion she felt sure ; nothing could alter that. But 
 how could they help drifting away from her in 
 thought and sympathies? They were pushing 
 ahead with their generation; she felt chained to 
 the fashions, spiritual and intellectual, of her own. 
 
 Something of this doubtful mood intruded 
 itself into a talk she had with Muriel. The ques- 
 tion arose whether the girl should stay on at the 
 High School in the neighbouring town or go up 
 to London to certain special classes. 
 
 "You see, Mims," she explained, "I want to 
 begin preparing for a job some sort of work, 
 you know don't quite know what yet and the 
 High School doesn't quite help enough." 
 
 "Yes, I see, my darling," Minis told her. 
 
 "I knew you would," Muriel said enthusias- 
 tically, kissing her. "You're always such an un- 
 derstander. Did you want to be anything when
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 17! 
 
 you were young?" 
 
 "I wanted to be a composer." 
 
 "What, music? Really? How thrilling!" 
 
 "It seemed so then. But I got married in- 
 stead, you see, and everything turned out dif- 
 ferent." 
 
 "What a shame, Mims!" 
 
 "No, dear; it was very little to give up for 
 for all of you, and yet somehow I do feel that 
 one oughtn't to give up everything. For a time 
 one must. But, if, just for a few years . . . and 
 then to take up life again where we left off ..." 
 She sighed and ended: "My life, you see, has been 
 all babies, and now I'm too old to pick up any 
 of the threads." 
 
 Muriel never forgot that talk.
 
 A YEAR went by, two years; Muriel was seven- 
 teen, and the latest baby had begun to talk, when 
 a cloud spread over the family sky. 
 
 In spite of the doctor's warning, in spite of 
 her own admission that the doctor was right, 
 Mrs. Oversedge had allowed attachment to her 
 art to overcome prudence. This, she was deter- 
 mined, should be the last time. After this she 
 would resolutely resign herself to being laid on 
 the shelf. But she had found it too hard to 
 achieve resignation all at once. Life seemed 
 empty, seemed to lack meaning. The children 
 did not need her a great deal. Even the baby 
 was with his nurse almost always. The servants 
 were devoted to the family ; the simple machinery 
 of the household ran with ordered smoothness. 
 
 So, sitting in the corner of the Chesterfield, 
 Mims let her fancy play with the idea of "one 
 more," and soon it obsessed her, broke down all 
 resistance. 
 
 Husband and children were made to feel it 
 more than ever they had felt it before. With 
 greater awareness of effort Mims bent all her 
 energy to the task; she withdrew into herself; 
 she lived literally for another's life. A mystic 
 exaltation took possession of her. Never had 
 
 18
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 19 
 
 she been conscious of so steady and so weakening 
 a strain on her vitality. She did not complain of 
 this, rather did she glory in the sacrifice. What 
 else was there for her to do? How else could 
 she justify her existence? That was the pretext 
 she employed to quiet her conscience, which told 
 her sometimes that she owed a duty to her hus- 
 band which she was not discharging so faithfully 
 as she might ; that she ought also to find occupa- 
 tion in bringing up at all events the younger of 
 the children. 
 
 Poor Oversedge suffered from a vague fore- 
 boding as well as from the actual discomfort of 
 not seeing his wife at the breakfast-table, and of 
 being left to pass the evenings by himself after 
 she had gone early to bed. He had been rejoiced 
 to think that what he called "the child business" 
 was over ; that henceforward he would always be 
 able to count upon reading scraps out from the 
 evening newspaper, and taking his wife for a 
 walk on Sunday afternoon, and having the sup- 
 port of her familiar presence among all the 
 strange, and, as he often thought, hostile young 
 faces that he saw around him at breakfast. Now 
 he was thrown back into the conditions he knew 
 so well and detested so resentfully, and over 
 and above these he was plagued by a fear that 
 something worse might be at hand. 
 
 Nurse arriving noticed his depression and tried 
 to cheer him up. But she looked grave herself 
 after she had been with her patient a few hours, 
 and had talked with the doctor : a new doctor, a 
 woman, who had been called in when the "old
 
 20 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 stuffer" retired. The children caught the uneasi- 
 ness which was in the air. Minis herself was the 
 only person in the house who remained serene 
 and content. She was in that blessed state until 
 the first of her heart attacks. 
 
 Nurse had been summoned much earlier than 
 usual because the doctor feared these. Her fear 
 was proved to be well founded. 
 
 "This was the trouble I anticipated," she told 
 Mr. Oversedge, summoned from the city, listen- 
 ing with a pinched look and blinking eyes to the 
 account of the alarming seizure. "No woman 
 ought to undergo such a strain. I warned you, 
 Mr. Oversedge. Why didn't you take heed? 
 Why didn't you act upon it?" 
 
 A man would have perceived that the unfor- 
 tunate Oversedge was scarcely to blame. The 
 doctor could not imagine that any other woman 
 would be inclined to endure willingly experiences 
 and suffering from which her own spirit shrank. 
 She put the blame unjustly upon the man, be- 
 lieving that in such cases the husband was always 
 responsible in a far greater degree than the wife. 
 Nurse knew better, but she, too, judged Over- 
 sedge harshly. 
 
 "He ought to have prevented this," she told 
 herself, with bitterness in her heart against him, 
 as she watched the patient struggling back to 
 life and consciousness after a severe heart failure. 
 
 "The man's a fool, and he's likely to lose her 
 in consequence. It's her doing, I know, but he 
 ought to have prevented it. It'll be his fault if 
 she dies."
 
 JTHE FRUIT OF THE TREE 21 
 
 Weak and white, and for the first time shaken 
 in her convictions that all would go well, Mims 
 lay inert and talked with Muriel one sunny spring 
 afternoon. 
 
 "The almond blossom's out, Mims, and the 
 crocuses are just lovely, and the blackbirds are 
 whistling that tune that sends a thrill all through 
 you. There, can you hear?" 
 
 The woman in the bed nodded. 
 
 "Everything new, everything being born," she 
 said faintly. "Why is it so easy in Nature, and 
 so hard for us?" 
 
 "You don't feel bad, Mims, do you?" her 
 daughter inquired anxiously. 
 
 "Not so bad now, my darling. I'm better, 
 much better than I was. But it'll go hard with 
 me this time. I know that. I don't think I've 
 got much strength left." 
 
 A week later her heart failed again, and be- 
 fore Nurse could telephone for the doctor to 
 come, it had stopped for ever. This was in the 
 morning while the children were at school. Com- 
 ing home at midday they were terrified by the 
 blank look of the house with every window cur- 
 tained. Muriel met them. They knew from 
 her red eyes what had happened. Some of them 
 were stunned into tearless silence, changed their 
 boots for soft shoes, put away their books in the 
 schoolroom, sat down at the table, laid as usual, 
 with creeping quietude and puzzled brows. 
 Others cried bitterly and loudly. Muriel did her
 
 22 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 best to comfort them, but she felt the need of 
 comfort herself. Her father had not come home 
 yet; not from him, however, could she look for 
 support or consolation. 
 
 Nurse was her only stand-by, yet Nurse could 
 not feel, as she did, and as the other children and 
 her father must, the loneliness that seemed now 
 to stretch out before them to the ends of their 
 lives. The full poignancy of parting afflicts only 
 those whose daily lives are broken up by death. 
 The disturbance of habit, the hourly reminder of 
 a painful change, the looking ahead to days and 
 weeks and years empty of a dear presence these 
 are what lacerate the heart ; and the only thought 
 capable of bringing relief the thought that 
 Time will heal the wound is repelled with in- 
 dignation as a treason to the memory of the dead. 
 
 It was terror of the stabs which awaited him in 
 the familiar surroundings of his home that ac- 
 counted for the failure of Mr. Oversedge to ap- 
 pear. He was expected all the afternoon. In the 
 evening his absence caused alarm. He had left 
 his office, it was known, just after twelve. From 
 that time he had disappeared. There were, as 
 Aunt Sybilla said tartly, all sorts of arrange- 
 ments to be made, and it was incomprehensible 
 that he should not have come home at once. 
 
 "I think perhaps, Aunt," ventured Muriel, 
 "that he's afraid to come." 
 
 "Afraid? Whatever do you mean? What 
 could he be afraid of?" 
 
 Muriel thought for a few moments before she 
 explained. Was it any use, she wondered, try-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 23 
 
 ing to explain to this unimaginative, self-satisfied 
 relation? If people didn't see certain things for 
 themselves, it was useless pointing them out. 
 With youth's wholesome intolerance of compla- 
 cency and pretentiousness she had long ago writ- 
 ten her aunt down an ass. However, she must 
 try to make her meaning plain. 
 
 "Why, afraid of everything that would re- 
 mind him of dear Minis. I don't think I could 
 have borne to come back if I had been away from 
 the house. I know father's like that." 
 
 "I've known him a g-good deal longer than 
 you, and I never knew him to behave disgrace- 
 fully, or even harbour the wish to," retorted 
 Aunt Sybilla. 
 
 "It wouldn't be disgraceful, it would be nat- 
 ural," Muriel protested. 
 
 "Such cowardice as you suggest would be a 
 disgrace to any man ; utterly unnatural, I should 
 consider it. You don't mean seriously to tell 
 me " 
 
 Here a servant brought in a letter which had 
 been delivered at Mrs. Hunter's house and sent 
 across after her. It was from her brother; it 
 had been posted in the city shortly after mid- 
 day. 
 
 "I cannot come home," it said. "It would 
 be more than I could endure. Please do every- 
 thing necessary. I enclose a number of blank 
 cheques signed. Please fill in amounts as you 
 require them. Whether I shall ever see the chil- 
 dren again I don't know. They will not miss 
 me, except Gerard, I think, perhaps. I am
 
 24 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 apprehensive of my mind giving way. I cannot 
 write more. Put on her gravestone that she was 
 the best and kindest wife any man ever had." 
 
 lAunt Sybilla read it twice, then she handed 
 it to Muriel. 
 
 "Well, you were right," she said; "we live and 
 learn. I couldn't have believed it possible. It's 
 a bad business to be ashamed of one's own 
 brother, but I am." 
 
 "You don't understand," Muriel told her, with 
 indignation. "It isn't that he doesn't want to 
 come, but he can't. It's the the going on liv- 
 ing as if nothing had happened that he can't 
 face the meals, and the getting up in the morn- 
 ing, and the house going on as usual. And then 
 the parading of grief at the funeral, the pub- 
 licity and all that civilised people are coming 
 to hate." 
 
 Muriel had read an essay somewhere on this 
 theme; her memory of it helped her to put her- 
 self imaginatively in her father's place. 
 
 "I didn't know my brother was so civilised 
 as that," said Aunt Sybilla sarcastically. 
 
 "You never did know much about him, I 
 should say," retorted Muriel. 
 
 For once Mrs. Hunter had no rejoinder ready. 
 She took back the note, folded it and put it in 
 its envelope. 
 
 "Well, it's a good thing there's someone in 
 the family who can take charge," she commented, 
 "and it looks to me as if I should have all of 
 you on my hands. A nice handful to look after,
 
 but if it's placed on me as a duty, I shall do my 
 best." 
 
 "You won't have me, at any rate," Muriel 
 was saying to herself, and already making plans 
 to enter a profession and earn her own living, 
 and perhaps become famous. 
 
 "Poor Mims," she reflected mournfully, "had 
 just the same idea when she was young. She 
 let herself be side-tracked. If she'd gone on 
 with her music, she'd very likely have made 
 her name as a composer, and had a long life full 
 of interests and variety and fun generally. I'm 
 not going to let that happen to me." 
 
 iii 
 
 It was really an advantage to the Oversedge 
 children, especially to Muriel and the next in 
 age, Douglas, summoned home from a Public 
 School, to suffer under the managing ability of 
 their aunt. Mrs. Hunter acted as a counter- 
 irritant to their grief. Although at the time her 
 bustling acidulated presence in the house seemed 
 to make their sense of loss more painful when 
 they contrasted her with their placid, persua- 
 sive and always lovable Mims, yet the astringent 
 effect of her took their minds off their grief. 
 
 The younger ones were saved by her from 
 slipping into indiscipline, which they would have 
 done quickly, seeing that they were accustomed 
 only to obey orders and to accept external direc- 
 tion; no attempt had been made either at home 
 or at school to expand their reasoning power to 
 the point at which they would see the necessity
 
 26 
 
 for order and enforce it upon themselves. It 
 seemed to them at first that it would be indecent 
 and heartless to continue their daily routine, to 
 read books, to play games, even to go out for 
 walks. Aunt Sybilla's hard common-sense 
 dispelled that illogical, foolishly sentimental 
 thought. 
 
 "The best way you can show you loved your 
 m-mother and that you're sorry she's been taken 
 from you, is by behaving just as she'd wish you 
 to behave if she were here. She wouldn't like 
 to see you moping and doing nothing and get- 
 ting no fresh air. Run out now for a good walk 
 and then get your school books and do some 
 lessons. Muriel will show you what to do, if 
 you don't know." 
 
 This was wholesome and bracing. The ma- 
 chinery of the household was kept running. 
 There existed an authority before which diffi- 
 culties might be laid, a tribunal from which im- 
 mediate decisions could be obtained. 
 
 The civilisation founded by the Romans, 
 which in its essentials remains the civilisation of 
 Europe and America to-day, implants this idea 
 of rulership very firmly in the mind. Few peo- 
 ple can think of any human unit, family, work- 
 shop, office, city or nation as capable of 
 carrying on its activities and developing along 
 useful, harmonious Lines without direction, with- 
 out government. The Slav idea that any check- 
 ing of individual impulse, any imposition of 
 authority from outside the individual, any in- 
 terference with the free working of personality,
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 27 
 
 must be harmful, is not even understood among 
 Western peoples. The suggestion that here may 
 lie the path of a fresh civilisation, destined to 
 supersede ours, sounds to most ears meaning- 
 less, absurd. 
 
 Had the Oversedge family been Slav, they 
 would presumably have managed to get their 
 mother buried; but there would certainly not 
 have been the same perfect organisation of every 
 detail connected with this grisly performance 
 as was evolved under the capable guiding hand 
 of Aunt Sybilla. 
 
 "Everything went off extremely well," she 
 wrote to the undertaker, sending him one of her 
 brother's cheques, and she felt a justifiable glow 
 of pride as she wrote it. 
 
 The only defect in the arrangement of the 
 ceremony was the absence of Mr. Oversedge. 
 Nothing had been heard from him. "He did 
 not," his sister remarked severely, "even trouble 
 to send a wreath," which remark betrayed so 
 exquisite an inability to comprehend the mental 
 state of a man beside himself with sorrow and 
 remorse, that Muriel, angry as it made her, could 
 not help laughing. 
 
 Nor did any tidings of their father reach the" 
 family until a fortnight after the funeral. Then 
 there came a letter from a steamship company 
 inquiring whether a passenger who took a berth 
 in the name of Oversedge on a coasting vessel 
 from London to Cadiz, and who disappeared 
 during the voyage while the ship was off the 
 coast of Portugal, was the same Mr. M. R.
 
 28 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Oversedge whose name appeared in the County 
 Directory as a resident of Ellerslie. 
 
 The children, stupefied by the news, had no 
 tears to shed over the loss of their second parent. 
 They scarcely realised it. He had meant so 
 little to them. 
 
 "Poor old chap 1" Douglas said, discussing the 
 matter with Muriel. "Why do you think he 
 did it?" 
 
 "I don't 'think,' " replied Muriel, "I know. 
 He simply couldn't face it. He wasn't like 
 most other men. He didn't belong to clubs or 
 play golf. He never went anywhere without 
 Mims. It was the pain he would have felt when 
 he came back and found everything reminding 
 him of her, that made him go away on the boat, 
 and then, I suppose, he thought if he couldn't 
 come home it wasn't any good going on." 
 
 "I believe," suggested Douglas, "that he felt 
 it was his fault. Has Nurse told you the doctor 
 told him he ought to have stopped it?" 
 
 "Yes; but I don't believe it was so much that 
 as the other," Muriel persisted. She could un- 
 derstand so vividly what her father's feeling had 
 been, and this made her think of him more kindly 
 than ever she had thought before. 
 
 "Rotten world!" reflected Douglas gloomily. 
 "What about us now?" 
 
 "I suppose there'll be some money for us," 
 said Muriel anxiously. "Father must have had 
 a pretty good business. Do you think there'll 
 be enough to divide up?" 
 
 "Hope so," Douglas answered, without much
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 29 
 
 confidence. "Why? Do you want your share?" 
 
 "Yes, I do," Muriel assented with emphasis. 
 "I'm not going to stay here with old Sybilla. 
 D'you know what I want to do, Duggy? To 
 be called to the Bar." 
 
 "Can you be?" 
 
 "Yes, of course. IVe found all that out. 
 That was why I wanted to go to those classes 
 in London. I say, why shouldn't you be a bar- 
 rister too? We could 'eat our dinners' together." 
 
 "Eat our dinners?" queried Douglas. "I sup- 
 pose we could 'dig' together and have most of 
 our meals together." 
 
 "I didn't mean that," Muriel explained; "of 
 course we could do that. But eating dinners is 
 part of what you have to do to get called to the 
 Bar. You join an Inn of Court and you have 
 to dine so many times a term in the Hall of the 
 Inn. Rather fun, I should think." 
 
 "Depends on the dinner," Douglas said, with 
 a man-of-the-world air, and then went on: 
 "But all that's no use to me. I want to be a 
 mining engineer. I shouldn't mind leaving 
 school now, if I could start in with some sort of 
 training for that." 
 
 "You're only sixteen, aren't you, Duggy?" 
 
 "Jolly nearly seventeen. But, of course, it 
 all hangs on whether there's any money for us 
 or not!" 
 
 When the affairs of Mr. Oversedge had been 
 investigated by his lawyer, his heavy insurances 
 paid, and all his property realised, it was an- 
 nounced to the family that there would be at
 
 30 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 their disposal an income of not quite one thou- 
 sand pounds a year. The lawyer, one of Over- 
 sedge's few friends, had been named as trustee, 
 so a council was held at his office to decide on 
 the apportionment. Mrs. Hunter, who had al- 
 ready moved into the Oversedge house and been 
 forced to acquiesce in the approaching depar- 
 ture of Muriel for London, attended with the 
 girl and with Douglas, now home for summer 
 holidays. 
 
 After much conversation it was decided that 
 Muriel's preliminary fee should be paid and that 
 she and Douglas should have one hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year each to pursue their studies. 
 The remainder of the income would be paid to 
 Aunt Sybilla, who would bring up the other 
 eight children, ranging from two to fourteen. 
 
 "A hundred and fifty pounds a year doesn't 
 go very far nowadays," the kindly solicitor said, 
 "but if you are going to live together, that will 
 help. I hope you'll manage comfortably, and 
 I wish you luck, my dear Muriel; I shall look 
 forward to giving you your first brief." 
 
 As they walked home in the yellow August 
 afternoon, sky and trees steeped in a flow of 
 gold, Muriel troc} on air.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MURIEL'S first idea of a profession had been dis- 
 pensing; but that was not her own idea. It was 
 put into her mind by a High School mistress. 
 
 Muriel's mind was analytical. She enjoyed 
 the process which she called "thinking things 
 out"; it amused her to split up either a char- 
 acter or a common opinion into its component 
 parts. For a while, therefore, the notion of mak- 
 ing up medicines, putting drugs together into 
 compounds intended to produce certain effects, 
 was agreeable to her. But it was driven out 
 swiftly and for ever by the ambition she con- 
 ceived after reading the full report of a trial 
 for murder, which had stirred the whole country 
 with its dramatic reactions and episodes. In 
 her imagination it had conjured up the picture 
 of herself defending a prisoner in danger of 
 death, and knowing that the first thing every 
 newspaper reader would want to see next 
 morning was how she had handled a hostile 
 witness or put her case to the jury or wrestled 
 with the judge for the admission of some doubt- 
 ful testimony. 
 
 She read in cheap editions the lives of Russell, 
 Hawkins, Lockwood, pleaders famous in their 
 day, and figured to herself the concentrated 
 
 31
 
 32 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 energy she would throw into her study of a 
 brief or the intuitive subtlety with which she 
 would divine motives. She had seen in the illus- 
 trated papers photographs of French women 
 barristers, had admired the attractive set of their 
 biretta caps upon their carefully dressed hair, 
 had studied herself in the glass to see how she 
 would look in one of them. Indeed, she went 
 further; she fashioned out of an old toque of her 
 mother's a colourable imitation of the French 
 legal head-covering, and was not displeased with 
 her appearance in it. 
 
 To the bursar of the college at which she at- 
 tended classes in London she had opened her 
 desire. He was a kindly man, and took some 
 trouble to help this eager, enthusiastic young 
 creature who flattered him by asking his help. 
 First, he satisfied himself, by inquiring of her 
 class master, that she was capable, if she chose to 
 work hard, of passing the Bar examination. 
 Next he procured for her information about the 
 Inns of Court and the steps necessary towards 
 enrolling oneself as a student of the law. 
 
 When she heard that nearly two hundred 
 pounds had to be paid on enrolment by those 
 who had taken no university degree, the bursar 
 expected to see her dismayed. She was un- 
 moved, however; she supposed her father had 
 plenty of money; there always seemed to be 
 enough at home ; he could not refuse to give her 
 a start in life. It was only after her father's 
 death, when the whole future of their family 
 existence had fallen in ruins, and when the fu-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 33 
 
 ture seemed suddenly doubtful, that she began 
 to wonder whether two hundred pounds was 
 not a great deal of money and was there any 
 chance of her being allowed to spend it as she 
 wished. 
 
 The meeting af- *&**> V. JV^JPTV* s this jgave her 
 relief from an anxiety which had be^un to press 
 upon her spirits. She felt ashamed that she 
 should be so happy jafter Mi/n's death and then 
 her father's such a SiJort white Jgo. Yet, she 
 argued, with her knack of pursuing emotions to 
 their source, it was much better that she should 
 be happy and looking forward to an interesting 
 life, than moping and only half alive. Her 
 mother, if she had any choice in the matter, 
 would not want her to be mournful. Mims must 
 know, if she knew anything, that her daughter 
 missed her and would readily give up her pos- 
 sessions, her prospects, life itself (as she be- 
 lieved) to win the dear face back. Therefore the 
 impulse to hug grief must be born of conven- 
 tionality, of deference to the censorious eyes 
 of neighbours, of insincerity, in short. 
 
 That matter settled, Muriel felt free to be 
 joyful without restraint. Few girls, she thought, 
 could look forward more gladly or with better 
 hope of an eventful and successful career. She 
 and Douglas would have a jolly little home in 
 London; she could see it already. Not much 
 furniture, but what there was of it attractive 
 as well as serviceable. She had treasured in 
 her memory William Morris's "Have in your 
 house nothing which you do not either know to
 
 34 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 be useful or consider beautiful." She told her- 
 self that perhaps "beautiful" was going a bit 
 too far, but she wouldn't have anything that she 
 didn't think jolly or amusing. At any rate 
 Morris's reproach against the houses of the rich 
 that they wiaJd be ittpvov^d if three-quarters 
 of the things -iw^thefm were tufcen outside and 
 burnt should not apply to hers. 
 
 It wouldnN be a house at first, only a tiny flat, 
 or perhaps rw?Tji\s, but she would enforce the 
 Morris rule in it, whatever it was. She could 
 see a quiet evening room, curtains drawn, shaded 
 lamps throwing light down on the books which 
 she and Duggy had open before them. Not 
 novels, oh dear, no. Each would be at work; 
 she at her law, Duggy at his engineering. She 
 pictured, too, a summer afternoon, windows 
 open, sun flooding the room with light, tea on a 
 side table, guests talking and laughing, herself 
 moving from one group to another, perhaps a 
 song, or a poet reading his verse. She had not 
 made many friends at Ellerslie; members of 
 large families seldom do. But she felt that she 
 had a capacity for friendship; now she might 
 be able to exercise it. 
 
 Aunt Sybilla's proposal that she and Douglas 
 should live in a boarding-house she swept aside. 
 Douglas was indifferent, though he inclined a 
 little towards his aunt's view that he would be 
 better fed. 
 
 "How are you going to provide the boy with 
 regular, n-nourishing meals if you are at work 
 all day?" she asked Muriel scornfully.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 35 
 
 "I shan't starve him. I don't intend to starve 
 myself." 
 
 "Girls can live on anything. Tea and sand- 
 wiches, bread and butter and bloater paste. 
 They don't think it worth while to trouble about 
 proper meals." 
 
 "I do," retorted Muriel incisively. "No 
 scratch feeding for me. Duggy needn't be 
 afraid on that score." 
 
 The late summer and early autumn seemed 
 to Muriel, when she thought of them just after 
 the decision in her favour at the lawyer's office, 
 to stretch out endlessly, to interpose a barrier of 
 tedious waiting between her and the beginning 
 of term at the Inn which was to receive her as 
 a law student. She found, however, that the 
 weeks raced by. There was so much to arrange, 
 so many visits to be paid to London in search 
 of rooms, that the October day on which she 
 and Douglas began their new life arrived almost 
 before she was ready for it. 
 
 There was no tearful leave-taking; brother 
 and sister were to have their bedrooms kept for 
 them and to go down for week-ends as often as 
 they liked. Just at the very last, though, the 
 memory of Minis overcame the pair of them, 
 and as they drove away to the station there were 
 tears in their eyes. Each knew the other's sor- 
 rowful thought. They clasped hands in silence 
 and sat so during the short drive. Then the 
 excitement of starting off "on their own" drove
 
 36 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 (everything else out of their heads, and for the 
 next week or two they had little time for any- 
 thing but "settling down." 
 
 They had been lucky enough to find three 
 rooms not entirely furnished in an old house on 
 the border between Kensington and Hammer- 
 smith. In front there was a green, at the back 
 the garden of a convent, so the house had plenty 
 of light and air. Some of the furniture at home 
 that had been displaced by Aunt Sybilla's when 
 she moved in was sent up for them. The land- 
 lady agreed to have the faded wall-papers 
 stripped and distemper applied. Muriel felt 
 she had made a good beginning. Also the land- 
 lady fell in cheerfully with Muriel's housekeep- 
 ing scheme. Applying her analytical process 
 to the domestic idea, she had come to the con- 
 clusion that there need be no difficulty in man- 
 aging a household if one set about it in a ra- 
 tional, orderly way. 
 
 She drew up a seven-day plan of meals, there- 
 fore (breakfasts and dinners only; they would 
 both lunch out), submitted it to Douglas for his 
 approval, and then gave it to the landlady, who 
 undertook to do the shopping and to give an 
 account of her stewardship every week. 
 
 Aunt Sybilla scoffed at this arrangement. 
 
 "Of course she'll r-rob you, buy cheap meat 
 and charge you for the best, palm off inferior 
 stuff of every kind on you." 
 
 "I'll wait till she does," said Muriel firmly. 
 "I don't believe she will. You've got old- 
 fashioned ideas, you know. You regard land-
 
 ladies as if they were a special creation, born 
 dishonest. It's like the way you think about 
 servants, as if they were made of different flesh 
 and blood from the people they wait on. All 
 that is rot." 
 
 "Thank you," returned Aunt Sybilla, with a 
 grim chuckle; "I am always glad to receive in- 
 struction, and to be t-told where I am wrong." 
 "Well, it is much better for you to be told, 
 isn't it?" Muriel asked her. "That's why old 
 people are mostly so behind the times, and stuffy 
 in their minds, simply because they haven't a 
 notion what the young are thinking and how far 
 the world has got past the ideas they were 
 brought up in. There's no reason why old people 
 shouldn't be sensible and up-to-date if only they 
 had someone to tell them that things were mov- 
 ing, and that they mustn't expect them to stay 
 just where they were in their young days." 
 
 "How f-fortunate I ought to consider myself," 
 said Aunt Sybilla, "to have so wise a niece, and 
 one who is ready to let me benefit by her wisdom." 
 "Well, we'll see who's right," Muriel an- 
 swered. "I'm not going to begin by suspecting 
 anybody. I dare say, if I did show that I thought 
 Mrs. Syrom meant to cheat us, she would, and 
 I shouldn't blame her. Just the same, I'm not 
 going to lock anything up. I hate all that secre- 
 tive business. It's not worth while. I'm sure 
 the fussers who do it get robbed a lot more than 
 those who don't. I believe if you show you trust 
 people they'll generally behave decently." 
 
 "You'll buy your exp-perience," retorted
 
 38 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Aunt Sybilla, "and I expect you'll buy it dear. 
 Cocksure young women usually do." 
 
 What Aunt Sybilla did not allow for was the 
 honest attempt which this cocksure young 
 woman and many others like her indeed mod- 
 ern young women in general were making to 
 get at the truth. They did try dispassionately 
 to see human nature as it is, they refused to 
 accept any estimate of it formed by others, they 
 challenged the catchwords, and comfortable de- 
 lusions by which their elders were satisfied, 
 They might not have hit upon the whole truth, 
 but, at all events, they had a right to offer opin- 
 ions based upon genuine effort of mind; their 
 intolerance was more excusable than that of per- 
 sons like Aunt Sybilla, who had never tried to 
 reason frankly about anything, and supposed 
 they had a right to force their antiquated preju- 
 dices upon the young. 
 
 Douglas was far more sympathetic than his 
 sister to Aunt Sybilla's assumptions and beliefs. 
 He was the product of education at the more 
 expensive kind of Public School that is to say, 
 he had never been encouraged to think about 
 anything, except how to make a ball "break" 
 when he was bowling, and other problems of that 
 order. His reflections upon engineering theories 
 had not stirred his mind to any general activity. 
 He had that simple faith which, according to 
 Tennyson, was "more than Norman blood" and 
 in these days is far more useful as an aid to 
 "getting on": the faith, namely, that there is a 
 certain small number of people born with a
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 39 
 
 right to the best of everything; but with the duty 
 also of working hard for it, and for the ad- 
 vancement of civilisation by which all benefit, the 
 mass of people just to this extent, that their slen- 
 der participation in its blessings keeps them 
 quiet and respectful, and prevents them, by 
 means of the fear that they might lose what 
 they have, from putting in a determined claim to 
 more. 
 
 Muriel had as yet no conscious political opin- 
 ions (by which I mean opinions as to the right or 
 wrong ways of organising a community and 
 managing its affairs), but she disliked instinc- 
 tively the division of her fellow-creatures into 
 two groups consisting of Us and Them and the 
 assumption that while We were bound by a 
 code of honour, They would lose no chance of 
 cheating and deceiving and getting as much out 
 of Us as They could. 
 
 "We shall be able to look after ourselves," 
 she told Aunt Sybilla, with a confident smile at 
 Douglas, who had been so far a listener. 
 
 "Rather," he said; but then he added: "All 
 the same I should keep a pretty sharp eye on 
 Mrs. What's-her-name. Those sort of people 
 are out for all they can get. I wouldn't trust 
 her further than you can see her." 
 
 It was not the words which grated on her so 
 much as the mean, sneering expression on 
 Duggy's face. 
 
 "What do you mean by 'those sort of people'?" 
 she asked indignantly. "Mrs. Syrom is the same 
 sort as Nurse and dear old Cook who's been
 
 40 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 so good to us all. Have you got anything 
 against them?" 
 
 "They're different," said Douglas shortly. 
 
 Aunt Sybilla looked from one to the other 
 with malicious amusement in her narrow eyes. 
 She foresaw that these two would soon be at 
 loggerheads on many points. 
 
 iii 
 
 However, no shadow fell upon their friendli- 
 ness so long as they were settling in. They had 
 so much to tell each other every day about their 
 experiences in starting work, and so many mat- 
 ters of domestic interest to talk over that they 
 lived in a warmth of contentment and mutual 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "Your wife '11 have an easy time," she told him 
 one evening after they had "discussed" patterns 
 for curtains to supersede those of the landlady, 
 and had "tried" where pictures would look best 
 on their sitting-room walls. "Trying" places 
 meant that Muriel said, "I think this is all right," 
 and Douglas knocked the nails in. "Discussing" 
 curtains came down to this: that Muriel had 
 already decided on one of the patterns which she 
 "forced" upon her brother just as a suave 
 conjurer "forces" a card upon an unsuspecting 
 spectator. 
 
 "How do you mean easy?" he inquired. 
 
 "Why, you're so easily pleased about house 
 things, I mean." 
 
 "Oh, well, that's a woman's job. I don't pre- 
 tend to know about it. As long as I'm comfort-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 41 
 
 able and the food's decent, I don't suppose I 
 shall ever grouse." 
 
 "No; and that's very nice of you, Duggy; and 
 yet, do you know," she went on reflectively, 
 "there are times when I wish you did have an 
 occasional opinion about pictures and patterns, 
 though I suppose, if you did, I shouldn't always 
 get my own way." 
 
 "Women ought to have their own way in the 
 house," Duggy pontificated. "That's their 
 sphere of influence, as the political fellers say." 
 
 Muriel's brow puckered. Sometimes her 
 brother seemed strangely uncomprehending, al- 
 most stupid. Didn't he understand that this 
 old division of territory into "Home, the wom- 
 an's, and Outside, the man's," was as antiquated 
 as the political idea of making this or that na- 
 tion's influence in this or that undeveloped coun- 
 try supreme? Nations, she had been taught, 
 were going to give up the watertight compart- 
 ment plan. They were going to work on the 
 principle that in co-operation, not competition, 
 lay their true advantage. So, too, men and 
 women were abandoning the old notion of manly 
 or womanly aptitudes, occupations, interests. 
 She was herself a proof of this. Yet Duggy 
 went on talking as if nothing had happened. 
 
 She would not say anything to stir up strife, 
 but she felt she would like to say what she 
 thought about boys' Public Schools. How 
 backward in idea the people who taught in them 
 must be! Her mind went back to a conversa- 
 tion she had once had with Minis on this very
 
 42 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 topic. Aunt Sybilla had started it by denounc- 
 ing the High School mistress who encouraged 
 Muriel in wishing to take up some employment 
 and earn her own living. 
 
 "These silly creatures don't know the h-harm 
 they may be doing," she complained. "Putting 
 ideas into children's heads!" 
 
 "Not such a bad stuffing for their heads, my 
 dear," said Minis. "I'm sorry there weren't 
 more High Schools in our young days." 
 
 "I can't share your so-sorrow," retorted Aunt 
 Sybilla. "Seems to me they've changed the Eng- 
 lish girl altogether. Made her independent, 
 uppish, unwomanly." 
 
 "Oh no," Mims protested; "they're doing 
 good, not harm." 
 
 "It was High School mistresses who were re- 
 sponsible for the suffrage agitation with all its 
 disgraceful excesses. You didn't approve of 
 them." 
 
 "Not of everything that was done. But then 
 what change has ever been made without a little 
 violence, a little impatience and excitability here 
 and there? The change had to come." 
 
 "Yes, after the High School mistresses had 
 been preaching it s-secretly for so many years, 
 undermining sound principles and the teaching 
 of the Church, contrary altogether to the wishes 
 of parents disgraceful I think it was." 
 
 "No, I can't agree with that," Mims had said 
 gently. "I don't dispute the influence High 
 School mistresses have, and the new type of 
 woman they have helped to produce. I think
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 43 
 
 that will be understood even better in the future 
 than it is to-day. But I think that those who 
 come after us will see there was a great deal of 
 usefulness in what they did." 
 
 Aunt Sybilla had snorted and left the field. 
 Then Minis had turned to her eldest daughter. 
 
 "Your aunt is one of those who think that 
 when they hold their hands up the universe ought 
 to stand still, as it did for Joshua. Remember 
 this, my darling, it will be a help to you all your 
 life: the universe won't stand still for anybody. 
 You may stop the hand of the clock from mark- 
 ing sunrise time, but no one can stop the sun 
 from rising and a new day from beginning. I 
 think the High School mistresses have been pre- 
 paring for the new day, and I wish there had 
 been as many masters in boys' schools who had 
 used the same kind of influence. I am afraid 
 boys are mostly being brought up with their eyes 
 on the past instead of on the future." 
 
 Muriel had not then quite understood what 
 Minis meant by this. Douglas was enlightening 
 her. However, she would keep her thoughts, 
 for the present at any rate, to herself. 
 
 "Well, anyway," she said good-humouredly, 
 "within her sphere, as you call it, your wife will 
 have her own way." 
 
 "And so will you, I bet, when you're mar- 
 ried," Duggy answered, with a grin. 
 
 "Married? Me?" she said, genuinely sur- 
 prised, for in her dreams of the future a husband 
 had found no place. "Oh no, thank you. I 
 shall have too much else to do."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 i 
 
 MURIEL did not know whether to be pleased with 
 the antiquity or annoyed by the silliness of the 
 traditions which she found in force at her Inn 
 of Court. 
 
 When she was told that a horn was still blown, 
 or had been blown until lately, at a certain hour 
 because at that hour in a past age it was neces- 
 sary to summon to their dinner students who 
 might be playing in the fields on the other side 
 of the river, her imagination thrilled. She could 
 fancy the "sparkling Thames" and the meadows 
 which bordered it, the ferry-boat which took the 
 Templars across and the marshy ground they had 
 to scramble over before they mounted the rise 
 on which the Temple stood. 
 
 The Sunday night pudding she approved of 
 heartily. Queen Elizabeth, she learned, dined 
 once in the Hall of the Inn and gave the Bench- 
 ers a recipe for a pudding (whether this was a 
 hint that the Queen did not think much of their 
 pudding, Muriel could not discover). They 
 found it excellent, and in order to make sure 
 of getting it the same every time they always 
 left a piece over for the cook to mix in with the 
 next week's. This Muriel thought rather an 
 
 44
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 45 
 
 unlikely tale, but she swallowed it with the pud- 
 ding, which pleased her much. 
 
 In the traditional etiquette at dinner, how- 
 ever, she found no merit at all. Why, for in- 
 stance, should you not be supposed to speak to 
 the member of another mess during the meal? 
 
 "It isn't, you know," she explained to Doug- 
 las, "as if we were at separate tables. Each 
 mess is four people, and we sit at long tables. 
 We're divided off into our messes only by a 
 special way of laying the cloth, so as to make 
 a sort of barrier out of our glasses. Why you 
 shouldn't speak to the person next you seems 
 to me absurd! You can when the Benchers have 
 gone out to get their coffee, but not till then." 
 
 "I suppose it's an old custom," Duggy said, 
 quite ready to accept that as a good reason for 
 anything. 
 
 "Of course it is. No one would be fool enough 
 to invent such a custom to-day. But why keep 
 it up just because it's old?" 
 
 The women students sat together, which 
 seemed to Muriel to be a pity, especially as she 
 caught the eye often of a jolly laughing boy 
 and thought it would have been much better 
 fun to sit with him than with her three rather 
 serious and unattractive companions. The cap- 
 tain of the mess was in a Government office and 
 wanted to be called to the Bar in order to qualify 
 for some inspectorship. Of the other two, one 
 was from Oxford, with the advantage of hav- 
 ing read Law there; the other came from a 
 northern university and was really horrified to
 
 46 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 see wine 'put on the table as a matter of course. 
 
 "Ah've never touched wine i' ma life," she 
 said indignantly. 
 
 "Well, there's no need for you to touch it 
 now," the captain of the mess told her curtly. 
 "Our allowance," she went on to the other two, 
 "is one bottle of claret or sherry and half-a- 
 bottle of port; and, by the way, you mustn't 
 drink port until the Benchers have left 
 Hall." 
 
 "And do those 'at don't take it have to pay 
 for it same as those 'at do?" asked the total 
 abstainer anxiously. 
 
 "Everybody pays the same price, three bob 
 for dinner, and sixpence for the hire of a gown," 
 the captain told her. 
 
 "Ah think it's a shame, payin' for somethin* 
 one doesn't want." 
 
 "It's a cheap dinner even if you don't take 
 your share of the wine," the captain said, and 
 Muriel was inclined to agree. Soup, fish, joint, 
 sweet and cheese for three shillings was a more 
 plentiful and less expensive meal than she could 
 provide at home, and on certain days there was 
 curry as well, supplied for the special benefit of 
 the Mohammedans, but served to the rest if they 
 wanted it. 
 
 "How did the 'eating of dinners' come to be 
 part of the Bar student's course, does anyone 
 know?" asked the Oxford young woman one 
 evening. 
 
 "Wasn't it so that they mightn't admit any- 
 one who didn't know how to eat properly and
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 47 
 
 wouldn't be a pleasant companion at table?" 
 Muriel suggested. 
 
 She had been made a little nervous by the 
 thought of the dinner, of which she was obliged 
 to eat several each term, but quickly shook off 
 her shyness when she found that her companions 
 were quite prepared to be companionable. 
 
 "Just kept up because it's a link with the past? 
 I wonder. I never thought about it," the cap- 
 tain admitted. "I dare say you're right." 
 
 "And ah dare say you're wrong," put in the 
 Lancashire lass. "It's kept oop to make money 
 by chargin' people for what they doesn't take." 
 
 The girl from Oxford, Creston by name, 
 caught Muriel's eye and winked. Muriel felt 
 happier at once. She guessed that, in spite of 
 her solemn appearance, Miss Creston was one of 
 her own sort. 
 
 ii 
 
 Excepting Saturdays, Sundays and guest 
 nights, the dinner-hour was six, so on the days 
 when she meant to dine in Hall, Muriel ran lunch 
 and tea into one meal between two and three 
 o'clock. She had determined not to have a 
 "coach"; very few of the women students seemed 
 to be able to afford that. A good deal of her 
 work she decided to do in the library of the Inn, 
 and she quickly made a friend there of one of the 
 men, who fetched books for readers: so quickly 
 that at her second visit he told her that for four 
 generations his family had been in the service of 
 the Inn.
 
 48 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "There's little I can't tell you about the old 
 place, miss," he said, with pride, and his friendli- 
 ness made her feel just as much at her ease in 
 the Library as she did in Hall. The lectures 
 she attended she found helpful, and they had 
 the advantage of being almost free. Only a very 
 small charge had to be paid each term. 
 
 "Well, you pay quite enough when you start, 
 don't you?" Muriel asked Anne Creston, one 
 evening, when she had looked in to see brother 
 and sister at Brook Green; she herself lived in 
 West Kensington. 
 
 "My degree got me off a good deal of it," 
 Anne replied. "I only had to plank down about 
 forty pounds. But I shall have to pay a hundred 
 when I'm called. No getting out of that." 
 
 "Why is it so expensive?" Douglas asked. 
 
 "It's a trade union, you see, and unions always 
 aim at making it difficult to get into them, so as 
 to keep down competition." 
 
 "A trade union?" repeated Douglas. "But 
 trade unions are only for workmen." 
 
 "Oh no," explained Anne; "the barristers and 
 the doctors have the strongest trade unions 
 of all. They have made the State recognise 
 them. If you try to practise medicine or to 
 give advice about law without being a member 
 of the union you can be prosecuted and sent to 
 prison." 
 
 "Oh yes," admitted Douglas loftily; "but that 
 doesn't make them trade unions, you know." 
 
 "How should you define a trade union?" Miss 
 Creston inquired, remembering the Socratic
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 49 
 
 method of argument, which she learned from the 
 Dialogues of Plato. 
 
 "It's a lot of workmen, engineers or brick- 
 layers or miners, who say they won't let anyone 
 work at engineering or bricklaying or mining 
 unless he belongs to the union tyranny, I 
 call it." 
 
 "You mean that anyone ought to be free to 
 follow any occupation he chooses without let or 
 hindrance?" 
 
 "Certainly. That's what I mean. These 
 unions take away liberty." 
 
 "Then you would say that it is wrong for the 
 legal and the medical authorities to refuse to let 
 anyone practise law or be a doctor unless he 
 belongs to one of the legal or medical unions?" 
 
 Douglas saw he had fallen into a trap. 
 
 "Very clever," he said, with a sneer, "but you 
 don't catch me out as easily as that. It isn't the 
 same thing at all. You said just now there are 
 Acts of Parliament about doctoring and being 
 a lawyer. There are no Acts of Parliament about 
 being a bricklayer or an engineer." 
 
 "No, because the other trades haven't been 
 strong enough to get Parliament to recognise 
 their unions." 
 
 "But law and doctoring aren't trades," ob- 
 jected Douglas doggedly. "They're profes- 
 sions." 
 
 "What's the difference?" 
 
 "For a profession you've got to study a lot," 
 said the boy slowly, thinking hard in the hope 
 of hitting upon some (crushing reply. Suddenly
 
 50 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 one came into his mind. "And it's for the pro- 
 tection of the public," he went on triumphantly. 
 
 "If anyone could be a doctor or a lawyer 
 
 Why, the thing's out of the question." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Why? Because people who hadn't passed 
 the exams, and all that wouldn't be any good; 
 they'd be frauds." 
 
 Anne Creston smiled pityingly. 
 
 "Don't you know that one of the cleverest 
 lawyers to-day is a man who was never called 
 to the Bar? And haven't you heard of cures 
 by unqualified doctors in cases where regular 
 doctors have failed? It isn't to protect the pub- 
 lic that these unions exist, but to protect their 
 members." 
 
 "Quite right too," said Muriel gaily, to save 
 her brother from further discomfiture. "I shall 
 be glad of protection if I ever get through. 
 Now what about another cigarette?" 
 
 "Don't care for that girl who was here last 
 night," Douglas remarked at breakfast, "seemed 
 to think she knew everything. Can't stand girls 
 like that." 
 
 iii 
 
 Somehow the talk at dinner in Hall one even- 
 ing fell upon marriage. A Church dignitary 
 who had cleverly secured notoriety by lecturing 
 here, there and anywhere in a vein of cynical 
 despair and frank contempt for the doctrine he 
 was paid to teach, had been denouncing women 
 for taking up other occupations than that of
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 51 
 
 motherhood. This provoked Anne Creston to 
 ask why he didn't go a step further and propose 
 polygamy, which was the corollary to his theory 
 that all women should be mothers. 
 
 "Some of us," she said, "would be glad enough 
 if we got the chance, but under present arrange- 
 ments a lot of us can't. I don't particularly want 
 to earn my own living, but I can't help it. The 
 likelihood of my getting married isn't great, and 
 when my mother dies and her annuity stops, I 
 shall have less than a hundred a year. It's lucky 
 for me the annuity's big enough to give me a 
 start in life." 
 
 "Oh, but don't you feel," Muriel broke in, 
 "that there's something clean and dignified about 
 being independent, supporting oneself? Even if 
 I were certain of getting married, I should still 
 want to pass my exams, and get my call. It 
 must be a great thing to know you can make your 
 own living, even if you don't have to." 
 
 "I agree," said the Lancashire lass emphatic- 
 ally. "That's what I said to father, and that's 
 why I'm here." 
 
 "No, I don't feel like that a bit," dissented 
 Anne. "Ever since I was twelve I've been work- 
 ing as hard as I knew how for some exam, or 
 other, and hard work's what I've got to look for- 
 ward to for the rest of my life. I'm prepared 
 to say 'Yes ; thank you,' to any man who makes 
 me an offer." 
 
 "You know you wouldn't," Muriel declared. 
 "You, with your fastidious tastes!" 
 
 "Oh, of course, he'd have to be a decent sort
 
 52 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 and talk my language. Seriously, though, I 
 shouldn't turn any likely proposer down." 
 
 "I think you're right," the captain said. "I'm 
 all for giving women the same chances as men, 
 everywhere, but I do think healthy women ought 
 to marry, if it's only for the sake of the race. I 
 shall marry when I've got a settled position." 
 
 "I suppose you'll wait till somebody asks you," 
 put in Miss Boothroyd jovially. 
 
 "No ; I don't know that I should. Why should 
 I? Now that woman's economic status is 
 altered " 
 
 "Oh, economic !" protested Anne, "a word that 
 always makes me feel as if I were in for an 
 exam." 
 
 "Well, now that women aren't obliged to be 
 dependent upon men for a living, whatever rea- 
 son is there for keeping up the pretence that the 
 choice of mates lies with men? Any woman of 
 ordinary good looks and ordinary ability can 
 inveigle a man into making love to her, and Eng- 
 lishmen almost all make love pour le bon motif. 
 It isn't so with Frenchmen. Marriage with them 
 is a matter of calculation, not of sentiment. And 
 there are some Englishmen like that, but not 
 many." 
 
 Here the long grace after meat interrupted 
 them. When they sat down again, Miss Booth- 
 royd squared her elbows on the table and said: 
 "You broke off in the middle. Go on." 
 
 "Where did I get to? Oh yes, I was saying 
 that women could exercise their choice all right, 
 but only by pretending that it was really men
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 53 
 
 who chose them. Now there's no need for any 
 humbug about it." 
 
 "There'll always be humbug," Anne asserted 
 vehemently. "Humbug is the basis of all human 
 relationships, especially the relationship between 
 men and women." 
 
 "That may be, but the form of it changes from 
 time to time." 
 
 "I don't quite see, though," said Muriel, "what 
 particular change you have in your mind." 
 
 "Why, don't you see, so long as men were in 
 the superior economic position (I'm sorry, but 
 I can't do without 'economic') women couldn't 
 say: 'I should like to marry you,' because it 
 would have been the same thing as saying: 'Will 
 you kindly support me?' Women who are equal 
 to men so far as earning a living goes, or superior 
 to them, can't be suspected of simply wanting 
 to be fed and clothed." 
 
 "That's all I want," Anne declared, looking 
 round defiantly. "I'm sick and tired of work." 
 
 "Then it's your opinion, is it," asked Miss 
 Boothroyd, "that if a lass has more brass than 
 a man, she can chuck herself at his head? I 
 don't seem to see a nice lass doin' it." 
 
 "What about Queen Victoria?" 
 
 "Ay, what about her? You don't mean " 
 
 "Of course she means," interrupted the impetu- 
 ous Anne. "Didn't you know Queen Victoria 
 proposed to the Prince Consort Prince Albert 
 he was then? He couldn't propose to her be- 
 cause she was a far bigger pot and had piles 
 more money."
 
 54 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Then is it to come to this," Muriel inquired, 
 "that whichever, man or woman, has the bigger 
 income and the swankier position socially will 
 propose? So that if I want to marry a duke, I 
 must wait for him to ask me, but suppose I fall 
 in love with a dustman, I can ask him to marry 
 me." 
 
 "No; I don't mean quite that," the captain 
 said. "I don't see why there should be any hard- 
 and-fast rule about it. Some women and some 
 men will always wait until they're asked, just 
 because they don't feel inclined to do the asking. 
 The old idea was that men were the pursuers, 
 that they were born with the hunting instinct, 
 and that women were always the hunted. Then 
 a new theory got started, that it was woman who 
 chased men you know Man and Superman 
 and all that." 
 
 "Yes, and both theories are bosh," declared 
 Anne. "Biological bosh to start with, and psy- 
 chological bosh as well. Men's characters and 
 women's aren't essentially different in any way 
 you can't draw rigid distinctions between 
 them." 
 
 "Eh; that's queer talk." 
 
 "It may sound queer in Lancashire," said the 
 captain, "but what Creston says is perfectly true. 
 There are women like Ann Whitefield and there 
 are plenty of the pursuing kind of men, but you 
 can't stick labels on to any characteristic and say 
 'That is manly' or 'That is womanly.' Science 
 has knocked all that Victorian rot on the head." 
 
 "Yes, and if we had any scientists capable of
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 55 
 
 seeing beyond their noses, like Huxley and Tyn- 
 dall and Alfred Russel Wallace, they'd explain 
 it to the world, as those men used to explain the 
 scientific discoveries of their time. But none of 
 the scientists now," continued Anne, in a tone 
 of indignation, "are big enough to take an inter- 
 est in anything beyond their own special sub- 
 jects or to care how they link up with other sub- 
 jects. Science has been absolutely no use to the 
 Forward Movement. In fact it has tried to put 
 snags in its way, whenever it has taken any notice 
 of it at all." 
 
 "Ah, ye may rightly call it the 'forward' move- 
 ment," put in Miss Boothroyd, enjoying her 
 little joke, "if you're going to make women's pro- 
 posals part of it." 
 
 And then there was a general movement; the 
 girls got up to leave the Hall. 
 
 Anne and Muriel took their homeward way 
 together on the top of an omnibus. 
 
 "What did you mean by saying humbug is the 
 basis of everything?" Muriel asked her friend. 
 
 "I meant that we're insincere about every- 
 thing; we deceive ourselves into thinking that 
 black is white; that we act from quite different 
 motives to those which really affect us. How 
 many churches do we pass on this journey? At 
 least a dozen more than that. Do you think 
 life would be what it is to-day if they weren't all 
 based on humbug? They humbug themselves 
 into believing that Christ's teaching was exactly 
 the same as the Scribes' and Pharisees', whom 
 He was always slanging. But we've had enough
 
 56 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 of this at dinner. Tell me where I can get a 
 hat for ten shillings that will look as if it cost 
 thirty-five-and-six." 
 
 So Muriel's education progressed.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 i 
 
 FOR the most part Muriel and Douglas lived on 
 excellent terms. She knew his mind intimately, 
 so she was able, as long as she chose, to keep off 
 topics likely to breed disagreement of a serious 
 kind. 
 
 Sometimes of set purpose she provoked him, 
 dropped apparently casual remarks which she 
 knew would annoy and sting him into furious 
 protest against what he called "the Bolshevism 
 she had learnt from her friend Miss Creston." 
 But these darts and barbs she kept for occasions 
 on which she felt waspish, when her customary 
 tolerance of what she called his "reactionary atti- 
 tude" had to be relieved and set going again by 
 a liberation of the suppressed antagonism that 
 was never far below the surface of their daily 
 intercourse. 
 
 When a man causes irritation by treading upon 
 tender spots or stirring the waters of strife, the 
 chances are ten to one that he is a blunderer, 
 too obtuse to see where he is going. Should the 
 offender be a woman, it is ten to one that she 
 knows quite well what she is doing and has some 
 object in doing it. 
 
 If Douglas had formed opinions for himself, 
 his sister might have respected him, however little 
 
 57
 
 58 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 she liked them, but she could see so plainly that 
 he embraced whatever creed or custom was pre- 
 scribed by his deity, "Good Form." While 
 Muriel argued and analysed and did her best to 
 make Reason her guide, he questioned neither 
 behaviour nor belief if he noticed that it was 
 under the patronage of the "best people." Thus, 
 although he did not go to church himself, it 
 seemed to him that his sister ought to go. It was 
 the "proper thing." 
 
 One of their fiercest disputes arose over bet- 
 ting. Anne had a cousin who was studying for 
 the stage. She was a light-hearted little creature, 
 with big, impudent eyes and a flitting movement 
 which proved that she was a born dancer. She 
 had taken up her quarters at Mrs. Creston's, 
 so Muriel saw her often and liked her as she might 
 have liked an amusing kitten or puppy. At the 
 school of acting she had quickly picked up the 
 habit of backing horses. There was much talk 
 among a certain set about racing, though not one 
 of them had ever seen a big race or knew any- 
 thing more about its probabilities than could be 
 learned from an evening newspaper. They put 
 on their shillings and half-crowns with a book- 
 maker doing business at a small restaurant ; as a 
 rule they lost their stakes. But they had a feel- 
 ing that they were seeing life, and showing by 
 their familiarity with the odds how well they 
 knew the world, and behaving like real profes- 
 sionals. 
 
 Muriel chaffed Poppy Sand about wasting her
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 59 
 
 money or rather her father's money, which he 
 scraped together, not without difficulty, as a corn 
 and coal merchant in a country town. She had 
 even reasoned with her, and tried to make her 
 see how silly the habit was. 
 
 "They all do it," was Poppy's pouting defence, 
 "and we're only young once." 
 
 "All the more reason to enjoy ourselves with 
 what money we've got," Muriel pressed her. "It 
 doesn't really amuse you to bet." 
 
 "Yes, it does, and then there's always a chance 
 of making a bit. There was once a girl at the 
 school who won hundreds of pounds." 
 
 "There was once a pig who could fly," 
 mimicked Muriel, "but no one can remember his 
 name and address." 
 
 "No, but really oh, I know you won't believe 
 anything I tell you. I don't care though. One 
 must have some little interest and excitement 
 to get one through life." 
 
 "Good Lord, to hear you talk you might be 
 fifty and leading the dullest of lives. Haven't 
 you interest enough in your work? Doesn't it 
 excite you to be in for the medals competition? 
 All this betting is so stupid and so common- 
 snobbish too. You only do it, you said so just 
 now, because others do it." 
 
 "I didn't say 'only.' . . . Of course I know 
 frightfully serious people like you and Anne who 
 are going to be lawyers never bet nor have any 
 fun. . . ." 
 
 "Don't talk rot," Muriel told her. "Of course 
 we have lots of fun, and all the more because we
 
 60 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 don't throw away our money just to be like other 
 silly people." 
 
 "Well, I suppose I was born to be silly," 
 Poppy said by way of ending the discussion and, 
 catching Muriel by the waist, swung her into a 
 dance they had been practising a little before. 
 
 This was in anticipation of a fancy-dress ball 
 of the cheaper kind to which they were going in 
 a party. On the morning of the ball, Douglas 
 picked up an envelope from the breakfast 
 table and looked at the writing with particular 
 interest. 
 
 "Looks like the Bloomer's," he said. "I didn't 
 know he was in London" ; and when he had read 
 the letter he said to Muriel; "I say, I may be a 
 bit late to-night. Old Bloomer wants me to go 
 to Sandown with his people. Awfully decent of 
 him. He's been in France for a year. Lucky 
 I can get off to-day. He isn't starting till 
 twelve." 
 
 This was a schoolfellow, the son of a rich man 
 who had made a hit in politics by giving excep- 
 tionally good dinners, and spicing his week-end 
 parties with amusing people not to be met with 
 elsewhere. 
 
 As it happened, Douglas was not late back. 
 He was unfamiliar with racing, he did not know 
 that it ended in the middle of the afternoon. He 
 said he had enjoyed himself, but did not look as 
 if his outing had altogether been a success. 
 Muriel was made aware of the reason for this 
 when Poppy Sand, after a dance with Douglas, 
 stopped and said, "It's a relief to find your
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 61 
 
 brother isn't so down on betting as you were, 
 my dear." 
 
 Muriel looked at Douglas. He reddened. 
 
 "I was just telling Miss Sand," he muttered, 
 "that I hadn't had a very good day at Sandown." 
 
 "Of course it's nothing to anyone who goes 
 racing constantly, as he does, but where I lose 
 shillings, he loses pounds. I call it thrilling." 
 
 "Pounds?" echoed Muriel, looking in amaze- 
 ment from one to the other. 
 
 "I'm just taking Miss Sand to get an ice," 
 her brother said hastily. "Come along," and he 
 hurried his partner away. 
 
 At breakfast, Muriel, who never hesitated in 
 her approach to an unpleasant topic if she felt 
 that it had to be tackled, asked her brother point 
 blank, as she gave him his coffee, "What did 
 Poppy Sand mean about your losing pounds at 
 Sandown? You didn't, did you?" 
 
 Nothing had been said overnight, Anne and 
 Poppy had been with them as far as their door; 
 once inside, Douglas had run upstairs and after 
 a hasty "good-night" had plunged into his room. 
 Now he frowned, blushed, let several moments 
 pass before he replied : 
 
 "I did drop a bit. Oh, nothing serious, you 
 know. But I had rotten luck." 
 
 "Whatever did you bet for, Duggy? We have 
 a pretty tight squeeze to make our money do. 
 We can't afford to chuck it about." 
 
 "I couldn't help it," the boy said, softened by
 
 62 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 his sister's friendly mode of remonstrance. "I 
 had to put a bit on. Everyone else was doing it. 
 Bloomer lost three or four times as much as I 
 
 did." 
 
 "The Bloomfields are three or four hundred 
 times as well off as we are. They don't feel their 
 losses." 
 
 "Well, I'm not likely to go again for a good 
 long time." 
 
 "I suppose you made Poppy Sand believe you 
 went every other day to races," Muriel put in 
 scornfully, suddenly recollecting what the girl 
 had said, and seizing on it as a handy missile. 
 
 "No, I didn't," Douglas muttered sulkily. 
 "She made that up. Silly little idiot to say any- 
 thing at all. All this fuss about nothing." 
 
 "It isn't the money that matters so much, 
 though I suppose it's taken your savings for all 
 this term. It's your silly idea that you must do 
 whatever other people do." 
 
 "Nobody goes to the races without betting," 
 Douglas growled. 
 
 "More fools they," retorted Muriel briskly. 
 "Surely you needn't make an idiot of yourself, 
 just to be in the fashion." 
 
 "Idiot yourself," was Duggy's counterstroke. 
 "Do you mean to say the King and the Prince 
 of Wales are fools? They go to the races, and 
 of course they bet. Everyone does, I tell you." 
 
 "Whatever has that got to do with your bet- 
 ting? You can't have a rottener reason for doing 
 a thing than that 'everyone does it.' It's so 
 feeble to use that argument."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 63 
 
 "You've got to be like other people," Douglas 
 persisted. "If you aren't they call you a fad- 
 dist." 
 
 "What does it matter what they call you? 
 I'd sooner be called a faddist than be a sheep." 
 
 "You're always so sure everybody else is wrong 
 if they don't agree with you. I say if everyone 
 does a thing, that shows there can't be anything 
 really wrong in it." 
 
 He shot out of the room before she could an- 
 swer, and very soon she heard him go out. 
 
 That day in the Library she met Anne, and 
 when they went out to lunch at a tiny restaurant 
 close to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where there was a 
 great deal of blue china and dainty casement cur- 
 tains, and red-and-blue diaper tablecloth, with a 
 corresponding scarcity of food, she asked sud- 
 denly, as they began their minute portions of fish : 
 
 "Do you believe it's really better to try and 
 think for oneself or to go with the stream and 
 take your opinions ready-made?" 
 
 "My dear, of course it's more comfortable, and 
 more paying too, to be like everyone else. I wish 
 to God I was." 
 
 "You might pretend to be, if you feel it so 
 strongly as all that." 
 
 "No, you can't. That's the curse of being born 
 different. The 'damned spot' will not 'out.' ' 
 
 "But take you and me, we aren't so very dif- 
 ferent. At least I'm not. Of course you're 
 clever and brainy. You're such a nailer at 
 exams. But in our opinions, I mean they are 
 only common sense after all. They're no credit
 
 64 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 to us. I swear I don't put on any frills because 
 I try to think things out. It's just part of me, 
 like having brown eyes or black hair. Why 
 should one be called a faddist?" 
 
 Anne looked up quickly. 
 
 "Who's been calling you that?" 
 
 "Only Douglas." 
 
 Anne shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "I know it doesn't matter what he thinks," 
 Muriel said, "but after all, he says what people 
 in general say, and I can't see why they should 
 sneer at everyone who doesn't behave and think 
 exactly as they do." 
 
 "It's part of our Western civilisation. It 
 began with the Romans. All our ideas of dis- 
 cipline came from them. And it's on discipline 
 that our ideas are based," mused Anne, almost as 
 if she were speaking to herself. 
 
 This was beyond Muriel. Her face betrayed 
 her puzzlement. 
 
 "Sorry, I didn't mean to lecture," Anne apolo- 
 gised. 
 
 "No, please; I want to understand." 
 
 "The East, you see," Anne went on, "has 
 never, so far as I can make out, cared anything 
 like so much as the West for material achieve- 
 ments, trade and extending authority, making 
 empires and realising national aspirations, and 
 all that." 
 
 "There were Eastern empires, weren't there? 
 Persia, and China, and India at times?" 
 
 "Yes ; but they were made by single conquerors 
 or by families, not by nations. The national idea
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 65 
 
 came from the Romans, and it required strict 
 discipline in all sorts of ways. That explains 
 why we can't leave each other alone, why those 
 who don't dress and talk like others of their class, 
 and hold the same opinions and acknowledge the 
 same rules of morality, are regarded as eccentric, 
 even as enemies of society. Look here, I can't 
 explain it half as well as that Russian composer 
 Shelmetsof I've been talking to. He's my au- 
 thority. You must talk to him yourself." 
 
 iii 
 
 The opportunity for Muriel to hear the views 
 of this authority came a few days later. She 
 was invited with Anne to spend Sunday at a cot- 
 tage on the Kentish hills where the merry-eyed 
 law student, noticed by Muriel at her first dinner 
 in Hall, lived with his father, a poet of revolu- 
 tionary bias. 
 
 Muriel had soon got to know this jolly-looking 
 boy. She was not pretty in the conventional way, 
 but she had fine dark eyes and a lively smile. Her 
 glance of sympathetic interest was returned, the 
 two became acquainted over a book in the 
 Library; they sometimes lunched together, and 
 were in process of building up a friendship based 
 chiefly upon a common delight in finding out the 
 ridiculous side of everything and everybody. He 
 had mentioned Shelmetsof just after Muriel had 
 heard of him from Anne. 
 
 "How strange! Miss Creston was talking to 
 me about him only a few days ago. I'd never 
 heard of him before, and now he crops up again."
 
 66 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Often happens, that, doesn't it?" said Tony 
 Hilford, "like 'flu. You sidestep it for ever so 
 long, and then suddenly the air is full of microbes 
 and down you go. The Shelmetsof microbe is 
 pretty active just now. He's conducting a lot. 
 Queer bird! D'you want to meet him? Come 
 down on Sunday. He and his wife are week- 
 ending with my father." 
 
 So on a delicious spring morning, Muriel and 
 Anne took an early train, got out at a small sta- 
 tion and walked over the Downs, through hedges 
 starred with white-thorn, past copses where the 
 primroses shone in the dappling sunshine, and 
 under chestnuts which were just unfolding their 
 sticky baby-finger buds. 
 
 "What a world!" Muriel cried, almost dancing 
 with delight and exuberance of energy. "Isn't 
 it gorgeous, Anne? Shout, sing, let's race to the 
 corner. Well, I shall race alone." 
 
 At the corner she waited, panting. Anne, as 
 she came up, said, with affectionate envy: 
 
 "I wish I had your spirits, my dear. I'm 
 enjoying it all right, but the enjoyment doesn't 
 pour out of me. I feel something holding me 
 back." 
 
 "It's all your learning. I wish I had some 
 of it and not quite so much rude health." 
 
 "You needn't wish that. It's vitality that gets 
 people on in the world. Look at the men who 
 succeed, women too they aren't the highly in- 
 tellectual or even the highly intelligent, they 
 aren't the deep thinkers or the fine idealists. 
 They're just the ones with the most vigour, the
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 67 
 
 most activity; they're the ones who are most 
 alive." 
 
 "Whose brains are most alive, you mean. 
 That's you. My activity is mostly in my feet. 
 I've done next to no work that's any good lately. 
 The sun and the green everywhere make me rest- 
 less. I want a holiday, I think." 
 
 The poet welcomed the girls with nervous kind- 
 liness. His son led them into the garden, one 
 of the most attractive gardens they had either of 
 them ever seen. 
 
 "My father says these are his best poems," 
 the boy told them, waving a hand at the rock- 
 plants which made an exquisite symphony of 
 colour, and the iris borders and the delicious 
 vistas of daffodils, jonquils, narcissi. 
 
 When they started to catch their evening train, 
 they were laden with these; in their minds, too, 
 was heavy store of fresh material for thought. 
 
 The composer had talked half through the af- 
 ternoon, and proposed to Muriel to walk with 
 him for the other half. His wife had prevented 
 that. 
 
 "Yegor Boris'itch," she said severely, "the 
 young lady is of course tired already of hearing 
 your theories. Besides, you have many letters 
 to write. So, miss, excuse, please." 
 
 And she swept him away to their own room. 
 
 "What did you make of it?" asked Anne, as 
 they walked back. 
 
 "I think I see what he's driving at. Russia 
 is going to start a new civilisation upon the 
 notion that we all ought to follow our impulses
 
 68 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 and not try to discipline ourselves. It rather 
 takes one's breath away." 
 
 "To change our principle 'that whatever we 
 want to do and like doing must be wrong' into 
 the opposite, 'that if we want to do a thing, there- 
 fore it must be right/ " Anne mused. 
 
 "I should like to have heard still more. I 
 wish his wife hadn't spirited him off." 
 
 "It was in your interest," said Anne grimly. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "She told me she didn't want him to make love 
 to an English girl. When he's writing an opera 
 or a ballet, he has to fall in love. She's quite 
 used to it, and doesn't seem to mind." 
 
 "She told you that?" asked Muriel in amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 "Yes; told me as if it weren't anything un- 
 usual. She said quite seriously: 'Our living de- 
 pends upon Yegor Boris'itch being able to 
 compose, and he can't compose unless he's in 
 love!" 
 
 "Pretty calm," agreed Muriel. "I suppose 
 she didn't think it possible he could have con- 
 tinued being in love with her." 
 
 "She explained that. She said he wrote that 
 famous thing they did last year at Covent Gar- 
 den when he was in love with her. That was as 
 much as she could expect, she seemed to think. 
 She's evidently tremendously proud of it. The 
 only line she drew was at his falling in love with 
 an English girl." 
 
 "It would have been an experience, wouldn't 
 it?" Muriel reflected. "Why did she object?"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 69 
 
 "She said: 'You English are so difficult. You 
 make such fusses.' A friend had told her that 
 if any scandal about him got about, people 
 wouldn't listen to his music." 
 
 "I think that's quite likely." 
 
 "So you see, it isn't only theory. I was inter- 
 ested in his ideas, rather liked them, but I think 
 it's a rotten way to behave." 
 
 That, Muriel said to herself, was a sign of 
 Anne's defective vitality. She wasn't altogether 
 sure herself of the soundness of the Shelmetsof 
 doctrine. She wanted to think it over. But she 
 felt sure that if she accepted it as theory, she 
 would not let conventional morality make her 
 shrink from the practice of it. 
 
 "Do you suppose all Russians are like that?" 
 she asked. 
 
 "Not all, but their ideas are very different 
 from ours." 
 
 "Good thing too!" Muriel commented. "We 
 want a little more variety in the world."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 i 
 
 MURIEL never forgot that spring day and the 
 delight that she felt in it, the lightness of heart 
 and springiness of limb, which made her race 
 down the road, the adventurous mood which 
 gave her the conviction that, whatever happened 
 to her, she would always find life stimulating and 
 enjoyable. She never forgot it, because that was 
 the last day of her life on which she was entirely 
 free from care, the last day which allowed her 
 to luxuriate in the irresponsibility, the complete 
 satisfaction of all instincts, the live-for-the-mo- 
 ment mood, of youth. 
 
 Three days later she saw, as she sat down to 
 breakfast, a letter from Aunt Sybilla. It stirred 
 no emotion. Certainly, Aunt Sybilla did not 
 write often, but when she did she seldom had 
 anything to say. Probably this was to inquire 
 why Muriel had not been down to her "home" 
 for so many weeks. Muriel left it while she 
 looked through a newspaper, then took it up 
 without interest, tore the envelope, and read an 
 announcement which changed the whole course 
 of her life. 
 
 "I have bad news for you and Douglas," Aunt 
 Sybilla wrote. "In response to a request from 
 Mr. Vines, I went to see him yesterday, and he 
 informed me that one of the companies in which 
 
 70
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 71 
 
 your father invested his money was on the point 
 of going into liquidation. That means the money 
 invested is lost. As the sum was a large one, 
 this reduces by about one-half the income derived 
 by you and your brothers and sisters from your 
 father's estate. We must, as soon as possible, 
 decide what is to be done. You and Douglas had 
 better come down on Saturday morning and meet 
 me at Mr. Vine's office. He will give you a more 
 exact account of your monetary position." 
 
 Muriel read with a fluttering heart. She saw 
 at once what this threatened. Her pleasant ex- 
 istence in London, her studying for the Bar, her 
 bright hopes of an interesting and prosperous 
 career were to be cut short. All that she cared 
 for must be given up. She looked across at 
 Douglas. He was munching contentedly and 
 looking at the football news. She had to steady 
 her voice by coughing several times before she 
 could trust herself to say: 
 
 "Here, Duggy, you'd better read this: it's a 
 bombshell. How pleased Aunt Sybilla must be !" 
 
 Douglas read it, frowning. 
 
 "Just my luck," he said angrily, as he threw 
 it back. "Another six months and I'd have got 
 through." 
 
 "What about my luck? I'm not half-way 
 through yet. It means the end for me." 
 
 "For both of us, I should say." 
 
 "I can't wait till Saturday. I shall go down 
 and see Vines to-day. I'd rather see him with- 
 out Aunt Sybilla. He may be able to give us 
 some advice."
 
 72 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 In movement Muriel found a certain relief. 
 She was also glad that it rained. Sunshine would 
 have mocked her, she felt. In the train she pre- 
 tended to herself that she was going back to live 
 with Aunt Sybilla and the rest of the family. 
 The very thought of this was so repugnant that 
 she then and there made a vow that she would 
 never do it. She could put together no alterna- 
 tive plan. She could not hit upon any likely 
 means by which she could support herself. But 
 she made up her mind firmly about one thing: 
 she would not go back "home." 
 
 The lawyer was sympathetic, almost apolo- 
 getic. He felt that he ought to have known the 
 business was shaky. He ought to have advised 
 a change of investment before it was too late. 
 This he could not, of course, admit, but it wor- 
 ried him. It made him inclined to be impatient 
 with Muriel for wanting to know more, but he 
 fought down this inclination as unworthy of a 
 just man ; he explained the disaster to her with an 
 even tender solicitude. 
 
 The position was as Aunt Sybilla had stated 
 it. Half the family income had been swept away. 
 
 "Then we can't go on having our money, 
 Douglas and I," Muriel said, going straight to 
 the point, after she had listened without inter- 
 ruption to an oft-told tale flourishing business, 
 formation of company, vendor's loss of interest 
 in it, incompetent directors, careless management, 
 frantic efforts to recover position, utter ruin. 
 She could not grasp the meaning of the whole of 
 what she had heard, but she knew that the money
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 73 
 
 was gone, and that there was no hope of getting 
 any of it back. 
 
 "I'm afraid not, my dear," the lawyer an- 
 swered, drawing squares on the blotting-paper 
 before him. "You see," he went on, looking up 
 at her, "three hundred out of five hundred would 
 leave only two hundred. The rest of the family 
 couldn't be supported on that." 
 
 "No, of course not," agreed Muriel miserably, 
 yet telling herself that she must "keep a stiff 
 upper lip." 
 
 "Hard on you, very hard," he murmured, and 
 again reproached himself for lack of vigilance. 
 "How were you getting on with your legal 
 studies?" 
 
 "Not too badly. I'd passed in Roman law. 
 I think I should have got through the rest all 
 right." 
 
 "Now I suppose you will live at home and " 
 
 "No," Muriel said, so forcibly that he raised 
 his eyebrows, even looked, she thought, a little 
 alarmed. "Whatever I do, I shan't do that. I 
 made up my mind in the train." 
 
 "I see. . . . Well, of course, you are of an 
 age to decide for yourself. But I should have 
 thought, with a season ticket, going up and down 
 every day, you could have managed to pursue 
 your studies. Many do so, I believe. How- 
 ever " 
 
 The idea came to Muriel as a flash of light- 
 ning reveals to a benighted traveller some un- 
 suspected path. This she must consider. It 
 might cause her to alter her mind.
 
 74 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "I hadn't thought of that," she said reflec- 
 tively. "It might be possible. I wonder. . . . 
 Anyway, thank you very much. I must just run 
 and see them before I go back to London. Aw- 
 fully good of you to let me take up your time. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 He was touched by her pluck, by the self- 
 control which saved her from futile lamenting 
 over the hardship that had come upon her. 
 
 "Good-bye," he said warmly. "You've taken 
 it well, very well. It's a nasty knock. You're 
 bearing it splendidly." 
 
 Aunt Sybilla did not share Vines's opinion. 
 She found fault with her niece for "rushing down 
 at once to see if I hadn't m-misinformed you." 
 The suggestion which Muriel threw out as to 
 going up to London every day she denounced as 
 selfish and unkind. 
 
 "Do you realise how little five hundred pounds 
 a year is in these days? Why, it's poverty. It 
 would be starvation for a family like this if it 
 weren't for my little income. We oughtn't to 
 stay in this house, of course, and we couldn't but 
 for my paying rates and taxes. Just as well my 
 brother bought it." 
 
 Muriel had often noticed that whenever Aunt 
 Sybilla praised the late Mr. Oversedge she called 
 him "my brother," while she spoke of him point- 
 edly as "your father" when she alluded to his 
 mistakes or faults. This had in the past amused
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 75 
 
 Muriel; so long as she only saw her aunt at 
 intervals, and for a day or two at a time, she 
 could regard her as an amusing spectacle. Now 
 she suddenly understood what it would mean to 
 live with her all through the weeks, all through 
 the months, all through the years. 
 
 "Have you thought what a season-ticket would 
 cost? Twenty pounds, I dare say. And then all 
 that you'd have to spend in London lunches and 
 the rest of it. It would be robbing your brothers 
 and sisters. You can't 1-look at it any other 
 way." 
 
 "Very well, I won't say any more about it," 
 said Muriel cheerfully, thinking that she was 
 lucky her proposal had been so instantly and de- 
 cisively turned down. 
 
 "You'll come home and help me with the chil- 
 dren and with the house; we can't keep three 
 servants now, or two even. It's been hard work 
 and thankless work for me all this time. Now 
 you'll do your share, as you ought to have done 
 from the first." 
 
 "I'm afraid not, Aunt Sybilla," Muriel replied. 
 
 "You needn't think you're going to live here 
 and do nothing. I don't suppose you'll be much 
 use at first, but you'll learn in time. You needn't 
 think " 
 
 "No, I don't think. I've no intention of shirk- 
 ing," Muriel said quietly. "I'm not coming to 
 live here at all." 
 
 Aunt Sybilla looked hard at her, as if she had 
 said she meant to live in the moon, or had an- 
 nounced that she purposed to give up breathing.
 
 76 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" she said. "Might I ask where 
 you are going to live, then?" 
 
 "I don't know. I haven't thought yet," Muriel 
 faltered. 
 
 Somehow Aunt Sybilla's hardness did not 
 to-day make her feel hard too. It usually petri- 
 fied her, turned her heart to granite, called forth 
 all the combativeness in her spirit. Now she 
 felt lonely and forlorn. She experienced a sensa- 
 tion to which she had been a stranger for years; 
 she wanted to cry, to put her head down and sob 
 away the burden on her heart. 
 
 If only Minis were in the corner of the Ches- 
 terfield before the drawing-room fire ; if only she 
 could take her troubles there ! Minis who under- 
 stood so well, Minis who coaxed your grievances 
 out of you, and made them seem so unimportant, 
 and quickly had you laughing, and chatting gaily, 
 and singing with her some absurd interminable 
 nonsense-song! 
 
 The memory for a moment filled Muriel with 
 an agony of regret and self-pity. She could 
 not stay the tears which suddenly clouded her 
 sight. 
 
 Aunt Sybilla did not see well enough at close 
 range to discover the disturbance of her niece's 
 emotion, but she could feel the tension of some 
 spiritual stress. She was even surprised out of 
 her usual indifference by Muriel's faltering tone, 
 so unlike her ordinary assured manner of speech. 
 In that hour the two women were nearer to an 
 understanding of each other, nearer to friendly
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 77 
 
 relations, than they ever had been before or ever 
 were after. 
 
 To those dependent upon her Aunt Sybilla 
 was kind and generous ; upon anyone who asked 
 for her sympathy and affection she was ready to 
 confer them. Had Muriel even pulled out her 
 handkerchief, the barrier between them would 
 have been down, the ice around their hearts would 
 have thawed. But Muriel held her head up and 
 let the tears run down her cold cheeks, and no 
 more followed. The chance had gone by; it did 
 not present itself again. 
 
 The effort to master her emotion made Muriel's 
 voice sound all the harder when she said casually: 
 
 "I must get something to do, some employ- 
 ment." 
 
 Secretly Aunt Sybilla was relieved that the 
 girl did not intend to join the family party, but 
 she could not resist employing her refusal as a 
 weapon against her. 
 
 "You wouldn't call looking after your broth- 
 ers and sisters employment, I suppose." 
 
 "I want to live in London. I can have my 
 share of the money we have left, can't I? If 
 we all share equally, there'll be fifty pounds 
 each." 
 
 "You can talk to Mr. Vines about that," said 
 Aunt Sybilla curtly. 
 
 Muriel wished she had talked to him about 
 it already. She might have induced him to de- 
 cide in her favour at once. Now Aunt Sybilla 
 might try to set him against any division of the 
 family income.
 
 78 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Suddenly she thought there was just time to 
 catch him before he left his office. She hastily 
 kissed the eight children, shook hands coldly with 
 her aunt, murmuring that she must catch a train, 
 and returned as fast as she could to the town. 
 
 iii 
 
 Through the heavy days which followed Muriel 
 learned many lessons. She used to run over some 
 of them daily as a tonic to her self-control. 
 
 "This has happened to loads of other people." 
 
 "Anyway I've had a good time up to now." 
 
 "Pitying yourself weakens your fibre, makes 
 you flabby." 
 
 "If other girls can keep themselves, I suppose 
 I can." 
 
 "No use expecting things to be done for you. 
 If you can't stand on your own feet, go into 
 hospital." 
 
 "I'm lucky to have had some decent schooling." 
 
 "After all " 
 
 It was this last prop to her courage which 
 served her best. "After all" represented her 
 reliance on her youth and strength and spirit. 
 It was instinctive; the others were the fruit of 
 reason, were "sicklied o'er with the pale cast 
 of thought." Still, they helped to stiffen her 
 resolve ; she used them deliberately for that pur- 
 pose; she attributed to them a good deal of the 
 confidence which she really drew from her vigor- 
 ous health and the strong flow of her life-current. 
 
 "I've got nothing but reason to rely on," she 
 told herself rather proudly than otherwise. "I
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 79 
 
 suppose the old-fashioned sort of woman would 
 say: 'This is sent me for my good.' That's the 
 sort of thing I remember in the books I read 
 when I was a kid. But I don't believe that would 
 make me bear it any better." 
 
 "Besides," said Anne, when Muriel talked to 
 her in this strain one evening, "it would take 
 all the stuffing out of the effort to get over bad 
 luck. The old-fashioned woman would call it 
 a brick dropped on her head on purpose. You 
 see, if God dropped that one brick, He might 
 have others, and what would be the good of 
 anyfink? why, nuffink." 
 
 "Yes," Muriel reflected aloud, with her eyes 
 on the fading sunset colours in a clear, tranquil 
 sky, "reason and religion can't be worked to- 
 gether. It must be one or the other. That's 
 where the Catholics score. Did you ever wish 
 you were one? or had some sort of belief?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I've had periods of wishing it. Not 
 that I think it makes people any happier really." 
 
 "I'm sure it doesn't. I've never had any incli- 
 nation that way. Not that I'm against it," she 
 added magnanimously. "Anyone who's been 
 brought up in it and had it dinged into them, so 
 that it's become a part of their life, naturally 
 keeps it up. I dare say they get some satisfac- 
 tion out of it. But our generation didn't seem to 
 take to it, however much dinging there was." 
 
 "No. Of course in the country. . . but even 
 there," Anne said, "it isn't what it used to be. 
 I'm not sure it isn't a pity, you know." 
 
 "You are a fearful old humbug," Muriel de-
 
 80 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 clared. "You're always pretending you wish we 
 were back in the Middle Ages." 
 
 "I believe we should be better off in some 
 ways." 
 
 "You don't believe anything of the kind. It's 
 just an idea that comes to you when you're sick 
 of exams. Oh, by the way, I find I can leave my 
 exams, as long as I like, so I shan't give up 
 hope of being 'called' some day. But in the 
 meantime I've got to find some way of earning 
 my daily bread." 
 
 The fifty pounds a year had been conceded 
 by Mr. Vines. Douglas was to have his share 
 also, but he could no longer club together with 
 his sister. He had found a job at once in the 
 north of England with a big engineering com- 
 pany, which had, by a chance lucky for him, 
 written to the head of his department just before 
 the bad news came from Aunt Sybilla asking if 
 there was any likely young man who could be 
 recommended for a free apprenticeship. So 
 brother and sister were to sell most of their furni- 
 ture, and Muriel was to keep one room only in 
 Mrs. Syrom's house. Already she was looking 
 about for that vague "something to do." 
 
 Two months later, in the middle of summer, 
 she was still unemployed. Yet, on the whole, 
 she had, so far, nothing much to complain of. 
 The sale of the furniture gave her a lump sum 
 on which she could live for a time. She had 
 occupied herself by continuing to read law, 
 though not with quite the same energy as before. 
 Her subscription to a lawn tennis club had for-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 81 
 
 tunately been paid in the early spring, when she 
 was elected. It was only when she looked ahead 
 that she had a slightly hollow feeling in the pit 
 of her stomach. 
 
 She had, it was true, a definite promise of work 
 as soon as a friend of the captain of her mess 
 should be "called." The captain did not mean to 
 practise herself, but her friend was one of the 
 most lively and promising of all the women law 
 students. She had said one day that she thought 
 a woman barrister ought to have a woman as 
 clerk. At once Muriel's captain made the sug- 
 gestion that a clerk would be all the better for 
 law training, even though it had been cut short, 
 and had asked that Muriel, if she fancied the job, 
 should have it when the time came. It was not 
 possible, however, that this time should come until 
 after Christmas. In the meantime there seemed 
 to be no occupation for which a slight acquaint- 
 ance with law might serve to qualify a young 
 woman anxious and able to work. 
 
 It was Anthony Hilford, the boy with the 
 merry eyes, who helped her at last to employ- 
 ment. He was announced one evening early in 
 July just as Muriel and Anne were beginning a 
 sketchy meal. Mrs. Syrom tapped. 
 
 "A gentleman, miss. He says it's important. 
 Shall I keep him downstairs till you've finished?" 
 
 "What sort of a gentleman, Mrs. Syrom?" 
 
 "The usual, miss. Youngish. Name of Hil- 
 ford." 
 
 "Tony!" cried the two girls together, and, hear- 
 ing their cry, the young man replied by running
 
 82 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 up the stairs from the hall, calling out: "May 
 I come in?" 
 
 "Yes, come in," Muriel said at the door. 
 "You're just in time for a sardine-tail. Mrs. 
 Syrom said 'a gentleman.' How deceptive ap- 
 pearances are I We little thought it was you." 
 
 "How do, Tony?" Anne greeted him, and with 
 a glance at Muriel wondered whether such visits 
 were frequent. 
 
 "Awfully sorry to butt in. No, thanks, I won't 
 have anything; really; well, just a greengage 
 or two, may I? I've been looking about for you 
 all day," he went on, to Muriel. "I've heard of 
 something that might suit you." 
 
 "A job? Tony, how splendid of you I What 
 is it?"' 
 
 "Well, I know the man who does the answers 
 to Legal Queries in that paper, Woman's Sphere. 
 At least he doesn't actually do them. He's re- 
 sponsible for them ; looks them over, sees they're 
 all right, you know." 
 
 Here Tony gave all his mind to peeling a 
 greengage. The two girls watched him for a 
 few moments, exchanged a glance of humorous 
 despair. Then Muriel said: "Please, Tony, go 
 on. I'm simply mad to hear." 
 
 "Oh yes, sorry. Well, the man who actually 
 did the answers has got a post in the West Indies, 
 chief justice or something. He's had to stop 
 suddenly, and Tanstead, the man whose name ap- 
 pears, you know, wants someone awfully badly 
 at once. So I suggested you. Could you go 
 and see him first thing to-morrow morning?"
 
 Muriel went to bed that night with certainty 
 in her mind that she would not be considered 
 capable of undertaking what seemed to her so 
 serious a task. But the next night she sank to 
 sleep with a thankful heart. Tanstead was 
 moved to engage her, not by sympathy, but be- 
 cause she would do the work cheaply. 
 
 "It's simple enough. Common-sense answers 
 most of 'em. I s'pose you can write so as to 
 make yourself clear. Very well, then. Twenty- 
 five shillings a week, and my clerk will start 
 sending the queries to you to-morrow. That's all 
 right. Good-bye." 
 
 So she more than doubled her income and felt 
 secure.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 UNTIL Muriel was twenty-one no man had seri- 
 ously made love to her. 
 
 She had had schoolgirl fancies. Once she was 
 consumed by devotion to a man her father knew 
 slightly, a man almost her father's age, because 
 he had a clear-cut profile and greyish hair with 
 a wave in it, and talked to her as one human being 
 to another; did not treat her jocosely and idiot- 
 ically as a little girl. She had en j oyed flirtations ; 
 she had gone through the usual harmless adven- 
 tures, secret meetings, stolen kisses (though she 
 could not see what there was in kissing to enjoy) . 
 But she thought of love neither as an agreeable 
 pastime nor as the supreme gift of human exist- 
 ence. If she had been compelled to define her 
 attitude towards it, she would have said that "peo- 
 ple made too much fuss about it and as a rule it 
 was rather silly." 
 
 Now within a few weeks she had two experi- 
 ences which had the effect of strengthening those 
 opinions of hers. 
 
 Every Tuesday afternoon she took to Tan- 
 stead's chambers her answers to the legal puzzles 
 propounded by the readers of Woman's Sphere. 
 She seldom found them difficult. 
 
 Purely legal points she submitted to Tanstead; 
 
 84
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 85 
 
 these were rare. Most of the puzzled querists 
 needed no more than simple, common-sense ad- 
 vice, as Tanstead had told her. At first he looked 
 hurriedly over what she had written, seemed to 
 be ill-at-ease, as if he were a little bit afraid of 
 her, got rid of her awkwardly with a "Yes, yes, 
 yes, that's all right. I'll just touch them up a 
 bit." But Muriel noticed that he scarcely ever 
 altered at all. 
 
 He was a tall man with a bulky figure for his 
 thirty- two years. His hair was like a wig; both 
 the colour, a glossy chestnut, and the luxuriant 
 curling growth of it over his ears and on his neck 
 made most people think, when they saw him for 
 the first time, that it was a wig. But the wearers 
 of wigs can always be detected by their lack of 
 eyebrows, whereas Tanstead's eyebrows were 
 bushy and thrust themselves out so aggressively 
 that when he frowned they almost concealed his 
 eyes. 
 
 His voice had a persuasive roll in it which 
 was valuable with juries, especially juries on 
 which women served. He had the priceless 
 knack of being able to lay a case before them as 
 if he had no interest in their verdict. He did 
 not so much plead or argue as sum up in his 
 client's favour. He was always urbane to wit- 
 nesses, a little overdid his politeness perhaps, 
 but left again on the jury's mind the impression 
 that his only desire was to draw out all the facts 
 without causing discomfort and leave them to 
 speak for themselves in support of his client's 
 case. His ambition was to sit on the Bench
 
 86 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 before he was fifty; there seemed to be no doubt 
 that it would be gratified. 
 
 As he grew easier in manner with Muriel he 
 would discuss some of the problems put forward; 
 he would joke about the perplexities of a land- 
 lady who could not get rid of lodgers or a wife 
 who felt sure her husband was being cheated by 
 book-makers. One day he gave special atten- 
 tion to some matter in which Muriel had seen no 
 complexity at all. He laboured the legal aspect 
 of it. At last he said : 
 
 "Look here, I should like to discuss this. 
 Haven't time now. Won't you dine with me? 
 No frocks or frills. Just as you are. I won't 
 change either. Go and read for a bit in the 
 library. I'll call in there for you, eh ?" 
 
 Muriel was surprised, but not perturbed. She 
 decided at once to accept the invitation, unex- 
 pected though it was. She didn't want to offend 
 him by refusing, and she felt that it would be 
 "rather fun," a change, at any rate, from "sar- 
 dine-tails" or Mrs. Syrom's wholesome but unin- 
 teresting Irish stew. 
 
 They dined at an unpretentious restaurant, 
 and they dined solidly. 
 
 "I like real food, don't you?" he said. "Those 
 places where they give you a bad imitation of a 
 five-course dinner are no use to me. They gen- 
 erally keep a band to play so loudly that most 
 people don't notice they aren't really getting 
 anything to eat, like a conjurer keeping up a
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 87 
 
 continual chatter to prevent the spectators from 
 seeing how he humbugs them." 
 
 "I like almost any place," Muriel said. "I'm 
 pretty new to it all, you see." 
 
 "Good thing to begin young. You get through 
 it all the sooner." 
 
 Muriel looked at him doubtfully. 
 
 "Begin your experience of restaurants and 
 theatres and all that sort of thing," he explained. 
 "You find out there isn't much in that kind of 
 life and you're glad to settle down." 
 
 "I hope I shan't ever want to do that," Muriel 
 said. "It sounds so stuffy." 
 
 "But don't you think that home is the only 
 thing that's really satisfying?" 
 
 "I've never tried it," Muriel replied, smiling. 
 "Have you?" 
 
 "I've never had a home of my own. But I've 
 always had one in my thoughts. I don't believe 
 it's possible to do any real good work without 
 one." 
 
 "Do you live in your chambers?" 
 
 "No; I've got a tiny flat, two rooms and a 
 bath, and I dine at my club generally, and read 
 there or play billiards until I go back to work. 
 That's no way to live." 
 
 "I wonder men don't live together more." 
 
 "You wouldn't if you knew more about men." 
 
 Muriel laughed. 
 
 "My brother and I lived together for a year 
 and a half. I know more than you think." 
 
 "A man behaves differently to a woman." 
 
 "Even if she's his sister?"
 
 88 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Yes, even to his sister, I fancy. They're 
 perfectly awful when they live with other men." 
 
 "Women are much the same as men. How 
 is it they manage to live together all right? 
 Most of them prefer it to living alone." 
 
 "They aren't so selfish or so fussy as men I 
 suppose; they don't get on each other's nerves 
 the way men do. A man is hardly ever interested 
 in anything but his own concerns. He doesn't 
 want to hear about anyone else's." 
 
 "You have a higher opinion of women than 
 most men," said Muriel dryly. 
 
 "I have a very high opinion of them." 
 
 "Have you known many?" 
 
 "I think you're laughing at me, aren't you?" 
 
 There was an almost pathetic protest in his 
 tone. 
 
 "Oh no," returned Muriel demurely; "what 
 makes you think that? But, by the way," she 
 went on, "you wanted to talk about that case, 
 didn't you?" 
 
 "I didn't really. I made that an excuse. You 
 don't mind, do you?" 
 
 "Why did you think an excuse was necessary? 
 You wouldn't have made up any excuse if you 
 wanted a man to dine with you." 
 
 "No, only " 
 
 "Only you have old-fashioned ideas about 
 women." 
 
 This would have sounded severe if Muriel's 
 eyes had not smiled. 
 
 "Ah, you don't mind." 
 
 There was an immense relief in his voice.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 89 
 
 "I wanted to talk to you about what we've 
 been talking about. I'm fearfully keen on hav- 
 ing a home." 
 
 Muriel saw suddenly what was coming. The 
 instinct of the woman to flee when man pursueth 
 made her murmur : 
 
 "But what has that to do with me?" 
 
 Directly she had said this she regretted it. 
 It sounded to her like the regular question to 
 be asked at such a moment. 
 
 "It may have a great deal to do with you. I 
 want it to have." 
 
 They were almost the last in the restaurant. 
 He leaned over the table and spoke low. 
 
 "I want you to come and look after my home." 
 
 She managed the appearance of surprise which 
 she felt the occasion called for. 
 
 "I know it must surprise you, even startle 
 you." 
 
 ("No, I'm not so easily startled as you think," 
 Muriel commented inwardly.) 
 
 "I don't ask you for an answer now. Think 
 it over. Please don't say it's impossible until 
 you've given it time." 
 
 "It's very kind of you," said Muriel lamely, 
 and then hated herself again for the inadequacy 
 of her expression. "But I don't think I'm the 
 marrying sort. You see, you hardly know any- 
 thing at all about me." 
 
 "The more I do know, the more I shall admire 
 and respect you and may, I say it? love you. 
 I'm quite sure of that." 
 
 "We must go or they'll send for the police.
 
 90 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 I'm sure that poor waiter will yawn himself into 
 lockjaw if we stay any longer." 
 
 "I'll give him a good tip. I should like to 
 tip the whole staff. This has been the happiest 
 evening of my life." 
 
 "But really, you know " 
 
 "Don't say anything now. Please don't. 
 Thank you anyway for letting me talk to you 
 about it." 
 
 Muriel went home puzzled. He had pleaded 
 with her earnestly, as if she were a person of 
 some importance and he were of no account, as 
 if she would be conferring a benefit on him by 
 listening to his offer of marriage. She felt a 
 new sense of power, and with it a new feeling 
 of condescension towards Tanstead. Hitherto 
 she had thought of him as a superior being. She 
 had been slightly in awe of him. Now the con- 
 templation of him amused her. 
 
 iii 
 
 Her other suitor was Tony Hilford. They 
 had been together to a small picture gallery. 
 He had made fun of the latest fad among the 
 painters, who seek ever some new thing, and 
 Muriel had fallen into his humour, after putting 
 forth her little protest against his dismissal of 
 the whole movement as "rot." 
 
 "No, it isn't all rot, Tony," she told him, as 
 they sat down, weary with laughter. "I was 
 reading an article the other day by a man who 
 said these people, Futurists and Cubists and the
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 91 
 
 rest, are doing the same sort of useful work as 
 the microbes that eat up harmful substances and 
 prevent them from doing harm, or the men you 
 see breaking up old houses which have to be de- 
 stroyed before new ones can be built. They are 
 demolishing all the formalism and the humbug of 
 Art and trying to start afresh." 
 
 "Good idea," Tony agreed. "Awfully good 
 name for a new group, the Microbes." 
 
 "Something in it, you know," she persisted. 
 
 "Rather!" said Tony. Then: "I say, what a 
 lot you read!" 
 
 "Not half as much as I should like to." 
 
 "You're devastatingly clever, you know." 
 
 "My dear Tony, what rot I" 
 
 But she was pleased that he should think so. 
 
 "Do you think you'd care ... I mean, would 
 you think it fearful cheek if I asked you to be 
 engaged to me?" he said shyly. They were walk- 
 ing now along Piccadilly by the side of the Green 
 Park railings, shrouded in the gloom of evening, 
 his arm through hers. 
 
 "I should think it much more sensible of you 
 not to," she replied. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "I think engagements are futile unless people 
 have a reasonably near prospect of getting mar- 
 ried. Your prospects aren't very bright, are 
 they?" 
 
 "Not at the moment, but you never know 
 what's going to turn up. They'd be a lot 
 brighter if I were engaged to you." 
 
 "How do you make that out?"
 
 92 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "It'd give me something to work for. 'About 
 this time,' you'll be able (perhaps!) to read in my 
 biography, 'our hero found an incentive to greater 
 industry than he had yet displayed. He became 
 engaged to the clever and charming Miss Muriel 
 Oversedge, and from this hour it may be said that 
 his character was changed.' ' 
 
 "In that case, Tony, I most certainly shan't 
 say anything but a decided 'No.* I should hate 
 any change in you. I like you as you are." 
 
 "Well, we'll cut out the change of character. 
 But it would make me work harder, you know." 
 
 "I don't think you ought to work hard. Your 
 brain won't stand it. I don't want you to get 
 bubbles in your think-tank and have the blame 
 laid on me." 
 
 "I say, I'm really serious, you know. And 
 look here, I'll tell you a secret. My father went 
 to see an old sister of his the other day. She's 
 got heaps of money. Husband left it to her. 
 She told my father she meant to leave most of it 
 to me." 
 
 "Ever seen you, Tony?" 
 
 "Not since I was a small boy." 
 
 "Thought not," chuckled Muriel. 
 
 "It's that that's given me the nerve to ask 
 you. Of course I couldn't have said anything 
 if I were always going to be as poor as we are 
 now." 
 
 "So all that about your working harder was 
 eye-wash," Muriel challenged him. 
 
 "No, it wasn't; not altogether. The old lady 
 may live ever so long. I shan't chuck work,
 
 93 
 
 you know. I shall go on even when I've got the 
 money." 
 
 "Well, it's perfect of you, Tony, to offer to 
 share it with me. You're a dear." 
 
 "I hate to think of you having to grub about 
 for a living." 
 
 "You haven't been pitying me, have you?" 
 Muriel asked, stopping suddenly and withdraw- 
 ing her arm from his. "Why shouldn't I grub 
 about for a living? Do you think I'm less cap- 
 able of keeping myself than a man?" 
 
 "No, of course I don't. I know you're tre- 
 mendously clever. I told you so just now. But 
 I don't like to think of you being obliged to do 
 it, and to keep on at it " 
 
 "You're a sentimental ass, Tony. You mean 
 well, I know, but don't you see that you're say- 
 ing to me, in effect, 'You're an inferior creature, 
 not fit to take your own part in the world.' 
 Being sorry for me is really looking down on me." 
 
 "I apologise," said Tony. "I'm an ass, I 
 know. I suppose I don't put things the right 
 way, the way I really mean them. Sorry I've 
 annoyed you, old thing." 
 
 He deftly slipped his arm through hers again. 
 She walked on contentedly. Tony chattered as 
 usual. At parting, however, he said to her, 
 "Don't forget," and looked hard into her eyes. 
 
 "Think I'd better," she returned lightly; 
 "safer to keep on as we are."
 
 94 THE ERUIT OE THE TREE 
 
 iv 
 
 "So this," reflected Muriel, "is what goes by 
 the name of love." 
 
 "Here are two men 'in love* with me, one 
 because he wants a home and thinks I could 
 make one for him and be a piece of furniture 
 he'd like to look at; the other, because he feels 
 sorry for me. If I'd happened to be married, 
 or if I'd been stupid over doing the answers to 
 correspondents, or if I'd had a cast in my eye, 
 fTanstead wouldn't have looked twice at me. Sup- 
 posing I'd had money enough to live on com- 
 fortably, it would never have occurred to Tony 
 that I was an object for sympathy. He'd have 
 been quite satisfied with our friendship. Neither 
 of them would have 'fallen in love' with me. 
 
 "For it's quite clear," she argued, "that the 
 'falling in love' was a secondary experience, aris- 
 ing in the one case out of pity, in the other out 
 of the desire for a home." 
 
 She told Anne about it, discussed it with her, 
 analysing love as if she had it in a test-tube and 
 had applied reagents to decompose it into its 
 elements. 
 
 "It is a feeling which seldom springs up in 
 the usual young man unless it is started by some 
 other feeling, and the usual young man doesn't 
 let it take possession of him unless the circum- 
 stances are favourable. It is comfortably under 
 his control. He knows that if it were to get out 
 of control the consequences would be beyond his
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 95 
 
 power to foresee ; they would almost certainly be 
 unpleasant; they might be disgraceful." 
 
 "Then isn't it better to avoid them?" Anne sug- 
 gested. 
 
 "Better, yes, if you want a quiet life," admitted 
 Muriel. "But then, why drag in the 'in love' 
 business?" 
 
 "It's there all right, in nine cases out of ten. 
 I'm sure most men are in love when they marry. 
 It may not last long, but it's genuine enough 
 while it does last." 
 
 "Yes, I don't deny that. But look here in 
 France and Ireland and other countries where 
 marriages are arranged by the parents on a busi- 
 ness basis there is in-loveness in most of those 
 cases too." 
 
 "Wouldn't you say that any two healthy peo- 
 ple are likely to take to one another if circum- 
 stances are favourable, as you put it?" 
 
 "Exactly. That's just what I complain of. 
 The usual man picks out a woman to propose to, 
 not because he feels that she is the ideal mate 
 for him, the mate he simply can't do without, 
 but for some totally different reason, and then 
 he persuades himself and tries to persuade her 
 (and generally succeeds) that she is the only 
 woman in the world for him, and the whole thing 
 gets put on to a wrong plane, on to a false 
 foundation." 
 
 "I don't really see that it matters much," 
 Anne objected. "If a man can persuade himself 
 that he's in love, he is." 
 
 "But, don't you see, it's the 'persuading him-
 
 06 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 self that's wrong. Either of these men, Tanstead 
 and Tony, could fall in love with any girl. That's 
 all right. That's natural. Why not let it be 
 assumed?" 
 
 "Well, supposing it were, what then? I can't 
 see what you're driving at." 
 
 "It's all reduced to such a wretchedly small 
 scale," Muriel answered slowly. "If what is 
 called 'love' depends on such things as a man 
 being sorry for you or thinking you'd make a 
 suitable ornament . . . My idea is that love 
 means being struck all of a heap and disregard- 
 ing all the conveniences; burning up all the ob- 
 stacles ; feeling certain that there is only one mate 
 for you. That ought to come first. That's the 
 only thing that matters." 
 
 "I don't think so," Anne said, shaking her 
 head. "I know you've got the poets on your side. 
 'Whoever loved that loved not at first sight?' 
 and so on. But the poets have most of them made 
 a mess of their love-affairs. I don't think I 
 should call them as witness, if I were you. 
 They'd come out badly under cross-examination." 
 
 "Why are the poets always being quoted 
 then?" demanded Muriel. "It must be because 
 people feel they were right." 
 
 "No, it's because people want to feel they were 
 right. Most people prefer ideals to realities." 
 
 "You can't accuse me of that," protested 
 Muriel. 
 
 "You have unsuspected idealist streaks in your 
 realism," laughed Anne.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 till the day came for Muriel to take her 
 "answers" to Tanstead did she weigh up the dif- 
 ficulty they would have in reverting to their busi- 
 ness relation. The more she thought about it, 
 the more vividly she foresaw the awkwardness 
 they both would feel. His proposal she had 
 thought very little more about. She would have 
 liked to behave as if it had not been made. But 
 that, she saw, would puzzle him, and might even 
 seem unkind. 
 
 "Bother the man," she said to Anne. "What 
 a silly mess up he's made of it ! The idea of pro- 
 posing to a girl who's never shown the slightest 
 interest in him!" 
 
 "I can't see," Anne reflected, "when people 
 really care for one another, that any proposal is 
 necessary. Each must know the other cares all 
 right. They just would fall into each other's 
 arms." 
 
 "My idea exactly," Muriel told her, "what I 
 was trying to explain to you the other day, only 
 you didn't seem to see what I meant then. When 
 the attraction is real and . . . and overwhelm- 
 ing, the whole thing is as simple and irresistible 
 as any other process of nature. But that happens 
 jolly seldom I'm sure." 
 
 "We're so damnably over-civilised. Our lives 
 
 97
 
 98 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 get more and more complicated and unnatural 
 ( if there's any such thing as Nature ) . Simplicity 
 gets further and further away." 
 
 "I'm not going to pick up your challenge to 
 discuss what we mean by Nature, because it 
 would take too long, and I must go." 
 
 (They had lunched together and were talking 
 over coffee and cigarettes.) 
 
 "But I do disagree with you," Muriel con- 
 tinued, "about life not getting more simple and 
 sensible. Look at divorce, for instance. It used 
 to be thought frightful, a disgrace, a sin. Now 
 it's quite common. The people who think that 
 a man and woman who've made a mistake should 
 go on spoiling each other's lives to the end of the 
 chapter are very few now. Soon there won't be 
 any. Oh, we get more sensible in lots of ways." 
 
 "Very well, be sensible enough to go and do 
 your business with Tanstead as if nothing had 
 happened." 
 
 "But he'll probably ask me for my answer." 
 
 "Give it to him, then," 
 
 "That would be equivalent to chucking up my 
 job. I don't want to do that yet." 
 
 "Can't you tell him he must wait a bit till 
 you've made up your mind?" 
 
 "Then he'd expect me to meet him pretty often, 
 perhaps want to introduce me to his family, if 
 he's got one. I can't have him taking me about 
 to restaurants and theatres, and paying all the 
 time. I'm sure he's the sort who wouldn't let me 
 pay for myself and then tell him 'nothing 
 doing.' "
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 99 
 
 "Can't you?" said Anne. 
 
 No one had ever taken her out on these terms, 
 or indeed on any other; she knew she would joy- 
 fully avail herself of any invitation without think- 
 ing further than the chance of getting patches of 
 colour into her grey life. 
 
 "It wouldn't be cricket, would it?" 
 
 "Oh, don't use that feeble, public school-boy 
 expression," Anne cried out, a sudden wave of 
 annoyance submerging her. 
 
 She was annoyed because Muriel's life seemed 
 so much less grey than her own. Already 
 Muriel had enjoyed an independent existence 
 with comparative wealth for a year and a half, 
 then she had by a shake of Fortune's dice been 
 reduced to poverty, she had been obliged to wres- 
 tle with the world for a living; two men had 
 proposed to her ; she could, if she chose, be taken 
 out as often as she pleased. 
 
 Anne longed for independence; she would 
 have welcomed even poverty as a change, an ex- 
 citement; to win admiration, affection, was her 
 most tormenting wish. Her life had been un- 
 eventful, she felt; it had lacked colour and vari- 
 ety. She had, as she once told Muriel, been 
 passing examinations ever since she could remem- 
 ber. There had never been any doubt of her 
 passing them ; her heart had never been made to 
 beat faster by the thought that she might fail. 
 Her mind was so neatly compartmented that she 
 could always produce from it just what the exam, 
 papers required. Long practice had made her 
 sure of herself.
 
 100 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 She could see the future stretching out before 
 her just as level and arid as the past had been. 
 She would do well in her final, she would be 
 called to the Bar, not among the first batch of 
 women (that would have made her interesting) , 
 but among the second. Then she would steadily 
 build up a commonplace practice, winning fa- 
 vour with judges by her moderation, her care- 
 ful study of detail ; giving satisfaction to clients, 
 increasing her income year by year. When she 
 was too dried-up, and had become too mechanical 
 in her way of life, to enjoy independence, she 
 would be independent. Not until she had lost 
 the spring of fancies would she be in a position 
 to indulge them. She was missing all that she 
 really wanted now as she had always missed it, 
 and always would. Why should Fortune be so 
 much kinder to Muriel than to her? 
 
 So Anne's quick thought ran, provoking her 
 to ill-tempered speech. 
 
 "Oh, don't use that feeble public school-boy 
 expression," she snapped. 
 
 Muriel looked at her quickly, slightly raised 
 her brows, said "Sorry," got up to go. 
 
 "No, no," said Anne, swiftly repentant. "I'm 
 sorry for my rotten bad temper. My nerves are 
 a bit edgy, I think." 
 
 "You're working too hard, old thing," Muriel 
 suggested kindly, as she fastened a fur round 
 her shoulders. "Lucky for you that you've got 
 something to work for." 
 
 "Oh, lucky!" Anne said with a petulant shrug.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 101 
 
 11 
 
 After all Muriel took the easiest course with 
 Tanstead; she temporised. 
 
 "Really," she told him, "I hadn't thought 
 about marrying. I suppose there's an age at 
 which one realises how grown-up one is. I 
 haven't come to it yet. What you said the other 
 night was such a surprise." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know," he assented, "I want you 
 to get used to the idea. Let's get to know one 
 another better. There's no hurry." 
 
 "You're ambitious, aren't you?" she asked him. 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I am. But how did you 
 guess?" 
 
 "Most people who work hard have some sort 
 of ambition, haven't they? You ought to marry 
 a woman who would help you along." 
 
 He laughed. 
 
 "Some 'rich attorney's elderly, ugly daughter/ 
 I suppose. No, thanks." 
 
 "Money would help you, you know. The right 
 kind of influence, if your wife's people had it, 
 might be still more useful." 
 
 "I shouldn't care to be indebted to my wife 
 for that kind of help," Tanstead said, frowning 
 so that his thick eyebrows almost hid his eyes. 
 "Besides, money and influence might turn up 
 their noses at me. Of course," he went on, hur- 
 rying his words out, "you might do that, too. 
 You'd be perfectly justified." He saw that he 
 had spoken rather tactlessly. 
 
 "You mean," said Muriel mischievously, "that
 
 102 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 I might be ambitious myself, and be looking out 
 for a rich husband with a big position already 
 made." 
 
 "Yes, quite; why shouldn't you?" 
 
 "Why not, indeed?" she echoed, enjoying his 
 embarrassment. He caught the gleam in her 
 eyes, and said in a tone of relief: "You're laugh- 
 ing at me. 
 
 "Well," he went on, "I gave you an opening. 
 And I rather like being laughed at ... by you." 
 
 That seemed to Muriel to be of good omen for 
 their friendship at any rate; it inclined her a 
 little more towards thinking of him as a possible 
 husband. She had heard Mims say once that 
 more marriages had been spoiled by a difference 
 in the sense of humour than by any other cause. 
 The saying had stuck in her mind. She had 
 analysed it in her sceptical, inquisitive way and 
 watched to see if it were confirmed by what 
 she could observe and hear of the behaviour 
 of married people. She found ample corrobora- 
 tion of it, and adopted it into her philosophy of 
 life. 
 
 Finding that he could be chaffed made her 
 feel more at ease and grow into liking for him. 
 She was flattered by his acceptance of her opinion 
 as the equal in value of his own. Already he 
 was a man of some little distinction, he might be 
 on the way to greatness; to be treated by him 
 as a comrade intellectually gave her a higher 
 judgment of her own ability. She enjoyed the 
 flavour of his talk, the quickness of his mind, 
 his terse statement of matters in discussion be-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 103 
 
 tween them. She felt her own thought widen 
 its grasp and grow more flexible. 
 
 Materially, as well as mentally, she drew ad- 
 vantage from her new companion. He went to 
 the office of Woman's Sphere and asked the 
 editor to put other work in Muriel's way. He 
 explained that she "assisted" him with the legal 
 queries, spoke highly of her competence, and was 
 careful not to say that she needed work. If he 
 had made that mistake, she would not have got 
 any. By representing her as a kind of talented 
 amateur, he left on the editor's mind the impres- 
 sion that Muriel would add social lustre to the 
 staff and really be doing the paper a service by 
 consenting to connect herself with it. 
 
 Soon Muriel was occupied at the office two 
 days and a half every week. The editor had 
 begun by giving her general queries to answer. 
 "Is there any cure for creaky boots?" "How 
 should the married daughter of an earl be ad- 
 dressed?" "Does reading aloud help to remove 
 a London (E) accent?" These she was able 
 to polish off rapidly, with the aid of a large scrap- 
 book kept in the office. This contained replies to 
 the queries just quoted and to a large number of 
 others in the vein mostly of pathetic social striv- 
 ing upward against inherited obstacles. 
 
 "You'll rarely get a question the scrap-book 
 doesn't answer," said the assistant-editor, who 
 wore horn-rimmed spectacles, and through her 
 habit of putting down and forgetting lighted 
 cigarettes had the effect of a prairie fire upon her 
 surroundings. "You know they can calculate
 
 104 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 how many idiots will get run over in the streets 
 in each year, almost in each week. It's just the 
 same with the people who ask questions in a 
 paper. There are so many who are impelled to 
 ask this, and so many that and so many the 
 other. The numbers are, I have no doubt, con- 
 stant. Never counted 'em up, don't mean to, 
 but if I did, I'm sure I should find the same ques- 
 tions asked the same number of times every year. 
 There's a kind of regularity about human silli- 
 ness, isn't there, which gives it almost the dignity 
 of the solar system ... or a try-your-weight 
 machine." 
 
 The assistant-editor found Muriel an appre- 
 ciative audience and made other jobs for her. 
 She learned something about sub-editing, wrote 
 odds and ends, earned sometimes as much as an 
 extra thirty shillings a week. 
 
 Now she insisted that, when she and Tanstead 
 dined together or took a walk on fine Sundays 
 or went to the play, she should pay for herself. 
 This had a double advantage. It saved her from 
 putting herself under an obligation to him, and 
 it gave her an excuse for limiting the frequency 
 of their meetings. She could at any time say, if 
 she pleased: "Can't afford it this week." When 
 she did say this, Tanstead's eyebrows always came 
 down over his eyes : he would growl out a protest. 
 But Muriel was quietly insistent, and he had the 
 sense not to argue about it.
 
 iii 
 
 So the winter passed. Spring filled the Tem- 
 ple Courts with sunshine and, wherever there 
 were trees, with the delight of uncurling fresh 
 green leaves. Now approached the "Call Night," 
 ever to be memorable in history, which saw the 
 first British woman admitted to that powerful 
 trade union called the Bar. And one morning, 
 when Mrs. Syrom had put a letter on the table 
 along with Muriel's coffee and egg and toast, 
 she was startled, as she was "seeing to the fire," 
 by an exclamation. She turned round sharply, 
 saw Muriel with the opened letter in her hand, 
 caught her eye. 
 
 "It's all right, Mrs. Syrom," Muriel assured 
 her, laughing at her expression of surprise and 
 shock. "I only said 'Oh, help!' What do you 
 think? I've got to go and be a barrister's clerk." 
 
 "Oh, no, miss, you can't be right there," the 
 landlady told her. "All men, they are, barristers' 
 clerks. I know a lot about them, miss, I 'ad an 
 uncle was one." 
 
 "Really? Do tell me about him. What does 
 a barrister's clerk have to do?" 
 
 "That I can't tell you, miss, but I know they 
 make a mint o' money, some of them. This 
 uncle, he had a friend who was clerk to a gentle- 
 man that was made a judge, and when the judge 
 said to 'im, 'I hope as you'll not leave me,' he 
 said to the judge, 'Well m'lud, a judge's clerk, 
 as I understand, draws a salary of four hundred 
 pounds a year. I can't afford, m'lud,' he says, 
 'to do it for that.' So the judge paid him another;
 
 106 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 two hundred pounds out of his own pocket." 
 
 "Six hundred a year!" said Muriel. "Golly!" 
 
 "Yes, miss, and some more than that. There 
 was one my uncle told me of, said to be worth 
 thousands, he was. They did say he owned a big 
 set of chambers that's what they call their of- 
 fices." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know." 
 
 "Of course you do, miss, you studying the law 
 and all. Well, these chambers, they said, this 
 clerk paid the rent of, and kept a lot of legal 
 gentlemen in them to do the work he got for 
 them. They said he'd find out the likely young 
 gentlemen and say to them, 'I've got chambers 
 that would just suit you, sir,' and the young gen- 
 tleman would most likely say, 'Can't afford 'em,' 
 and then this clerk would say, 'That's quite all 
 right, sir. No rent to pay. Plenty of work and 
 divide the profits between us.' Thousands they 
 said he was worth, my uncle told me." 
 
 "It was very unprofessional," said Muriel 
 severely. 
 
 "I don't know nothing about that, miss. Uncle 
 said there was some clerks knew more of the law 
 than the gentlemen they were employed by. 
 Knew a lot himself, uncle did. Said if they'd 
 made it easy for clerks to get made barristers, 
 instead of makin' it next door to impossible, what 
 with the learning required and the money to be 
 put down, he'd have been wearing a wig and 
 earnin' big money along with the best of 'em." 
 
 "It does seem rather hard," Muriel agreed. 
 
 "Runs in families this kind o' clerkin' does,"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 107 
 
 Mrs. Syrom went on, dusting the mantelpiece 
 again to absolve herself from the reproach of 
 "idling." "Uncle's father and grandfather had 
 heen in chambers, as he called it, and his son took 
 to it after he'd tried the army and had a year or 
 two at sea. Couldn't resist the family call, uncle 
 said." 
 
 "Well, there are going to be women barristers 
 very soon now, and I'm going to be a barrister's 
 clerk," Muriel announced, as she pushed back 
 her chair, breakfast over. 
 
 "Well, well, well, what shall we come to next, 
 I wonder," Mrs. Syrom said. "I'm sure I wish 
 you lucky, miss, but what them other clerks'll 
 have to say about you that I should like to 
 know." 
 
 "Not very encouraging," thought Muriel, "but 
 I suppose I can stick it out. After all . . ." 
 
 She was dining that night with Tanstead and 
 told him the news. His eyebrows came down. 
 He protested vehemently. It was impossible 
 that she should descend to such an occupation. 
 
 "Descend ?" repeated Muriel calmly. "Do you 
 realise, my dear man, that I've got to earn my 
 living?" 
 
 "No, you haven't," he jerked at her, and then 
 instantly apologised. "I mean you needn't un- 
 less you like," he ended weakly. 
 
 "Now, don't think me brutal or unsympathetic 
 if I suggest to you that I should be earning my 
 living even if I married you." 
 
 "No, no, an equal partnership, that's my idea." 
 
 "Very well, let's call it that. Both partners
 
 108 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 would be expected to do their share in keeping 
 the business, that is the household, going. You'd 
 be earning your living, wouldn't you? Then 
 so should I. However, that isn't the main point. 
 The main point is that I want more money and 
 therefore more work, and I've got time to do 
 more and here's a perfectly good offer. Now, 
 tell me, what does your clerk do?" 
 
 "Do ? He keeps my fee-book and the fee-books 
 of the two other fellows I'm in chambers with," 
 Tanstead replied shortly. 
 
 "Is that all? I think I could do that," Muriel 
 said demurely. 
 
 "He arranges with solicitors what fees they 
 shall pay me. He takes in and looks after the 
 documents they send me. He keeps a diary for 
 me and tells me what I've got to do every day. 
 He tries to buck me up by telling me he doesn't 
 think I've got a ghost of a chance to win. That's 
 a tradition with clerks in chambers. They think 
 it'll make a man do his best to be told he hasn't 
 got a good case. Queer notion. Wonder where 
 it came from?" 
 
 Tanstead had recovered his good humour. 
 He was smiling now and chatting in his usual 
 tone. 
 
 "Oh, yes, and he makes tea for us every af- 
 ternoon. That's an important part of his duties. 
 Jolly good tea he makes too." 
 
 "I wouldn't mind backing myself against him 
 as a tea-maker," Muriel said. 
 
 Down came the eyebrows again. 
 
 "Now don't please be absurd and peevish,"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 109 
 
 Muriel adjured him. "What is there in the job, 
 as you've explained it, that makes it unfit, or 
 even unpleasant, for a woman? Your objection 
 really is that it hasn't ever been done by a woman. 
 But until now there haven't been women bar- 
 risters. That changes the whole aspect. Now, 
 there are going to be women clerks too, or at 
 any rate there's going to be one. So please be 
 sensible and don't fuss."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE newspapers got hold of "First Woman Bar- 
 rister's Clerk." Muriel's photograph went the 
 round of them. 
 
 "There, you see!" said Anne. "Whatever you 
 do brings you some excitement, turns into an 
 adventure. With you something is always hap- 
 pening. Nothing ever happens with me. Noth- 
 ing ever will." 
 
 "What rot!" was Muriel's comment, but she 
 admitted to herself that it was true. 
 
 "It's because you're vital," Anne went on. 
 "There's such a lot of life in you. When you 
 want anything, you get it. You haven't had 
 the energy sucked out of you by exams." 
 
 "It's good-bye to my exam, now, I suppose. 
 I've had little enough time to read lately. I 
 can't see that I shall have any when I start this 
 new job." 
 
 "You'll have your evenings." 
 
 "Oh, yes, and my early mornings, too. I sup- 
 pose you see me getting up at five and starting 
 work wrapped in my dressing gown by the light 
 of a candle." 
 
 "No, I can not see you doing anything of 
 the kind," Anne retorted. "I might do it be- 
 
 IIO
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE lit 
 
 cause industry is my long suit. Everything you 
 do will be done easily. That's the way with vital 
 people." 
 
 Up to now, Muriel had certainly not had to 
 struggle hard for a living. She did not think she 
 would have won the grudging respect of Aunt 
 Sybilla if Aunt Sybilla had known how easy it 
 had all been. 
 
 Neither her aunt nor the lawyer had expected 
 her to earn an independent livelihood. They 
 both thought she would go back to live with her 
 brothers and sisters, defeated in the effort to sup- 
 port herself. They neither of them took account 
 of the new and stubborn spirit which had re- 
 placed in young women the old helplessness and 
 irresolution. Aunt Sybilla was aware that High 
 Schools had made a difference, but she did not 
 know until she watched Muriel making good 
 how entirely the High School girl was unlike 
 the "young lady" of the fashionable "finishing" 
 school of the Victorian Age. She did not like her 
 niece any better after this discovery, but she could 
 not help admiring her, was even a little proud 
 of her. 
 
 "My brother had unsuspected reserves of f -for- 
 titude," she told Mr. Vines, "and I am not sur- 
 prised at his daughter taking after him." 
 
 It was a foolish lie, for the lawyer knew per- 
 fectly well that Mr. Oversedge had only once 
 in his life been called upon for any show of for- 
 titude, and had then proved himself completely 
 lacking in that quality. 
 
 "Of course," he told his wife, "it's from her
 
 112 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 mother that the girl gets her character. Remark- 
 able woman, Mrs. Oversedge, quite remarkable. 
 The girl takes after her in many ways. Not in 
 all, perhaps, but in many. Not a bit like her 
 father, fortunately for her." 
 
 Muriel did not often go "home." She found 
 none of her brothers and sisters interesting. 
 Aunt Sybilla's notion that they "ought to inter- 
 est her because they were her brothers and sis- 
 ters" she dismissed as "antiquated," and related 
 to Aunt Sybilla the remark of a friend of hers 
 (it was Tony Hilford) who said that if he had 
 children, he should board them out from infancy 
 until they were twenty or so, and would then see 
 whether they were worth knowing. This was re- 
 lated in order to illustrate the old-fashioned sound 
 of "Blood is thicker than water" and also to "get 
 Aunt Sybilla's goat," as Muriel phrased it. In 
 this latter aim she was fully successful. 
 
 From Douglas she heard occasionally. He was 
 furious with her for giving her photograph to be 
 published in the newspapers. "If you can't help 
 disgracing your family," he wrote, "you might 
 at least keep it dark." He complained that 
 "clerk" sounded so rotten. Surely, he sug- 
 gested, she might have got some decent job as 
 typist and called herself a private secretary. 
 Muriel laughed and showed the letter to Anne; 
 and did not reply. 
 
 For some time her duties in chambers were so 
 light as to make her feel that the one hundred 
 and fifty pounds a year guaranteed to her by 
 her two employers, both women, were being ob-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 113 
 
 tained under false pretences. They had apol- 
 ogised to her for the smallness of the amount. 
 They knew it was inadequate, they told her, but 
 they were too poor to make it a larger sum. Of 
 course, if they got plenty of briefs, she would 
 earn a good deal more than a hundred and fifty; 
 since clerks took percentages on all fees fixed 
 and collected by them for their employers. She 
 would, at all events, have time for doing other 
 work. They would have no objection at all to 
 that. 
 
 Muriel accepted their offer joyfully. Her 
 weekly income would now be nearer six pounds 
 than three. Upon that she found she could live 
 comfortably with the help of Mrs. Syrom, enjoy 
 herself in a moderate fashion, and even put by 
 a little. She had made up her mind to begin 
 saving as soon as possible, and even before this 
 enlargement of her fortunes, she had made it a 
 rule to add to her deposit in a bank which made 
 a special feature of its business with small de- 
 positors some small sum every week, sometimes 
 as much as ten shillings, sometimes as little as 
 half-a-crown. 
 
 8 11 
 
 With Tanstead she dined often, went fairly 
 often to the theatre, walked in Richmond Park 
 on winter Sundays, went on the river in summer. 
 He never made love to her, in the sense of at- 
 tempting caresses or pressing her to answer his 
 proposal of marriage or, as Muriel expressed it,
 
 114 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "talking the sort of sentimental idiocy you find in 
 antiquated novels." She doubted, indeed, 
 whether that sort of lovemaking was not a sickly 
 invention of the novelists. She could not im- 
 agine any sane, wholesome girl caring about it, 
 and, since neither Tanstead nor Tony had come 
 anywhere near trying it upon her she felt justi- 
 fied in assuming that it was no more to the taste 
 of sensible men. 
 
 Tony had never gone back to the matter of 
 his outburst that evening beside the railings of 
 the Green Park. Muriel lunched with him as 
 often as she dined with Tanstead. They were 
 great friends. When she took up her duties as 
 clerk, she said to him: 
 
 "Tony, I shan't mind a bit if you think it 
 would be better for us not to lunch together 
 now." 
 
 He looked at her genuinely puzzled. 
 
 "Now?" he repeated. "Why? You aren't 
 engaged to be married, are you?" 
 
 "No, of course not," she said, and then, not 
 heeding his interjected, "Glory be!" went on, 
 "but barristers don't lunch with barristers' clerks 
 as a rule, you know." 
 
 He looked at her now with reproach in his 
 eye. 
 
 "Oh, please," he said, and he said it in such a 
 tone that Muriel said no more, and the question 
 she had raised was buried for ever between them. 
 She realised then that Tony's devotion was not 
 the outcome of a mood, as she had imagined; 
 although he had not offered any further expres-
 
 sion of it, it was there. She felt that she could 
 count upon it. 
 
 She thought that perhaps Tony might have 
 been silent because he believed that her prefer- 
 ence was for Tanstead. She had made the two 
 acquainted, and they had struck up a friendship. 
 Tanstead was not by many years the older: he 
 was thirty-one, Tony was twenty-five. They had 
 many Oxford memories in common. Tony ad- 
 mired the elder man's energy. Tanstead liked 
 Tony's guileless flow of talk and determination to 
 find life amusing. Far from resenting Tony's 
 company, he encouraged it. His quick mind 
 satisfied itself that Muriel had no feeling towards 
 the boy more complicated than friendship. He 
 had therefore no fear of him as a rival. They 
 dined and made excursions more frequently a 
 trois than a deux. 
 
 Muriel sometimes wished she could many a 
 "composite" of the two. If Tanstead had Tony's 
 light touch and love of nonsense he would be a 
 perfect companion, she reflected. He was, even 
 without them, a man whose conversation supplied 
 the distinction which his appearance lacked. If 
 she had to choose between them, she would feel 
 herself more secure with him. But it did seem 
 to her that a husband with the solid qualities of 
 Tanstead and with Tony's genius for frivolling 
 would be altogether ideal. 
 
 Oh why, she asked Anne, didn't the stupid 
 old laws allow a woman to have two husbands? 
 There might be advantages in keeping the solid 
 and the frivolous separate. She could be quite
 
 116 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 happy, as a rule, with the two of them, but there 
 were times when she preferred Tanstead's talk 
 about cases or politics, or life in general, and 
 there were other times when she wanted nothing 
 but Tony's nonsense. 
 
 "Polyandry," said Anne, the examination 
 habit strong upon her, "has been and still is prac- 
 tised by certain tribes, but there is " 
 
 "You imply," interrupted Muriel, "that it is 
 a practice confined to savages. When people 
 talk about 'tribes,' they always mean to be sniffy. 
 It's as bad as calling people 'individuals,' or talk- 
 ing about a man's 'associates' instead of his 
 friends." 
 
 "I don't imply anything," Anne protested pa- 
 tiently. "As a matter of fact it has not been 
 known among any race high in the scale of civ- 
 ilisation, as we understand it." 
 
 "High time it was then," said Muriel gaily. 
 "It would just suit me." 
 
 . 
 m 
 
 The second year of her employment in the 
 Temple brought more briefs to the two women 
 barristers, and more work therefore to their clerk. 
 But it did not bring Muriel more interest in her 
 work, either as clerk or as odd member of the 
 staff of Woman's Sphere. She could not now go 
 to the office as much as before, but she continued, 
 through the liking for her of the assistant-editor, 
 to get various small jobs which she could do in the 
 intervals of her other occupation. She was tired 
 of these small jobs; they did not seem likely to
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 117 
 
 lead to anything that would be either more excit- 
 ing or more profitable. As for the clerk's duties, 
 they were dull and never likely to be anything 
 else. 
 
 She did not begin to feel really dissatisfied, 
 however, until misfortune befell her from another 
 quarter. Mrs. Syrom was asked to take charge 
 as housekeeper of a seldom-used country house 
 belonging to a man who had once lodged with 
 her, and still kept grateful memories of the com- 
 fort he enjoyed. 
 
 "The only thing I don't like about it is leav- 
 ing you, miss," she told Muriel, who bravely as- 
 sured her that "she mustn't worry about that." 
 What Muriel felt, however, was dismay at the 
 prospect of having to find another home. This 
 was the only one she had known in London ; she 
 had grown to it, could hardly, now that she was 
 forced to leave it, imagine herself anywhere else. 
 She had a wild hope that the house might be 
 taken by someone who would continue to let 
 rooms, but that was taken away when Mrs. 
 Syrom told her the Convent had bought it. 
 
 "Long they've had their eye on it, miss. Just 
 convenient for them it is, the gardens joining and 
 all. I wonder now, though, where they get their 
 money. No stint of it, to judge by their bills 
 for washing. Always clean linen, starched and 
 fresh, under their head-pieces. Nice they look in 
 it, too; and their eyes, have you ever noticed, 
 miss, what contented eyes nuns always have, soft 
 lines in their faces as if they didn't know what 
 worry meant?"
 
 118 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Muriel had not noticed this. She did not often 
 look at nuns when she passed them. She shrank 
 from them as from the abnormal, the "anti- 
 quated." Their lives seemed to her to be useless. 
 It was pusillanimous, she thought, to be con- 
 tinually praying, continually pestering God to 
 save your soul and the souls of a few others who 
 happened to profess the same creed. Yet, now 
 this observation of Mrs. Syrom's brought to her 
 recollection that nuns did always look contented, 
 as if they had no cares or difficulties. She began 
 to think it would be pleasant not to be obliged 
 to think about making a living and finding a 
 place to live in. The summer had begun warmly. 
 All the people who usually decried the climate for 
 its lack of sunshine were complaining of the 
 "fearful heat." Muriel was feeling slack, think- 
 ing with envy of those who could motor down to 
 the coast for week-ends. The thought of hunting 
 about for rooms was so repellent that she decided 
 to try a boarding-house for a time. 
 
 Soon she learned how much her health and 
 activity, and therefore her good spirits, had been 
 supported by Mrs. Syrom's plain but always 
 nourishing and ample meals. She spent more 
 now and got less for it. The boarding-house she 
 chose was one where Poppy Sand had lived since 
 Anne's mother had become so much of an invalid 
 that a nurse had to live in the tiny house ; Poppy's 
 room had been given up to her. The "inmates," 
 as Muriel called them, were not quite as bad as 
 she had expected. Her ideas of boarding-houses 
 were taken from novels. She thought the board-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 119 
 
 ers would all "have seen better days." She 
 imagined them snobbish, quarrelsome, perpetu- 
 ally complaining. 
 
 She was relieved to find that the novelists had 
 misled her. Most of the "inmates" went to some 
 kind of work or other every day. Several were 
 on the stage and had made arrangements for 
 coming in late and having supper left out for 
 them, but had not taken advantage yet of these 
 concessions, since they had not been in engage- 
 ments. There were other women who were look- 
 ing out for work of any kind. For them the days 
 were too long. 
 
 "It's an awful life, waiting for something to 
 turn up," Poppy told Muriel, as they sat smok- 
 ing and chatting one evening in Muriel's room. 
 "So much sitting about after meals and talking, 
 just because you haven't anything else to do. 
 Some of 'em talk and talk from lunch to tea and 
 from tea to dinner. It's like being on a ship 
 where you just fill up time anyway, only then 
 you've got the end of the voyage to look forward 
 to. Here this sort of thing may go on all our 
 lives." 
 
 Muriel had resolved upon the extravagance 
 of a good-sized room. She could not, after the 
 airy spaciousness of Mrs. Syrom's, face the dis- 
 comfort of one of the small, cheap rooms, scarcely 
 larger, she thought disdainfully, than cupboards. 
 So she had a big room on the third floor with a 
 lookout on to a garden common to the inhab- 
 itants of the three streets which formed a triangle 
 round it.
 
 120 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Rather a lot of stairs, eh?" asked Tanstead 
 when he heard about it. 
 
 "Yes, but I don't mind that. Why, bless you, 
 there are two floors above me. It was a crime to 
 build houses like that. Why did they do it? 
 They weren't meant for boarding-houses, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "They were built in the spacious days of 
 Queen Victoria," Tanstead said. "People wanted 
 big houses then. Big families were the rule; 
 eight, ten, twelve children, nothing out of the 
 way. Homes were wanted then, not just places 
 to sleep in, with scarcely room to turn around." 
 
 "How they could afford to live in these bar- 
 racks I can't think," Muriel commented. "And 
 how on earth did they get servants? Think of the 
 poor wretches with their garrets at the top and 
 their underground kitchens and all those stairs 
 to go up and down." 
 
 "I'm not at all sure that everybody wasn't hap- 
 pier then than we are now," said Anne, who was 
 of the party. 
 
 "Don't you believe it," said Muriel scornfully. 
 
 "They didn't expect so much, and therefore 
 they weren't so often disappointed," put in Tan- 
 stead. 
 
 "That's what I meant," said Anne. 
 
 "But, in general," he continued, "I doubt if 
 any one generation has ever been happier that 
 is to say, more contented than others." 
 
 "I think we are far happier than they were 
 the people who lived in these appalling houses, 
 I mean," Muriel declared. "Think of all the
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 121 
 
 things they were afraid of. They were terrified 
 of death. They went in dread of not having 
 their social superiority recognised. They were 
 afraid to be natural. They were afraid to do 
 anything that wasn't done by everyone else. Oh, 
 they were a poisonous lot," she concluded impa- 
 tiently. 
 
 Tanstead looked at her searchingly as if he 
 sought to discover what specially caused her to 
 pass this sweeping unfavourable judgment. 
 Anne saw the look and reflected, "If you two 
 ever do marry, you'll find your opinions are at 
 opposite poles on one matter at least, and that 
 a very important matter in married life." 
 
 iv 
 
 Anne was right, Muriel admitted in the course 
 of that hot summer, when she contended that hap- 
 piness was not possible to those who expected a 
 great deal from life. 
 
 So long as she could look forward with pleas- 
 ant anticipation, Muriel was ready to enjoy 
 everything that happened. She did not mind 
 being poor when she was reading for the Bar and 
 could fancy herself, in a future not very far dis- 
 tant, winning cases in the courts by her eloquence 
 and acumen. Even the prospect of becoming a 
 barrister's clerk had buoyed her up. She had 
 been satisfied to do odds and ends of work for 
 Woman's Sphere so long as it seemed possible 
 they might "lead to something." Now there was 
 nothing to look forward to, she found her energy
 
 122 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 declining, her interests weakened, her sky clouded 
 over. 
 
 She knew that a holiday filled with change and 
 bracing air and exercise would bring back some 
 of her buoyancy, but how was she to take such 
 a holiday, even when the Long Vacation be- 
 gan? Last year she had spent several weeks 
 with her aunt and brothers and sisters and then 
 put in a fortnight at the seaside with Anne. 
 Neither of these experiences would she care to 
 repeat this year. She did not feel that they 
 would give her at all the kind of change she 
 needed. 
 
 She would like to see new places, new coun- 
 tries, different men and women. She would like 
 to live in hotels, to eat in restaurants, to sit out- 
 side cafes and watch the flow of the human 
 stream. These, Tanstead had told her, were the 
 real pleasures of travel. She wanted to hear a 
 strange language spoken all round her, to make 
 acquaintance with unfamiliar customs. It was 
 all, she reflected with bitterness, hopelessly be- 
 yond her reach. 
 
 In the bank she had rather more than a hun- 
 dred pounds. To carry out the programme she 
 imagined would swallow them all. And in any 
 case she had determined not to break in on her 
 savings except for a purpose of necessity. With- 
 out them she could not feel secure. So she set 
 her jaw firmly and made up her mind to "stick it 
 out," getting what consolation she could from 
 her favourite motto, "After all. . . ." 
 
 Tanstead, however, saw his opportunity had
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 123 
 
 come. Again in a restaurant he put his fate to 
 the touch. 
 
 "I want to take you to see my aunts," he said, 
 "my mother's sisters, almost the only relatives 
 I've got. I want you to come soon." 
 
 "Why?" asked Muriel surprised. 
 
 "I want to tell them we are going to be mar- 
 ried." 
 
 "But we aren't," she said, not with much con- 
 viction. 
 
 "I think we are," he said. "We've been 'keep- 
 ing company' long enough. You want a holiday, 
 a long one, and so do I. And I want a home 
 ever so badly." 
 
 "But," she objected lamely, "you've sprung 
 it on me so suddenly." 
 
 "Suddenly!" he said. "After nearly two 
 years?" 
 
 "Just let me think," she begged. 
 
 "No, you've thought long enough. It's going 
 to be some day, you know that. Hadn't it much 
 better for every reason be now?" 
 
 Muriel, as she told Anne next morning, "let 
 it go at that."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 "I THINK you ought to tell him," persisted 
 Anne. 
 
 She was sitting on Muriel's bed, while Muriel 
 stood before the looking-glass, doing her hair, 
 rather more carefully than usual, for Tanstead 
 was taking her and Anne and Tony to the thea- 
 tre this evening by way of celebrating the fruition 
 of his patient hopes. 
 
 Muriel did not see Anne so constantly now as 
 in the first years of her life in London. If mar- 
 riages are, as Mims had said, often spoiled by a 
 difference in the sense of humour, friendships are 
 not seldom broken by an unequal distribution of 
 vitality. Muriel with her robust vigour of body 
 and mind, her nerves steady, her untroubled self- 
 confidence, seemed to Anne to be unfairly en- 
 dowed, to be given too great an advantage. 
 
 Anne liked her, admired her, was interested 
 in her, enjoyed being with her, yet she was fre- 
 quently moved to envy and irritation. Muriel 
 had never worked hard, never taken a great deal 
 of trouble over anything, yet she got far more 
 out of life than Aime ever had or ever would. 
 She was so ... so ... Anne couldn't quite hit 
 
 upon the epithet she wanted. "Serene" came as 
 
 124
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 125 
 
 near to it as any word she could think of. Muriel 
 accepted good fortune as if she had a right to 
 it; when luck went against her, she was in no 
 danger of losing heart, she slept no less soundly, 
 ate with good appetite, felt sure something would 
 turn up. . . . And something always did. 
 
 Anne had never been worried by failure, nor 
 by fear of it. She had an aptitude for satisfying 
 examiners, and had never set herself to do any- 
 thing else. But she knew well that if things went 
 awry with her, instead of going smoothly, monot- 
 onously, as she felt they always would, she would 
 be in a stew of anxiety, she would suffer misery, 
 she would not know which way to turn. Even 
 now she sometimes felt a cold nausea at the 
 thought of a possibility of law-courts being done 
 away with, as it seemed they had been in Russia. 
 So long as there remained intact the system which 
 she knew and into which she fitted, she was con- 
 vinced that she could keep her place in it. If 
 that were to be broken up, she would be adrift 
 on a waste of terrifying waters. 
 
 Muriel had no idea of the cause of Anne's 
 irritability. She noticed sometimes that her 
 friend spoke curtly, and seemed to have, as she 
 put it tolerantly, "a pain in her temper." She 
 was aware that Anne had not the same over- 
 flowing energy as filled her own frame and she 
 made in her large, comprehending way all allow- 
 ances for her, putting her occasional ill humour 
 down to physical causes, or to a bout of hard 
 work. Anne had been "called" some little time 
 now. She had not joined Muriel's employers in
 
 126 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 their chambers, she shared a set with two other 
 women barristers and had got several briefs al- 
 ready; her handling of one of them won a com- 
 pliment from the Bench upon her complete 
 knowledge of the law concerned, and of all the 
 precedents to be relied upon. 
 
 As she sat upon the bed and watched Muriel 
 at the looking-glass, Anne was divided between 
 pleasure and annoyance. The pleasure she de- 
 rived from the slim yet strong young figure, the 
 shapely arms raised in a graceful pose to the 
 head, the thick dark rippling hair which was being 
 coaxed into orderly shape. Her annoyance arose 
 from a presentiment that Tanstead would not 
 find in Muriel what he expected, and a feeling 
 that it was unfair for one woman to get hold of a 
 husband on false pretences, while another who 
 could have fallen in with his long-cherished wishes 
 about a "home" was passed over. Muriel had 
 admitted the unfairness herself, and had added to 
 Anne's bitterness by a shaft of humour which 
 left a sore place. As she dressed for dinner and 
 the theatre and Anne sat on her bed, they had 
 talked of marriage generally as well as this par- 
 ticular marriage which was in prospect, and 
 Muriel had recalled her old determination not 
 to marry. 
 
 "But that was when I had a profession in 
 view," she said, "that would have made all the 
 difference." 
 
 She did not say it with self-pity or with inten- 
 tion to be pathetic over her change of fortune. 
 There was hardly even regret in her tone. She
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 127 
 
 looked forward always, instead of back. She did 
 not indulge fancies of "what might have been," 
 not that she deliberately checked them, they did 
 not enter her healthy, matter-of-fact mind. 
 
 "D'you mean you wouldn't have encouraged 
 Tanstead if you'd been at the Bar?" Anne said. 
 
 "Don't say 'encouraged' like that," protested 
 Muriel. "You make it sound as if I had prac- 
 tised the wiles of the boarding-house siren, and 
 lured the poor man on. The truth is I did all 
 I could to discourage him. If I'd gone on as 
 I started, I should probably never have come 
 across him." 
 
 "He would not admit that. His idea is that 
 you are the one woman in the world for him, 
 and that he would have found you out somehow, 
 wherever you had been." 
 
 "M'yes," said Muriel with a coil of her hair 
 in her mouth. "I wonder." 
 
 "You don't feel anything of that kind about 
 him?" Anne inquired after a short silence. 
 
 Muriel shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "No, and I don't think the feeling goes down 
 very deep with him. Men have that sort of 
 capacity for deceiving themselves. They enjoy 
 it. The funny thing is," Muriel went on re- 
 flectively, "they have an ideal 'one woman in 
 the world/ and the woman they pick out is often 
 quite unlike that ideal, yet they can't see it. They 
 persist in decorating her with all the qualities 
 they hope to find in her, with all the charms and 
 virtues of their ideal 'one woman,' to whom she 
 mayn't bear the faintest resemblance; and when
 
 128 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 they find out that she doesn't, they consider 
 they've been defrauded. As if it weren't their 
 own silly fault." 
 
 "What is Tanstead's ideal, then?" 
 
 "The trouble is, I'm not altogether sure," said 
 Muriel, smiling at herself in the hand-mirror she 
 was using in order to judge of the effect of her 
 effort. "I don't think that I'm much like it." 
 
 "His ideas all turn on making and enjoying a 
 home, don't they?" 
 
 Muriel nodded. 
 
 "I don't seem to fill the bill in that line, do 
 I?" she asked. "It's you he ought to marry 
 really, Anne. I used to think you were posing 
 when you talked about that sort of thing, 
 but I'm sure now that you'd do it awfully well 
 and enjoy it. Children and all that, I 
 mean." 
 
 Anne said nothing. 
 
 "There ought to be examinations for mar- 
 riage," Muriel declared. "You'd come out near 
 the top, of course, as usual." 
 
 This was the arrow which left a rankling 
 wound. 
 
 "Are your views about children unaltered?" 
 Anne asked in a voice with a little rasp of resent- 
 ment in it. 
 
 "Haven't seen any reason to change them." 
 
 "Then I think you ought to tell him," Anne 
 said firmly. 
 
 Muriel looked round at her, evidently sur- 
 prised. 
 
 "You don't really?" she questioned.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 129 
 
 "Yes, I do," replied Anne. "It wouldn't be 
 fair not to tell him." 
 
 "But he might back out," said Muriel, with a 
 little smiling grimace; "and he's promised to 
 take me to Sweden. I want to go to Sweden 
 awfully. They're so tremendously advanced 
 there. I might tell him when we get back," she 
 suggested mischievously, "and offer to let him 
 off if he felt disappointed." 
 
 "You'll have trouble if you don't make it clear 
 to him now," Anne told her grimly. 
 
 "But, my good soul," remonstrated Muriel, 
 treating Anne's protest seriously at last, "it's 
 always the woman who decides that sort of thing, 
 isn't it? Men don't want families. They bear 
 with them if they come ; they endure them. It's 
 always the maternal instinct you hear talked 
 about, never the paternal. I don't believe there's 
 any such thing as a paternal instinct." 
 
 "That's only because you don't happen to have 
 come across it," Anne persisted. 
 
 "I've never even heard of it." 
 
 "That doesn't settle the matter. Plenty of 
 things exist that you haven't heard of." 
 
 "Oh, very well, if you think it's so important 
 as all that, I'll speak to him about it," Muriel 
 said. 
 
 Anne stood up, shook out her skirt, looked 
 down at her feet. She had carried her point, but 
 she felt now a misgiving. What could it matter 
 to her? And it might break off the match, which 
 was, she admitted, a good way for Muriel out of 
 her unsatisfactory occupations, which offered her
 
 130 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 no prospect of anything like a career, and not 
 much more than a living in the way of gains. She 
 felt sorry she had let her irritation sting her into 
 pressing Muriel so hard. 
 
 "Of course," she said, "it's for you to decide. 
 If you don't think it's necessary ... I dare say 
 you know best." 
 
 "Why were you so hot about it then?" Muriel 
 asked her in astonishment. 
 
 "I thought . . . well, I thought you might be 
 sorry later on if you didn't tell him." 
 
 "Oh, very well," Muriel said, as she jabbed in 
 her last hatpin, "I'd better, at all events, give hir^ 
 a hint." 
 
 
 u 
 
 On the top of an omnibus, as they took the air 
 in the dusk of what had been a stifling day, came 
 the opportunity for Muriel's hint. 
 
 On the seat in front of them was a woman 
 with a boy about a year old. For a time the child 
 showed his satisfaction by sudden shouts into 
 which he put all the strength of his small lungs. 
 Then he took offence at not being allowed to 
 turn round and claw at Tanstead's moustache, 
 which Tanstead, indeed, was, for his part, quite 
 ready to permit, but which the mother resolutely 
 prevented by taking the child on her knee. 
 Thereat he howled, was smacked, howled louder 
 than before. 
 
 "I couldn't stand that sort of thing," Muriel 
 said after the mother had gone down with the 
 still squalling infant under her arm.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 131 
 
 "Eh? No, no. Didn't know how to manage 
 him." 
 
 "A horrid little beast ! On a hot evening, too." 
 
 "Children don't cry if they're healthy and 
 properly managed," Tanstead said soothingly. 
 
 "Anyway, I couldn't stand them," she re- 
 peated, and felt that she had now made herself 
 clear. 
 
 iii 
 
 Love, as the word is understood when we apply 
 it to the feelings of an engaged young man and 
 woman, offers a sound basis for happy married 
 relations, so it be combined with a liking for each 
 other's companionship. Without that liking, 
 which may be called more shortly friendship, love 
 is likely to fail them, and to cause the state of 
 mutual irritation known as "getting on one an- 
 other's nerves." Friendship, on the contrary, 
 may serve by itself, on the woman's side at any 
 rate, as an enduring foundation for happiness in 
 marriage. A wife who finds her husband com- 
 panionable is likely to grow into a lasting affec- 
 tion for him. Seldom does a wife who has mar- 
 ried on "love" alone succeed in establishing the 
 friendly relation. 
 
 That was, shortly stated, Muriel's philosophy 
 of marriage, and she now found her theory jus- 
 tified by her own experience. She had felt 
 certain that too much attention was given by 
 unthinking minds to one aspect of marriage, 
 and that the companionship side was really by 
 far the more important. After all, the greater
 
 132 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 part of life was companionship. Interests in 
 common, similarity of tastes, an agreement as 
 to what was laughable, surely these must be the 
 solid foundation of contentment in marriage. If 
 these were absent, "love," no matter how ardent, 
 could only suffice if husband and wife saw each 
 other seldom, if they avoided companionship, and 
 lived on the terms which are those of the harem. 
 
 It would be an exaggeration to say that Muriel 
 had misgivings before she married. She ap- 
 proached the event with the same serene confi- 
 dence, the result mainly of perfect digestion and 
 steady nerves, that had carried her comfortably 
 through other vicissitudes. She knew Tanstead 
 pretty thoroughly, she told herself, and had found 
 nothing in him to dislike or shrink from. She 
 had a respect for his judgment, admiration for 
 his capability. These she felt to be necessary. 
 She could not have even considered marrying 
 anyone like Tony. Much as she liked him, she 
 could never take him seriously, as she put it; 
 never attach any weight to his opinions. She 
 would always reckon herself superior to him in 
 intellect. There would be no real companionship 
 between them. When they had wearied of mock- 
 ing at the world and the human race, especially 
 the more pompous and pretentious members of 
 it, they would be at a loss for anything to talk 
 about. 
 
 In the last year or so Muriel and Tony had 
 not been so frequently together. There was no 
 cooling of their enjoyment of each other's soci- 
 ety, but Tony had noticed that Muriel and
 
 (THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 133 
 
 Tanstead were drawing nearer together; he ex- 
 perienced both a certain loneliness and a certain 
 resentment. He was incapable of jealousy, but 
 he did think it rather hard that these clever chaps 
 should win all round. If Tanstead was going to 
 make a big name at the Bar and get a judgeship, 
 he ought to be satisfied with any kind of a wife. 
 It wasn't fair that he should pick out and carry 
 off the rippingest girl in London. He had so 
 much else. To Tony, Muriel represented all 
 that raised existence above the level of the com- 
 monplace ; losing her, he seemed in his more senti- 
 mental hours to have nothing to look forward to, 
 nothing to hope. Yet when, at last, he knew for 
 certain that he had lost her, he recovered his 
 spirits a little. He told himself that he was 
 making an effort to be cheerful for her sake; 
 he must not let her see that he was unhappy; 
 that might cloud her happiness. But, in truth, 
 he had begun to understand that, married to 
 Muriel, he would have had to make a constant 
 effort to appear more intelligent than he really 
 was in order to escape her scornful sarcasm. 
 
 "Cheer up, Tony," she said, meeting him one 
 day in the Temple and laughing at the solemn 
 air with which he shook hands, "cheer up, the 
 worst is yet to come." 
 
 "Yes, I know," he answered her glumly, and 
 then the old merriment lit up his eyes, and 
 he began to talk in his usual tone. She told 
 him of the flat Tanstead had taken, and the fur- 
 niture they were picking up, and her plans based 
 still on William Morris's precept "nothing that
 
 134 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 you don't either find useful or think beautiful" 
 - and the decorations she had planned. 
 
 "You do wish me luck, Tony, don't you?" 
 she asked when they parted, with a shade of wist- 
 fulness in her tone. 
 
 "Of course I do, old bean," he said heartily. 
 "I dare say it's all for the best you know what 
 I mean." 
 
 "And if it isn't for the best," she returned gaily, 
 "it'll all be the same in a thousand years." 
 
 But the honeymoon inclined her more than 
 ever to think that Tony was right, that she had 
 done wisely to marry, that she and Tanstead 
 were going to "hit it off top-hole." 
 
 iv 
 
 They went to Sweden through Berlin, where 
 Muriel, in spite of her desire to make the best of 
 the Germans (a frame of mind induced in her, as 
 in most intelligent persons, by the silly vitupera- 
 tion of that People after the war), could not 
 find much to admire. The perfection of order 
 and cleanliness which reigned under the mon- 
 archy had gone; that, Tanstead told her, had 
 made most people find Berlin for twenty-four 
 hours or so a delightful city, though they usually 
 discovered at the end of this period that it had 
 no enduring attractiveness. Now it made not 
 even a twenty-four-hour impression. Its streets 
 lacked variety, its buildings expressed only a 
 spirit of mechanical efficiency, were entirely with- 
 out charm. 
 
 "You'd like Munich, though," Tanstead told
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 135 
 
 her. "You have to go south to get the best of 
 the German character. One day we'll do that, 
 go to some of those jolly little lakeside holiday 
 places summer-fresheners, they call them, and 
 do some walks in the Bavarian highlands." 
 
 But now their faces were turned northwards. 
 They went by the great ferry which carries a 
 whole train across the Baltic Sea, and Muriel's 
 eyes opened first upon Sweden by daylight when 
 she woke up in Stockholm. The glitter and 
 gaieties of the city of many waters charmed them. 
 The freshness of the air, the vigorous aspect of 
 the people, the tidiness and regularity of their 
 ways, the pleasant food they ate especially the 
 smorgasbord, a collection of most tempting appe- 
 tisers with bread like biscuit, and the most de- 
 licious butter filled Muriel for a few days with 
 contentment. But after a few days she found it 
 not so easy as she had expected to discover signs 
 that the Swedes were "tremendously advanced" 
 and, as a hotel acquaintance told her that the 
 really progressive people of the North were the 
 Finns, she suggested crossing to Finland. Tan- 
 stead agreed at once. 
 
 Helsingfors pleased them even better than 
 Stockholm. It was as clean and airy as the 
 Swedish capital, the women had the same open- 
 air look, and with it went a freer bearing; both 
 men and women of the educated sort seemed to 
 radiate intelligence. They made some acquaint- 
 ances through a Finnish advocate upon whom 
 Tanstead called. All spoke English, all were 
 familiar with the books, plays and music of Eng-
 
 136 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 land as well as with those of Germany. They 
 were delighted to get up musical evenings, to 
 take the visitors to painters' and sculptors' stu- 
 dios, to show in public and private buildings the 
 growth of their forceful, and at times brutal, 
 modern architecture. 
 
 Here Muriel admitted real "advancement." 
 She saw equality between men and women in 
 operation. She rejoiced over the absence of 
 "stuffy prejudice," and of any public opinion 
 manufactured for the purpose of forcing all to 
 live by the same formula. She noticed with sur- 
 prise that organised religion had lost its hold 
 or perhaps never had any hold upon people 
 famous for honesty, true and just in all their 
 dealings, hard workers, and strong in self-re- 
 spect. The simplicity of life, gained by a disre- 
 gard of elaborate furnishings in their houses and 
 the rejecting of the unnecessary and the ostenta- 
 tious from their meals, made Muriel feel that 
 at last she was among people who could distin- 
 guish between the essential elements of well-being 
 and those which were dictated by conventionality 
 or tradition. 
 
 Tanstead shared her enjoyment of a week's 
 stay at a seaside place near the capital, of a visit 
 to the waterfall of Imatra, of days spent in about 
 among the little islands near Helsingfors, and 
 he was ready to accept the Finns at his wife's 
 valuation, though he smiled quietly sometimes 
 at her enthusiasm. She would not have resented 
 his smile if she had seen it, for she basked in a 
 sense of perfect understanding between them.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 137 
 
 On an evening when the glittering slip of a new 
 moon was first seen, and the peace of the islands 
 laid its enchantment upon them both, she leaned 
 to him and took his face in her hands and said, 
 "I wonder if you know how much I am grateful 
 to you for all this," and kissed him the first 
 kiss she had offered of her own accord. He re- 
 turned it with rapture. 
 
 Their understanding seemed perfect then to 
 him also. Neither suspected how wide of the 
 mark both were.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 i 
 
 TANSTEAD was like nearly all men of his upbring- 
 ing and education : he knew next to nothing about 
 women. Few Englishmen, whatever their rank 
 of life, do. 
 
 All the Germanic races idealise women, fancy 
 that women are easy to understand, blunder 
 clumsily when difficulties arise. This is seen 
 equally among the Saxons, the Anglo-Saxons, the 
 Americans, and in a less degree, according as 
 they have Germanic ancestry, among the Scan- 
 dinavian nations. The Celtic races, above all 
 the Irish and the French, do understand women ; 
 they have no illusions about them, therefore they 
 do not irritate them after the Saxon fashion. 
 Relations between men and women in France 
 are on the plane of logic rather than sentiment. 
 In Ireland there is a strong tendency in this 
 direction. Neither husbands nor wives expect 
 so much of one another; they are not, in con- 
 sequence, so often disappointed. 
 
 The English husband is probably harder to 
 please than any. His sentimental reading of 
 married life makes him suppose vaguely that 
 there is an immensity of satisfaction in it of a 
 nature which he does not and cannot specify. 
 So long as girls were taught that the chief end 
 
 138
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 139 
 
 of woman was to serve and glorify man, which 
 was the teaching of the Victorian Age, the Eng- 
 lish husband was able, as a rule, to believe that 
 his expectation had been fulfilled. That was the 
 age of dutiful wives, wives who accepted their 
 husbands' rulings, wives who suppressed them- 
 selves and were able by submission, by careful 
 study of mood, by feminine anxiety to please, to 
 create the illusion that they loved their mates, 
 even when they only feared and obeyed them. 
 
 Mims had been of this order of wives. She 
 had grown, as most of them did, whether they 
 had loved at any period or not, into a sincere 
 and radiant affection for her husband. She had 
 made of necessity not merely a virtue, but an 
 art. Her daughter looked on marriage in an 
 entirely different light. 
 
 Muriel fancied that Tanstead shared her view 
 of it, because he had agreed at once to her pro- 
 posal that they should be married in a registry 
 office. He had few relations, so he could settle 
 the matter off-hand. His father and mother were 
 dead ; he was one of three brothers, and the other 
 two were in far corners of the earth. An uncle, 
 a priest, had been very good to him, up to the 
 time he went to the university; then the uncle 
 had taken up mission work, and had since be- 
 come a missionary bishop in Patagonia. The 
 Bishop's sisters, three old ladies who lived to- 
 gether, Muriel had been taken to see. They re- 
 ceived her with enthusiasm, but they were so 
 anxious to entertain her and their nephew 
 with hospitable affection that they made intelli-
 
 140 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 gent, even consecutive conversation impossible. 
 One, for example, would ask her a question; 
 she would be about to answer it when another 
 would break in with a proposal that she should 
 have some more of something on the table. This 
 would stimulate the other two to urge this or 
 something else upon her, and by the time the 
 storm of hospitality had blown over, the informa- 
 tion she was about to give would be entirely for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Or else they would suddenly, while one or 
 other of their guests was relating to them news 
 or family history which they had professed a 
 desire to know, fall to arguing among themselves 
 over some detail of the serving or the food. Such 
 an eruption was caused by one of the aunts no- 
 ticing that Muriel had not eaten any bread. 
 
 "Such a pity! Almost always have our bread 
 made at home, so much nicer, different altogether. 
 Just to-day it happens that we have baker's 
 bread. It is because the cook " 
 
 An explanation followed which was at once 
 contradicted by another aunt, who gave her ac- 
 count of the circumstances that had prevented 
 bread-baking at home, the third aunt cutting into 
 this with still another view. Amid the long 
 wrangle neither Muriel's asseveration that she 
 scarcely ever ate bread at lunch or dinner, nor 
 Tanstead's recital of the points of interest in the 
 last letter of the Bishop, their brother, received 
 any attention whatever. 
 
 Tanstead, having no relations to consider, had 
 fallen in at once with the registry office plan.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 141 
 
 He had also, as Muriel argued, shown that he 
 was in substantial agreement with her by letting 
 pass her assertion that "people talked a great 
 deal of tosh above love, and were apt to forget 
 that the chief thing in marriages was companion- 
 ship," as well as her statement that she "couldn't 
 stand that sort of thing" on the top of the omni- 
 bus after the departure of the troublesome child. 
 
 But she was not old in wedlock before she dis- 
 covered that her husband had cherished an an- 
 cient and widespread delusion: he had supposed 
 that, although she was not in love with him when 
 she married (this she had made clear) , she would 
 quickly yield to and reciprocate his passion. He 
 made the mistake of imagining such changes to 
 be common because he had read of them in novels. 
 He knew that in all particulars which he could 
 check from his own experience or knowledge 
 novelists were generally misleading, either 
 through ignorance or through deliberate distor- 
 tion. Yet in those matters of which he himself 
 was ignorant he was ready to believe them! 
 
 When he found out that Muriel was not going, 
 so far as he could judge, to do as the wives- who- 
 had-married-without-being-in-love did in novels, 
 he did not even then discard the novelist's theory. 
 He jumped to the conclusion that he was up 
 against an exception to the general rule ; he began 
 to ask himself pathetically why on earth this 
 should have happened to him of all men, and 
 what could be done to induce in Muriel the in- 
 loveness for which he sought in vain. 
 
 He would have been content with a little.
 
 142 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 That evening on the water near Helsingf ors had 
 filled him with rapture. He thought the change 
 had come. But he had been forced to realise 
 that Muriel's kiss was prompted by gratitude, 
 not by any more ardent emotion. He was not 
 by temperament ardent himself. An occasional 
 repetition of that unasked-for caress would have 
 persuaded him that he had found all he expected 
 in marriage. But it was not repeated. Muriel, 
 as a companion, gave him everything that he 
 could wish; all that he missed in her was the 
 responsive affection which seemed to him to be 
 necessary in a wife. Their flat was as pleasant 
 and comfortable as he had hoped it would be, 
 and Muriel was the most attractive piece of fur- 
 niture it contained; but he felt that until it had 
 children in it it would never be a home. 
 
 I a 
 
 To shake her resolve by argument was impos- 
 sible. 
 
 "My dear Edward," she would say, "if both 
 instinct and reason are against one's taking a 
 certain course, surely it is clear that one would 
 be a fool to risk it." 
 
 "Instinct?" he said, with some scorn, and some 
 curiosity in his voice, the first time she called in 
 aid this ally. 
 
 "Yes, instinct. Haven't you noticed that 
 women have altered since life got so complicated, 
 since we've moved so far away from the old sim- 
 pler ways?"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 143 
 
 "It hasn't got more complicated. That's sim- 
 ply talk." 
 
 "But of course it's more complicated. Who 
 was it said that our particular kind of civilisa- 
 tion, the industrial, mechanical kind, makes 
 things easier in many ways on the surface you 
 know, telephones and motors and aeroplanes and 
 so on but makes everything below the surface 
 more difficult? I know I've read that some- 
 where." 
 
 "Doesn't make it true," Tanstead muttered. 
 
 "No, but it is true, you know. I've often 
 thought about it. This business of children, for 
 instance. To start with, the physical difficulties 
 are much greater. There must have been a time 
 when it was as easy and simple for women as it 
 is for animals. There are plenty of women like 
 that still uncivilised we call them ; but wherever 
 there's civilisation to any extent, it becomes far 
 more disagreeable and painful and disabling. 
 That creates an instinct against it, for it's well 
 known that the healthy body hates the idea of 
 sickness and suffering. In the old days there 
 wasn't any pain no more than there is among 
 animals. As life grew more civilised, that's to 
 say, more artificial, there came more and more, 
 and there grew up a repulsion to it instead of a 
 state of mind which regarded it as a purely nat- 
 ural process. 
 
 "And that isn't all," Muriel went on. "You've 
 got to add to that the increased uncertainty of 
 things. It isn't fair to bring children into the 
 world unless you can give them a decent chance."
 
 144 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "My dear girl, how often have you argued that 
 everyone ought to have the same chance, and 
 that all advantages are unfair? Why, you've 
 even said it was a positive handicap, instead of 
 an advantage, not to be obliged to make your 
 own way from the start." 
 
 "Am I inconsistent?" quoted Muriel, smiling, 
 for their discussions were as yet on the plane of 
 good temper. "Very well, then, I am incon- 
 sistent." 
 
 "Health is the main thing, and as for educa- 
 tion, I'll answer for that." 
 
 "Can you answer for anything in these times?" 
 Muriel asked. "Look at Russia." 
 
 "We haven't a Tsar." 
 
 "And even about health, we can't be sure, 
 we're so over-civilised, our nervous systems aren't 
 normal." 
 
 Tanstead gave up argument. He saw that it 
 only made her more obstinately resolved. He 
 decided that there was nothing for it but to be 
 patient in the hope that the change he still hoped 
 for might happen even yet. 
 
 Still relying upon the novelists, he told him- 
 self that if he could only stir her feeling for him 
 to in-loveness the other matter would settle itself. 
 For a long time he was fairly content to wait. 
 It was infinitely more pleasant to get back to his 
 flat at the end of the day's work than to stay in 
 chambers until dinner-time, and then to dine at 
 a club, the prey of bores. His evenings, whether 
 they were spent at home, Muriel and he playing 
 piquet which she had taught him, or Muriel read-
 
 ing aloud, which she liked doing and did well, or 
 he at the piano, no great performer, but able 
 to give himself pleasure and to amuse her too; 
 or whether they went out to theatre, concert, din- 
 ner-party, made him look back on his evenings 
 with a magazine at the club with thankful relief 
 at his escape from such dullness. In every re- 
 spect but the one Muriel was all that he could 
 wish her to be. 
 
 iii 
 
 He even got help from her in his work. Dur- 
 ing the second year of their life together she 
 began to feel the want of some fresh occupations 
 and interest. Often, when she went to bed, he 
 would set to work for two or three hours, some- 
 times more, upon his briefs. He was beginning 
 to feel the strain which must be borne by every 
 man who makes a name and a fortune at the 
 Bar. He had got into the front rank of 
 "juniors," Steady hard work would give him 
 in a few years an income of several thousands 
 a year. 
 
 One night Muriel felt suddenly sorry for him 
 when he was going off to his study after he had 
 kissed her cheek and wished her sound sleep. 
 ( This late working habit of his had made it easy 
 for her to arrange separate rooms, only separated 
 by a door, but ensuring a certain privacy for 
 which she was grateful.) 
 
 "Poor old thing!" she said. "I'm sure you 
 don't feel like work. I saw you yawning just 
 now."
 
 146 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "No, I don't much. Can't be helped though. 
 I must go through the papers in that Hurtstone 
 case. It's sure to be taken next week." 
 
 "I say, I've got an idea." 
 
 He turned at the door, surprised by the energy 
 of her exclamation. 
 
 "Couldn't you let me help you? I could plug 
 through all the papers and give you the points. 
 You might have to glance over them after- 
 wards, but that wouldn't take anything like so 
 long." 
 
 "No, don't you bother." 
 
 "But I should like it. You see, the reading 
 I did might help me a little not a great deal, I 
 know that, but it's better than nothing. And 
 in time I really might be of some use." 
 
 "Well, some day, perhaps. We might try." 
 
 He spoke without enthusiasm. 
 
 "No, don't push it away like that," she said, 
 and crossed the room to him. "I do want to 
 help you. I don't want you to work so hard and 
 get that dried-up look that almost all successful 
 barristers have. You never saw a judge who 
 wasn't all wrinkled and parchmenty. I don't 
 want you to be like that." 
 
 She had taken hold of the lapels of his coat 
 and was looking into his eyes. Hope flared up 
 in his imagination. Her closeness to him stirred 
 his blood. 
 
 "You care for me enough to think about that," 
 he whispered, and caught her in his arms. 
 
 "Of course I care," she said, and did not move 
 to release herself. But her passivity and her
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 147 
 
 even breathing proved to him that once more 
 hope had deceived. He drew away. 
 
 "All right," he said dully, "I'll think it over." 
 Muriel did not press him further then, but 
 she returned to her plan very soon and got him 
 to agree to let her try what she could do. As 
 she expected, she found herself equal to the task 
 of setting out clearly and concisely for Edward 
 the nature of the cases he had to handle. She 
 liked the work, and she liked the knowledge that 
 she was making herself useful. In time Edward 
 grew into a reliance upon her help. 
 
 iv 
 
 Yet in spite of the success of Muriel's com- 
 panionship theory, in spite of the closer relations 
 which were set up by their working together, 
 there were times when Tanstead's ever-present 
 feeling of resentment, of irritability caused by the 
 disappointment of his expectations, broke the 
 bonds of a naturally easy temper which as a rule 
 enclosed it and transformed him into a person 
 "gey ill to live with." 
 
 Attacks of brooding over his grievance came 
 on suddenly and would last possibly for days. 
 He scarcely spoke so long as he was under their 
 malign influence. In his eye smouldered the dull 
 ash of repressed indignation. The corners of 
 his lips were fixed. His hands trembled slightly; 
 his voice, when it was heard, had a strained, un- 
 natural tone. At first Muriel was puzzled by 
 these symptoms, they almost alarmed her, she had
 
 no idea what cause lay behind them. She asked 
 him to see a doctor; he shook his head angrily. 
 
 "Can I do anything?" she asked, honestly con- 
 cerned and anxious to help. 
 
 "Of course you could, if you chose," he mut- 
 tered, scarcely audible. 
 
 "What, Edward?" 
 
 "What? What do you suppose a man marries 
 for?" he asked, still mumbling so that she could 
 only just hear him. 
 
 Then she understood that he was resentful 
 against the conditions of their life. She shrugged 
 her shoulders, and waited for the fit of irritation 
 to pass, telephoning Tony to come and take her 
 out to dinner, or Anne to come and dine with 
 her, so that she might not be left with Edward 
 alone. 
 
 On the second Christmas Day after their mar- 
 riage he had a severe attack. Muriel, who had 
 a kindly feeling towards her cook and house 
 parlour-maid ("having been once," as she put it, 
 "a servant herself"), and who knew how hard it 
 must be to work ^3 usual while others are junk- 
 eting and knitting up family ties, had let them 
 both go out. In the evening she and her husband 
 were going to a studio party given by a painter 
 whose acquaintance she had made when he was 
 drawing for Woman's Sphere. They lunched 
 out, came in to tea, and then settled themselves 
 cosily with books. 
 
 What it was disturbed Edward's mind Muriel 
 never knew. It may have been a chance phrase 
 in the book he was reading; he may have been
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 149 
 
 hurt by her unresponsiveness when he sank on 
 the Chesterfield beside her, slipped an arm round 
 her shoulders and stroked her hair. He often 
 said that such marks of affection would draw 
 from a cat more signs of pleasure than they drew 
 from her. 
 
 Whatever the cause, he was under the influence, 
 when the hour came for their cold supper, of a 
 first-class grouch. 
 
 "Christmas always makes me think of when 
 I was a child," Muriel said, shutting up her 
 book with a snap. She had not been reading for 
 some little while, she had been looking into the 
 fire. "I believe all our enjoyment of it comes 
 from recollecting how we loved it then." 
 
 "Don't enjoy it much now," he growled. 
 
 She looked across at him surprised, for he had 
 been exceedingly cheerful all day. 
 
 "What's the trouble?" she asked, and her con- 
 tentment with the warmth and the quiet and the 
 prospect of a merry evening left her at the pros- 
 pect of a "row." 
 
 "Queer sort of Christmas," he replied. "Dark 
 house, cold meat. Might be any day." 
 
 "But you didn't mind my letting the servants 
 go out, did you? I'm sorry. If you'd said when 
 I asked you about it, we'd have had a regulation 
 dinner." 
 
 Her sarcasm stung him 
 
 "It isn't the dinner I care about," he said 
 angrily. "Better a dinner of herbs where love 
 is than a stalled ox and hatred therewith." 
 
 "I dare say I could find some herbs if I hunted
 
 150 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 the kitchen and pantry," Muriel answered, with 
 a show of liveliness. She felt that she must try 
 to ward off the impending period of gloom. 
 
 " 'Where love is,' " he repeated with resentful 
 emphasis. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Edward, don't let's begin all 
 that over again; we never get anywhere." 
 
 "No, that's the misery of it," he said. 
 
 Then getting up brusquely: "I'm going out 
 for a walk." 
 
 "Oh, don't be so silly. Look here, let me cook 
 you something." 
 
 "Can't you understand? It isn't the the 
 actual facts I'm kicking at. It's what lies behind 
 them." He was in the hall now, groping in the 
 hat and coat cupboard. 
 
 "I wouldn't care what we had, shouldn't mind 
 if we had nothing at all, so long as I had a wife 
 who cared for me. Nothing would matter if you 
 . . . cared for the things I care for, if we really 
 had a home!" 
 
 "Look here, now, Edward, be sensible. What's 
 the good of prowling about in the dark and mag- 
 nifying your grievance until it blocks out every- 
 thing else? Come and have supper. It's not so 
 bad. And then we'll go to Morrile's party. It's 
 sure to be great fun. 
 
 "There, that's right," she told him, as he 
 slowly took off his overcoat again. "You know 
 I'm fond of you. I can't help being what I am. 
 I warned you about it beforehand. You mustn't 
 make these scenes. They really make me feel 
 rotten. Cheer up, the worst is yet to come,"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 151 
 
 She took his arm, and as they went into the 
 dining-room turned on all the lights. 
 
 "We'll have a Christmas illumination at any 
 rate," she said. 
 
 He smiled, very faintly, but still it was a smile, 
 and that broke up his ill humour. Strange that 
 a certain contortion of the features should make 
 it impossible to cherish angry feelings! In a 
 few minutes they were talking with their usual 
 friendliness.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 "Is Edward quite well?" Anne asked Muriel 
 one day in early spring, a spring of blue skies 
 and far-off white clouds like fragile anemones 
 and hot noon sunshine and steely blue late after- 
 noons. 
 
 "Yes. Why?" 
 
 "He looks nervy, I think." 
 
 "He's a bit nervy. Hard work, I suppose." 
 
 Anne looked at her friend steadily. Did she 
 understand more than her answer suggested? 
 Was she sincere? 
 
 "Don't you ever " Anne began, and then 
 
 stopped. 
 
 "Don't I what?" 
 
 "Haven't you ever thought that your husband 
 might " 
 
 "Well? Out with it? Run away?" 
 
 "No no, not that. No need to do that. Take 
 up with some other woman, I meant." 
 
 "The possibility has occurred to me," Muriel 
 admitted demurely. "What then?" 
 
 "Wouldn't you mind?" 
 
 "All depends on how it was done, my dear." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose so," Anne admitted in a drag- 
 ging voice. 
 
 Ever since their marriage Anne had been 
 
 153
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 153 
 
 watching her friends closely. Her conception of 
 justice required that Muriel's experiment should 
 turn out a failure. Her feeling of resentment 
 still smouldered, without, however, diminishing 
 friendship. Along with friendship, along with 
 genuine affection, there goes often either a 
 slightly contemptuous estimate of ability, or an 
 envy which looks forward to undeserved good 
 fortune being some day stripped off. That was 
 Anne's expectation. She liked and admired 
 Muriel, but it seemed to her that in common fair- 
 ness retribution in some shape ought to follow 
 so bold an attempt to enjoy the advantages of 
 marriage, while disregarding its obligations. 
 Anne would probably not have let this thought 
 dwell with her if she had been married and a 
 mother herself. 
 
 "I suppose it would," she repeated reflectively. 
 
 "Of course I shouldn't like him to bring any- 
 one else here. The flat isn't big enough." 
 
 "It's all very well to be cynical about it now," 
 Anne burst out, "but I bet you'd take it very 
 differently if you really found out anything." 
 
 "Do you mean " began Muriel in a sud- 
 denly altered voice. 
 
 "No, no," Anne assured her, "nothing what- 
 ever. If I had, I should tell you straight out. 
 It was only my idea." 
 
 "I see. Well, don't let it worry you, old 
 thing. It isn't likely to be realised. Edward's 
 too busy. Besides, why should he? We hit it 
 off splendidly." 
 
 She was perfectly sincere in that belief.
 
 154 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Had any interesting cases lately?" inquired 
 Anne. It seemed a little absurd to her that 
 Muriel, who had only read law for a little over 
 a year, should imagine herself of use to her hus- 
 band; there was a shade of condescension in her 
 tone, too slight, however, for Muriel, who was 
 never on the look-out for such fine shades, to 
 notice. 
 
 "Nothing very great. Oh, by the way, I meant 
 to go up to-day and look at that new book on the 
 law of master and servant. I ought to have had 
 the references for this evening. What an idiot 
 I am!" 
 
 "I've got that," said Anne. "I'll fetch it for 
 you." 
 
 "No, I can't let you bother." 
 
 "No bother at all. I can be there and back 
 in twenty minutes." 
 
 "I'd come with you to look at it, only I must 
 dress early this evening. We've got to go out 
 to a dinner and theatre. It's most awfully kind 
 of you, Anitchka." 
 
 Anne was warm when she returned, both out- 
 wardly from exercise and inwardly from pleasure 
 in pleasing her friend. She felt this made up for 
 the anticipation she cherished of a catastrophic 
 turn in Muriel's married life. 
 
 That theatre party marked a decisive turn in 
 Tanstead's legal career. The invitation came 
 from a woman possessing that vaguely under-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 155 
 
 stood but very real power known as social influ- 
 ence. In decaying systems such influence has 
 always, at a certain stage, become a feature of 
 social life. Rome knew it, France knew it. In 
 England open boast has been made of it, though 
 not by the women who most of all exercised it. 
 At the British War Office, according to the pub- 
 lished statement of one who was Secretary of 
 State for War, it was necessary to make a rule 
 that no officer whose claims were put forward 
 by a woman should even be put into the running 
 for the coveted employment. 
 
 Legal appointments have seldom been in- 
 trigued for in this fashion. Barristers are rarely 
 attractive to women; they have not the leisure 
 which soldiers can devote to the science of fasci- 
 nation. Nor have the dignitaries who dispose of 
 legal appointments been until recently suscepti- 
 ble to the arts of feminine persuasion. There 
 is this also to remember: preferment in the law 
 is so useful as a counter in the political game that 
 social considerations are almost entirely ruled 
 out where they are concerned. 
 
 Still, there are occasions in which the influence 
 of women may be valuable even in this field. 
 There are one or two posts in the legal hierarchy 
 which entitle their holders after a certain period 
 of service to claim as their right elevation to the 
 judge's bench. One of these is the post of Attor- 
 ney-General's "devil" ("devil" being the legal 
 term for a man who does another man's work), 
 and towards this Tanstead's ambition directed his 
 efforts. He had reached a position at the junior
 
 156 THE FRUIT OF, THE TREE 
 
 Bar which entitled him to aim at such promotion. 
 
 It was known, however, that the good word 
 of a certain lady might be as valuable to an as- 
 pirant in this direction as any purely professional 
 claim. Muriel happened to meet and amuse this 
 lady. Tanstead, after a struggle with his pride, 
 which disinclined him to seek favours, confided 
 to his wife that there was a possibility of her 
 new acquaintance being useful. Muriel entered 
 into his hope with enthusiasm, made it her busi- 
 ness to cultivate the intimacy; this invitation 
 was the fruit of her activity in her husband's 
 interest. 
 
 Tanstead had no particular personality, but 
 he could make himself agreeable, and, when he 
 had any incentive, talk well. He did both on 
 this occasion and made a sufficiently favourable 
 impression. But he was made to understand that, 
 if influence were exerted in his behalf, it would 
 be for Muriel's sake rather than his own. 
 
 "Delightful person your wife, Mr. Tanstead," 
 the great lady said to him, as they drove to the 
 theatre. "Very clever, I call her. I do so like 
 people to be amusing. Don't know when I've 
 taken to anybody so quickly." 
 
 Before they parted she had invited Muriel 
 to "take her husband down for a week-end" to 
 what she called her "cottage" in Berkshire, really 
 a house where she could entertain a dozen guests. 
 
 "I'll ask Charlie Dinamore," she said to 
 Muriel, with a meaning look. "He and your 
 husband can have long talks, while I make you 
 help me with my rock-garden. We'll have hardly
 
 ,THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 157 
 
 anyone else. Good-night, and mind you come 
 and see me very soon." 
 
 For an hour after they got home the Tansteads 
 discussed the case which had required reference 
 to the volume brought by Anne. Edward was in 
 excellent spirits. He had good hope now that the 
 post he desired might be brought within his reach. 
 Instead of falling asleep immediately, as his 
 habit was, he lay awake that night for a few min- 
 utes thinking over his chances, and he admitted to 
 himself without reserve that Muriel had certainly 
 turned out a very useful wife. He had from the 
 earliest days of his admiration for her reckoned 
 upon the value of her social assistance to him; 
 this had even surpassed his expectations. Few 
 men could get from their wives the same amount 
 of help as he did. Yet he went to sleep with the 
 old, unextinguished ember of resentment against 
 his heart and the familiar refrain: "If only " 
 
 iii 
 
 A few days later he set to work in chambers 
 to reply to a basketful of letters which he had 
 foolishly allowed to accumulate. The task was 
 too formidable to be tackled by hand. He asked 
 his clerk to send out for a stenographer so that 
 he might dictate his replies. 
 
 A girl came, a girl with smooth brown hair 
 and velvety eyes, with a broad-shouldered, deep- 
 bosomed figure that must, Tanstead thought at 
 once, make her seem out of the picture in a type- 
 writing office, out of place in city streets. She
 
 158 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 belonged to the country, to the same order of 
 creation as hills and trees and smoothly moving 
 streams. 
 
 "Hope they haven't sent me a girl fresh from 
 the woods," was his reflection. He was relieved 
 to discover that her shorthand was quite rapid 
 enough for his requirement, and he found her 
 presence soothing. His opinion of her was high 
 as soon as he noticed that she wore what he called 
 "sensible stockings." She sat comfortably and, 
 when she had to ask a question, asked it in a full, 
 coloured voice. Her influence was, therefore, 
 restful, and it affected Tanstead so agreeably, 
 along with the relief of getting through his ar- 
 rears so easily, that, when he had finished dictat- 
 ing, he said to her without having thought about 
 it beforehand, almost indeed to his own surprise : 
 
 "I wonder if you could come in once or twice 
 a week to help me with my letters." 
 
 She looked at him eagerly for an instant, then, 
 as quickly, her eyes dropped and her expression 
 lost its keenness. 
 
 "You mean in connection with the office, I 
 suppose." 
 
 "I did. Will you tell me what passed through 
 your mind just now?" 
 
 "No, thank you. I'd rather not. I dare say 
 the office wouldn't think it quite honourable." 
 
 "What, to propose to do my work privately?" 
 
 "How could you tell?" she asked, looking at 
 him puzzled and a little alarmed. 
 
 "Not very difficult to guess," he told her, smil- 
 ing. "You do take private work, then?"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 159 
 
 "Yes, when I can get it. That isn't very often. 
 And I've never asked anybody for work who had 
 got me from the office. It wouldn't be straight, 
 I see that." 
 
 "You didn't ask me. I saw the idea come intq, 
 your head, and how you drove it out again." 
 
 She turned her big eyes full on him. 
 
 "You must be a wonderful man, if you really 
 did that. And I don't see how else you could 
 tell what I was thinking about." 
 
 "No other way possible," he said, smiling 
 again. "But it's part of my business, you see, 
 to study people's faces." 
 
 "I think I should be rather afraid of you if 
 I came here often," she said, with an enchanting 
 seriousness. 
 
 "Not a bit. You'd see through me very 
 quickly. Now tell me, you'd like to take on my 
 correspondence as a private job of your own?" 
 
 "I don't think I ought to."' 
 
 "Don't think about it. When could you 
 come?" 
 
 "I had no business to think of it, but it just 
 came right into my head. That's because I'm 
 so anxious to save money I want to save enough 
 to go right away into the country for my holiday, 
 not just a fortnight, but a whole month. Some 
 little regular job is what I've been looking for. 
 But really I don't " 
 
 "Now I thought we had done with scruples," 
 Tanstead interrupted. "The only thing we have 
 to do is to arrange hours and terms." 
 
 These were soon settled, and that evening Tan-
 
 160 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 stead told Muriel he had hired a secretary, and 
 began to relate the circumstances, but she did not 
 seem interested, so he said no more. 
 
 iv 
 
 If Tanstead had been given to studying his 
 own motives and reactions and processes of 
 thought, he would have known that there were 
 rocks ahead when he began to feel sorry for 
 Margaret Seymour. That had been the begin- 
 ning of his infatuation for Muriel. 
 
 He did not recollect this, he did not give a 
 thought to the possibility of a warmer feeling 
 following upon pity for the country bird caged 
 behind London bars, and longing for the freedom 
 and variety of life in the open. For he had not, 
 since his marriage, even considered entering into 
 relations, sentimental or monetary, with any 
 other woman. Had this been suggested to him, 
 he would have shrunk from it. He had the usual 
 decent Englishman's regard for what he had been 
 taught to regard as right and proper in the sexual 
 line; he looked upon unfaithfulness as "low" be- 
 haviour: the idea of consoling himself for his 
 disappointment never presented itself to his mind. 
 
 He had no sense of adventure, no apprehen- 
 sion of risk, therefore, when he talked with Mar- 
 garet, heard scraps of her history, realised her 
 dissatisfaction with life, groped after plans that 
 might help her to escape into less oppressive sur- 
 roundings. At first, they exchanged only a few 
 sentences after the letters were done, but, being
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 161 
 
 both friendly people, they soon grew to an in- 
 terest in one another, and both looked forward 
 to the afternoons on which, after her office hours, 
 Margaret went into the Temple to her secretary's 
 job, of which, although she had no liking for her 
 occupation, she was decidedly proud. She had 
 been moved by Tanstead's kindness at their first 
 meeting; at the office she had been told he was "a 
 very clever man," which lent him mystery in her 
 eyes ; soon she was ready to fall in love with him 
 upon the least encouragement. 
 
 Margaret would have fallen in love with any 
 man who was kind to her, and not repulsive in 
 appearance. She belonged to the maternal order 
 of womankind, which regards men merely as 
 fathers and loves only as a step towards the 
 fulfilling of woman's natural destiny, mother- 
 hood. She longed for children, they filled her 
 dreams; her waking thoughts dwelt ecstatically 
 upon them. Yet she had never had a sweetheart, 
 never come near receiving an offer of marriage. 
 She could not understand why, if other girls, 
 not specially attractive, found lovers with appa- 
 rent ease, she should be left on one side. She 
 did not know that most men of the present age 
 avoid her type, are a little bit afraid of it. In- 
 stinct tells them that such women are soon likely 
 to be surrounded by children; they seem to dis- 
 cern that they would not be loved for their own 
 qualities, but as instruments of a purpose in life 
 with which they are not much in sympathy. 
 
 In countries which need populating Canada, 
 for example women like Margaret abound, and
 
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 164 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Right; you shall walk as much as you like." 
 
 So they walked, and Margaret's eyes grew 
 more velvety with enjoyment, and her soft lips 
 smiled at the stretches of green, and the trees and 
 the blue distance. 
 
 "It's delicious,'* she murmured. "What a kind 
 idea of yours!" 
 
 "Kind to myself," Tanstead told her. "Mayn't 
 I have a taste for the country too?" 
 
 "Ah, but you don't know what it means to me. 
 Fancy having this always to walk in." 
 
 "Why shouldn't you live close to the Park?" 
 
 "Can't afford it. I only just manage where 
 I am. I suppose I'm not very good at manag- 
 ing." 
 
 "What a shame!" said Tanstead, and pity 
 clutched him with its insidious hooks. 
 
 In the dressing-room where Margaret washed 
 her hands and tidied her hair before dinner there 
 was a scent-sprayer, and because she had been 
 warm and thought it would be pleasantly re- 
 freshing she sprayed her hair and forehead and 
 her neck and the front of her blouse. Tanstead 
 was conscious of some difference about her while 
 they dined ; afterwards, when they sat in the twi- 
 light garden, looking over the Hill landscape 
 with the river a white thread holding it together 
 in the dusk, the faint perfume troubled his senses. 
 
 He leaned to her, and threw away his cigar- 
 ette. 
 
 "If only we had met sooner!" he murmured. 
 
 "Why?" she asked, very softly. 
 
 "Because oh, because we ought to have met
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 165 
 
 sooner because I should have married you, Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 "Oh no." 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 Then, with sudden decision, she broke the spell 
 of sentiment, stood up and said : 
 
 "Too late now to think about that, and too 
 late to stay here any longer." 
 
 She spoke lightly and they said little to one 
 another, as they walked to the station and went 
 back by train. But each felt that a new relation 
 had been set up between them, and wondered 
 how the future might change it further yet.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE next Sunday, not having seen Tanstead 
 again in the interval between their walk and the 
 week-end, Margaret went to church. 
 
 This was a habit she had never quite dropped. 
 She was not "religious" in the commonly ac- 
 cepted sense of that expression. She did not lie 
 awake at night bewailing her sins. But the asso- 
 ciations of "church" in her thoughts were all with 
 her happy life as a farmer's daughter ; with sunny 
 Sunday mornings when she walked the paths 
 through long grass embroidered with wild flow- 
 ers, or through wavy fields of grain, green in 
 summer, gold in autumn; with evenings of infi- 
 nite peace when the "first long evening yellow" 
 filled the nave and aisles with an unearthly radi- 
 ance, and the hymns, if they were good ones like 
 For all the Saints or At Even ere the Sun was set, 
 gave you a catch in your throat. 
 
 Margaret had accepted without question what 
 Anglican Church teaching conveyed to her a 
 queer jumble of ideas contributed by a queer 
 company of teachers, beginning with devotees of 
 the detestable Jah-veh, tribal god of the bar- 
 barous and disgusting clans whose doings are 
 recorded in the Old Testament; including poets 
 like David and the author of the Book of Job,
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 167 
 
 philosophers like the pessimist of Ecclesiastes, 
 and Saint Paul, with his smattering of Byzan- 
 tine metaphysics; and coming down through 
 Saint Athanasius, Saint Francis of Assisi, Cal- 
 vin, John Knox, Dr. Colenso, Pusey and Canon 
 Scott Holland to Bishop Henson and Bishop 
 Gore. She accepted that jumble of incompre- 
 hensibles and incompatibles, just as she accepted 
 everything else, without question or criticism, 
 without any prayer 
 
 Either to know a little more, 
 Or feel a little less, 
 
 since she was a healthy young woman, designed 
 by Nature for one purpose, motherhood, and 
 shaped in all attributes of mind and body to that 
 end. 
 
 So, feeling uneasy, Margaret went to church. 
 Not that she had any weight of wrong-doing 
 on her conscience. She guessed that Tanstead 
 was married, but, even so, no harm had been 
 done by his telling her that he wished he were 
 free. Many marriages did turn out badly; every- 
 one knew that. She felt sorry for him and sorry 
 for herself. She liked him, and she would have 
 gladly agreed to marry him, and she wanted 
 badly to be married, for she knew that she could 
 never be happy until she had children. But as 
 it couldn't be, it couldn't be. That was all there 
 was to it. He was not likely to say anything 
 more in the same strain. She had better not let 
 him take her out again, though she would go on
 
 168 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 being his secretary. That she couldn't give up, 
 for the double reason that it provided her with 
 an interest in life more vivid than she had known 
 since she came to London after the break-up of 
 her home, and that she needed the money which 
 she earned with him to increase her holiday fund. 
 
 Tanstead's uneasiness was more disturbing 
 than Margaret's. He was both surprised and 
 alarmed by the impulse which made him speak 
 to her as he did. He could not, without shame 
 and shrinking, consider himself in the guise of a 
 seducer; that was the word he employed. Yet 
 he could not keep his thoughts off this girl in 
 whom he saw, too late, the nature with which 
 he had wrongly credited Muriel. She could not, 
 of course, offer the same quality of companion- 
 ship; she had no intellectual curiosity, no inter- 
 est in ideas. But what did that matter? Home 
 and family would furnish topics enough for con- 
 versation between such a woman and her husband. 
 She could listen with intelligence enough to make 
 talking agreeable to him, and, after all, affection 
 brought common interests with it. He felt more 
 genuinely at ease with Margaret than he ever had 
 felt with Muriel; they seemed to understand one 
 another by instinct; the very thought of her 
 soothed him. 
 
 It did not occur to Tanstead to go to church; 
 he walked from corner to corner of his study, 
 perplexed and dissatisfied, yet not unhappy, for
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 169 
 
 acquaintance with Margaret had brought into his 
 life possibilities which made him tingle with the 
 renewal of his old hope. Yet these were possi- 
 bilities which, as soon as he glanced at them, 
 he felt bound to drive from his imagination. How 
 could he sink so low himself? How could he 
 drag down so sweet and trustful a creature as 
 Margaret? How dare he risk discovery and the 
 just anger of Muriel wait, though, would it be 
 just? Wouldn't it serve Muriel right? Had 
 she not hinted to him that he could, if he chose, 
 go his own way? No, if she were angry, she 
 would have no right to be; and, perhaps, what- 
 ever happened, she might not really mind. 
 
 Back and forth, from corner to corner, Tan- 
 stead walked on this Sunday, by the hour at a 
 time. He connected Margaret's longing for the 
 country with the longing for children which he 
 had discerned in her, especially when she spoke 
 of the woman he was writing to, who had babies 
 and therefore need not grieve. He could fancy 
 her in a big sunny cottage, deep in the heart of 
 the real that is, of rural England, with girls 
 and boys growing up about her, working hard 
 for them and enjoying every moment of her life. 
 That vision assumed easy circumstances. Well, 
 he could provide them. He was making more 
 money every year. What had he to spend it on? 
 How could he spend it to better purpose than 
 making Margaret content, letting her fulfil her 
 destiny and bring up a healthy, happy brood of 
 children to sweeten the breath of the world? 
 
 Against this view were set all Tanstead's con-
 
 170 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 ceptions of what was decent and right. He had 
 no particular religious belief of any kind, and he 
 would have admitted that morality was a floating, 
 not a fixed, mark in the sea of human nature, 
 seeing that many things were considered proper 
 among this people which were denounced as dis- 
 graceful by that, much that was commendable in 
 England being held in horror somewhere else, 
 the virtue of Kensington regarded as shameful 
 in Baktiariland, and 
 
 The crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban. 
 
 What swayed him were the traditions in which 
 he had been brought up, the sense implanted in 
 him at home and at school and at the univer- 
 sity of a "white man's" obligations and inhibi- 
 tions, the thought that by yielding to the 
 persuasion of his desires he would lose caste. 
 
 No argument could he find to rebut the con- 
 viction forced upon him by these. He had the 
 true English horror of what is socially "taboo"; 
 he could not face without acute discomfort the 
 doing of anything that would be pronounced bad 
 form, or "not cricket," you know. Had it been 
 any of the usual methods of sexual irregularity 
 that was in question, such considerations would 
 not have troubled him. Had he merely wished 
 to amuse himself with Margaret and cast her off 
 with a gift of money when he tired of her, or had 
 he proposed to set her up as an ordinary mistress, 
 he would have no reason to fear social condemna- 
 tion. That would certainly be provoked, how-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 171 
 
 ever, by the establishment of a second regular 
 household ; it would be intensified by the apparent 
 respectability of the connection, and raised to the 
 highest power by the fact that children resulted 
 from it. 
 
 Yet he could not get rid of that mind's-eye 
 picture of Margaret in her cottage, and when he 
 looked into it and saw the calendar on the wall 
 marked "Saturday," he saw himself driving up 
 in a motor and jumping out and having the chil- 
 dren rush to greet him and looking past them, 
 when the first embraces were over, for his gentle, 
 soft-lipped, velvety-eyed, deep-bosomed he had 
 almost completed the description with "wife." 
 
 Well, why not? Muriel was not really his 
 wife. Which ought to weigh the more heavily, 
 a legal technicality or an actual union? He 
 had got as far as asking himself that, with the 
 faint odour of the perfume that Margaret had 
 used still stirring his senses, when the day came 
 round for her next appearance at his chambers 
 as typist. 
 
 At first they were constrained and business- 
 like. Tanstead dictated steadily, one letter after 
 another without pause between. But when he 
 had finished and she had snapped her notebook 
 and risen to go, he said, in a more natural voice : 
 "When shall we have another walk?" 
 
 "I don't think we'd better," was Margaret's 
 answer, given in a hesitating tone, while she ex- 
 amined closely the binding of the notebook.
 
 172 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Why?" he asked anxiously. He had not ex- 
 pected any scruples from her. Man-like, he 
 thought he had only to beckon and she would 
 follow. It had not occurred to him that she might 
 have been through a struggle also and might have 
 determined to put an end to the affair herself. 
 
 "You know why, of course," she replied, with 
 some petulance. "Things like you said the other 
 night are upsetting. You oughtn't to say them, 
 and I oughtn't to listen to them." 
 
 "No, I suppose not," admitted Tanstead 
 weakly. 
 
 "But I meant what I said, you know," he went 
 on. "I want a home badly, and I'm sure you'd 
 make me the home I've always thought about." 
 
 "It's too late to think about it, now," she said, 
 with sombre resolution. 
 
 "Still that needn't prevent us from seeing each 
 other sometimes I mean outside of these cham- 
 bers and my taking you for a little breath of 
 the country now and then, need it?" 
 
 "We'd better not," repeated Margaret dog- 
 gedly. 
 
 "What rotten luck," Tanstead said, after a 
 pause, which he rilled up by pulling out a drawer 
 and searching for letter paper stamped with his 
 address for her to type the letters on "what rot- 
 ten luck that we've only come across each other 
 now. You you like me, don't you?" 
 
 He found the paper, and stood up to give it 
 to her. 
 
 How it happened they neither of them could 
 have told, but the next moment Margaret was
 
 in his arms. They were both pieces of tinder 
 ready to be ignited by the smallest spark. Their 
 lips met. They forgot everything but each other 
 until a slight noise in the room above recalled 
 them to a world which was inhabited by a good 
 many hundred million other people besides them- 
 selves. 
 
 Margaret slipped from him, shook herself very 
 much as a cat does when it has jumped from 
 your grasp, turned to the small horseshoe-framed 
 looking-glass on the wall to put her hair straight, 
 and let her emotion escape in the form of a dry, 
 soul-rending sob. This tore at Tanstead's heart. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he said; "do forgive me. 
 I I didn't mean to; and yet," he added, "I'm 
 glad too. Now you know what I feel." 
 
 "Do you think," she asked, her question half 
 choked by another sob, "that that will make me 
 any happier?" 
 
 "Don't be unhappy, little girl. There must be 
 some way out. It can't do you any harm to know 
 that there's a man who'd do anything in the world 
 for you, who'll always be your friend if you'll let 
 him, who'd think it the greatest joy he could have 
 to look after you. That oughtn't to make you 
 unhappy, ought it?" 
 
 "I don't know. I must think. It's come so 
 suddenly. Oh, you mustn't think I'm angry 
 with you," she went on, turning to him. "I'm 
 not angry. Y-you're a dear. It isn't that. But 
 it's all such a puzzle and a muddle. I feel I 
 don't know where I am." 
 
 "It's my fault," he said penitently. "Do for-
 
 174 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 give me, and tell me you care for me just a little." 
 
 "Of course I forgive you," she answered, "and 
 
 that means that I care for you more than a little." 
 
 "Well, then, prove it by coming out to dinner. 
 
 I know you'd like to go home first, so I'll call for 
 
 you at half -past seven in a taxi, and we'll go 
 
 somewhere quiet." 
 
 The prospect of dinner as usual in her cheap 
 boarding-house, with the customary chatter and 
 bickering, and the long, stuffy evening after- 
 wards, either in her own tiny room or in the fusty 
 common meeting-place called the lounge, sent a 
 shudder through her. She nodded her "Yes" to 
 his plan and was gone. 
 
 8 1V 
 
 [Taking the world as it had been interpreted 
 to her by her pastors and masters, Margaret up 
 to this time divided "good" and "bad" into two 
 distinct classes. Black she knew and white she 
 knew. That there could be any colour in between 
 had never occurred to her thought. 
 
 Her own condition was, therefore, as she had 
 told Tanstead, a painful puzzle to her. Black 
 she was not, according to the standards by which 
 she judged; she had not changed, so far as she 
 could discover; she was still the same girl she 
 had been before: it was her circumstances that 
 had altered, so she argued, not herself. That ar- 
 gument she owed to Tanstead. He had used 
 many and, since he was a skilful advocate, they 
 had all been persuasive, but that was the only one
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 175 
 
 which had stuck in Margaret's memory. Even 
 this, however, could not prove that she was 
 "white" still. Therefore she was driven, all her 
 preconceptions being overturned, to suppose that 
 a certain number of people were "grey." Or, 
 putting it another way, she followed this line 
 suggested by Tanstead: that some people delib- 
 erately get wet when it rains because they like it, 
 whereas others are careful to keep dry, but that 
 this division does not take in everybody, since 
 there are some who do not like rain, but have no 
 cloaks or umbrellas, and therefore get wet in 
 spite of their preference for dryness. 
 
 To quiet her conscience by such reasoning was 
 not possible, but she did by degrees grow into an 
 acceptance of her position, similar to her accept- 
 ance of everything else in life and due chiefly 
 to the perfection with which all parts of her 
 bodily machine worked, especially the diges- 
 tive part. The people who make themselves mis- 
 erable by brooding over their circumstances and 
 wishing them different (and also the people who, 
 like Napoleon and Thomas Carlyle, make the 
 human race miserable either by their ambition 
 or their destructive criticism) are invariably per- 
 sons whose bodily machines are not normal; as 
 a rule it is the irritability of their stomach-linings 
 which sets them apart. Margaret's mind, being 
 undisturbed by any ailment of her body, came 
 before very long to regard Tanstead and her 
 relation with him and the cottage in which she 
 lived as elements which had come into her life 
 she knew not how, and which she could not alter
 
 176 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 even if she would: therefore her mind did not 
 worry about them. 
 
 This cottage had been a lucky find. Not quite 
 twenty-five miles from London, it had no other 
 house save one within sight of it. That one was 
 at the other end of its garden and faced another 
 road; thus each of them was at the same time 
 secluded in appearance, and in reality united 
 very closely with the other. The road divided 
 into two roads a little way above the cottages. 
 Margaret's cottage was approached from one of 
 these ; the second cottage, occupied by Tanstead, 
 stood a little way back from the other. He had 
 happened upon an advertisement offering for 
 sale the whole triangle with its two dwellings; 
 he went at once to see it, and bought it forth- 
 with. 
 
 This was in the autumn. Muriel had come back 
 from the Norman coast full of vigour; then she 
 and Tanstead had paid a few visits. He had had 
 no Jong or complete change. A little while before 
 the purchase of the cottage a famous doctor had 
 said to Muriel, at a dinner-party: 
 
 "You ought to protest against your husband 
 working so hard, Mrs. Tanstead. He doesn't 
 look well. Take him away for week-ends. He'd 
 be all the better for it." 
 
 Muriel passed this on to her husband, who 
 shrugged his shoulders, but took more note of 
 it than he appeared to. It made his way more 
 clear. Up to this time he and Margaret had 
 remained on the same terms. They saw each 
 other frequently, had made some more excur-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 177 
 
 sions, but were still only affectionate friends. 
 Now it seemed to Tanstead as if Muriel had 
 pointed the way to the next development in their 
 relations. If he could arrange with Muriel's ap- 
 proval and for good cause to be away at week- 
 ends, everything would be simple enough. So he 
 began to look at advertisements of country cot- 
 tages and was fortunate enough to hit on the very 
 thing he had vaguely in mind. 
 
 Here was a cottage he could take and show 
 Muriel, to which he could invite her occasionally 
 if she cared to go down for week-ends. That he 
 thought doubtful. He had sometimes spoken 
 before of such a cottage; she had always said: 
 "You go by all means, but don't expect me to." 
 She was out of her element in the country; she 
 found very little to do, and she did not like the 
 people she found there. 
 
 "The sort of people who seem never to have 
 been outside their own village," she said; "they 
 only care to talk about their own petty little 
 concerns, they are so limited, so dull." 
 
 "Not all of them," Tanstead protested. "My 
 father lived in a village after he retired, and he'd 
 spent most of his life in India." 
 
 "My dear boy, haven't you discovered that 
 India, so far as the English in it are concerned, 
 is merely a big village, of the very most limited 
 and dull kind? You are helping me to prove 
 what I say." 
 
 There was little danger, therefore, that Muriel 
 would want to share the new cottage save at very 
 long intervals.
 
 178 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Danger," reflected Tanstead, half bitterly, 
 half with amusement. "Here I am congratu- 
 lating myself that there's no risk of my wife's 
 wanting to be with me at week-ends, and yet it's 
 not long since I was imagining that we should 
 never want to be apart. Why has all this hap- 
 pened to me of all men?" 
 
 Yet he quickly put away the thought of Muriel 
 as he had once imagined her to be, because he 
 felt it showed disloyalty to Margaret; and the 
 wish which had sprung into his mind that Muriel 
 might even yet give him the affection and the 
 home that he longed for died away as soon as 
 Margaret's soft lips and velvety eyes and affec- 
 tionate manner came before his mental vision. 
 
 Muriel was genuinely glad when he told her of 
 the purchase, and very soon went down to see it. 
 
 "Who lives over there?" she asked, when she 
 looked out at the other cottage. 
 
 "It's empty," he said; "but I believe someone 
 is coming in before the winter." 
 
 His heart beat more strongly as he said this, 
 and he looked at her to see if she showed any 
 doubt of his sincerity, though she had, of course, 
 no reason whatever to suspect him. She made no 
 comment and gave the matter no further thought. 
 
 The village which gave the cottages their pos- 
 tal address was small and obscure. Scarcely any 
 but farming folk lived in or near it. The land 
 for miles round belonged almost all of it to one 
 estate; the owner lived in Algeria, the big house 
 was shut from year's beginning to year's end; 
 there were no other houses of any size or impor-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 179 
 
 tance near. There was little likelihood, therefore, 
 of anyone in the neighbourhood knowing who 
 Tanstead was, or troubling about him. Margaret 
 was to be known by her own name, with the prefix 
 of "Mrs.," and she would have with her a middle- 
 aged woman who had once been employed at 
 her farm-house home, and, after a painful experi- 
 ence of service in boarding-houses, including 
 Margaret's, where she had been engaged on Mar- 
 garet's recommendation, was only too glad to 
 get back into the cleanliness and quiet of the 
 country. 
 
 This woman would look after Tanstead's cot- 
 tage. It was necessary to admit her into the 
 secret, but she was attached to her former 
 "young mistress," and given, like her, to "taking 
 things as they came," so they had no fear of her 
 knowledge. 
 
 All the arrangements worked out well in execu- 
 tion. The cottages were simply furnished. Mar- 
 garet had no knack of lending a room charm, 
 she had no ideas about decoration or furniture, 
 but she kept the place exquisitely clean, and al- 
 ways had bowls of flowers, for choice, wild flow- 
 ers, set about the rooms. For a time she kept 
 on her work and went up to London every day 
 from a station two and a half miles distant, riding 
 there in the early morning and back again in the 
 evening on a bicycle which Tanstead had bought 
 for her, and delighting in it all, even in getting 
 up at six and breakfasting at a quarter to seven. 
 
 Every Saturday, if he had not come on Friday 
 evening, Tanstead motored down in a little car
 
 180 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 he had bought to drive himself, and went back 
 on Monday morning, taking Margaret with him 
 almost into London, and putting her down so 
 that she might finish the journey by Tube. This 
 went on for several months, then Margaret, who 
 was expecting a child, stayed in the country alto- 
 gether, glad to give up work which she had never 
 cared about, glad to be free to walk or work 
 in the garden or just idle and let her fancy picture 
 what her child would be like. 
 
 Her scruples had by this time almost entirely 
 quieted down. She saw existence neither as a 
 puzzle nor as a muddle, but as a process which 
 must have design and order in it, although she 
 could not see them. At all events the longing of 
 her life was about to be appeased. The joy of 
 motherhood was to be hers at last.
 
 (CHAPTER XlVi 
 
 i 
 
 FOR five years Tanstead had a "home." It 
 brought him all the satisfaction he hoped for. At 
 first his delight in the knowledge that he was 
 loved (and loved with so intense a devotion that 
 it had induced a woman to "give up everything 
 for him," as he phrased it to himself and to her) 
 had been checkered by the fear of discovery. 
 As months passed, and then years, without any 
 suspicion falling upon him, he took it for granted 
 that none would ever be aroused. His life 
 seemed now complete. He was in better health, 
 and more contented to fulfil his daily round of 
 work and pleasure than he had been since he was 
 an undergraduate. 
 
 With Muriel he was on excellent terms. She 
 continued to help him with his briefs and really 
 to lighten his labour. Most of a barrister's work 
 is of the plodding order. He must, if he is to 
 do his client service, have wormed his mind 
 through every detail of his case. The quality 
 which commands success at the Bar more than 
 any other is industry. Rarely does a judge dis- 
 play any intellectual activity in any other sphere. 
 Many men of brilliant talents have failed at the 
 Bar; many have reached the highest legal posi- 
 
 181
 
 182 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 tions with no equipment beyond average ability 
 and an infinite capacity for taking pains. 
 
 It was by relieving him of a good deal of the 
 grind of mastering the details of cases that Muriel 
 helped her husband. They worked together eas- 
 ily, all the more easily since the cottage at Budis- 
 loe had been set up. Tanstead's attacks of sullen 
 and resentful temper had ceased. He was a 
 pleasanter companion, and Muriel put this down 
 to the health value of week-ends away from Lon- 
 don. Once or twice in each year she suggested 
 herself as his guest. When this happened Mar- 
 garet either went away or stayed indoors. Muriel 
 was under the impression that the woman who 
 came in to do for Edward was the tenant of the 
 other cottage. She had never seen either Mar- 
 garet or the children ; she took very little interest 
 in the cottage or the neighbourhood; and she 
 never could imagine what he did with himself 
 when he was down there. 
 
 He accounted for his time by pretending that 
 he occupied himself in the garden. She accepted 
 that as readily as she would have believed any 
 other explanation: that he collected snails, for 
 example, or studied geology. She really did not 
 care how he spent his time. She was very glad 
 to be left alone on Saturdays and Sundays to 
 amuse herself as she pleased, and she felt sure 
 that their weekly separation made them better 
 friends all the rest of the time. It was because 
 Margaret took an interest in all his doings, be- 
 cause nothing that concerned him could fail to 
 stir some feeling in her, and because she showed
 
 this so affectionately, that he thought of the 
 cottage as "home." Home is the place where 
 somebody wants us, where our absence is regret- 
 ted and our return welcomed with delight. No 
 one who lives alone can be said to possess a home. 
 It may be only a dog or a cat or an old servant, 
 but there must be some creature to smile or purr 
 or wag a friendly tail when we appear. 
 
 That was what Tanstead had missed in the flat 
 so skilfully furnished and decorated by Muriel. 
 She had, he knew, a gift in this direction which 
 would always lend her surroundings a charm. 
 But this to his mind did not constitute a home. 
 The cottages were plain; utilitarian rather than 
 artistic had been the principle followed in fitting 
 them up; but there Tanstead felt that he was 
 wanted. The flat could have gone on quite well 
 without him (though not without his cheques). 
 Muriel liked him well enough, he knew that ; but 
 she had never got beyond liking. She was only 
 dependent on him in the matter of money. When 
 he got back in the evening she would say: "Hullo, 
 Edward. Had a good day?" and he would not 
 feel that he had changed his atmosphere. The 
 soft lips of Margaret, her velvety eyes shining 
 with affection, her interest in him, not merely in 
 his doings, caused all his being to vibrate with 
 happiness; made a warmth of love around him, 
 created an atmosphere of "home." 
 
 Denser and more comforting this became 
 when the baby was there to add its chuckle of 
 welcome and to kick with joy when it saw its 
 father's face. Of his two little boys Tanstead
 
 184 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 was immensely proud and fond. They opened 
 up entirely new avenues of interest in his life. 
 He had wished for children; he had promised 
 himself, long before he married, the delight of 
 seeing them grow and develop characters of their 
 own; now he could say that he had certainly not 
 over-estimated this pleasure, it was even keener 
 and fuller than he had imagined it. 
 
 Of the future of his boys he thought often, 
 but he purposely kept his thoughts vague. There 
 would be difficulties, he was only too well aware, 
 about their name and parentage. These, how- 
 ever, he was resolved to smooth away as far as 
 he could, and he was steadily accumulating a 
 fund, which he invested in Margaret's name, for 
 her and their support. After long and careful 
 considering, Margaret had decided that two chil- 
 dren were enough. She had shown new qualities 
 of foresight and prudence since she had others 
 dependent on her, and, looking forward, she made 
 up her mind that to put all her energies into 
 bringing up these two little boys and giving 
 them every chance to make successes of their lives 
 would be wiser than to have a large family and 
 perhaps be unable to look after it so well. 
 
 Herein Margaret was more cautious than 
 Mims had been, not because she had a better 
 understanding, but because she belonged to a 
 later generation, to a generation more accus- 
 tomed to take Reason for its guide instead of 
 trusting to instinct or tradition. Margaret had 
 no idea that she was being influenced by the 
 ^Time-spirit, by the tendency of her age. She
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 185 
 
 would have been hard put to it to say what was 
 the difference between Instinct and Reason (es- 
 pecially if they were presented to her spelt with 
 capital letters). But she could not escape from 
 the effect of her environment. Implicit in the 
 twentieth-century's manner of discussing every- 
 thing is the assumption that we can shape our 
 own lives and destinies, and that it is our duty 
 to shape them as intelligently as we can. That 
 duty Margaret admitted and was determined to 
 the best of her ability to perform. 
 
 She had, for instance, ideas on the kind of up- 
 bringing that best fitted boys to take their part 
 manfully in life. Tanstead had brought down 
 for her one day Herbert's Spencer's Essays on 
 Education. Some parts of these seemed to her 
 sound; from other parts she dissented so far as 
 to call the author "an old silly." Agreement and 
 disagreement combined had given her a theory of 
 her own, and once or twice this had come into 
 conflict with Tanstead's views, which were that 
 an English Public School education was the fin- 
 est possible. However, they had not done more 
 than just touch upon this, and, as Margaret was 
 in the habit of accepting his judgments, he gave 
 the matter no thought. 
 
 n 
 
 Neither Muriel nor Tanstead was much trou- 
 bled (that was how Muriel put it) by relations. 
 She very seldom saw any of her family, except 
 a sister in an office whom she somntfmes took out
 
 186 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 to lunch, and her brother Douglas, now engineer 
 to a Spanish mine; he went to see her whenever 
 he was in London, and they talked about old 
 times, but found nothing else to talk of. He had 
 developed, as seemed likely in their Hammer- 
 smith days, into the type of Englishman, the 
 usual type among the Ruling and Comfortable 
 classes, who assumes that any opinions other than 
 those which he holds are cranky and that what 
 he does not know is not knowledge worth trou- 
 bling his lordly head about. To Douglas, there- 
 fore, Muriel would have been a crank, if she had 
 not married a man who earned a large income; 
 thereby she acquired the right to hold eccentric 
 views. 
 
 Aunt Sybilla could on this same account have 
 forgiven her niece a good deal, if Muriel had 
 shown any disposition to keep up friendly rela- 
 tions with her. As Muriel did not, Aunt Sybilla 
 never missed a chance of saying something spite- 
 ful about her. To the other children she was 
 merely a name. They had only vague memories 
 of her. Esther, the girl in the office, admired 
 her and would have liked to talk about her at 
 home, but she was afraid, as they all were, of 
 Aunt Sybilla's bitter tongue and the satirical 
 comments she was always ready to make with 
 that effective little stammer of hers. 
 
 "S-some people are born doormats," had been 
 rapped out once, when Esther did mention her 
 married sister and some kindness she had done, 
 "but I'm not going to 1-lie down and be walked
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 187. 
 
 over by anybody, least of all a b-blood relation." 
 
 So Esther said no more. 
 
 Periodically the Tansteads paid visits to his 
 maiden aunts and endured their bickering among 
 themselves through a lunch or tea, and departed 
 thankful that that was over. An entirely differ- 
 ent feeling was Tanstead's towards his uncle, the 
 Bishop ; they had never given up writing to each 
 other and giving accounts of their lives, so their 
 hearts had kept in touch, and when, after many 
 broken plans, the Bishop announced at last that 
 he was to come home to England for a holiday, 
 his nephew was sincerely pleased, and would have 
 altogether delighted in the prospect if he had been 
 able to look forward to introducing the Bishop 
 to Margaret and the little boys. He disliked 
 having any secret from the man who had won his 
 love and gratitude as a boy, but he could not see 
 how it could possibly be disclosed. 
 
 Out of a third-class railway carriage window 
 the Bishop renewed his acquaintance with the 
 landscape of south-western England, after an 
 absence of close on twenty years. He looked 
 at the park-like stretches of wooded landscape 
 across which the low sun sent long shadows of 
 magnificent oak and elm. He looked at the 
 hedge-divided fields, the ancient churches and the 
 red-roofed villages clustering around them. He 
 drank in the quiet beauty, the charm of tidiness
 
 188 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 and tradition, with a smile of enjoyment on his 
 still handsome, strong, clean-shaven features. 
 
 England, he reflected, in the rural parts at any 
 rate, still had that atmosphere of immemorial 
 order and comfort that distinguished it from 
 other countries. If one were set down haphazard 
 somewhere on the continent of Europe, some- 
 where in America, North or South, it would be 
 hard to tell at a glance which country one was in. 
 Impossible to feel any such doubt in the English 
 country-side. 
 
 The train approached a town. The fields were 
 polluted by hideous brick-boxes, single at first, 
 then in rows. Gaunt warehouses stood up drear- 
 ily, chimneys foully smoked, a huddle of buildings 
 closed round the railway track, beauty and charm 
 were obliterated. 
 
 "That isn't England," the Bishop said to him- 
 self. "You can see that sort of thing everywhere, 
 though most everywhere it's a bit better than that. 
 The cities and towns aren't English, nor are the 
 people in 'em, so far as I can judge from the 
 newspapers. An ill-balanced, hysterical lot!" 
 
 But the train was soon rushing through the 
 country-side again, and he was comforted, and 
 he thought to himself that it was worth staying 
 away so long to get so much pleasure out of 
 coming home. Those who never do stay long 
 out of England never realise what love of home 
 means. To return after an absence of years is to 
 feel towards the country as no home-keeping 
 Englishman can. 
 
 He was still in this mood of grateful exhilara-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 189 
 
 tion next morning as he sat in the Tansteads' flat 
 smoking his pipe after breakfast, and looking 
 round the room. It was a pleasant room, sunny 
 at this hour of the morning, always light and 
 cheerful. Over the mantelpiece there was no mir- 
 ror, but three shelves of books. On the walls 
 hung da Vinci's Gioconda, Sargent's Carmencita 
 and Bellini's Holy Family, all in photogravure. 
 Round the walls were low bookcases; standing 
 upon them a few statuettes, also a couple of Jap- 
 anese prints. The effect suggested taste and 
 comfort, thought the Bishop, but not luxury. 
 Anything that can fairly be described as luxu- 
 rious must be vulgar, because excessive. This 
 room spoke of mind and eye cultivated in the 
 direction of beauty. So far the surroundings 
 seemed to suggest that his godson had made wise 
 choice of a wife. 
 
 He had scarcely seen Muriel the night before. 
 He had reached the house late; she only gave 
 him greeting and welcome, then left him to Ed- 
 ward. In that brief space of time the impression 
 she received had been a pleasant one. Save for 
 his dress, the Bishop would have looked less like 
 an ecclesiastic than a prosperous landowner from 
 some British dominion or possession overseas. 
 He was tall and well set-up. His fifty-six years 
 had passed lightly over him. His open-air life 
 kept old age at bay. With the eyes of an idealist, 
 he combined the chin of a man of action. His 
 eager expression was meant to show that he of-
 
 190 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 fered perpetual challenge to slackness and sham: 
 he honestly believed that he did. 
 
 Before he sat down again, after getting up to 
 look at the Bellini, while he warmed his hands, 
 Muriel joined him. 
 
 "Oh, Bishop," she began, "I'm so sorry, I've 
 kept you waiting for breakfast." 
 
 "No, no," he said. "I had breakfast with Ed- 
 ward an hour ago." 
 
 "I'm glad for your sake. I should have liked 
 your company, though." 
 
 "You shall have it now. My pipe can wait." 
 
 "Oh no, please go on smoking. I'm going to 
 myself, as soon as I've had a cup of tea." 
 
 "Going to smoke?" asked the Bishop, with in- 
 credulous amazement in his tone. 
 
 "Don't women smoke in Patagonia?" she in- 
 quired lightly, ringing the bell for her tea. 
 
 "I should like to see them try it," said the 
 Bishop, with a grim smile. 
 
 "Oh, Bishop, you don't disapprove, do you? 
 Didn't you know we all smoked nowadays?" 
 
 "I have read something of the kind in the news- 
 papers from home," the Bishop answered gravely. 
 
 "But I thought they meant " He finished 
 
 the sentence with a shrug. 
 
 "Oh no," said Muriel; "quite respectable 
 women do it. You'd call me respectable, 
 wouldn't you?" 
 
 "My dear Muriel, I only saw you for a few 
 minutes last night," the Bishop began heavily. 
 A laugh from her showed him his blunder. It 
 was nearly twenty years since he had indulged in
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 191 
 
 badinage of this frivolous kind. "I meant to 
 say," he went on, "how can you ask such a ques- 
 tion?" 
 
 "Well," she said, "you never know, do you? 
 Suppose you had come home and found your 
 godson married to " 
 
 "Muriel, please 1" 
 
 With a gay little laugh, she dismissed the last 
 idea and changed the subject. 
 
 "Well, how did you sleep?" 
 
 "Soundly. After Patagonia and six weeks on 
 board ship, well, you can't beat English beds. 
 They haven't deteriorated, at any rate." 
 
 Muriel looked at him oddly. 
 
 "What papers do you read in Patagonia?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, The Weekly Times and the Guardian, 
 and But why?" 
 
 "I was wondering what made you think Eng- 
 land was deteriorating." 
 
 "Hasn't it?" he said shortly. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders lightly. 
 
 "I don't know. We aren't quite so stuffy as 
 we used to be, if you mean that. Women aren't, 
 I mean." 
 
 "Stuffy?" repeated the Bishop inquiringly. 
 
 "Not so dufl and domestic and dear-mam- 
 maish see-the-cook-every-morning-after-break- 
 fast, all that sort of thing, you know." 
 
 "It seems a convenient hour," the Bishop re- 
 flected. 
 
 "What does? Oh, to see the cook? Yes, if 
 one wants to see her."
 
 192 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "You must order dinner, I suppose." 
 
 "Why? That's what I pay the cook to do- 
 or rather, Edward does. I haven't a penny, you 
 know." 
 
 "Fortunately, Edward is doing well at the 
 Bar, so he tells me." 
 
 "Yes, he's getting quite a big practice. He 
 works hard enough. How did he look this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 "A little pale, I thought," the Bishop made 
 answer, evidently surprised. "But haven't you 
 seen him?" 
 
 Muriel looked surprised now. Pausing, tea- 
 cup in hand, and looking at him with raised 
 brows, "Oh, no," she said, "I never get up to 
 breakfast when he is so early." 
 
 "But," stammered the Bishop, "before break- 
 fast?" 
 
 "No," she said, quite unconcerned, pouring out 
 another cup of tea, "not unless he has anything 
 particular to say." 
 
 "Then you don't " He hesitated for a 
 
 phrase. 
 
 Muriel looked up puzzled, but at once caught 
 his meaning. 
 
 "Oh, we've always had our own rooms." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "That's not the fashion in Patagonia?" asked 
 Muriel, just a shade spitefully, annoyed by the 
 disapproval implied in his look and tone. 
 
 "No," he said gently. 
 
 Then there was a lull in the conversation. 
 
 "I've been looking at your pictures," he said
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 193 
 
 after a pause of some instants, "especially that 
 Madonna and Child." 
 
 "Oh, the Bellini," she said indifferently. "Ed- 
 ward stuck that up." 
 
 "Don't you care for it, then?" 
 
 "All the Madonnas are so much alike, aren't 
 they?" 
 
 The Bishop looked at her closely. 
 
 "Edward used to be very fond of children," 
 he said. 
 
 "Yes, very," she replied lightly. "He is still." 
 
 "Are you?" 
 
 "I? No, I don't think I am. When they're 
 tiny, they dribble. It makes me feel sick. Then 
 they get older, and do nothing but ask questions 
 and have the measles." 
 
 "Muriel," said the Bishop impressively, "may 
 I ask you an intimate question?" 
 
 "Fire away. I mean, ask anything you like, 
 Bishop." 
 
 "What do you consider to be the object of 
 marriage?" 
 
 Muriel reflected with her pretty head on one 
 side. 
 
 "It's a convenient arrangement sometimes. 
 I suppose originally it was invented by your pro- 
 fession." 
 
 "Please try to be serious." 
 
 Muriel made a wry face. 
 
 "Children," the Bishop continued, "not only 
 brighten, they sanctify a home." 
 
 "I hope you aren't going to begin lecturing 
 me about Home, Bishop," said Muriel gaily. "It
 
 194 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 suggests so much that is tiresome and stuffy." 
 "To me," said the Bishop, "it suggests all that 
 is touching and beautiful." 
 
 "I'm delighted to hear it. Family prayers, 
 I suppose, and roast beef at one o'clock on Sun- 
 days, and dear papa with whiskers, and dear 
 mamma in cap and shawl, and music after din- 
 ner, and bed at ten, and interesting events loath- 
 some phrase once a year. Now you're shocked, 
 I suppose. I'm sorry. I beg your pardon." 
 
 The Bishop said nothing. He bent his head 
 in silent acknowledgment.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 "BuT if your tastes aren't . . . aren't domestic, 
 Muriel," the Bishop began again after a few 
 moments, "how do you spend your time?" 
 
 "I read a good deal. I go about and see peo- 
 ple. And I work quite hard at dressmaking 
 sometimes." 
 
 "Dressmaking? But surely there is no 
 need " 
 
 "No need, exactly," she said. "It amuses me. 
 I'm rather clever at it. And we don't live at a 
 great rate, you know." 
 
 "But a man with Edward's practice " 
 
 "Oh, we have enough quite as much as we 
 want." 
 
 "You go out of town a good deal, perhaps?" 
 
 "Edward is generally away from Saturday to 
 Monday." 
 
 "Without you?" 
 
 "Cer-tain-ly," replied Muriel playfully. "It 
 does him good. It does us both good. We have 
 much more to say when we haven't seen each 
 other for a day or two." 
 
 "You speak," said the Bishop, knocking out 
 the ashes of his pipe against the grate, "as if you 
 were merely friends." 
 
 IPS
 
 196 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "It's when husbands and wives aren't friends 
 that they lead cat-and-dog lives," returned Muriel 
 defiantly. 
 
 The Bishop ignored the challenge. 
 
 "Is this going away a recent development?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "No, Edward's made a habit of it for a long 
 time three or four years, I should think. He 
 lets me go away too whenever I want to." 
 
 "You do ask his leave, then?" said the Bishop 
 grimly. 
 
 "Not leave exactly," pouted Muriel. "We 
 talk it over." 
 
 "So the modern wife is not entirely indepen- 
 dent," the Bishop growled. 
 
 Muriel looked up at him doubtfully. 
 
 "You aren't being horrid to me, Bishop, are 
 you?" 
 
 "I hope not," he replied. 
 
 "I think you're a little shall I say old-fash- 
 ioned? you know. It's bad for women to be 
 dependent on men." 
 
 The Bishop's eyebrows went up. 
 
 "They always have been," he said shortly. 
 
 "Well, if they have, that's why so many of them 
 have been unhappy. It's sure to make them 
 unhappy sooner or later. Men don't like it 
 either not the right kind of men." 
 
 The Bishop was evidently puzzled. 
 
 "But how can a wife be independent of her 
 husband?" 
 
 "Quite easily," said Muriel. "She ought to 
 be independent in the money way, if possible,
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 197 
 
 and certainly in in other ways," she concluded 
 vaguely. 
 
 "What other ways?" 
 
 "Oh, they shouldn't be too wrapped up in their 
 husbands. They needn't think the world would 
 come to an end for them if they dissolved part- 
 nership. Edward and I get on very well to- 
 gether, better than most people I know. But if 
 he wanted to break things up, I could stand alone. 
 I shouldn't object." 
 
 "But you're man and wife," protested the 
 Bishop. 
 
 "Haven't you ever heard of man and wife de- 
 ciding to be friends at a distance?" 
 
 "Never," said the Bishop, with disapproving 
 emphasis. 
 
 "You are behind the time." 
 
 The Bishop's reply was, perhaps fortunately, 
 prevented by a tap at the door, and the servant 
 showing in Tony. 
 
 The years had brought to Tony his aunt's 
 money ; it was enough to keep him very comforta- 
 bly; in general, however, it had not improved 
 him. He had given up even the pretence of 
 working. He had put on flesh and lost the eager 
 look from his eyes ; his smile, though still attract- 
 ive, had not any longer its irresistible charm. 
 He was not so ready as he once had been to make 
 fun of everything and everybody, though when 
 his fancy inclined that way he could be delight- 
 fully funny. He seemed satisfied with the situa- 
 tion of Muriel's tame cat into which he had 
 slipped pretty soon after her marriage, at first
 
 198 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 to the annoyance, but later on to the relief of 
 Tanstead, who was sincerely glad, after his sec- 
 ond household had been set up, that Muriel should 
 have someone to take her about, someone upon 
 whom she could rely for companionship and who 
 amused her. 
 
 "Morning, Tony," said Muriel. "Come to ask 
 me to go motoring?" 
 
 "That's the idea," he answered, with a glance 
 of curiosity at the Bishop. 
 
 "A good guess, wasn't it?" she went on, and 
 then, turning to the Bishop : "Bishop," she said, 
 "this is Tony." 
 
 The Bishop looked blank. 
 
 "Surely Edward's told you about him?" 
 Muriel queried "Tony Hilford, a great friend 
 of ours." 
 
 "Ah, I believe . . . yes, I think I remember." 
 
 The Bishop shook hands rather disapprovingly, 
 
 Muriel thought. He made no remark. Tony 
 
 glanced at her with a flicker of amusement in 
 
 his eye. 
 
 "Well," she said briskly, "what time do you 
 want to start?" 
 
 "Twelve o'clock, eh? Looks like being quite 
 a decent day. I'll be round with the car." 
 
 He looked at the Bishop, but the Bishop was 
 attending to his pipe, so Tony murmured, 
 "Au'voir," and went out. Muriel was busy with 
 a bowl of flowers, rearranging them, cutting 
 their stalks. There was a silence after Tony had 
 gone out. Then, looking over the Bishop with 
 an expression half amused, half defiant, she
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 199 
 
 asked: "You don't quite approve of me, do you?" 
 
 "I claim no right to criticise," said the Bishop 
 coldly. 
 
 "Surely there is no need to claim that. It's 
 the one right we're all born with. Think how, 
 dull life would be without it!" 
 
 "I admit," the Bishop said, ignoring her chaff, 
 "that I am a little surprised. Do you often go 
 out driving with Mr. er, Hilford?" 
 
 "Now do, for goodness sake, let us get this 
 cleared up for once." 
 
 Muriel put the flowers down and went over 
 and faced him. 
 
 "Please understand that I am not in love with 
 Tony, and Tony isn't in love with me. He is 
 often here, very often. He lives just round the 
 corner. And I often go out with him. But we're 
 just friends. . . . Yes, yes, I know. In your 
 young days a wife's best friend was her husband 
 her only friend, in fact. But, dear Bishop, 
 don't be Early Victorian, Am I abominably 
 rude?" 
 
 "Don't apologise. I like frankness," the 
 Bishop answered, grim again. 
 
 "Do you really? In other people? That's 
 sweet of you. Then you aren't Early Victorian 
 a bit. Ah, here's Edward back." 
 
 Tanstead, unlike Tony, had kept the buoyancy 
 of youth. He had escaped, as Muriel hoped he 
 would, the bloodless, expressionless face, the 
 ferret-like nose, the dull eyes which disfigure so 
 many successful advocates. He did not look any 
 older than he looked when Muriel and he first
 
 200 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 met; indeed the very slight greying of his hair 
 at the sides took away its wig-like aspect and 
 made him appear actually younger. Muriel felt 
 proud of him as he came boyishly into the room. 
 
 "At any rate, I've kept him from premature 
 old age," she said to herself. "The Bishop will 
 have to give me credit for that." 
 
 "Well, Pater," Tanstead said, "I haven't heen 
 long, have I ? Now I've got the day clear. Morn- 
 ing, Muriel, how are you? Oh, by the way, what 
 about the papers in that trespass case? Have 
 you looked at them?" 
 
 "No, but I will now. I'll give you an idea of 
 them after dinner. You'll be in to dinner to- 
 night, of course?" 
 
 "Yes, rather." 
 
 "On a Saturday! Quite an event!" she said. 
 "I'll go and read them now. Excuse me, Bishop, 
 won't you?" 
 
 She gathered up the flowers to take them with 
 her. 
 
 "Oh, by the way," Edward asked her, "what 
 about that invitation from the Vennings?" 
 
 "I accepted. You meant to go, didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes; they generally get some amusing peo- 
 ple. But I thought we had something else for 
 Tuesday week." 
 
 "No. Only the pictures in the afternoon. 
 You'll come with me there, won't you?" 
 
 "If I can, and if you'll explain them to me." 
 
 "Trust me," replied Muriel gaily, as she went 
 out.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 201 
 
 "Well, Pater,'* Edward said, turning to his 
 godfather, "sunshine, a holiday and you: splen- 
 did!" 
 
 But the Bishop was still pondering over some- 
 thing which had gone before. 
 
 "Does your wife help in your work, then?" 
 he asked. "She didn't tell me that." 
 
 "Yes, she's got a capital head for my kind 
 of work. It's an interest for her, and it saves 
 me a certain amount of grind." 
 
 "H'm. Rather short of interests, isn't she?" 
 
 "I don't think so," Edward answered; "not as 
 women go nowadays. We always find plenty to 
 talk about." 
 
 The Bishop looked at him keenly for a mo- 
 ment. Then he seemed to take a decision. 
 
 "Edward, my boy," he began, "are you 
 happy?" 
 
 "Yes, Pater, happy enough." 
 
 "I've had a talk with Muriel," the Bishop went 
 on. 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "How have things come to this pass between 
 you?" 
 
 "What has she told you?" asked Tanstead in 
 some surprise. 
 
 "Quite enough. I know all about it." 
 
 "Well," said Edward slowly he naturally 
 found it difficult to discuss the matter "it's been 
 like that since well, pretty well ever since we 
 were married."
 
 THE FltUlT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Why! Whose doing was itf 
 "Mot mini naturally, or why should I have 
 _ jE, ~* ~* T^ j, &.& 
 
 "Why did you allow it?* die Bishop asked, in 
 tone of mingled amazement ma mdignahoQ. 
 
 darit talk about 4 aBoirii^' women to do 
 You re nMiirfhil the 
 
 "1 cant mlnajiid it. Ton wrote and told 
 me when you were engaged that yon had found 
 the key to the punle of fife. Bid you lose it 
 
 replied Edward lenectingly, "for a 
 
 "You wanted a family, didn't your 
 "M. used to dream before we wut married, 
 : said dowry, "that I saw Muriel with a ehud 
 her arms. It was a wonderful a wonderful 
 
 he ^ntmn sharply. 
 '.And why hasn't it come true?" 
 
 looked at things in that 
 
 wmy. 
 
 "Then why in tike name of of all that's 
 
 w * ten 
 
 ntn sne ma 1 1 v you? 
 
 said Edward slowly, "that 
 
 The IMmji's patience left mm. 
 
 '"'Come, cnmr, nry boy, there isn't a girl in 
 
 "Quite so,*" letutled Edward sarcastically, 
 no higher vAnf*tim for women in
 
 THE JfUUlT OF THE TREE 208 
 
 "But, God Mess 117 soul/ 9 said fee Bishop, 
 "you don't mean to tell me - " 
 
 "IH tefl yon just what happened, Pfcter," aid 
 Edward qrietry. Muriel didn't ratty care for 
 me. I was so much in lore that I didn't see it. 
 She nfcfld me well enough as a. ^"mf*""" 1 ^ and. 
 soon." 
 
 ""Hadn't sbe ewer read the marriage service? 
 fumed the Bishop. 
 
 "T suppose she'd heard it read, hot they dor 
 that part over. Parsons seem a bit afraid of it. 
 Perhaps because they generally hare such big 
 famibes themselves. Anyway, Jffmiel didnt 
 
 "A wife who evades the consequences for 
 whkJi inai iage was DBBteoV said the Btsiiop 
 ila^MuJ., ""is no betid than - 
 
 stopped, and then added: *Tn fact, there's no 
 
 difleiqice that I can see. 9 " 
 Well, Muriel thoiightsBehad 
 
 stand how she fett." 
 
 "Before you were niatiied, you 
 Tes. Shed tried to drop me a hmt." 
 *Tf you'd understood it, you wouldn't 
 
 "I shouldn't have befiered she meant it" 
 
 "What sort of a. hint was it?" 
 
 "When I asked her why she hadn't told me 
 plainly, she said that one day on an omnibus she 
 pointed to a nurse with a perambulator, and tali 
 me she couldn't stand that sort of thing. She 
 thought that was plain enough, she said." 
 
 "But, my dear Edward," Ac Bishop put in,
 
 204 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 knocking his pipe out against the grate, "it was 
 your duty to put all objections aside." 
 
 "That's easy enough to say, Pater. But I 
 had my feelings too." 
 
 "Of course. The proper feelings, the natural 
 feelings." 
 
 "I thought so. I think so still." 
 
 "Well, then?" said the Bishop interrogatively. 
 
 Edward let a few moments pass before he re- 
 plied. Then he said, with some impatience: 
 
 "It's all very well to argue. Put yourself in 
 my place." 
 
 "You talked to her?" inquired his godfather. 
 
 "I tried to." 
 
 "Hadn't it any effect at all?" 
 
 "None whatever. So I let her go her own 
 way." 
 
 "You were wrong, my boy, very wrong," said 
 the Bishop. 
 
 "It was the only way. I don't say it couldn't 
 be done, but I couldn't do it." 
 
 "It was lamentably weak of you, Edward." 
 
 "I tell you, Pater, I had no choice." 
 
 "And so for all these years," said the Bishop 
 heavily, and then stopped, struck by a sudden 
 thought. "Edward," he inquired sharply, 
 "where do you go on Saturdays and Sundays?" 
 
 Edward turned quickly and faced him. 
 
 "Yes, I have heard about this habit of yours 
 too. Where do you go?" 
 
 "Oh, into the country, you know," Edward 
 answered lightly. 
 
 "By yourself?"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 205 
 
 "No, not as a rule. Did Muriel tell you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What else did she say about it?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever. Edward, where do you 
 go?" 
 
 Edward got up and walked over to the fire- 
 place uneasily. 
 
 "Pater," he said, "I meant to tell you. I'd 
 made up my mind to it." 
 
 "Ha!" interjected the Bishop, "so there is 
 something to tell." 
 
 iii 
 
 Tanstead sat down nervously at the table. 
 
 The Bishop took a chair on the opposite side 
 and put his elbows on the table in a waiting atti- 
 tude. 
 
 "You trust me still, Pater, don't you?" Ed- 
 ward began. 
 
 "I'm not so sure," ventured the Bishop grimly. 
 "Let me hear." 
 
 "But you'd give me the benefit of the doubt," 
 persisted his godson. "Suppose you'd heard I'd 
 done something you are accustomed to call dis- 
 graceful, you wouldn't condemn me offhand?" 
 
 "Anything I call disgraceful, Edward, my boy, 
 is disgraceful." 
 
 Then with an emphasis born of sudden illumi- 
 nation the Bishop added: "You spend your week- 
 ends with another woman!" 
 
 "Let me explain, Pater. Defer judgment. 
 Give me a chance."
 
 
 206 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Well, go on." 
 
 "For two years I stood it. I hoped things 
 would come right. I told myself they must." 
 
 "No other man in the case?" inquired the 
 Bishop, evidently rather proud of his worldly 
 intuition. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Sure?" 
 
 "Yes, quite." 
 
 "And you get on well otherwise?" 
 
 "Very well indeed." 
 
 "You didn't pretend not to care?" 
 
 "No; she knew I cared a great deal, so much 
 that I thought it impossible she could go on not 
 caring. I had never dreamed of such a situation 
 arising. It seemed so extraordinary such a thing 
 should happen to me." 
 
 "Wasn't there any alteration as time went 
 on?" 
 
 "None at all. She was pleased enough to go 
 about with me, or to be at home with me. She 
 began to take an interest in my work. Intellectu- 
 ally it was a capital arrangement. But to me it 
 was unsatisfactory, unsatisfying." 
 
 "You had hoped for a family?" 
 
 "Yes, I had, and for a wife who who cared." 
 
 "Well, you went on hoping for two years. 
 And then?" 
 
 "One day in April we'd been married a cou- 
 ple of years in March I wanted to dictate some 
 letters, and I sent out for a typist. A girl 
 came " 
 
 " Abominable 1" interjected the Bishop.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 207 
 
 "My dear Pater, girls must earn a living." 
 
 "What a state of things!" 
 
 "At first I took no particular notice of her." 
 
 "This was at your chambers, of course?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, we talked a little. She made me feel 
 rather sorry for her." 
 
 "That was a symptom which ought to have 
 warned you." 
 
 "She wasn't particularly pretty, but there was 
 a look in her eyes, a look of expectation, of pa- 
 tience, that touched me." 
 
 "You should have sent her away at once." 
 
 "What an old cynic you are, Pater," said Ed- 
 ward, half humorously, half annoyed. 
 
 "I know how many beans make five, my boy," 
 replied the Bishop, and set his lips tight. "Well," 
 he continued, after an instant's silence, "you 
 began to pity her. What for?" 
 
 "I could see she wasn't content to be a clerk. 
 She was a motherly sort of type, or, better still, 
 a Madonna-like type one of those pleasant, 
 homely Madonnas you see in Umbria." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know the type." 
 
 "Her father was a farmer, it appeared. She 
 was a capable country girl, brought up to make 
 herself useful, and then by some freak of Fate 
 pitchforked into a typewriting office. Father and 
 mother dead. No relations to speak of. Lived 
 in a boarding-house for business women. Hadn't 
 spoken to a man except in the way of business 
 for months."
 
 208 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "So you made an impression," said the Bishop, 
 grim again. 
 
 "We liked one another, certainly." 
 
 "And that wasn't the last time you dictated 
 to her?" 
 
 "No, I got into the habit of it. And then one 
 night I took her out to Richmond." 
 
 "You didn't mention it to your wife, I sup- 
 pose?" 
 
 "Not that time. I had said something to her, 
 I forget what exactly. If I'd told her all about 
 it she'd only have been amused." 
 
 "Amused?" echoed the Bishop in shocked 
 tones. "What at?" 
 
 "At the idea of having a possible rival." 
 
 "Wouldn't she have minded?" 
 
 "Not a bit. She had always said I could go 
 my own way, as she put it, if I wanted to. Up 
 to then I hadn't wanted." 
 
 "And after the outing to Richmond?" 
 
 "I took her home, not even in a cab, by train, 
 and said good-night in an off-hand way at the 
 door." 
 
 "And then," said the Bishop, "the outings be- 
 came regular?" 
 
 "Gradually, yes." 
 
 "And you left off mentioning them to your 
 wife?" 
 
 "It annoyed me that she should laugh. Of 
 course I knew she didn't care, but the laugh 
 rubbed it in." 
 
 "You got over your dislike of deceit?"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 209 
 
 "I couldn't altogether. I haven't altogether 
 yet." 
 
 With an incredulous "H'm!" the Bishop 
 pushed back his chair, got up and walked to the 
 fireplace. He stood for almost a minute, looking 
 into the fire.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 WHEN at last he turned round, the Bishop spoke 
 sorrowfully. 
 
 "You've terribly disappointed me, Edward," 
 he lamented. 
 
 "Yes," replied Edward, "I disappointed my- 
 self at any rate, one part of myself. I knew 
 it was disgraceful and all that." 
 
 "Repentance without amendment." 
 
 "I couldn't believe in such a thing happening 
 to me. If anyone had told me that three years 
 after marriage I should be making love to another 
 woman, the very thought would have shocked 
 me. I always hated that kind of thing. I never 
 had any idea that we shouldn't live together as 
 happily as other married people I knew." 
 
 "Why on earth didn't you?" 
 
 "My dear Pater, I've been telling you." 
 
 "No, no, you've merely told me the fact. You 
 haven't explained it." 
 
 "You must ask Muriel to do that." 
 
 "Well, well, but even if Two blacks don't 
 make a white," said the Bishop, with sledge- 
 hammer emphasis. 
 
 "Sometimes I almost think they do," returned 
 Edward bitterly. "I suppose," he added more 
 
 210
 
 gently, "you'll say I've lost my moral standard.'* 
 
 "I'm trying to judge you kindly, my boy," 
 said the Bishop. "Don't sneer and make it harder 
 for me." 
 
 "I've changed, I know," Edward admitted. 
 "Men do change as they go through life. Cir- 
 cumstances change them." 
 
 "A strong man is stronger than circum- 
 stances," the Bishop retorted. 
 
 "A strong man gets what he wants out of 
 life. If he fails once, he tries again. If the usual 
 road is blocked, he finds out a path for himself." 
 
 "By a strong man, you evidently mean one 
 without principles." 
 
 "I'm not unprincipled, Pater. But somehow 
 life is a bigger thing than a principle." 
 
 "That's the excuse all big sinners make." 
 
 "I've done wrong, I know," Edward answered, 
 "but I'm not a wrong 'un. I used to think any- 
 one who did the sort of thing I've done must be 
 bad all through. I know now it isn't so." 
 
 "You're playing with your conscience, my 
 boy." 
 
 "I thought such a man must deteriorate all 
 round." 
 
 "So he must," broke in the Bishop; "he's 
 bound to." 
 
 "Honestly, I don't think I have." 
 
 "Hard cases make bad law," the Bishop said. 
 "You're a lawyer and can't help knowing that." 
 
 "Bad laws make hard cases too." 
 
 "You wouldn't abolish the law of marriage?" 
 
 "No, of course not. But look here, you'll
 
 212 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 admit, I suppose, that marriage is a contract?" 
 
 "A sacred contract." 
 
 "Well, if one party to a contract doesn't keep 
 it, the other party isn't bound by it." 
 
 "Now you're quoting man's law." 
 
 "But you wouldn't deny the justice of it?" 
 
 "Man's justice," said the Bishop, with emphasis 
 on "man's." 
 
 "It's unthinkable that God could be less just 
 than man." 
 
 "No, no, Edward, you can't convince me with 
 your legal quibbles." 
 
 "Muriel broke our contract," insisted Edward 
 doggedly. 
 
 "You should have made her keep it." 
 
 "That's impossible. A man I know a client 
 whose case was sent to me for an opinion he 
 was in the same position. He tried to do what 
 you say. His wife deliberately well, she pre- 
 vented the child from being born." 
 
 "What has come to women?" asked the Bishop, 
 with furrowed brow. 
 
 "They're only the exceptions so far," said 
 Edward. "Still, there are a good few of them." 
 
 He walked to the window and looked rather 
 gloomily out. 
 
 "Well, well, that may be," said the Bishop 
 sharply, "but all this doesn't excuse your con- 
 duct, my boy." 
 
 "Life's been a different thing to me, though.
 
 When I'm down there with Margaret and the 
 children " 
 
 "The children? Good God, then, this woman 
 isn't a a light woman of the ordinary type?" 
 
 Edward laughed, a little harshly. 
 
 "You're called an unconventional Bishop, 
 Pater, but you think just the same as the rest 
 of them; just as I used to think myself too!" 
 
 "Tell me, then, tell me," the Bishop said. 
 
 "Meg a light woman! Meg's the best mother 
 in the world!" 
 
 "Then all the more shame to you for not 
 giving her a proper position," said the Bishop 
 hotly. 
 
 "How could I ?" Edward asked in amazement. 
 
 "How could you? It was your duty to find 
 a way." 
 
 "Then you think this makes a difference?" 
 
 "Of course it does all the difference. In 
 Patagonia ' ' 
 
 The Bishop suddenly stopped. He recollected 
 that Patagonia and Great Britain are a long way 
 apart. He changed his tone. 
 
 "Of course," he said, "it doesn't excuse your 
 past conduct, not in the slightest." 
 
 "But," he added, "it ought to affect your fu- 
 ture conduct." 
 
 "What ought I to do?" 
 
 "What you ought to have done long ago. You 
 ought to have been open and honest and told the 
 whole story." 
 
 "And got a divorce?" 
 
 "I suppose so. Yes."
 
 214 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "That was impossible," returned Edward 
 quietly. 
 
 "It was only made impossible by your coward- 
 ice." 
 
 "My dear Pater, even if Muriel had consented 
 to sue for a divorce, which is very unlikely, and 
 even if I had struck her in the presence of wit- 
 nesses, or technically deserted her, honesty would 
 have been fatal." 
 
 "Yes, yes, I see. Collusion," the Bishop mur- 
 mured. 
 
 "If the Court knew we both wanted relief, 
 relief would have been refused." 
 
 "You could simply have left her. There need 
 have been no collusion." 
 
 "What could she have done? She has no 
 money?" 
 
 "She could have blamed no one but herself." 
 
 "I dare say. But once I loved her. I couldn't 
 simply cut her adrift." 
 
 "You could have made her an allowance." 
 
 "It's doubtful whether I could have earned a 
 living at all." 
 
 "What do you mean?" the Bishop asked. 
 
 "You forget how highly the Eleventh Com- 
 mandment is respected in England." 
 
 "The Eleventh yes, yes, I see!" 
 
 "Thou shalt not be found out!" 
 
 "But need it have been made public?" 
 
 "Your idea was to be open and honest, wasn't 
 it?" 
 
 The Bishop frowned. 
 
 "The only thing I see plain," he said testily,
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 215 
 
 "is that your duty was to the mother of your 
 children." 
 
 "Yes, I felt that." 
 
 "And your duty now is to the mother of your 
 children. Boys or girls?" 
 
 "Boys. Two." 
 
 "And she's a good mother to them?" 
 
 "Absolutely devoted." 
 
 "Take me to see them," said the Bishop. His 
 manner had completely altered. 
 
 "Really?" Edward looked more cheerful. 
 "Then, Pater, you don't think it's so bad as you 
 did?" 
 
 "Don't ask me, Edward. My mind is at sea." 
 
 "You admit there's something to be said for 
 me?" 
 
 "Much that has always seemed simple has 
 grown complicated." 
 
 The Bishop thought for a few moments. Then 
 he jerked out: "How old?" 
 
 "Three and two. Such healthy little beg- 
 gars." 
 
 The cloud deepened on the Bishop's face. 
 
 "I must think think and pray, my boy; and 
 pray." 
 
 There was another interval of silence. Then 
 Edward said simply: 
 
 "Pater, I'm glad you know." 
 
 "Let's go to-day," the Bishop proposed im- 
 pulsively. "Now!" 
 
 "Very well, I could motor you down. Let's 
 go and get the car." 
 
 Both rose and crossed the room. As they
 
 216 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 reached the door, Edward stopped and said 
 pleadingly : 
 
 "You'll be considerate with Meg, won't you, 
 Pater?" 
 
 "I hope I shall not be wanting in considera- 
 tion. But I must see for myself what kind of 
 woman she is." 
 
 "Come along then," said Edward. "You must 
 put on a thick coat." 
 
 iii 
 
 Just at that moment Muriel, ready for her 
 drive, appeared in the doorway. 
 
 Both men showed some signs of constraint. 
 She noticed nothing, however. 
 
 "Well, I'm ready, and it's time for Tony to 
 be here," she said gaily. "When are you lazy 
 people going to start?" 
 
 "We're just going," Edward answered. 
 
 "Which way are you going?" 
 
 The two men glanced at one another. 
 
 "We are going to see a friend of mine," said 
 the Bishop. 
 
 "Couldn't we meet and all have tea together 
 somewhere?" she asked. 
 
 But before she could get an answer the maid 
 came in. 
 
 "Mr. Hilford is here in the motor, madam." 
 
 Edward took the Bishop's arm. 
 
 "We'll go. Good-bye, Muriel." 
 
 And he hurried the Bishop out of the room. 
 
 "We shall be back to dinner at a quarter to 
 eight, Phelps. Or better make it half -past seven.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 217 
 
 I'm going to the theatre. TeU Mr. Hilford I'll 
 be down in a moment." 
 
 She went to the glass and began to put finish- 
 ing touches to her hat and veil. But just then 
 Tony came into the room. He had not waited 
 for her message. 
 
 "Edward said I'd better come up," he re- 
 marked apologetically. "How jolly of you to be 
 ready. Where shall we go?" 
 
 "Oh, bother," Muriel cried. "I forgot to find 
 out which way Edward and the Bishop were 
 going. They were just telling me when we were 
 interrupted. I suppose they didn't say?" 
 
 "No; but Edward asked whether that old 
 police trap was still open on the road between 
 Godalming and Portsmouth. I shouldn't won- 
 der if they've gone that way." 
 
 "Wouldn't you really? What a wonderful 
 head you've got, Tony. Well, we'll lunch at 
 Guildford and then go that way too."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 MARGARET was ironing. Ironing is a graceful 
 business; it showed off her well-rounded attrac- 
 tiveness to perfection. 
 
 Few women, few men either, understand how 
 poor are the chances of the "lady" to look attract- 
 ive when set against those of the working woman. 
 The lady spends most of her time sitting or stand- 
 ing or walking; in none of these attitudes does 
 she appear to particular advantage. Neither 
 lawn tennis nor golf exhibit her in a charming 
 light. In the saddle she looks delightful, but 
 then how few ride ! Whereas the working woman 
 is continually disposing herself into positions and 
 movements which to seeing eyes bring the joy 
 of unstudied harmony and natural grace. Even 
 in brushing a boot or cleaning a grate there is 
 very often beauty. In the process of leisurely 
 ironing no woman who is decently built can help 
 making a delightful impression. 
 
 Watch Margaret with her sleeves rolled up 
 over her shapely arms, soft hair coiled low at 
 the back of her neck, deep bosom rising and fall- 
 ing with the regularity of health. She passes 
 the iron to and fro over the linen white as snow, 
 she holds it near her cheek to see if it is hot 
 
 enough, she carries it at arm's-length into the 
 
 218
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 219 
 
 kitchen to put it on the gas stove, and brings 
 back another, held there in reserve, to carry on 
 with. All these motions display her figure to 
 the most engaging advantage. 
 
 No doubt she knew this, for she sang softly 
 and happily to herself in sign of contentment 
 with her lot. 
 
 The living-room of her cottage, where she 
 worked, had a fresh, countrified, open-air agree- 
 ableness. In at the windows came the scent of 
 early stock and late wall-flower. Two big loung- 
 ing chairs before the fireplace of open brick-work 
 showed that a man had helped to choose the furni- 
 ture. A small book-case stood against one wall 
 and opposite on a deal table, uncovered by any; 
 cloth, lay a number of children's toys. 
 
 Glancing round, her eye passed across these, 
 and she was reminded to call out: 
 
 "Eddie darling, are you and Peter all right?" 
 
 A small voice, shrill and eager, replied to her 
 with a confident "Yes, Mummy." 
 
 "Be good boys, and don't dirty your pinnies 
 too much." 
 
 The ironing and soft, happy singing were re- 
 sumed. 
 
 A few minutes slipped by, then the horn of a 
 motor car was heard along the quiet road, bring- 
 ing a note of apprehension into the stillness of 
 the light afternoon. 
 
 "Eddie," Margaret called again, "you aren't 
 in the road, are you?" 
 
 "No, Mummy, in ver garden." 
 
 Next moment the horn sounded close by. The
 
 220 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 noise of a car slowing up and stopping came to 
 Margaret's hearing. It was followed, to her 
 surprise, by screams of delight from the two little 
 hoys. Edward Tanstead's voice made Margaret 
 look towards the door with parted lips and shin- 
 ing eyes of welcome. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, what a surprise!" she exclaimed, 
 as he came in. "So you've been able to come 
 after all." 
 
 "Not to stay, Meg," he made answer, kissing 
 her, then looking at her fondly, holding her face 
 between his hands. "Not to stay this time, little 
 woman, I'm sorry to say." 
 
 "Didn't your godfather arrive?" 
 
 "Yes, last night." 
 
 He looked round and lowered his voice. "He's 
 here now outside with the kiddies." 
 
 "Ed the Bishop . . . here?" said Margaret, 
 aghast. 
 
 "I told him, Meg. I simply had to. And he's 
 been splendid!" 
 
 "Oh, but how could you bring him? And me 
 like this!" 
 
 She began to roll down her sleeves hurriedly, 
 trying at the same time to administer pats of dis- 
 cipline to straying strands of hair. 
 
 "No, don't," said Edward, laying his hands 
 on hers. "Let him see you as I did just now. 
 Please. Why not go on ironing?" 
 
 Margaret took up the iron doubtfully, then 
 suddenly put it down again. 
 
 "No, I can't really," she said. "I must be 
 decent."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 221 
 
 Edward went quickly to the door. 
 
 "Come in, Pater," he said. "Leave the kid- 
 dies to their mud pies," and as the Bishop ap- 
 peared in the doorway, he went on with a quiver 
 of nervousness in his voice: "This is Margaret, 
 Pater." 
 
 The Bishop halted a moment on the threshold. 
 Then he asked with grave, kind courtesy: "May 
 I come in?" 
 
 The warm colour flowed over Margaret's face 
 and neck. 
 
 "Please do," she said. "I hope you'll excuse 
 the untidiness. If I had known you were com- 
 ing " 
 
 "I like much better to see you busy," replied 
 the Bishop in the same tone as before. "Don't 
 stop if you've got your ironing to finish." 
 
 Margaret looked confused, first at the Bishop, 
 then at her husband. 
 
 "Oh no, I couldn't," she began. 
 
 "Yes, do, Meg," put in Edward. "I 
 know Pater won't mind. He'd rather you went 
 on." 
 
 "Well, then, if I may just finish these," said 
 Margaret, still uneasy. "I've nearly done." 
 
 She fell to ironing again, and for the next 
 few minutes worked rapidly. 
 
 "You don't do all your own work, do you?" 
 asked the Bishop. 
 
 "She does too much," said Edward. "I'm 
 always telling her so." 
 
 "Oh no," protested Margaret, "I have a woman 
 to help me. Really there's little for me to do."
 
 "She will insist on teaching the boys as well," 
 Edward complained. 
 
 "I can't teach them much," she said, still bent 
 over her iron. "You see, I had no great educa- 
 tion myself." 
 
 "Enough to make you a useful woman, my 
 dear," answered the Bishop; and then added, 
 smiling: "may I call you 'my dear'?" 
 
 "You're very good to me," said Margaret, with 
 a break in her voice, "and I know I ought to call 
 you 'my lord,' but somehow " 
 
 "No, no, I couldn't have that. Edward calls 
 me Pater. That means Father, you know. Sup- 
 pose you call me Pater too. They all do in 
 Patagonia." 
 
 There was a tear shining in one of Margaret's 
 big brown eyes as she said simply and earnestly: 
 "Thank you. You're very, very kind." 
 
 Now she folded up her ironing blanket and 
 cleared away the linen. 
 
 "Well," said Edward, anxious to leave the 
 other two alone, "I suppose I must go and re- 
 deem my promise to be a lion for a little while. 
 Will you do the honours, Meg? We might have 
 some tea presently." 
 
 Meg nodded brightly. Her self-possession 
 had come back. Edward went out, feeling almost 
 happy. 
 
 n .. 
 
 11 
 
 As Margaret was putting away the ironing 
 things on the table by the book-case, the Bishop 
 began to feel the need of some support in the 
 task before him.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 223 
 
 "Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, please do," said Margaret. And then 
 going up to him and holding out both her hands, 
 she exclaimed with deep emotion: "I can't tell 
 you how I feel how you've made me feel. I 
 never dreamt you would be so kind and gentle. 
 I know it's for Edward's sake, but still " 
 
 "Not altogether for Edward's sake, my dear," 
 interrupted the Bishop. 
 
 "It's made me so happy," she went on, wiping 
 the corners of her eyes. "And I've been very 
 unhappy since I knew you were coming." 
 
 "You were afraid?" 
 
 "Yes, afraid." 
 
 Very quietly and kindly, without any preachi- 
 ness, just as if he were speaking to a child, the 
 Bishop said: "We are always afraid when we have 
 done wrong, aren't we?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I know we did wrong," said Mar- 
 garet. "That often makes me unhappy too." 
 
 "You don't mind living quietly here?" 
 
 "No. I love the life. I love having the chil- 
 dren all to myself." 
 
 "You wouldn't like to change your life?" 
 
 Margaret was alarmed in an instant. 
 
 "You don't want me to change it, do you?" she 
 asked, full of apprehension. 
 
 "No, no, no," was the Bishop's soothing reply. 
 
 "Of course," said Margaret, "it was a terrible 
 . . . shock to you?" 
 
 "It was a great . . . surprise." 
 
 "You didn't know anything about Edward and 
 . his wife?"
 
 "I never dreamed of such a state of things." 
 
 "Do you think it makes . . . this . . . any 
 less wrong?" she asked timidly. 
 
 "Two wrongs can never make a right, my 
 child," said the Bishop sadly. "But I haven't 
 been able to think clearly yet," he added. 
 
 "There are times when I can't believe it's 
 true," she murmured. 
 
 "You never imagined such a thing happening?" 
 
 "Never," said Margaret, with a decisive 
 emphasis. 
 
 "I suppose you expected to marry?" 
 
 "I saw so few people." 
 
 "Did you want to be married I don't mean to 
 anybody in particular?" 
 
 "I envied women who had children," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 "You never thought of marriage without chil- 
 dren?" 
 
 "No, never. I just wanted children for my- 
 self. I couldn't understand any woman not want- 
 ing them." 
 
 "Yet you had no hope of marrying?" 
 
 "It didn't seem at all likely." 
 
 "And now, of course, you consider yourself 
 married to Edward?" 
 
 "Oh, if only we could have been married," 
 said Margaret, and gave signs of breaking down. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I know what you must feel," the 
 Bishop answered sympathetically, hoping to stave 
 off the crisis. "But you know he thinks of you 
 as his wife?" 
 
 "Yes ; but that isn't the same thing."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 225 
 
 "Not quite but still you always think of him 
 as your husband?" 
 
 "Yes, of course," said Margaret, wiping her 
 eyes. 
 
 "You couldn't imagine yourself parting from 
 him?" the Bishop asked. Muriel's assurance that 
 she could get on quite well without Edward ran- 
 kled in his mind. 
 
 "Parting from him and the children? But you 
 don't want us to part?" she asked, wide-eyed 
 and terror-stricken at the thought. 
 
 "No, no, my child!" 
 
 "His . . . his wife hasn't found out any- 
 thing?" 
 
 "Nothing whatever." 
 
 "I'm always so afraid she may," said Margaret, 
 wiping her eyes again. "What would she do, do 
 you think?" 
 
 "Well, upon my soul," said the Bishop, "she 
 seems to be such an unusual woman that I can't 
 guess what she would do." 
 
 "She doesn't care for him in the least, I sup- 
 pose?" asked Margaret, in a low voice. 
 
 "Not as a wife, certainly." 
 
 "Don't you think she ever did?" 
 
 "That is what Edward tells me." 
 
 "I can't understand it." 
 
 There was a pause in the conversation. 
 
 "And Edward?" she went on interrogatively. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 "Has he quite given up caring?" 
 
 "Surely he has proved that,' said the Bishop, 
 in some astonishment.
 
 226 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Yes, yes," Margaret answered, "but," she 
 went on hurriedly, "don't you see, I've never had 
 anyone to tell me anything about her. I can't 
 help wondering ... and imagining ... all 
 sorts of things. They are quite friends, aren't 
 they?" 
 
 "So far as I have seen," the Bishop replied, 
 still rather perplexed by the turn the conversa- 
 tion had taken. "They have interests in 
 common. And she helps him with some of his 
 work." 
 
 "Ah! so she's useful to him." 
 
 "But you mustn't think for a moment that 
 Edward could hesitate between you." 
 
 "No, no, I won't. Tell me something more 
 about her. I always think of her as hard and 
 ugly and old-looking. Oh! I hate her," cried 
 Margaret, breaking down again. "I wish she 
 were dead." 
 
 "Come, come, my child, control yourself," the 
 Bishop commanded, with a new tone of authority 
 in his voice. 
 
 "Yes, yes; I will, I will." 
 
 She wiped her eyes again. 
 
 "And you won't tell him it's wrong to come 
 here?" 
 
 "We must try to make it right for him to 
 come," the Bishop answered gravely. 
 
 "I see him so little as it is." 
 
 "You feel you ought to be together always?" 
 
 "I'm not unhappy. I get on well enough. 
 But it seems so awful, when I sit down and think 
 about it, for me not to be married to Edward."
 
 "Didn't you think it all out before you decided 
 to come here?" 
 
 "I thought and thought and thought till my 
 mind seemed all dazed." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the Bishop, with brows drawn 
 down, yet encouraging her to go on. 
 
 "I knew all the time what I ought to say. But 
 it was so hard. I didn't mind working; it was 
 the want of anything to look forward to that 
 was so dreadful. I knew I should never get 
 another chance to be happy." 
 
 "No, no; you can't have known that," the 
 Bishop protested. 
 
 "Yes," affirmed Margaret, with conviction, "I 
 felt sure. It was terrible to look ahead and see 
 all the dreary years waiting for me, and feel 
 I was going to miss everything." 
 
 "Everything?" 
 
 "Yes; children were everything to me then. 
 And they are now, bless them," she added, with 
 another dab at her eyes. For a moment there 
 fell a silence between them. 
 
 iii 
 
 "Well, well," said the Bishop briskly, fearing 
 another flow of tears, "that's all past. Now we've 
 got to consider the future." 
 
 "I feel afraid when you say that," Margaret 
 murmured. This sudden interruption of her 
 quiet, happy life filled her with apprehension. 
 
 "Margaret, Edward owes a duty to you and
 
 228 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 to his children," the Bishop asserted, with grave 
 emphasis. 
 
 "Oh, he does his duty, Father, so far as he 
 can." 
 
 "He can do much more than he does." 
 
 "How?" asked Margaret doubtfully. 
 
 "He can acknowledge you as his wife." 
 
 "But surely that would mean " began Mar- 
 garet in amazement at this unexpected sugges- 
 tion. 
 
 "No matter what it means. He ought to do 
 it." 
 
 "You think I'm more truly his wife than the 
 other?" 
 
 "You are his wife in the eyes of God, Mar- 
 garet." 
 
 "You really think that?" 
 
 "My child, I am certain of it." 
 
 "But," said Margaret, with hesitation, "they 
 were . . . married in church, weren't they?" 
 
 "When the priest says 'Those whom God hath 
 joined together' " 
 
 "Yes; that's what I was thinking of." 
 
 "Well, he cannot be sure whether God has 
 joined them." 
 
 "Then why does he say it?" Margaret asked, 
 in some bewilderment. 
 
 "He means '// God has joined them together, 
 no man can put them asunder.' ' 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "We cannot presume to read the mind of the 
 Almighty until He has declared it," said the 
 Bishop solemnly.
 
 .THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 229 
 
 "Then," inquired Margaret, still doubtfully 
 "if two people don't get on well, you think God 
 can't have joined them?" 
 
 "It is obvious, my child obvious!" 
 
 "And you don't think divorce is wrong?" 
 
 "Marriage," explained the Bishop very seri- 
 ously, "is a sacred contract. But its sacredness 
 does not make it indissoluble. Like any other 
 contract, it may be dissolved by the refusal of 
 either party to abide by its obligations." 
 
 Margaret listened with wide-open eyes. 
 
 "I see," she said reflectively. 
 
 "If you enter into a business contract," the 
 Bishop went on, "and the other party breaks 
 it, you can go before a judge and get it dissolved. 
 Do you think the Judge of all men is less just 
 than His creatures and their laws?" 
 
 Margaret drew in her breath at this unexpected 
 view of the case. 
 
 "So you have advised Edward ?" she said. 
 
 "To take the only straightforward course." 
 
 "But what about his position?" 
 
 "His position," returned the Bishop, "ought 
 not to prevent his doing what is right. Besides," 
 he added, after a moment's hesitation, "the mat- 
 ter might very possibly be kept quiet." 
 
 "My head's in a whirl," Margaret said.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 AT that moment Edward came in, brushing his 
 clothes down with his hands after a romp. 
 
 "Lions must lead very exhausting lives," he 
 said, with rueful humour. 
 
 Margaret went over to him. 
 
 "Dear, you haven't tired yourself, have you?" 
 
 "No, little woman. I enjoyed it." 
 
 "Edward, I've told Margaret what I told you," 
 the Bishop said. 
 
 "What's that, Pater?" 
 
 "That she is your wife in the sight of Heaven." 
 
 "Thank you for that," Edward answered 
 quietly, and put his arm round Margaret's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "And that she ought to be your wife in the 
 sight of men." 
 
 "I am in Margaret's hands," said Edward. 
 He sincerely wanted to do the right thing, but 
 he was under no illusions as to the difficulty of 
 doing it. 
 
 "I only want what is best for the children, and 
 for you, Edward," Margaret said, still sheltering 
 inside his arm. 
 
 "What is right must be best for him," jerked 
 
 the Bishop, a little impatiently. "Let me leave 
 
 230
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 231 
 
 you for a few moments to talk to one another." 
 
 He made for the door. 
 
 "What will you do, Pater?" asked Edward, 
 
 following him. 
 
 "I will go and talk to the little boys." 
 
 They both stood until the Bishop had crossed 
 
 the threshold. Then Margaret put out both 
 
 hands to Edward. 
 
 "Dear, I'm so bewildered," she said. 
 
 "How's that, little woman?" 
 
 "It's so different from what I expected." 
 
 "The way Pater takes it, you mean?" 
 
 "Yes. He didn't seem like a clergyman 
 
 at all." 
 
 "What's he been saying?" 
 
 "Oh, talking quite sensibly." 
 
 "Give me some idea." 
 
 "Well, he was as kind as possible." 
 
 "Yes; I knew he'd be that," Edward told her, 
 
 "to you, at any rate." 
 
 "Wasn't he kind to you, dear?" Margaret 
 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh, not unkind exactly. It was the children 
 
 brought him round." 
 
 "But before you told him about them?" 
 "Well, at first he wouldn't admit any excuse 
 
 at all." 
 
 "You made him understand about . . . her?" 
 "Yes, he saw she hadn't kept her . . . her part 
 
 of the bargain." 
 
 "He couldn't dispute that." 
 "No; but he didn't think it made any differ- 
 ence,"
 
 232 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "What?" said Margaret amazed. "Why, he 
 told me it made all the difference." 
 
 "Are you sure?" asked Edward, equally aston- 
 ished. 
 
 "Yes, quite! He said," Margaret repeated it 
 carefully as if it were a lesson she had learnt, 
 "that if one person breaks a contract " 
 
 "The other isn't bound by it," put in Edward, 
 taking her up. "Did he really say that?" 
 
 "He did certainly. He said God couldn't be 
 less just than men." 
 
 Edward laughed. 
 
 "Ed, what must we do?" 
 
 "To tell the truth, little woman, I don't know 
 what to say." 
 
 All sorts of fears and doubts flowed into Mar- 
 garet's mind. 
 
 "Ed," she said hurriedly, "I'm not a clever 
 woman. You might get tired of being with me 
 always. You might miss . . . her." 
 
 "Come, don't be foolish, Meg," Edward urged, 
 frowning. 
 
 "Well, but she is clever. You've said so. And 
 she helps you with your work. Yes; I know, 
 you see. She can talk to you about all sorts of 
 things I can't." 
 
 "You know I'm always perfectly happy with 
 you," Edward said, a shade of reproach tinging 
 his impatience. 
 
 "Yes; but you are with me so little. Things 
 might be different if it was all the time. Be- 
 sides, you might feel that I had injured your 
 career. You might leave off loving me."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 233 
 
 "I could never do that, little woman." 
 
 "Ah, you don't know." 
 
 "Yes, I do," he said tenderly, his annoyance 
 gone, as he drew her to him and kissed her. 
 "There are the kiddies too. I ought to be look- 
 ing after them." 
 
 Margaret drew away from him, struck by an 
 unpleasant thought. 
 
 "H'm. Perhaps we shouldn't agree about 
 bringing them up," she said reflectively. 
 
 "Of course we should agree. We haven't dis- 
 agreed yet." 
 
 "No; but then I've had them all to myself." 
 
 "Oh, by the way, Meg, there is one thing, quite 
 a little thing, I want to speak to you about. You 
 must get them out of the habit of patting strange 
 dogs. One came along just now, and they both 
 ran to it. It isn't safe." 
 
 "Why not? I've taught them to." 
 
 "Well, you've taught them to do a very dan- 
 gerous thing." 
 
 "I don't agree a bit, Ed. That's the way I 
 was brought up, to be friends with all animals." 
 
 "All very well in theory. But strange dogs 
 sometimes bite." 
 
 "Oh no, they never bite children. They only 
 bite people who're afraid of them or hurt them." 
 
 "Well, I call it a dangerous habit. I want 
 you to break them of it. I say, I suppose there 
 isn't a school anywhere near they could go to 
 ... a kindergarten, Montessori business, that 
 sort of thing?" 
 
 "Oh, not yet, Ed. They're far too young."
 
 234 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "They'll soon be older. They must go to 
 school some day. You'll have to be nearer to 
 town then." 
 
 Such talk as this, however casual, always made 
 Margaret feel hard inside. She resented it. She 
 felt that the little boys were hers, that she had 
 the right to resist any interference in the manner 
 of their bringing-up. She foresaw that Edward 
 would take this tone more and more often as the 
 boys grew older, and she told herself that she 
 would have to stand up for her right. She had no 
 doubt about defending it successfully; she knew 
 that Edward's was a pliable character, that he 
 would always take the line of least resistance. 
 Muriel did not know this. She imagined that 
 Edward had shown his resolute mind by continu- 
 ing to woo her after she had refused him, whereas 
 he was really following an inclination that he 
 could not withstand. Margaret had not Muriel's 
 intellect, but she had a far clearer insight into the 
 nature of men. She had no doubt, therefore, 
 of winning when it came to a tussle with Edward, 
 but she shrank from it nevertheless. So she said 
 no more now, but went into the kitchen, murmur- 
 ing that she must hurry up tea. 
 
 Edward blew a kiss after her, then went over 
 to the mantelpiece, smoothed his hair at the glass 
 and took a cigarette from a box on the shelf. He 
 lit it and went to the door.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 235 
 
 "Hallo, Pater," he called, "don't let them 
 worry you. Come in and have some tea." 
 
 Then he turned back into the room, and crossed 
 to look at the bookcase. He had just taken a 
 book out when the Bishop came in. 
 
 "These little boys seem remarkably well 
 brought up, Edward," he said. "Margaret's an 
 exceptional woman." 
 
 "She thinks you're an exceptional bishop, 
 Pater," returned Edward, with a short laugh. 
 
 "I do try to think things clearly, my boy," 
 the Bishop assented. 
 
 "That's what makes you an exception," was 
 Edward's dry comment. 
 
 "Well, now," asked the Bishop, "what was the 
 result of your talk?" 
 
 "We didn't come to any definite conclusion." 
 
 "You admit, don't you, that I am right?" 
 
 "Oh yes, quite right theoretically." 
 
 "Then I can't see why you hesitate." 
 
 "That's because you don't realise my difficul- 
 ties." 
 
 "What is there at stake?" 
 
 "My position at the Bar. My living." 
 
 "Is your position worth more than a clear con- 
 science?" 
 
 "You're so impulsive, Pater," Edward pro- 
 tested. "It's all very well for clergymen to talk 
 like that. They're paid for taking the right 
 course." 
 
 "I don't follow you," the Bishop said. 
 
 "Well, if they don't, they lose their jobs. But 
 suppose a man is going to lose his job because
 
 236 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 he does what he believes to be right, that's quite 
 a different case. Parsons don't judge fairly. 
 I must think the whole thing over." 
 
 "There's only one conclusion you can come 
 to." 
 
 "You leave Muriel out of consideration," said 
 Edward, rather ruefully, flicking an end off his 
 cigarette, as he sat on the edge of the table. 
 
 "She doesn't deserve any consideration." 
 
 "And yet in a way we've got on very well." 
 
 "You can't weigh her claims against Mar- 
 garet's." 
 
 "No, no; I don't. But still " 
 
 "God bless my soul," exclaimed the Bishop. 
 He was at the window. A motor car had just 
 flashed by. 
 
 Edward turned his head sharply. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, over his shoulder. 
 
 "I fancied I saw your wife's face in a motor 
 car!" 
 
 "What, Muriel's?" Edward said, quickly cross- 
 ing the room. 
 
 "Yes. It rushed past, but I recognised her 
 distinctly." 
 
 "Has it got right away?" 
 
 Edward was at the window, peering out down 
 the road. Just then a motor car horn was heard. 
 
 "There they are," he said. 
 
 Next moment the horn sounded nearer. 
 
 "And coming back, by Jove!" 
 
 "Surely not coming here," the Bishop said. 
 
 "No . . . unless Good Lord, we're done! 
 
 They must have seen our car!"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 237 
 
 Now the horn sounded again quite close. 
 "Margaret is a friend of mine" said the Bishop 
 hurriedly. "You understand? Tell her. I'll 
 wait and see what happens." 
 
 "You are a brick, Pater," Edward threw at 
 him, as he went quickly into the kitchen. The 
 Bishop walked leisurely over to the door. In 
 a moment Muriel's voice and the noise of the 
 motor stopping could be heard. 
 Muriel saw the Bishop at once. 
 "Well, Bishop," she began, "you didn't expect 
 to see us. "Now, Tony, are you trying to knock 
 the fence down? Shut off steam!" 
 The noise of the motor stopped. 
 "Are we interrupting business?" Muriel 
 asked. 
 
 "No! I am paying a call." 
 "So a friend of yours lives in this idyllic cot- 
 tage," said Muriel, coming in at the door. "And 
 are those little objects outside your friends?" 
 "The children? Yes." 
 
 "Look here. Shall Tony and I go on? Are 
 we in the way?" 
 
 "Oh no," said the Bishop ungraciously enough. 
 "Do you think you could persuade your friend 
 to invite us in to tea. I'm dying for a cup." 
 "Yes, I think so. Where is Mr. Hilford?" 
 "Making a pig of himself with oil and stuff." 
 Muriel was in exceedingly good spirits. 
 "Come along," she called to Tony from the 
 door. 
 
 "Here she comes," whispered Muriel. 
 you introduce me?"
 
 238 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 From the kitchen Margaret came in, carrying 
 the tea-tray. Edward followed. He nodded to 
 Muriel and Tony. 
 
 "Mrs. er Seymour," the Bishop said. "Mr. 
 Tanstead's wife and a friend have just come. 
 They recognised our car and came back to see 
 if he was here. Let me introduce Mrs. Tanstead 
 and Mr. Hilford to you." 
 
 "I feel ashamed to take you hy storm 
 like this," Muriel apologised. "The tempta- 
 tion to stop at such a charming spot was too 
 great. I hope you won't think me dreadfully 
 rude." 
 
 "Of course not," Margaret replied nervously. 
 "You'll have some tea, won't you?" 
 
 "It's very kind of you. I do want a cup of 
 tea very badly. But are you sure we aren't a 
 nuisance?" 
 
 "Please don't say that. Tea's quite ready. 
 I'll fetch some more cups." 
 
 Margaret put down the tea-tray on the table, 
 but did not take her hands off it. 
 
 "Shall I fetch them? asked Edward, and then 
 recollected himself, "that is, if if I could find 
 them," he added. 
 
 "No, thank you," Margaret replied, moving 
 towards the kitchen again. As she turned she 
 looked at Muriel, astonished. Edward's wife 
 was not in the least like the woman she had 
 imagined. 
 
 "I'm so sorry to give you trouble," said Muriel 
 graciously. 
 
 "It's no trouble," Margaret murmured, as she
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 239 
 
 went into the kitchen, wishing she could walk 
 straight out of the house and hide. 
 
 "I like your friend," Muriel said softly to the 
 Bishop. "Is she a widow?" 
 
 "Y-yes." 
 
 Margaret came back with more cups, which 
 she added to the other tea-things on the tray. 
 
 "Now it's ready," she proclaimed, a trifle 
 awkwardly. 
 
 There was a general stir. 
 
 "Are you fond of the country, Mrs. Seymour?" 
 Muriel inquired, when they were all settled. 
 
 Margaret, pouring out tea, did not look up. 
 
 "Oh yes, I am; very fond," she said* 
 
 "You prefer it to living in town?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I do." 
 
 "The worst of the country," persisted Muriel, 
 "is that everybody knows all about one." 
 
 Edward hastily passed her a cup of tea and 
 then the sugar bowl. 
 
 "There isn't any sugar in," he said. "Help 
 yourself." 
 
 "Edward always knows how I like my tea," 
 Muriel informed the company. "He really is 
 a model. I never remember whether he takes 
 sugar or not. Don't you find it hard to remem- 
 ber, Mrs. Seymour?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon," Margaret said, with a 
 startled air. 
 
 "Do you always remember whether your . , . 
 whether people take sugar or not?" 
 
 "Oh yes, I think I do." 
 
 Then she added, in a low but audible voice, to
 
 240 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Edward: "Do you take sugar and milk, Mr. 
 Tanstead?" 
 
 "Only milk, thank you," he answered gravely. 
 
 For some moments the conversation nagged. 
 
 8 111 
 
 The sunshine was warm on the cottage and 
 made a pleasant chequer-pattern on the floor of 
 the little room. The bees droned busily in the 
 gay little garden. The scent of jasmine over the 
 porch sweetened the afternoon air. Muriel found 
 it all very soothing. She felt that the weather 
 was for once behaving towards her as she desired 
 it should. She would have been surprised to 
 know that both the Bishop and Edward were 
 wishing it had poured with rain. 
 
 "Discovered any fresh signs of degeneration 
 since this morning?" she inquired of the Bishop 
 with an air of charming mock seriousness. 
 
 "No, no, no!" said the Bishop irritably. 
 
 "The Bishop thinks," remarked Muriel, ad- 
 dressing herself chiefly to Margaret, "that we 
 have got terribly immoral since he has been away. 
 I dare say he has told you." 
 
 "No," Margaret replied faintly, looking into 
 her teacup. 
 
 "He does not at all like our modern views 
 about marriage, for example." 
 
 "Shall I get you some more tea, Muriel?" 
 asked Edward. 
 
 "I'm not quite ready yet."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 241 
 
 "What is the modern view about marriage?" 
 asked Tony. "Blessed if I know." 
 
 "You're centuries behind the times," said 
 Muriel. "Haven't you ever " 
 
 "Excuse me," the Bishop interrupted fever- 
 ishly. "Will you give Mrs. Seymour something 
 to eat, Edward? She is having no tea herself." 
 
 "I'm not hungry, thank you," Margaret an- 
 swered. "Shall I give you some more tea?" she 
 asked Tony. 
 
 "Thanks very much." He passed up his cup. 
 
 "But about marriage now," he went on, while 
 he waited, "what is the modern view? Do you 
 know, Mrs. Seymour?" 
 
 "No, I don't know," Margaret replied. "But 
 I see so few people down here." 
 
 "I judge from the newspapers," said the 
 Bishop, trailing another red herring across the 
 scent of the undesirable theme, "that nowadays 
 there is a fresh 'modern view' of everything about 
 once a week." 
 
 "The modern view of marriage has been incu- 
 bating much longer than that," Muriel said. 
 
 "Well, but what is it?" persisted Tony. 
 
 "Tell you some other time," Muriel answered, 
 with a glance at Margaret. "We mustn't bore 
 Mrs. Seymour." 
 
 "Oh, please go on," urged Margaret. "I am 
 very much interested." 
 
 The Bishop thought it was time for him to in- 
 tervene again. 
 
 "I really do not think the subject is suitable 
 for general discussion," he said.
 
 242 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Come, Bishop, you promised not to be Early 
 Victorian," Muriel reminded him. 
 
 "You can't expect the Bishop to to talk so 
 freely as you do," interposed Edward. "The 
 Church naturally takes a strong view about mar- 
 riage." 
 
 "It's modified its view a good deal since 
 well, since the Middle Ages," Muriel persisted. 
 
 "Naturally," was the Bishop's dry com- 
 ment. 
 
 "It wouldn't let a man have two wives, or any- 
 thing like that," said Tony, with a heavy attempt 
 at humour. 
 
 "Not two at a time," said Muriel. 
 
 "No, I should think not, eh, Mrs. Seymour?" 
 
 "I suppose Mrs. Tanstead means," Margaret 
 said slowly, "that the Church has allowed people 
 to divorce one another." 
 
 "The Church couldn't stop it," Muriel cor- 
 rected, "and that alters the whole situation." 
 
 "And are you in favour," Margaret asked 
 Muriel, "of marriage being easily easily put an 
 end to?" 
 
 "I think it's stupid and cruel to keep people 
 tied together against their wills." 
 
 "Only common sense," chimed in Tony, "to 
 let people off when they can't get on. OS and 
 on. See?" 
 
 He appealed to Edward, who ignored him. 
 
 "Of course," said Muriel reflectively, "the old 
 Greek arrangement was probably the best of 
 all." 
 
 "What was that?" Margaret asked her.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 243 
 
 Edward and the Bishop were on more painful 
 thorns every moment. 
 
 "Hadn't we better go back to the Flood?" the 
 former broke in. 
 
 "The Almighty ordained the holy state of mat- 
 rimony before that, my boy," the Bishop said 
 grimly. 
 
 "Mayn't I hear about the Greek plan?" asked 
 Margaret. 
 
 "I was really thinking of Pericles and Aspa- 
 sia." 
 
 "I'm afraid I never heard of them," confessed 
 Margaret. 
 
 "I'm not so very well up in them myself," 
 Muriel admitted. "Give us some information, 
 please, Edward." 
 
 "Pericles was a Greek statesman," said Ed- 
 ward shortly. 
 
 "Right Ol I remember," Tony broke in. 
 "And Aspasia was the lady who ought to have 
 been Mrs. Pericles, but wasn't." 
 
 "There was a Mrs. Pericles too," Muriel said; 
 "a nice, domesticated person, just your sort, 
 Bishop, who stayed at home all day and looked 
 after the servants and the children." 
 
 "And Aspasia, what was she like?" inquired 
 Margaret, now genuinely interested. 
 
 "Clever and beautiful. She shared all Peri- 
 cles' intellectual interests." 
 
 "His wife couldn't do that, I suppose?" 
 
 "Apparently not," Muriel agreed. 
 
 "Mended his socks, though," said Tony, "and 
 made him jolly comfortable."
 
 244 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "He was fond of them both, then?" queried 
 Margaret "only in different ways." 
 
 "There is only one way in which a good man 
 can love a woman," the Bishop observed heavily. 
 
 "Yes; all that sort of thing." 
 
 "I see," said Margaret. 
 
 "She amused him." 
 
 "And helped him with his work?" 
 
 "What a steam-rollerish remark!" came from 
 Muriel. 
 
 "And we must recollect, too," the Bishop con- 
 tinued, "that Pericles lived before the Christian 
 era." 
 
 "But I suppose," said Margaret slowly, "that 
 men are much the same now as they were then?" 
 
 "Yes, of course," Muriel assured her. "And 
 women too. I am sure I ought to have been 
 Edward's Aspasia." 
 
 "Muriel, really " protested Edward. 
 
 "Mrs. Tanstead, I beg of you " the Bishop 
 
 boomed. 
 
 "Sorry, Bishop," Muriel apologised. "But 
 think how nice it would be for Edward to have 
 a nice domesticated wife and family in one street, 
 and me in another to come and talk to when he 
 felt inclined." 
 
 "We really must think about starting," Ed- 
 ward announced briskly, seizing an opportunity 
 to put an end to a painful ordeal. 
 
 Muriel got up too. 
 
 "Yes it's quite time. I've told Tony he can 
 take me to the theatre, Edward, so that you and 
 the Bishop can have a long talk. By the way,
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 245 
 
 I wonder if Mrs. Seymour would let me put my 
 hat straight?" she inquired. 
 
 "Oh yes," said Margaret. "Will you come 
 upstairs?" 
 
 "Thanks so much. You can be getting ready, 
 Tony." 
 
 "This is the way," Margaret told her, cross- 
 ing to the door. Muriel followed her out. 
 
 S iv 
 
 Through the other door into the garden the 
 three men went. As soon as they were outside 
 they saw the children, who ran towards them, 
 their childish voices ringing out clear in the cool 
 air of late afternoon. There was a few moments' 
 confused conversation, then Edward began to 
 look over his engine. 
 
 "Got a screw-driver, Tony?" he asked. "Never 
 mind, though, I'll get one." 
 
 And forgetting the necessity for caution, for- 
 getting that he was supposed to be a stranger to 
 the cottage, he ran indoors. 
 
 He pulled open a drawer, took a screw-driver 
 out, then crossed to the mantelpiece and put a 
 box of matches in his pocket, before turning back 
 to the door, where he encountered Tony stand- 
 ing on the threshold with a face of horrified 
 amazement. 
 
 "I say, old man," Tony blurted out, "this is a 
 bit too thick!" 
 
 "What is? What's the matter?" 
 
 "What did that kid caU you?"
 
 246 THE FRUIT OF THE ,TREE 
 
 Edward turned away to the mantelpiece. He 
 had been afraid for a moment that the children 
 might betray him. But he thought all had passed 
 off well. 
 
 "I don't know," he replied carelessly. "What?" 
 
 "He called you 'Daddy.' ' 
 
 "Oh, children often make mistakes of that 
 kind," Edward said lightly. 
 
 "If you can tell me it was a mistake," splut- 
 tered Tony, "look me in the face and say so. 
 You'll give me back my faith in in well, you 
 know what I mean." 
 
 Edward was watching him in the looking-glass 
 over the mantel. 
 
 "Don't be an ass, Tony. Of course it's a mis- 
 take," he jerked out. 
 
 "But it's perfectly awful," Tony continued. 
 "I see it all now." 
 
 "See what?" asked Edward, turning sharply. 
 
 "What you're doing here?" 
 
 "That doesn't require any great wisdom." 
 
 "I may be a fool, my dear old chap, but I 
 can't help seeing a thing when it's right under 
 my nose. That kid called you 'Daddy.' And 
 how did you know there was a screw-driver in 
 the drawer? And look here," he went on, more 
 excitedly still, pointing through the door to a 
 picture he had just noticed in the kitchen, "what's 
 that picture I gave you as a wedding present 
 doing here?" 
 
 Edward laughed harshly. 
 
 "It's better there than in the box-room, where 
 Muriel put it," he rapped out. And then added
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 247, 
 
 defiantly: "I gave it to Mrs. Seymour where's 
 the harm in that?" 
 
 "No, no, old man," Tony urged, with reproach- 
 ful rhetoric, "play the game with a pal." 
 
 "Damn it, don't talk so loud!" 
 
 "It's a terrible shock, old man. It is really." 
 
 "When did you become such a stern moralist? 
 I seem to remember " 
 
 "Ah, but that's different, altogether different 
 from this." Tony shook his head sorrowfully. 
 
 "Don't be such an infernal humbug," said 
 Tanstead impatiently. 
 
 "Humbug? I'm not a humbug." Tony was 
 indignant, but still "more in sorrow than in 
 anger." "What do you mean?" he asked. 
 
 "I've never heard you go on like this," said 
 Edward, "about other men who " 
 
 "Who had mistresses, eh?" 
 
 "Don't say that, damn you." The word had 
 flicked Edward on the raw. "Why the devil 
 couldn't you keep outside?" he concluded sav- 
 agely. 
 
 "Easy, old man; easy," Tony urged, "Keeping 
 a 
 
 He was stopped by another angry movement 
 on Edward's part. He put up a deprecating 
 hand. 
 
 "All right, all right, I know. Well, that's one 
 thing. This is altogether different. There's the 
 children, don't you know?" 
 
 Edward looked at him curiously. 
 
 "Well, what about them?" 
 
 "They're the awful, shocking part of it. It's
 
 248 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 like bigamy. I say, you haven't gone and done 
 that?" he added, struck by a sudden fear. 
 
 "No; of course not," was Edward's contemptu- 
 ous response. 
 
 "Well, I shouldn't be surprised at anything 
 now," Tony lamented. "I'm simply knocked all 
 over the place. I say, you know, it really isn't 
 playing the game. Bad form. Sort o' thing 
 that isn't done. Another woman, well, it's 
 it's wrong, of course, and all that ; still, fellers do 
 it. But a regular respectable home and children. 
 I never " 
 
 Edward raised his head. 
 
 " 'Shh!" he said, listening. "Yes; they're com- 
 ing." Voices could be heard on the stairs. 
 
 "But before you go," Margaret was saying, 
 "will you tell me where I could read where I 
 could get a book about Pericles, whom you talked 
 about?" 
 
 "Were you so much interested?" asked Muriel, 
 with a smile, thinking how amused Edward would 
 be to hear of this odd person's interest in such 
 a subject. 
 
 "Yes," said Margaret simply. "I I never 
 thought of such arrangements being looked upon 
 as ordinary and not not objected to." 
 
 "Marriage customs have varied so much in 
 different ages, haven't they?" 
 
 "Have they? I didn't know. Can you tell 
 me a book?" 
 
 "I'll send you a post card," Muriel promised, 
 thanking some vague deity that she had not got 
 to live with people devoid of a sense of humour.
 
 "I won't forget. Good-bye, and thank you 
 again so much." 
 
 Margaret waved a hand in acknowledgment 
 of the last good-bye, then turned back from the 
 door into the cottage. 
 
 She looked at the tea-table and the disarranged 
 chairs. She moved one of them to convince her- 
 self that it was not a dream. 
 
 Then she stood quite still, her arms by her 
 side and her eyes closed tight as if in pain, as 
 if she were trying to blot out the impressions 
 of the afternoon.
 
 CHAPTER. XIX 
 
 THE dinner that Mrs. Tanstead had ordered for 
 half past seven was causing Mrs. Tanstead's cook 
 painful perturbation of spirit. An actor without 
 an audience, a painter with a gallery full of pic- 
 tures and nobody to look at them, a conjurer 
 with all his tricks ready, but not a single spec- 
 tator the lot of each of these is hard, but noth- 
 ing to equal the harsh destiny of a cook with a 
 dinner all prepared and no one to eat it : for the 
 dinner, once cooked, must be straightway eaten 
 or it is spoilt. And spoilt Mrs. Tanstead's cook's 
 dinner was rapidly becoming, for it was now close 
 on nine o'clock, and neither Mr. nor Mrs. Tan- 
 stead had come home. 
 
 The clock in the room where Edward had made 
 his confession in the morning struck nine with 
 a gentle tone of reproach. The curtains were 
 drawn, the lamps lighted. A bright little fire 
 was burning. All looked cosy and comfortable, 
 an ideal retreat for a spring evening. But there 
 was no one to enjoy it. 
 
 However, just after nine had struck there was 
 a noise of a motor pulling up, and a few mo- 
 ments later Muriel and Tony came in. 
 
 "You'd better stay and have dinner," Muriel 
 
 said. "The others will be here directly." 
 
 250
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 251 
 
 "No I won't, thanks. I must get back home. 
 Pity we're too late for the play." 
 
 "Yes; bad luck we should both have tyre 
 trouble." 
 
 She watched Tony with a puzzled look. He 
 was ill at ease. He was walking about the room 
 picking things up and putting them down again. 
 He seemed to have something on his mind. As 
 Muriel wanted to go and change her clothes, she 
 wished he would be quick and get it off. 
 
 Tony was hard put to it, however, to word 
 what he wanted to say. He had been genuinely 
 shocked by what he discovered at the cottage. 
 All his old affection surged up ; he felt that Muriel 
 had been shamefully treated; he wished he could 
 show her in some way what his feeling was. It 
 was difficult to hit upon a way, since she did not 
 know what he knew and would be surprised if he 
 displayed any unusual warmth of sentiment. 
 However, he was deeply stirred and, never hav- 
 ing learned the desirability of smothering senti- 
 mental impulses, he could not help but speak. 
 
 "I say," he told her at last, suddenly and in 
 connection with nothing, "if ever you want a 
 friend, Muriel, let me know." 
 
 He fetched up a deep sigh. The phrase he 
 had been trying to find all the way home had 
 come at last. But Muriel, ignorant of the cause 
 which prompted it, was not in the least impressed. 
 
 "You aren't going off your head, are you, 
 Tony?" she asked impatiently, gazing at him as 
 if he were some curious animal. 
 
 "You never know when you may want a
 
 252 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 friend," said Tony doggedly, not to be chaffed 
 away from the subject which occupied his mind. 
 "I'll be ready." 
 
 "Have you any meaning," Muriel inquired 
 with a shade of interest, "or are you just drivel- 
 ling as usual?" 
 
 Tony paid no heed to her tone. He had some- 
 thing more to say, and how to say it was a mat- 
 ter requiring all his mental effort. 
 
 "Look here," he began, "I haven't ever said 
 anything to you that a feller oughtn't to say to 
 his friend's wife, have I?" 
 
 "No; of course not. I shouldn't have let you." 
 
 "I've often wanted to, though." 
 
 Muriel looked at him with a different kind of 
 curiosity. Tony was revealing himself in a new 
 light. 
 
 "Really!" she said. "That's rather nice of you, 
 Tony. I didn't think " She paused smiling. 
 
 "Didn't think what?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing!" 
 
 "You didn't think I was that kind of feller, 
 you mean," he blurted out, and added defiantly: 
 "Well, I am!" 
 
 "The situation," said Muriel demurely, "seems 
 to require that I should be shocked." 
 
 "I say, you won't forbid me the house or any- 
 thing?" asked Tony seriously. 
 
 "Oh dear, no; I'm beginning to be quite inter- 
 ested in you." 
 
 Tony showed signs of relief from his sudden 
 anxiety. 
 
 "I was afraid you might be frightfully angry."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 253 
 
 "Then why did you tell me?" Muriel inquired, 
 still regarding him with amused wonder. 
 
 Tony became portentous at once. 
 
 "I can't say . . . just now." 
 
 "Then you don't want me to elope with you 
 . . . just now?" She mimicked him again. 
 
 "I say, don't joke about it. Besides, someone 
 might hear. Look out, here's someone coming 
 now." 
 
 There was a knock and the maid came in. 
 
 "If you please, ma'am, there's a lady called 
 and wants to see Mr. Tanstead." 
 
 "Where is she?" 
 
 "I showed her into the library, ma'am." 
 
 "You told her Mr. Tanstead hadn't come in 
 yet?" 
 
 "Yes, ma'am, and she asked if she could wait. 
 She said it was business." 
 
 "There's no fire in the library. You'd better 
 ask her to wait here. I'm going to change my 
 dress. Mr. Tanstead can't be long now." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 The maid withdrew. 
 
 "Well, I must be going," said Tony. "Don't 
 forget what I said. When you want a friend, 
 I'm ready." 
 
 He went towards the door. 
 
 "I'll make a note of it," replied Muriel gaily, 
 as he went out. "Good-night. You'll feel bet- 
 ter in the morning." 
 
 Humming to herself, she took up her motor- 
 coat, stopped a moment before the glass to give 
 a touch to her cap, and then walked slowly across
 
 254 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 to the door, thinking over Tony's strange re- 
 marks. Before she had got across the room the 
 door opened and the maid appeared again, with 
 Margaret behind her. Catching sight of Muriel, 
 Margaret had an impulse to turn quickly away. 
 But it was too late. 
 
 "Is it Mrs. Seymour?" Muriel asked, her tone 
 discovering her surprise. 
 
 Margaret came into the room. 
 
 
 11 
 
 For a while after her guests had left the cot- 
 tage, Margaret stood on the same spot. She 
 looked and felt as if she had been overtaken by 
 the fate of Lot's wife, and been turned into a 
 pillar of salt. 
 
 Vaguely she had always feared something of 
 this kind. Unfortunately she had never prepared 
 her mind to meet it when it did happen. The ad- 
 vantage of accustoming ourselves to think of pos- 
 sible misfortunes is that we may know how to 
 act in the moment of their occurrence. We can 
 by imagining ourselves the sport of this or that 
 circumstance or accident train our wills to take a 
 certain direction should our imaginings come 
 true. We can apply to our own characters the 
 same sort of discipline which the soldier under- 
 goes, the discipline which aims at making persist- 
 ence in face of danger a habit instead of an effort. 
 Margaret had never applied such discipline. She 
 had thrust away the thought of discovery, refused 
 to let it lodge in her mind. Now that discovery
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 255 
 
 had come, she was terrified, bewildered, wretched 
 the result of the paralysis of her will. It was 
 indecision that made her afraid and miserable. 
 Because she had lost resolution, she didn't know 
 which way to turn. 
 
 It was not so much Mrs. Tanstead's visit that 
 disturbed her. That had been unpleasant while 
 it lasted ; it had caused her a sense of humiliation, 
 inferiority ; it had left behind a disagreeable mem- 
 ory. But it was over. It had led to no revela- 
 tion, there was no reason that she knew of (she 
 did not know of Tony's enlightenment) why it 
 should have any consequences. All might go on 
 as before. 
 
 No, it was not Muriel's but the Bishop's visit 
 which made Margaret feel as if the planks of her 
 happy, untroubled existence were giving way 
 beneath her, as if she were going suddenly to be 
 plunged into another kind of existence, about 
 which she knew nothing, and of which she felt 
 afraid. She went over, as she stood there, her 
 hands hanging loosely before her, just as she had 
 dropped them after they had been pressed so 
 tightly against her eyes she went over all the 
 incidents of the afternoon since she had been 
 interrupted at her peaceful ironing. That was 
 the last peaceful moment she had known, or ever 
 would know, it seemed to her in her despair. If 
 only she could blot out all that happened after 
 she heard Edward's motor car draw up outside 
 the cottage! If only she could experience again 
 and hold on to the happiness which made her sing 
 softly to herself as she ironed!
 
 256 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 What the Bishop wanted was clear, and cer- 
 tainly his intention was to benefit her, to give her 
 the position that was hers (as he argued) by 
 right. He had been very kind. She could not 
 help liking him, being grateful to him, almost 
 loving him for his affection and sympathy. But 
 at the same time she felt a certain resentment 
 against him. Why did he want to change her 
 existence into another existence? She was con- 
 tented as she was, no alteration in her life could 
 increase her contentment, it was quite possible 
 that she might never be so happy again. 
 
 Of course she would rather have been properly 
 married to Edward at first. To have begun as 
 man and wife together openly would have spared 
 her many a wakeful night of anxiety, many a 
 sharp pain caused to her by consciousness of sin. 
 But now she had got used to her position, now 
 she had settled down to the conditions which she 
 and Tanstead (she more than Tanstead) had 
 planned out for their home. She could under- 
 stand quite well how it was Edward and his wife 
 had managed to remain friends. She could see 
 that his wife was "clever," she could talk to him 
 on his own level ; she was in some ways, it seemed 
 to Margaret, even "cleverer" than he. He had 
 often mentioned dinner-parties that he had been 
 to, and she had thought of him as going to them 
 alone. Now she saw his wife always with him, 
 attractive, dressed with taste and charm, meet- 
 ing everybody on terms of equality, talking 
 "cleverly," making him glad to know that people 
 admired her.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 257 
 
 She could not imagine herself as his companion 
 on such occasions. She would be and feel out 
 of her element. She would not know how to 
 dress or what to say. In Margaret's mind there 
 was all the difference in the world between the 
 "clever" people and those who modestly dis- 
 claimed the possession of cleverness : "Oh, I'm not 
 clever, you know." That was a barrier not to be 
 leaped ; that was a hindrance to social intercourse 
 far greater than any difference in income or oc- 
 cupation, greater even than title or family pride. 
 Edward's wife was "clever," no doubt about that. 
 Here was the bond between them. The tie that 
 bound Edward to Margaret was altogether dif- 
 ferent ; it was a tie that she loved, it might endure 
 all their lives, under existing conditions she 
 thought it would. But she had sometimes won- 
 dered how it would stand the strain of daily life 
 together, whether he would be satisfied with her 
 companionship only. 
 
 There was so much that the Bishop did not 
 weigh. He wanted to butt in and settle other 
 folks' business for them upon general principles. 
 He was right, of course, in a way, and he meant 
 it kindly to her. No doubt in time she and 
 Edward would settle down contentedly on a new 
 basis . . . but still there was in her thought 
 some shadowy obstacle to the course proposed 
 which seemed insuperable. What was this unde- 
 fined, misty mass of objection? The little boys 
 came running in and she knew. She gathered 
 them both to her breast, kissing them, and mur- 
 muring passionate little words of affection. "My
 
 258 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 own," she said; "my very own, my darlings, all 
 mummy's, all mine." 
 
 Then, as she held them at arm's-length, tired 
 and astonished little figures, and looked at them 
 with loving pride, she felt that she could not bear 
 them to pass under any authority but hers. Ed- 
 ward would have ideas of his own about their 
 bringing-up. He wanted to make them afraid of 
 animals, and animals therefore afraid of them; 
 he spoke already of sending them to school, tiny 
 as they were. Many little differences of outlook 
 had revealed themselves ; she had paid them next 
 to no attention, but now they came back into her 
 mind. She must keep the children to herself. 
 Upon that her will stiffened, and at once she 
 became happier. She no longer felt irresolute. 
 She felt braced up and determined. With a 
 lighter heart she gave the little boys their supper 
 and put them to bed. 
 
 Then she sat down and thought. A restless- 
 ness soon came upon her. She feared that deci- 
 sions might be taken before she could intervene, 
 and state her point of view decisions which 
 could not be called back. Perhaps at that in- 
 stant Edward was, under the Bishop's pressure, 
 altering the course of his and her life and of his 
 wife's life too. Suddenly Margaret began to see 
 what the carrying out of the Bishop's proposal 
 would mean for Edward's wife. It would mean 
 a break-up of her existence. Perhaps she was 
 fond of Edward in her way. Not for a moment 
 did Margaret wish, now that she had made her 
 acquaintance, to do Edward's wife any harm.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 259 
 
 Muriel's appearance had surprised her. She had 
 thought of Edward's wife as elderly and invalid- 
 ish and disagreeable. How she got this impres- 
 sion Heaven only knows. How do we form false 
 images of people we hear about? Chiefly out 
 of our inclinations, friendly or hostile, towards 
 them. At all events it astonished Margaret to 
 see a young, good-looking woman with so good- 
 natured a manner and so gay a temperament. 
 And it had the effect, not of arousing jealousy 
 but of making her disposition towards Edward's 
 wife more kindly. 
 
 For every reason, therefore, it was desirable 
 to do whatever could be done to prevent any step 
 being taken that might change all their lives. 
 The conviction rapidly grew in her that she ought 
 to see Edward at once. To-morrow? No, to- 
 night. To-morrow might be too late. But to 
 go to his house, wasn't the risk too great? Not 
 so great as the risk that he would act upon some 
 hasty decision. It was worth risking everything 
 to prevent that. She could bicycle to the railway 
 station, just catch a train, and be in London be- 
 fore nine o'clock. 
 
 The woman who lived with her and helped her 
 had come in and could take charge of the chil- 
 dren. She would be back, she reckoned, between 
 eleven and midnight. Only a few words with 
 Edward were necessary, but those she must have. 
 
 Her plan worked according to her desires until 
 the moment when she found herself face to face 
 with Edward's wife.
 
 260 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 iii 
 
 She felt then, when she heard the servant close 
 the door upon her, that she must fly to it, pull it 
 open and rush out into the air, through the 
 streets, into the train, home! That impulse she 
 conquered, and said weakly: "Good-evening." 
 
 "Why, it's Mrs. Seymour," Muriel exclaimed. 
 "Good-evening. Is there anything the matter?" 
 
 "No; I ... wanted to see the Bishop." 
 
 "How silly of the maid ! She said it was some- 
 one asking for my husband." 
 
 "Yes; I did. I wasn't sure of the house." 
 
 "Won't you sit down? Hadn't you better take 
 your coat off. I hope nothing has happened." 
 
 "No; nothing, thank you," Margaret said, put- 
 ting her coat on a chair beside her. Then, recol- 
 lecting that she must suggest some cause for her 
 visit, she added: "At least, nothing very much." 
 
 "How quickly you have got here!" 
 
 "It doesn't take long by a quick train. I 
 didn't leave home till half -past seven." 
 
 "They're sure to be back soon, I think," said 
 Muriel, after a moment's pause. "They broke 
 down about five miles after we left you." 
 
 "Yes?" Margaret was obviously ill at ease. 
 
 Muriel felt annoyed at her visit and her ina- 
 bility to "talk like a human being," as she put 
 it to herself. Still she felt she must make some 
 conversation. 
 
 "You and the Bishop are old friends?" 
 
 "Yes. ... Oh yes." 
 
 "He is almost like a father to my husband.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 261 
 
 You didn't know my husband before, did you?" 
 
 "Yes; I . . . I knew him a little." 
 
 "You must have a very good memory to recol- 
 lect him." 
 
 Margaret looked up surprised. 
 
 "Seventeen years since the Bishop went away," 
 Muriel explained. "You hadn't seen Edward in 
 the meantime, I suppose?" 
 
 Margaret felt quite faint at the thought of 
 the abysses which yawned around her. She mur- 
 mured: "No." 
 
 "Did you know him again at once?" 
 
 "Oh yes!" 
 
 Muriel looked at her curiously and with vexa- 
 tion. She despaired of getting this odd creature 
 to talk. However, she would try one more 
 topic. 
 
 "Do you come up to town often?" 
 
 "Scarcely ever." 
 
 "I'm afraid I couldn't live in the country. I 
 can never find enough to do." 
 
 "I have my children, you see." 
 
 "Perhaps you have always lived in the coun- 
 try?" 
 
 "No; I lived in London for several years." 
 
 "Really? Anywhere in this part of the world?" 
 
 "No; a long way off. I was a typist in the 
 city." 
 
 Something seemed suddenly to energise 
 Muriel's mental processes. 
 
 "A typist?" she said. "H'm! I once had a 
 friend who was a typist. Were you anywhere 
 near Chancery Lane?"
 
 262 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Edward's story about a typist he once em- 
 ployed had come back to her. 
 
 "Yes," Margaret answered; "I was in Chan- 
 cery Lane." 
 
 "How curious!" Muriel said thoughtfully. 
 Her mind was working rapidly. She felt the 
 need for cautious advance. 
 
 "So you don't find it lonely in the country?" 
 she asked, in a brisker tone. 
 
 "Never," said Margaret. 
 
 "I suppose," suggested Muriel, in a tone so 
 designedly casual that it ought to have put Mar- 
 garet on her guard, "I suppose you have your 
 husband there as a rule?" 
 
 "No; only occasionally. He . . . has to be 
 away a great deal." 
 
 "Of course the Bishop knows your husband 
 too?" 
 
 "Of course He didn't " 
 
 "Yes; he told me you were a widow. Funny 
 of him, wasn't it?" 
 
 "You must have misunderstood him." 
 
 "No; I think not. So you only see your hus- 
 band occasionally?" 
 
 The light was breaking in. 
 
 "We were unfortunate in missing him to- 
 day." 
 
 "He could not come this week," said Margaret 
 faintly. 
 
 "How old is your eldest boy, Mrs. Seymour?" 
 Muriel asked. She felt she could take another 
 step forward now. 
 
 "Three."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 263 
 
 "Three," repeated Muriel slowly, as if she 
 were reckoning. "And although you say you 
 hadn't seen my husband for seventeen years, you 
 knew him again at once." 
 
 Margaret looked at her startled, afraid. 
 
 "You said so. Just now. Tell me," Muriel 
 went on, leaning forward, "what did you come 
 here for this evening?" 
 
 "To see the Bishop." 
 
 "Yet you asked to see my husband, and told 
 the servant you had business with him." 
 
 "I wanted to see them both." 
 
 "And you thought I should be out at the 
 theatre?" 
 
 Margaret made no answer. 
 
 "What did you want to see them about?" 
 
 "I I cannot tell you." 
 
 Muriel rose up and swiftly crossed to her. 
 
 "You haven't been telling me the truth," she 
 said. 
 
 Margaret rose too, and backed away from 
 her. 
 
 "You've no right to speak to me like that," 
 she murmured. 
 
 "Haven't I? Haven't I a right? I'm not so 
 sure." 
 
 "Please let me wait downstairs," said Mar- 
 garet, with as much dignity as she could. 
 
 Muriel, by a rapid strategic movement, got 
 round to the door and blocked her way. 
 
 "You came here to see my husband," she said 
 vindictively. 
 
 "I came to see the Bishop."
 
 264 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Until to-day you never saw the Bishop," 
 Muriel said with scorn. 
 
 "How absurd!" retorted Margaret, but ner- 
 vously, without conviction. 
 
 "Until to-day," repeated Muriel, "you never 
 saw the Bishop." 
 
 "Let me go, please. I don't understand you." 
 
 "Oh yes, you do," declared Muriel viciously. 
 "You know I've found you out." 
 
 With a great effort of will, Margaret pulled 
 her poor shrinking, tortured self together. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she asked. "What have 
 you found out?" 
 
 "It came to me in a flash as we were talking. 
 Your husband, as you call him, is my husband. 
 You were once his typist; your children are his." 
 
 All Margaret's defence collapsed before this 
 direct attack. She sank down in a chair, covering 
 her face with her hands. After a moment she 
 heard footsteps on the stairs, and the voices of 
 Edward and the Bishop. She looked up, biting 
 her lip to keep back the tears. Muriel stood 
 watching her closely. 
 
 The door opened. Muriel was behind it. For 
 an instant she was hidden from Edward's sight, 
 for it was he who opened the door. On the thresh- 
 old he stopped. He saw no one but Margaret. 
 
 "Margaret!" he exclaimed, in amazement. 
 "Why, what " 
 
 Then, as he stepped forward, he saw Muriel. 
 
 He gave one glance at her, and he quietly shut 
 the door.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE moment of which Edward and Margaret 
 had both thought often, and with a fluttering 
 round their hearts, had come. Chance had played 
 the Bishop's game. The secret that had been 
 well kept for five years was out. 
 
 Edward was outwardly calm but under the 
 surface there raged a fury of annoyance with 
 Margaret, and there gripped him also a fear of 
 seeming ridiculous in Muriel's eyes. He could 
 see the farcical side of his situation between these 
 two women and himself; he knew that it would 
 appeal to Muriel's sense of the absurd. 
 
 Whenever he had contemplated the giving up 
 of his and Margaret's secret, he had figured in 
 the scene heroically almost. His would be the 
 personality to dominate the drama. He would be 
 the sympathetic character. In that moment 
 Muriel would realise bitterly what she had lost; 
 and the world, if the world had to know, would 
 at all events make excuses, and, struck by his 
 manly bearing, call him a fine fellow. 
 
 Now he felt that Margaret's folly, for which 
 he could guess no explanation, had put him into 
 a false position. Muriel must be inwardly laugh- 
 ing at him, in spite of her anger and possible 
 
 265
 
 266 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 anxiety as to the future. And although he no 
 longer loved Muriel perhaps because he no 
 longer loved her Edward felt that notion of her 
 laughing at him like a lash. 
 
 However, he showed nothing of his feelings in 
 his expression. His manner became more re- 
 strained than usual. He shut the door quietly, 
 and, addressing himself to Muriel, he said, in- 
 terrogatively: "Well?" 
 
 "I know everything,'* she replied curtly. 
 
 Edward, with the faintest suggestion of a 
 shrug of his shoulders, crossed over to Margaret. 
 
 "Why did you come?" he asked, in an under- 
 tone. 
 
 "To try and prevent . . . this," she said, with 
 a little gesture, showing that she realised how 
 completely she had failed. 
 
 "Well, but didn't you ... didn't the risk 
 occur to you?" 
 
 He was repressing his impatience as well as 
 he could. 
 
 "Yes; I knew that. But I'd been thinking 
 everything over. I had to see you ... to ask 
 you not to do what the Bishop said." 
 
 "Sssh!" Edward warned her, for Muriel was 
 listening and clearly had all her wits about her. 
 
 "Isn't it rather late to hush things up?" asked 
 Muriel, in a cold voice. "Hadn't you better tell 
 me what the Bishop did say?" 
 
 "Muriel, please . . , if you'd only go up to 
 your room " Edward began. 
 
 "No, we'd better have it out now," she an- 
 swered decisively.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 267 
 
 "Can't you see how impossible it is?" 
 
 Edward spoke pleadingly rather than with ir- 
 ritation. All the annoyance he felt now was 
 against Margaret. 
 
 "It's awkward for you, but that's your own 
 fault. What did the Bishop say?" 
 
 Edward turned from her, said nothing, tapped 
 with his toe on the carpet. 
 
 "You had better tell her," Margaret urged, 
 in a low, strained voice. 
 
 He took no notice. 
 
 "Well, I will tell her," she murmured; and 
 then to Muriel: "He said that your marriage 
 was not real." 
 
 "Why?" asked Muriel, in astonishment. "We 
 were married in church," she added, with some 
 asperity. 
 
 "If you must know," broke in Edward, "he 
 said I ought to leave you." 
 
 "Pretty kind of bishop." 
 
 "And that my duty was to the mother of my 
 children." 
 
 Again Edward felt slightly ridiculous. 
 
 But Muriel was not now seeing the amusing 
 side of the situation. She was really angry her- 
 self. 
 
 "I never heard anything so disgraceful. When 
 he's actually staying in my house! It's out- 
 rageous!" 
 
 Then she turned to Margaret. 
 
 "And I suppose you came up to make final 
 arrangements for stealing my husband, as the 
 Bishop advised?"
 
 "Don't talk in that absurd way," Edward said, 
 now irritated against Muriel as well. And then 
 to Margaret, not very kindly: "You'd better 
 come downstairs. You'll have to be getting 
 home." 
 
 "Wait a minute," said Muriel sharply. "Are 
 you going too?" 
 
 "No; of course not." 
 
 "That's what Mrs. Seymour came for, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 Edward shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "Oh, I've no doubt it isn't the way you'd have 
 chosen," went on Muriel sarcastically. "I sup- 
 pose your idea was to choose your own time, and 
 stand in the limelight as a martyr, and try to 
 put me in the wrong before everybody." 
 
 "That was just what I wanted to stop," Mar- 
 garet put in. 
 
 "You see there's someone else who understands 
 you, Edward, besides me," Muriel remarked 
 spitefully. 
 
 "I sat and thought it all over," Margaret went 
 on hurriedly. "You were so unlike what I ex- 
 pected. I imagined that you were not young 
 well, altogether different. Why, you're as young 
 as I am. I felt it would be mean. I had to 
 come to tell Edward " 
 
 "You can tell me downstairs," he interrupted. 
 
 "I would rather Mrs. Tanstead heard too. 
 Please, believe me," she went on, addressing 
 Muriel. "I didn't come to ask Edward to go 
 away. I thought you would be out. Seeing 
 you confused me and made me feel ah, I feel
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 269 
 
 faint again now," she gasped. "I'm so 
 sorry " 
 
 She swayed and would have fallen, but Ed- 
 ward caught her and supported her to the door. 
 
 "You'd better lie down on the couch down- 
 stairs for a few minutes before you go," he said, 
 and half led, half carried her out. 
 
 8 u 
 
 That night Tanstead and the Bishop left the 
 flat. 
 
 Before Muriel had finished changing her dress 
 "we must change our clothes whatever our 
 domestic circumstances may be," she thought, 
 with a flicker of amusement Edward knocked 
 at her door and asked if she would speak to him. 
 She opened the door, and noticed at once that 
 he was carrying a suit-case. 
 
 "Are you going away?" she asked at once. 
 
 "Yes, I'd better . . . for your sake. You see, 
 if I stayed here, even a single night, after you've 
 found out about" he jerked his head to fill up 
 the blank "it might be held that you condoned 
 it and you wouldn't be able to get . . ."he was 
 going to say "a divorce/' but it sounded so brutal 
 that he changed it for the legal term "relief." 
 
 "But you don't know yet that I want . . . 
 relief," she retorted. "We'd better discuss the 
 whole thing." 
 
 "I'm most fearfully sorry," Tanstead mur- 
 mured. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders.
 
 270 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "I suppose I might have expected something 
 of the kind. The children are a little bit of a 
 shock. However, it's no use talking about it now. 
 I can understand the Bishop's anxiety to get 
 away from 'under my roof I'm sure that's how 
 he puts it. Old-fashioned people always talk 
 about 'roofs' when they feel tragic or sentimental. 
 When will you come? To-morrow? Not in the 
 evening. I've got to go to the Drama Society. 
 Oh, and in the afternoon there's that party you 
 meant to go to what a pity! Better make it 
 Monday." 
 
 Tanstead felt depressed for a moment as he 
 thought of the rather pleasant round of engage- 
 ments made for him. Then he dismissed the 
 thought of these as unworthy. "They're noth- 
 ing," he told himself, but he was conscious all 
 the same that they meant a good deal to him and 
 that the social side of his existence, thanks to 
 Muriel, had been very agreeable. 
 
 "I shan't say anything to anyone except 
 Anne," Muriel added. "I'm going to ask her 
 to come and stay." 
 
 "Tony knows," Tanstead told her. "He found 
 out . . . down there." 
 
 "Well, no one else need know for the present," 
 said Muriel. "Good-night, Edward," and she 
 shut the door. At once she went to the telephone 
 which stood on her bedside table, rang up Anne, 
 was told she was out, left a message for her to 
 ring through as soon as she came in. Then she 
 asked her maid to bring up some dinner, and, 
 letting her hair down, she slipped into a kimono,
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 271 
 
 resolved to spend the rest of the evening where 
 she was. 
 
 Analysing her sensations, according to her cus- 
 tom, she discovered that after her burst of indig- 
 nation "mechanical" she called it she now felt 
 neither anger nor fierce resentment against any- 
 body. Edward aroused in her a contemptuous 
 pity; it was so like him to get mixed up in an 
 affair of this domestic kind instead of the usual 
 casa chica arrangement which entailed no awk- 
 ward consequences. Towards Margaret she had 
 no feeling whatever, except that she was a little 
 ashamed of herself for the severity of her cross- 
 examination. Against the Bishop she did direct 
 a vindictive thought or two : why couldn't he mind 
 his own business? But even he rather diverted 
 than enraged her. 
 
 "If it hadn't been for his meddling, we could 
 all have gone on comfortably. I need never 
 have found out anything. Really, that would 
 have been much better." 
 
 Thus Muriel to Anne next morning. From 
 Anne she had no secrets and found her a most 
 satisfactory "confessor," for, while Anne ac- 
 cepted all confidences willingly, she offered none 
 of her own. Muriel, if she thought about it at 
 all, thought that she had none to offer. She might 
 have been startled if Anne had revealed to her the 
 fires which burned beneath her plain and ap- 
 parently unromantic surface. She would cer- 
 tainly have been surprised to know how Anne's 
 affection for her was struggling at this moment 
 with a sense of triumph at what she considered
 
 272 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 the just retribution which had fallen upon her 
 friend. 
 
 "Of course it would have been more conve- 
 nient," Anne agreed. "But the question is: 
 What are you going to do now? I suppose you 
 will be all right for money?" 
 
 "If there's a divorce, you mean? Oh, I sup- 
 pose so." 
 
 "Why, how can there help being a divorce?" 
 "Well, you know, I had a big think last night. 
 I didn't come to any absolutely definite conclu- 
 sions, but it does seem to me to be absurd, Anne, 
 that we should go on behaving like people in 
 the nineteenth century when we don't think like 
 them or believe the things they believed." 
 
 "We don't go on behaving like them," Anne 
 objected. "They thought marriages were made 
 or, at any rate, registered in heaven, and 
 therefore they thought divorce dreadful. We 
 take it as a matter of course." 
 
 "Ye-es," said Muriel, hesitating; "but haven't 
 we really got a stage beyond that in our ideas? 
 Why should I want to divorce Edward and break 
 up our lives because he's fond of another woman 
 in quite a different way?" 
 
 "Good Lord!" Anne commented, "you've cer- 
 tainly done some thinking. You've abolished 
 marriage in the course of the night if you're 
 serious." 
 
 "Yes, I'm serious. Not about abolishing mar- 
 riage. Let everyone do as they please about 
 that. But I can't see why a mere convention 
 should be allowed to tyrannise over us. I mean
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 273 
 
 divorce. It's just as much a tyrannical conven- 
 tion now as indissoluble marriage used to be. 
 Perfectly ridiculous! There are lots of women 
 who'd be quite content with a share of their hus- 
 bands' companionship, common tastes and inter- 
 ests, intellectual sympathy. Isn't it rather de- 
 grading to mix all that up with the other 
 thing?" 
 
 Anne shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 "However little importance a woman may at- 
 tach to technical fidelity, she's compelled to be 
 tragic about it and go for a divorce as soon as she 
 finds out any breach of it. That's why so many 
 women deliberately conceal the fact that they 
 have found it out." 
 
 "But they aren't compelled," Anne protested. 
 "Who compels them?" 
 
 "Public opinion. If I said openly, 'I don't 
 mind about this other establishment of Edward's. 
 That appeals to one side of his nature, I appeal 
 to another,' there would be a fearful scandal. 
 Yet I should only be saying openly what lots 
 of women think and act upon in a secret, hush- 
 hush way." 
 
 "But what about Edward?" asked Anne 
 bluntly. 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "You're talking, my dear, as if the divorce were 
 a matter that concerned only you; I say, what 
 about Edward? Perhaps he may want it." 
 
 "I've thought about that too," Muriel said, 
 "but I don't think he can. Why should he? He 
 has everything to lose and next to nothing to
 
 274 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 gain by changing the present arrangement. Be- 
 sides ... it doesn't lie with him to say whether 
 there shall be a divorce or not. It's for me to 
 decide. Of course," she went on quickly, "if 
 he came to me and said, 'I'm madly in love,' 
 or 'I simply can't stand living with you any 
 longer,' I should divorce him at once. But I'm 
 confident he won't do that." 
 
 "Still, there's a third party. Wouldn't it be 
 a bit rough on her to leave things as they are?" 
 
 "Yes, that is a difficulty, I admit. I suppose 
 she'd like to have her position regularised. She'd 
 rather be Mrs. Pericles, with me as Aspasia, in- 
 stead of it being the other way round." 
 
 Anne gazed blankly. Muriel told her about 
 the discussion at the cottage during tea. 
 
 "The funny thing was I told Edward I ought 
 to have been his Aspasia! I shouldn't mind 
 changing places now if it were possible." 
 
 "Talk sense," Anne exhorted her curtly. 
 
 "I really believe you're shocked, you funny old 
 thing," Muriel chaffed. 
 
 "I am," was Anne's prompt admission. Ready 
 as she was to harbour new ideas, free from preju- 
 dices as she believed herself to be, she did think 
 Muriel was "going a bit too far." 
 
 This calmly reflective mood in which Muriel 
 had debated her situation with Anne was broken 
 during the next few days by impulses and 
 anxieties which set her thoughts moving first
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 275 
 
 in one direction, then in another. It was not 
 to be expected that she could rise superior to the 
 perplexities which beset men and women when 
 they are suddenly forced to take decisions which 
 must affect the whole future course of their lives. 
 One morning she woke up cheerless and distrust- 
 ful of her judgment. She needed support and 
 could not find any. The flat was dull; Edward's 
 absence made it quiet and empty. The uncer- 
 tainty of the future weighed upon her spirits. 
 The recollection of Tony's assurance that he 
 would always be her friend came to her then, 
 with a comforting effect, and she wondered 
 whether, after all, that wouldn't be the simplest 
 solution. So she wrote a little note to him asking 
 him to come and see her, and letting it appear 
 that she might mean to take advantage of what 
 he had said. 
 
 Tony got this note at breakfast ; before he had 
 finished Tanstead called. 
 
 "I want to ask you to do something for me. 
 There are several things I want from the flat. 
 I can't go and get them. I don't like to 
 ask Muriel. Would you mind fetching them for 
 me?" 
 
 "Not a bit. Delighted," Tony said. "I was 
 going there anyway. I've had a note from 
 Muriel." 
 
 There was a certain self -consciousness in his 
 tone as he said this, but Tanstead noticed nothing. 
 
 "I'm glad you're going," he said, and then 
 went on rapidly: "I wish to God all this could 
 have been avoided. It seems hard on Muriel."
 
 276 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "It is hard on her/' Tony interrupted. "And 
 it's all your fault." 
 
 "Not all," Tanstead said mildly. 
 
 "Not all your fault? Why) what d'yer 
 mean? Of course it's your fault. Dammit, you 
 haven't played the game, old man, you haven't 
 really." 
 
 "You don't know the circumstances," Tan- 
 stead told him severely, "and you can't judge 
 without knowing them." 
 
 "I know you married the nicest, prettiest, clev- 
 erest little woman in London instead of which 
 you go and carry on like this." 
 
 "You think it's just caprice and original sin, 
 I suppose," Edward answered him bitterly. 
 "That's the way people always jump to conclu- 
 sions. They never stop to consider what the 
 causes may be." 
 
 "Generally the same old cause, old man, isn't 
 it?" asked Tony, with his "you-can't-humbug- 
 me" expression and tone. 
 
 "Suppose you married," Edward began, rather 
 in the manner of counsel putting a defence before 
 a jury "suppose you married and found your 
 wife didn't . . . didn't want to have children 
 . . . and told you her idea of marriage was 
 friendship, and a room to herself with the door 
 locked " 
 
 "I may be a fool," Tony interrupted, "but I 
 shouldn't be such a fool as to marry a woman like 
 that." 
 
 "That's what I should have said . . once."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 277 
 
 "But look here, you aren't talking about you 
 and Muriel, are you?" 
 
 "Yes, I am." 
 
 "I say!" 
 
 Tony could not have been more astounded if 
 he had been told that after all the world had been 
 discovered to be flat. Indeed that would not have 
 affected him so much ; it would not have necessi- 
 tated anything like such a mental effort to adjust 
 his intelligence to the unsuspected reality of 
 things. 
 
 "Did she care for someone else?" 
 
 "No, she doesn't care for men at all . . . not in 
 that way." 
 
 "Come, I say, I can't swallow that. There 
 must have been some other feller." 
 
 "Perhaps you, Tony," Edward said, with bit- 
 ter humour. 
 
 The satire was quite lost. 
 
 "Well, do you know," said Tony seriously, "I 
 was just wondering about that myself." 
 
 Edward laughed at this outright ; but savagely, 
 not as if he thought it funny. 
 
 "I don't see anything to laugh at, old man. I 
 tell you there was a little woman down in Corn- 
 wall " 
 
 "Yes, you've told me about her before," 
 Edward broke in wearily. "I must go." 
 
 "But look here," said Tony, button-holing him, 
 "I'm in a deuced awkward fix." 
 
 "How's that?" Edward asked the question 
 without interest. 
 
 "Well, you see, after . . . well, after the other
 
 278 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 afternoon, you know, I told Muriel if ever she 
 wanted a friend to send for me. Dashed if she 
 hasn't sent for me now." 
 
 "Now's the chance, then," said Edward grimly, 
 "to prove your words." 
 
 "Yes, I know. But look here, what you told 
 me just now, you weren't rotting, eh?" 
 
 "The plain truth, Tony. That's how it 
 stands." 
 
 "Well, that makes a difference, doesn't it? 
 You see, I like Muriel as a companion awfully. 
 For one thing, she does pretty well all the talk- 
 ing. Some women bother a feller so. They want 
 to know how you like a play, or if you don't think 
 someone or other badly dressed, or whether you 
 prefer Paris to London. Muriel just says the 
 play's good or rotten, or 'so-and-so's looking 
 hideous,' and that settles it. But then, don't you 
 know " 
 
 Edward had been paying scarcely any atten- 
 tion to Tony's remarks. He was absorbed in his 
 own thoughts. Now he suddenly recalled some- 
 thing that had been said. 
 
 "Did you say Muriel has sent for you?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes; but what you've told me naturally 
 well, it alters my feelings." 
 
 A sudden light broke in upon Edward. 
 
 "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "you don't mean 
 to say You're a damned funny kind of 
 friend." 
 
 Tony's eyes opened wide. 
 
 "You don't object, do you?"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 279 
 
 "Not object to your making love to my wife? 
 What the devil do you mean?" 
 
 "Well, old man, I thought if you left Muriel, 
 do you see " 
 
 "If I do, I shall provide for her," said Edward 
 hotly. 
 
 "All right, you needn't get shirty," Tony 
 grumbled sulkily. "I don't see that you've much 
 right to complain." 
 
 A sudden feeling of helplessness came over 
 Edward. 
 
 "No," he admitted limply. "I don't know that 
 I have." 
 
 "I don't i eel the same about it as I did, 
 though," Tony continued. "What would you 
 advise?" 
 
 "Good God, how can I advise you?" 
 
 "No, you can't, of course, I wasn't thinking," 
 Tony said apologetically. "Well, I'll get those 
 things for you, old man, if you'll tell me what 
 you want." 
 
 Muriel had a premonition that Tony was going 
 to fail her as soon as he came into the room. He 
 was uneasy; he answered her jerkily with Yes or 
 No ; he did not look at her when he spoke. She 
 was almost dissuaded from her intention, but she 
 was still feeling desperate, so she obliged herself 
 to put him to the test. 
 
 "You're one of the faithful sort, Tony," she 
 said, after they had talked for a few minutes
 
 280 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 about nothing. "I feel I can always count on 
 you." 
 
 "Rather," said Tony without enthusiasm. 
 
 Muriel had to make an effort to go on. 
 
 "When you said you'd always be ready if I 
 wanted a friend " 
 
 "I meant that," he jumped at the word; "I'm 
 your friend for ever and ever world without end." 
 
 "Thank you, Tony. I I think it's sweet of 
 you to have cared for me always, ever since those 
 old days when we were in the Temple together." 
 
 Tony wriggled, said nothing. 
 
 "And it was chivalrous of you to offer to 
 make the offer you did the other night." 
 
 "Eh? Oh, yes." 
 
 "Perhaps you've thought better of it." 
 
 "Well, I have been thinking." 
 
 "Yes?" said Muriel miserably, crushed by the 
 humiliation she was going through. 
 
 "Well, d'yer think we should hit it off quite?" 
 
 "No, perhaps not, Tony." 
 
 "Yes, see if you couldn't hit it off with 
 Edward " 
 
 "But we've always got on splendidly or al- 
 most always." 
 
 "In some ways, perhaps. But not in every 
 way, or why should he go and take up with this 
 Mrs. What's-her-name?" 
 
 Suddenly Muriel saw what had happened. 
 
 "Have you seen Edward?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes; he asked me to come and get him some 
 things he wanted from here." Tony brightened 
 up at this change of subject.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 281 
 
 "I see," said Muriel bitterly. "I see. It's 
 a pity women can't stick together as men do. 
 First the Bishop backs Edward up, and then 
 you. However, it doesn't matter. I've got to 
 go out," she added coldly; "y u can find the 
 things Edward wants, I suppose." 
 
 As she swept along the passage to her room, 
 she said, "Well, that's that," and then as a kind 
 of defiance to the doubts and depression that 
 had settled upon her: 
 
 "After all "
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AFTER Margaret had seen Muriel in her home 
 she told herself more emphatically than ever that 
 the change of circumstances proposed by the 
 Bishop "would never do." The backbone of her 
 resolution was, as it had been from the first, the 
 wish to keep the children under her own guid- 
 ance, but she put that into the back of her 
 thoughts, laying stress rather upon the difficulty 
 she would have in giving Edward such a home as 
 would content him after his life with Muriel. 
 She saw now that she had never really tried to 
 construct the situation that would result from 
 a discovery of Edward's second establishment; 
 she had let her mind drift round it, always with 
 the implied hope that some day her position 
 would be redeemed from its irregularity; she had 
 never faced the details of it. They worked, there- 
 fore, all the more powerfully upon her now. 
 
 Edward went down to see her; came away 
 puzzled by her obstinacy. He did not suspect, 
 would not have understood if he had been told, 
 that her passion for him had its roots in the 
 maternal instinct, that it died away as soon as 
 she had the children she had longed for and could 
 pour out on them the wealth of her affection. 
 
 Her attitude surprised him, yet he could not sup- 
 
 282
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 283 
 
 press the reflection (though he did try) that there 
 were difficult times before all of them if they 
 followed the Bishop's counsel. Had he been 
 capable, like Muriel, of laying bare his sensations 
 and motives, he would have been forced to admit 
 that he would prefer to go on as they were. He 
 could see within reach the goal of his ambition; 
 had certainly enjoyed his life with Muriel since 
 he had had what he always thought of as his 
 "home" with Margaret. He had enough money 
 saved to keep them all from want, but what a 
 different face the world would show to him if his 
 existence were to be thus suddenly transformed! 
 Tanstead had neither the intellectual curiosity 
 nor the intellectual honesty which are needed by 
 those who try to obey the injunction, "Know 
 thyself." Yet he did feel that there was some 
 unreality in his argument with Margaret, and 
 this made him irritable. He would have liked 
 to follow his unexpressed inclination and to say: 
 "My dear girl, I think you are right. It would 
 be most convenient to leave things as they are." 
 Instead, he felt bound both by his "duty towards 
 her" and by a vague belief that his duty to society 
 lay in the same direction, to press on Margaret 
 the Bishop's solution. But since he was argu- 
 ing against his inclination (unexpressed, it is 
 true, yet none the less powerful), he was ill- 
 tempered, he was not persuasive, he left Mar- 
 garet feeling that he had come across something 
 in her nature which he had not noticed before, a 
 stubbornness, a self-reliance, quite opposed to 
 the clinging, dependent humility which he had
 
 284 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 fancied up to now to be at the base of her char- 
 acter. 
 
 Nor was the Bishop more successful. He saw 
 Margaret also, and got very little out of her. 
 To her awe of his office was added her conviction 
 that it would be entirely useless to try and make 
 him look at the matter through her eyes. She had 
 been truly startled by her discovery during their 
 tea-table talk about marriage that "different ar- 
 rangements," as she called them, had been ac- 
 cepted at different periods. This gave her a new 
 view of the matter, but she was sure that it was 
 not a view which he could ever take, therefore she 
 said nothing about it. She kept to the determina- 
 tion she had formed to see Edward's wife again 
 before anything was decided. 
 
 "Edward's wife need not be considered," the 
 Bishop told her. "She has chosen her own path. 
 I cannot very well understand your anxiety to 
 see her." 
 
 "I didn't imagine her like she is," Margaret 
 murmured. 
 
 "She is selfish and heartless. There is no need 
 for you to think about her." 
 
 Margaret shook her head. 
 
 The Bishop, unusued to opposition in Pata- 
 gonia, grew irritable also. He, like Edward, 
 had come upon an unexpected vein in Margaret. 
 He had formed in his mind a definite conception 
 of her mental and moral qualities ; there was every 
 excuse for his feeling annoyed when she showed 
 him that he had been hasty, and obliged him to 
 cast about for some other clue to her character.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 285 
 
 At last he concluded that nothing could be 
 settled until Margaret had had her way. He 
 agreed to arrange a meeting at which he and 
 Edward would be present. Margaret raised no 
 objection to that. 
 
 Why Mrs. Seymour should want to see her, 
 Muriel could not guess. She did not try very 
 hard; the threat of an approaching break-up of 
 her pleasant life lay heavily over her, took away 
 all her energy of mind and body both. All the 
 comfort she got from Anne was: "What else 
 could you expect?" She knew that would be 
 the verdict of most of her friends. That made her 
 feel bitter and aggrieved, though reason told her 
 she had no just grievance. She had, as the Bishop 
 said, chosen her path, and she could acknowledge 
 in her unresentful hours that she ought not to 
 complain of the precipice to which it had led her. 
 But those hours were becoming fewer; she 
 awaited the conference in a mood which grew 
 more and more aggressive. 
 
 The Bishop was the first to arrive. That was 
 uncomfortable for both. He merely bowed and 
 sat down. There was a silence for half-a-minute, 
 then Muriel flashed out: 
 
 "I can't see what business this is of yours." 
 
 The Bishop looked at the door, wishing that 
 someone would open it and come in. 
 
 "I have urged upon Edward that his duty is
 
 286 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 to to his children and their mother. For you 
 I have no sympathy." 
 
 "I don't ask for your sympathy," Muriel as- 
 sured him. 
 
 "Deplorable as Edward's conduct has been, 
 I consider you mainly responsible for it." 
 
 "I can quite believe that," said Muriel sar- 
 castically. 
 
 "Mrs. Seymour, however, is unwilling that any 
 
 step should be taken until she is satisfied that you 
 
 that you, in fact, agree. She will be satisfied, 
 
 I think, if you assure her that she is not wronging 
 
 you." 
 
 "Not wronging me! Of course she's wronging 
 me. She's taking away my husband and turning 
 me out of my home, the only home I've got. 
 What do you call that?" 
 
 "Edward will no doubt provide for you. And 
 you certainly told me the other day that a 
 'break-up of partnership,' I think you called it 
 would not cause you any pain." 
 
 "I think it's very unfair to turn one's own 
 words against one, and twist them about like 
 that. You quite misunderstood me." 
 
 The Bishop spread his hands with a slight 
 bow, as if to dismiss that aspect of the question. 
 He went back to the main theme. 
 
 "What Mrs. Seymour wishes to be sure of, I 
 think, is that you do not feel towards Edward 
 as a wife ought to feel to her husband." 
 
 "Oh, 'ought,' 'ought/ 'ought'! That hateful 
 word ! Who gave you the right to lay down what 
 people ought and ought not to do?"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 28? 
 
 "I am merely expressing the view of all right- 
 minded men and women," the Bishop replied, 
 with a slight lifting of his brows. "There are 
 certain standards of conduct to which it is our 
 duty to conform." 
 
 "That's another of your detestable words 
 'duty* another of the sticks that dull people use 
 to beat everyone into their own stupid shape 
 with." 
 
 "I am not going to argue with you," said the 
 Bishop. 
 
 In spite of her hardness of manner and dis- 
 courtesy of speech, the Bishop noticed that 
 Muriel had become more womanly. He was puz- 
 zled by this change. He did not understand that 
 she had altered from an amused observer of life 
 into a woman fighting for her "man" and her 
 home. However calmly she might review her 
 position when she was alone and in analytical 
 mood, her fighting instinct was aroused by the 
 attempt to take that position from her. The 
 opening skirmish with the Bishop increased her 
 antagonism to Mrs. Seymour, who, entering at 
 this moment, was chilled by the coldest of nods, 
 and could not be comforted by the warmth of 
 the Bishop's greeting. 
 
 Edward arrived last; he was clearly out of 
 temper. He walked into the room without a 
 word to anybody, made for the mantelpiece, stood 
 with his hands upon it, glowering into the fire. 
 
 "I have come under protest," he announced. 
 "I consider this meeting unnecessary and fool- 
 ish."
 
 288 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "I am sorry," faltered Margaret; she nearly 
 called him "Edward," but stopped her tongue 
 just in time. "I am sure it is necessary for us 
 to meet and and talk things over." 
 
 Then she turned to Muriel. 
 
 "It isn't foolish to try and save anyone from 
 pain and and suffering. I want to try and save 
 Mrs. Tanstead from that." 
 
 Muriel smiled ironically. 
 
 "Very kind of you, I'm sure," she said crisply. 
 
 "The Bishop says it would be right for for 
 Edward to come and live with me. But I can't 
 feel sure that anything is right which causes pain 
 to people." 
 
 "You are talking foolishly, my child," the 
 Bishop interrupted. 
 
 "It would pain you, wouldn't it, to if we did 
 as the Bishop says?" Margaret went on. 
 
 "You seem to forget," Muriel said irritably, 
 "that I am Edward's wife." 
 
 "I understood you to say," put in the Bishop, 
 "that you would never wish to keep him against 
 his will." 
 
 "Edward," said Muriel, "do you wish to leave 
 me?" 
 
 "Please consider me out of this," he responded. 
 "I have protested against the whole business." 
 
 "You disappoint me, Edward, my boy," the 
 Bishop interjected sadly. 
 
 Margaret was watching Edward closely. 
 
 "I think," she said, "that Mrs. Tanstead has a 
 right to put that question." 
 
 "I refuse to take any part in the discussion,"
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 289 
 
 snapped Edward, still with his back turned. 
 
 "Come," said the Bishop, "the point is quite 
 simple. If you" (he appealed to Muriel) "will 
 repeat what you told me the other morning, your 
 attitude will be plain." 
 
 "Oh, don't keep throwing what I said at me 
 like that. It is so stupid." 
 
 Then she turned to Margaret. 
 
 "So you think you have a better right to Ed- 
 ward than I?" 
 
 "No, no," Margaret answered quickly, and 
 then added plaintively: "I only want what is 
 best for us all." 
 
 "Do you think," asked Muriel, "it would be 
 best for me to be turned out of my house?" 
 
 "No, oh no!" 
 
 "Then," said Muriel curiously, "y u don't 
 want to take Edward away?" 
 
 She could see there was something in the back- 
 ground of Margaret's mind which the men had 
 not yet suspected. 
 
 Impulsively Margaret replied: 
 
 "I want things to go on as they are." 
 
 The Bishop looked aghast at this unexpected 
 blow. 
 
 "Margaret, have you gone out of your mind?" 
 
 "No; but I've been thinking," Margaret hur- 
 ried on. "What you said about Pericles and 
 Aspasia" (she was addressing Muriel) "seemed 
 just to fit our case." 
 
 "But you told me, Margaret," interrupted the
 
 290 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 Bishop sternly, "that your dearest wish was to 
 be properly married to Edward." 
 
 "Yes, I do feel that sometimes. I did then." 
 
 "What has made you alter your mind? You 
 disappoint me grievously, Margaret." 
 
 "But think what it would mean. Edward 
 would lose his work. Mrs. Tanstead would lose 
 her home. Edward would have to change a great 
 deal in his life. He might get tired of being with 
 me altogether." 
 
 The Bishop looked angrily at his godson. 
 
 "Edward," he said, "how can you remain 
 silent?" 
 
 "All this is most undignified and most irreg- 
 ular," Edward replied harshly. "I will have no 
 part in such folly." 
 
 "You see," Margaret continued in her plain- 
 tive tone, "I can't be such a companion to you, 
 Edward, as Mrs. Tanstead can. I never could 
 be. Look at this room. I could never make a 
 room look like this. Nor could you, Edward; 
 you tried once at the cottage, you remember, 
 and had to give it up as a bad job." 
 
 Edward turned half round. 
 
 "What on earth has furnishing got to do with 
 it?" he inquired in a voice of suppressed annoy- 
 ance. 
 
 "Why, everything," said Margaret, astonished 
 at his question, "to you, at any rate; you're so 
 particular." 
 
 Muriel was interested in this odd woman. 
 
 "Well, go on," she said, not impolitely, but 
 as if anxious to hear more.
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 291 
 
 "Of course," continued Margaret, thus en- 
 couraged, "it's a dreadful position we've got 
 into, and I think we're all to blame for it. But 
 we can't go back. We can't undo anything." 
 
 "Edward can to some extent repair the wrong 
 he has done you," said the Bishop. 
 
 "The wrong we did, we did together," Mar- 
 garet responded. "The fault was as much mine 
 as his." 
 
 "No, no, Meg," came from Edward. "I can't 
 let you say that." 
 
 "Yes, but it was," she persisted. "I knew I 
 could never be happy as I was. I longed for a 
 home and children to look after. It was that 
 which drew us together." 
 
 "But you cared for me too," he urged. 
 
 "Yes, of course I cared, Edward, and you 
 know I do still. But that alone wouldn't have 
 made me do what I thought was wrong 
 
 "And you can't be happy," said the Bishop, 
 "so long as you continue to do wrong." 
 
 Margaret hesitated for a moment. 
 
 "The last four years have been very happy 
 ones," she faltered, "most of the time. I think 
 Edward has been happy. And you too?" she 
 asked of Muriel. 
 
 "Yes," admitted Muriel, "I have had nothing 
 much to complain of." 
 
 "We're two such different kinds of women," 
 Margaret continued. "You're clever and intel- 
 lectual. You can talk to Edward about all sorts 
 of things I know nothing of. If he'd married
 
 me to begin with, it might be different. But 
 now, wouldn't it be a great risk to make such a 
 great change?" 
 
 The Bishop threw up his hands. 
 
 "I thought you at any rate were a good 
 woman," he said reproachfully. 
 
 "Can't we be good and see things as they really 
 are at the same time?" asked Margaret gently. 
 "I am only trying to use common sense." 
 
 "Your attitude astounds me," the Bishop said. 
 
 "I am terribly sorry to shock you Father!" 
 
 "You do shock me beyond words."
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 BUT by this time the Bishop had become con- 
 scious that Margaret was acting under the in- 
 fluence of some motive which he had not yet 
 grasped. 
 
 "Margaret," he said, "there is something in 
 your mind which you are hiding from us." 
 
 "It's so difficult to explain," she answered. 
 "You see, I thought the law of marriage was 
 sacred, eternal ! I thought it had always been the 
 same as it is to-day." 
 
 "So it has," affirmed the Bishop. 
 
 "Oh, come, Bishop," said Muriel. "Let's be 
 honest. What about Solomon?" 
 
 She was in better spirits. She seemed to dis- 
 cern the promise of a pathway out of her diffi- 
 culties. 
 
 "Besides," continued Margaret, "you say 
 yourself that Edward's marriage isn't a true one, 
 and yet the law calls it regular, and the Church 
 too." 
 
 The Bishop turned away impatiently. 
 
 "Now you can feel what it's like to have your 
 own words turned against you," said Muriel tri- 
 umphantly. "You don't like it yourself." 
 
 "The whole thing," Margaret went on hur- 
 riedly, "is a tangle. But this is how I look at 
 
 293
 
 294 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 it. We're all being fairly happy, and now if we 
 make a change, Edward, as I said just now, will 
 lose his work and his position, and Mrs. Tan- 
 stead will lose her home, and everything will be 
 upset and difficult." 
 
 Edward had been listening with more and 
 more attention. Now he turned round. 
 
 "Meg, you're trying to sacrifice yourself for 
 me," he said. 
 
 "At last you've had the manliness to speak," 
 the Bishop observed caustically. 
 
 "You mustn't do it, Meg. We can manage 
 somehow." 
 
 "Yes, I dare say we should manage, but " 
 
 "I am sure," said the Bishop sharply, "that 
 you are keeping something back." 
 
 "Well," Margaret admitted desperately, "I've 
 thought it over it seemed so so risky to change 
 things. If the Church made a mistake about Ed- 
 ward's marriage before, it might make a mistake 
 again. And if marriage wouldn't really bind 
 him " 
 
 "Of course it would bind him," the Bishop 
 broke in, "and you, too, by the most solemn of 
 all oaths." 
 
 "But if that is so," Margaret queried, with a 
 puzzled expression, "he is bound already." 
 
 "I told you," said the Bishop, "that priests 
 were liable to make mistakes. There can be no 
 mistake now. You know that you and Edward 
 are suited to one another." 
 
 "That would be the advantage of a trial mar- 
 riage, wouldn't it?" put in Muriel, unable to re-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 295 
 
 sist the opportunity of scoring off the Bishop. 
 
 "Besides," said Margaret, "we don't know that 
 we should get on so well if we lived together 
 always." 
 
 "Of course you would, being sensible people," 
 the Bishop urged. "And in any case marriage 
 would regularise your position." 
 
 "I don't care about that," Margaret declared. 
 "I don't want any social position. I've got the 
 children to bring up. That's enough for me." 
 
 "Yes; but consider their future." 
 
 "I do. What's the good of letting everybody 
 know that their birth certificates aren't true?" 
 
 "There's something more behind all this," said 
 the Bishop, in a baffled, disheartened tone. 
 
 M 
 
 "Hadn't you better be frank with us?" asked 
 Muriel. 
 
 Margaret glanced at Edward, who had gone 
 back to his old attitude. She seemed to hesitate, 
 then to make up her mind to speak. 
 
 "Well," she said defiantly, "I want my chil- 
 dren to myself. I want to bring them up in my; 
 own way." 
 
 Edward swung round abruptly. 
 
 "Then you were fooling me when you said you 
 wished we could be really husband and wife?" 
 he asked angrily. 
 
 "No, of course I wasn't, Edward. I did wish 
 it. But somehow, when it came near, I began to 
 be afraid."
 
 296 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 "Afraid of what?" he demanded. 
 
 "Nothing in particular, nothing definite. But 
 the truth is, it's too late for me to have anybody 
 interfering. I look forward to seeing Edward 
 immensely, but if he were there all the time every- 
 thing would be different." 
 
 "I'm sorry you distrust me," Edward barked. 
 
 "I don't distrust you. It would be natural 
 for you to be master. But . . . oh, can't you 
 see what it would mean?" 
 
 Edward turned away again with a hopeless 
 shrug. 
 
 "Then you propose," inquired Muriel, "that 
 we should leave everything as it is?" 
 
 "Yes, that's what I propose. Can't we do 
 that? We've got to find some way out, haven't 
 we? You . . . and the Bishop . . . have made 
 me feel quite differently about marriage." 
 
 "How did the Bishop alter your view?" in- 
 quired Muriel with curiosity. 
 
 "He says marriage isn't really binding unless 
 people love one another. So that it's really love 
 which binds and not the ceremony at all." 
 
 For a moment the Bishop doubted whether 
 Margaret was as simple and straightforward as 
 she seemed. He positively exploded into protest. 
 
 "You have altogether misunderstood me," he 
 declared. "I should never dream of holding such 
 a pernicious opinion." 
 
 "I'm very sorry," Margaret apologised. "I 
 thought you said It's so difficult to under- 
 stand." 
 
 "So you seriously propose," said Muriel, after
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 297 
 
 a few moments' silence, "that we shall make no 
 change at all?" 
 
 "Would it make so much difference to you 
 . . . knowing about . . . Edward and me?" 
 
 "I suppose I might get used to it," said Muriel 
 reflectively. "Like Mrs. Pericles," she added, 
 with a smile. 
 
 "This levity is shocking,'* the Bishop com- 
 plained sternly. 
 
 "Pity you have no sense of humour, Bishop," 
 Muriel remarked airily. 
 
 "This is no time for humour." 
 
 "Now do you know," replied Muriel, "it seems 
 to me to be one of those occasions when a sense 
 of humour comes in really useful." 
 
 Then she turned to her husband. 
 
 "What do you say to Mrs. Seymour's scheme, 
 Edward?" she asked. 
 
 "I must have time to think," he answered. 
 
 Once more the Bishop received a shock. 
 
 "Surely," he said, in a voice of indignant sur- 
 prise, "surely you could never even dream of 
 consenting to such an outrageous plan?" 
 
 "I don't seem to have much say in the matter," 
 returned Edward bitterly. "It looks to me 
 as if I'd simply been made a convenience all 
 round." 
 
 There was a silence after Edward's remark, 
 which plunged into Muriel's mind as a stone sinks 
 through clear water, causing ripples of reflec- 
 tion which widened and widened until she seemed 
 to have an entirely new philosophy of the rela- 
 tions between men and women which she longed
 
 298 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 
 
 to be expounding to Anne. Her thoughts were 
 taken off it by Margaret's voice. 
 
 "Really," it was saying, "there's no other way 
 out." 
 
 "Of course there is," the Bishop fumed. "Ed- 
 ward can ask his wife to divorce him. That is the 
 proper course for him to take." 
 
 Margaret's face hardened. 
 
 "Even then I wouldn't marry him," she de- 
 clared. 
 
 Edward and the Bishop both turned upon her 
 in amazement. 
 
 "No, I wouldn't. The children wouldn't be 
 mine any longer. Of course it would be different 
 if we'd always lived together ; then I should have 
 got used to it. But now it would mean that when- 
 ever Edward didn't agree with me he would ex- 
 pect me to give way, and I can't do that. I've 
 had them to myself too long. We should quar- 
 rel. And then I'm not clever. Edward would 
 get tired of being with me. Then things would 
 be much worse than they are now." 
 
 "You seem to have taken leave of your senses," 
 the Bishop said. 
 
 "I'm so sorry you think that," Margaret re- 
 plied humbly. "I seem to myself to have just 
 found them. The whole difficulty has cleared 
 up since I heard about Pericles." 
 
 "You're talking of what you don't understand, 
 Margaret," the Bishop told her impatiently. 
 "There can be no comparison between Greek 
 society and our own. Everything is different 
 now."
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 299 
 
 "I should say," Muriel interposed, "the chief 
 difference is that they allowed for women not 
 being all alike, and we don't." 
 
 "You see," said Margaret apologetically to the 
 Bishop, "a man wants a woman to be so many 
 different things. And generally she can't be 
 more than one. That's the difficulty." 
 
 "A good man is satisfied if his wife is a good 
 mother," the Bishop asserted sententiously. 
 
 Mock-sympathetically, Muriel said: "Good 
 men are so scarce, aren't they?" 
 
 "I am sorry to hear it," said the Bishop 
 severely. "No wonder England's greatness is 
 declining." 
 
 Muriel shrugged her shoulders. Then she 
 turned again to Margaret. 
 
 "So you really think your province is to bring 
 up the children, and mine to keep Edward 
 amused?" 
 
 "I think it would be best for all of us to go 
 on as we are." 
 
 "But surely you can see how terribly immoral 
 that would be," the Bishop interrupted in a tone 
 of exasperation. 
 
 "Aren't you a little unpractical, Bishop?" 
 Muriel asked, with irritating silkiness of manner. 
 
 "You all seem to me to be mad," he continued 
 angrily. "You talk as if there were no moral 
 law, no standard of right and wrong." 
 
 "Oh, didn't you know?" Muriel said slyly. 
 "That was abolished in England at the Reforma- 
 tion. The right of private judgment was set up 
 instead."
 
 "At any rate, we shouldn't be doing anyone 
 any harm," Margaret pleaded. 
 
 "To me you are all utterly incomprehensible," 
 the Bishop said, reduced to helplessness. "Is 
 it useless to appeal once more to you, Edward?" 
 he asked, turning to his godson with a pathetic 
 look of pained affection. 
 
 Tanstead was touched. 
 
 "My dear Pater, you'd better leave us to ham- 
 mer this out ourselves. It isn't a thing we can 
 settle by any book of rules." 
 
 "Then you accept this this immoral solu- 
 tion?" 
 
 "I have no choice." 
 
 The Bishop looked from one to the other. 
 Margaret was the only one who met his glance. 
 She murmured: "I'm so sorry . . . Father." In 
 answer to her he said, it seemed mechanically, 
 "Good-night, my child," and walked towards the 
 door. 
 
 iii 
 
 "And really, you know," Muriel said, telling 
 Anne about it afterwards, "really I felt sorry for 
 him. He looked so so beaten." 
 
 "Yes; and beaten by just the one he'd put his 
 faith in and was doing his best for. I don't won- 
 der he said you were all mad." 
 
 "Mad? There never was such astonishing 
 sense. Just think what a muddle and a mess-up 
 there would have been if we'd taken the conven- 
 tional course. That woman's quite right, you 
 know. She'd bore Edward stiff if they were to-
 
 THE FRUIT OF THE TREE 301 
 
 gether always. And think of Edward! No 
 judgeship! Probably no practice. His career 
 smashed up. All of us would have been far 
 worse off than we are now." 
 
 "Well, it seems to me," said Anne, "that you've 
 got off very easily, far more easily than you 
 deserve." 
 
 "Oh, you're as old-fashioned as the Bishop." 
 
 "You don't think you're starting a new fash- 
 ion, do you?" 
 
 "I shouldn't wonder," returned Muriel mis- 
 chievously. 
 
 She was in high spirits. The life she found 
 so pleasant would go on. For a little while 
 there might be an awkwardness between her and 
 Edward, but that would wear off. There was 
 really no reason why it should last. She knew 
 many women who were well aware of their hus- 
 bands' "other arrangements" and whose husbands 
 knew they knew: they were quite good friends. 
 This was an unusual arrangement, but already 
 she had got used to the knowledge of it; there 
 would be about it, at any rate, no unpleasant clan- 
 destine, furtive flavour such as she had always 
 disliked. There was no reason why she and Mrs. 
 Seymour should not improve their acquaintance- 
 ship; she felt it might be worth while to know 
 more of this simple, straightforward soul. 
 
 Margaret, too, as she travelled home to the 
 cottage, was pleased with the upshot of the con- 
 ference. She had not had that High School 
 training to which Aunt Sybilla attributed all 
 Muriel's "oddness." She had no theories, had
 
 $02 THE FRUIT OF THE TKEE 
 
 never analysed any process of her thought. She 
 was shaping her life bit by bit, relying upon her 
 intuitions (which she called "feelings"), and she 
 was satisfied that in this case her feelings had 
 counselled her aright. She seemed to herself to 
 have escaped a threatening danger. The future 
 which had been all at once so uncertain and 
 alarming was restful and sure once more. 
 
 It was the Bishop's dim perception that she 
 had been moved by the desire to do what was 
 right which most of all in this perplexing matter 
 disturbed his mind. Muriel he could understand 
 better. She was self-centred ; she had renounced 
 all the old religious and moral guidance; her 
 standard was convenience. Edward's acquies- 
 cence shocked him, but could be accounted for 
 by reluctance to sacrifice a career mapped out 
 by ambition and for so long steadily pursued. 
 Margaret's attitude the Bishop could not ex- 
 plain. Probably only a woman, capable of im- 
 agining herself in the same position, could ex- 
 plain it. 
 
 When Edward got back to the hotel to which 
 he and the Bishop had betaken themselves when 
 they left the flat, he found the Bishop busy 
 packing. 
 
 "Hullo, Pater, going away?" he asked. 
 "Where are you going?" 
 
 "I am going as soon as possible, my boy, back 
 to Patagonia, where life is comparatively simple. 
 It has grown too complicated for me here."
 
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