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The Dark House

by I. A. R. Wylie · English · Gutenberg #13546 · 521,379 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Dark House

Author: I. A. R. Wylie


        
Release date: September 27, 2004 [eBook #13546]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13546

Credits: E-text prepared by Al Haines


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DARK HOUSE ***

THE DARK HOUSE

by

I. A. R. WYLIE

Author of "The Daughter of Brahma," "The Shining Heights," etc.

1922







PART I

I

1

The cigar was a large one and Robert Stonehouse was small.  At the
precise moment, in fact, when he leant out of the upstairs bedroom
window, instinctively seeking fresh air, he became eight years old.  He
did not know this, though he did know that it was his birthday and that
a birthday was a great and presumably auspicious occasion.  His
conception of what a birthday ought to be was based primarily on one
particular event when he had danced on his mother's bed, shouting, "I'm
five--I'm five!" in unreasonable triumph.  His mother had greeted him
gravely, one might say respectfully, and his father, who when he did
anything at all did it in style, had given him a toy fort fully
garrisoned with resplendent Highland soldiers.  And there had been a
party of children whom, as a single child, he disliked and despised and
whom he had ordered about unreproved.  From start to finish the day had
been his very own.

Soon afterwards his mother disappeared.  They said she was dead.  He
knew that people died, but death conveyed nothing to him, and when his
father and Christine went down to Kensal Green to choose the grave, he
picked flowers from the other graves and sent them to his mother with
Robert's love.  Christine had turned away her face, crying, and James
Stonehouse, whose sense of drama never quite failed him, had smiled
tragically; but Robert never even missed her.  His only manifestation
of feeling was a savage hatred of Christine, who tried to take her
place.  For a time indeed his mother went completely out of his
consciousness.  But after a little she came back to him by a secret
path.  In the interval she had ceased to be connected with his evening
prayer and his morning bath and all the other tiresome realities and
become a creature of dreams.  She grew tall and beautiful.  He liked to
be alone--best of all at night when Christine had put the light out--so
that he could make up stories about her and himself and their new
mystical intimacy.  He knew that she was dead but he did not believe
it.  It was just one of those mysterious tricks which grown-up people
played on children to pretend that death was so enormously conclusive.
Though he had buried the black kitten with his own hands in the back
garden, and had felt the stiffness of its pitiful body and the dank
chill of its once glossy fur, he was calmly sure that somewhere or
other, out of sight, it still pursued its own tail with all the
solemnity of kittenhood.

One of these nights the door would open and his mother would be there.
In this dream of her she appeared to him much as she had done once in
Kensington High Street when he had wilfully strayed from her side and
lost himself, and, being overwhelmed with the sense of his smallness
and forlornness, had burst into a howl of grief.  Then suddenly she had
stood out from the midst of the sympathetic crowd--remote, stern and
wonderful--and he had flung himself on her, knowing that whatever she
might do to him, she loved him and that they belonged to one another,
inextricably and for all time.

So she stood on the threshold of his darkened room, and at that vision
his adoration became an agony and he lay with his face hidden in his
arms, waiting for the touch of her hand that never came, until he slept.

Christine became his mother.  Every morning at nine o'clock she turned
the key of the pretentious mansion where James Stonehouse had set up
practice for the twentieth time in his career, and called out, "Hallo,
Robert!" in her clear, cool voice, and Robert, standing at the top of
the stairs in his night-shirt, called back, "Hallo, Christine!" very
joyously because he knew it annoyed Edith, his father's new wife,
listening jealously from behind her bedroom door.

And then Christine scrubbed his ears, and sometimes, when there were no
servants, a circumstance which coincided exactly with a periodical
financial crisis, she scrubbed the floors.  Robert's first hatred had
changed rapidly to the love he would have given his mother had she
lived.  There was no romance about it.  Christine was not omnipotent as
his mother had become.  He knew that she, too, was often terribly
unhappy, and their helplessness in the face of a common danger gave
them a sort of equality.  But she was good to him, and her faithfulness
was the one sure thing in his convulsed and rocking world.  He clung to
her as a drowning man clings to a floating spar, and his father's, "I
wish to God, Christine, you'd get out and leave us alone," or, "I won't
have you in my house.  You're poisoning my son's mind against me,"
reiterated regularly at the climax of one of the hideous rows which
devastated the household, was like a blow in the pit of the stomach,
turning him sick and faint with fear.

But Christine never went.  Or if she went she came back again.  As
James Stonehouse said in a burst of savage humour, "Kick Christine out
of the front door and she'll come in at the back."  Every morning, no
matter what had happened the night before, there was the quiet,
resolute scratch of her latch-key in the lock, and when James
Stonehouse, sullen and menacing, brushed rudely against her in the
hall, she went on steadily up the stairs to where Robert waited for
her, and they fell into each other's arms like two sorrowful comrades.
Ever afterwards he could conjure her up at will as he saw her then.
She was like a porcelain marquise over whom an intangible permanent
shadow had been thrown.

He knew dimly that she had "people" who disapproved of her devotion,
and that over and over again, by some new mysterious sacrifice, she had
staved off disaster.  He knew that she had been his father's friend all
her life and that his mother and she had loved one another.  There was
some bond between these three that could not be broken, and he, too,
was involved--fastened on as an afterthought, as it were, but so firmly
that there could be no escape.  Because of it Christine loved him.  He
knew that he was not always a very lovable little boy.  Even with her
he could be obstinate and cruel--cruel because she was so much less
than his mother had become--and there were times when, with a queer
unchildish power of self-visualization, he saw himself as a small
fair-haired monster growing black and blacker with the dark and evil
spirit that was in him.  But Christine never seemed to see him like
that.  There was some borrowed halo about his head that blinded her.
It did not matter how bad he was, she had always love and excuses ready
for him.  And she was literally all he had in the world.

But even she had not been able to make his birthday a success.  Indeed,
ever since that one outstanding day all the celebrations had been
failures, though he had never ceased to look forward to them.  For days
before his last birthday he had suspected everyone of secret delicious
plottings on his behalf.  He had come down to breakfast shaking with
anticipation.  All through the morning he had waited for the surprise
that was to be sprung on him, hanging at everyone's heel in turn, and
it was only towards dusk that he knew with bitter certainty that he had
been forgotten.  A crisis had wiped him and his birthday out
altogether.  And then he had cried, and James Stonehouse, moved to
generous remorse, had rushed out and bought a ridiculously expensive
toy having first borrowed money from Christine and scolded her at the
top of his booming voice for her heartless neglect of his son's
happiness.

Christine had argued with him in her quiet obstinate way.

"But, Jim dear, you can't afford it----"

There had been one of those awful rows.

And Robert had crept that night, unwashed, into bed, crying more
bitterly than ever.

But this time he had really had no hope at all.  Yesterday had seen a
crisis and a super-crisis.  In the afternoon the butcher had stood at
the back door and shouted and threatened, and he had been followed
almost immediately by a stout shabby man with a bald head and
good-natured face, who announced that he had come to put a distraint on
the furniture which, incidentally, had never been paid for.  Edith
Stonehouse, with an air of outraged dignity, had lodged him in the
library and regaled him on a bottle of stout and the remnants of a cold
joint, and it was understood that there he would remain until such time
as Christine raised 40 pounds from somewhere.

These were mere incidents--entirely commonplace--but at six o'clock
James Stonehouse himself had driven up in a taxi, to the driver of
which he had appeared to hand the contents of all his pockets, and a
moment later stormed into the house in a mood which was, if anything,
more devastating than his ungovernable rages.  He had been
exuberant--exultant--his good-humour white-hot and dangerous.  Looking
into his brilliant blue eyes with their two sharp points of light, it
would have been hard to tell whether he was laughing or mad with anger.
His moods were like that--too close to be distinguished from one
another with any safety.  Christine, who had just come from
interviewing the bailiff, had looked grave and disapproving.  She knew
probably, that her disapproval was useless and even disastrous, but
there was an obstinate rectitude in her character that made it
impossible for her to humour him.  But Edith Stonehouse and Robert had
played up out of sheer terror.

"You do seem jolly, Jim," Edith had said in her hard, common voice.
"It's a nice change, you bad-tempered fellow----"

She had never really recovered from the illusion that she had captured
him by her charms rather than by her poor little fortune, and when she
dared she was arch with an undertone of grievance.  Robert had capered
about him and held his hand and made faces at Christine so that she
should pretend too.  Otherwise there would be another row.  But
Christine held her ground.

"The butcher came this afternoon," she said.  "He says he is going to
get out a summons.  And the bailiff is in again.  It's about the
furniture.  You said it was paid for.  I can't think how you could be
so mad.  I rang up Melton's about it, and they say the firm wants to
prosecute.  If they do, it might mean two years'----"

Robert had stopped capering.  His knees had shaken under him with a
new, inexplicable fear.  But James Stonehouse had taken no notice.  He
had gone on spreading and warming himself before the fire.  He had
looked handsome and extraordinarily, almost aggressively, prosperous.

"I shall write a sharp note to Melton's.  Damned impertinence.  An old
customer like myself.  Get the fellow down into the kitchen.  The whole
thing will be settled tomorrow.  I've had an amazing piece of luck.
Amazing.  Met Griffiths--you remember my telling you about Alec
Griffiths, don't you, Christine?  Student with me at the University.
Got sent down together.  Wonderful fellow--wonderful.  Now he's in
business in South Africa.  Made his pile in diamonds.  Simply rolling.
He's going to let me in.  Remarkable chap.  Asked him to dinner.  Oh,
I've arranged all that on my way up.  Gunther's are sending round a
cook and a couple of waiters and all that's necessary.  For God's sake,
Christine, try and look as though you were pleased.  Get into a pretty
dress and join us.  Must do him well, you know.  Never do for a man
like that to get a wrong impression.  And I want him to see Robert.  He
knew Constance before we were married.  Put him into his best
clothes----"

"He hasn't got any," Christine had interrupted bitterly.

For a moment it had seemed as though the fatal boundary line would be
crossed.  Stonehouse had stared at his son, his eyes brightening to an
electric glare as they picked out the patches of the shabby sailor-suit
and the frantic, mollifying smile on Robert's face had grown stiff as
he had turned himself obediently about.

"Disgraceful.  I wonder you women are not ashamed, the way you neglect
the child--I shall take him to Shoolbred's first thing to-morrow and
have him fitted out from top to toe----"  The gathering storm receded
miraculously.  "However, he can't appear like that.  For God's sake,
get the house tidy, at any rate----"

So Robert had been bustled up stairs and the bailiff lured into the
kitchen, where fortunately he had become so drunk that he had had no
opportunity to explain to the French chef and the two waiters the real
reason for his presence and his whole-hearted participation in the
feast.

From the top of the stairs Robert had watched Christine go into dinner
on his father's arm, and Edith Stonehouse follow with a black-coated
stranger who had known his mother.  He had listened to the talk and his
father's laughter--jovial and threatening--and once he had dived
downstairs and, peering through the banisters like a small blond
monkey, had snatched a cream meringue from a passing tray.  Then for a
moment he had almost believed that they were all going to be happy
together.

That had been last night.  Now there was nothing left but the bailiff,
still slightly befuddled, an incredible pile of unwashed dishes and an
atmosphere of stale tobacco.  James Stonehouse had gone off early in a
black and awful temper.  It seemed that at the last moment the
multi-millionaire had explained that owing to a hitch in his affairs he
was short of ready cash and would be glad of a small loan.  Only
temporary, of course.  Wouldn't have dreamed of asking, but meeting
such an old friend in such affluent circumstances----

So the eighth birthday had been forgotten.  Robert himself could not
have explained why grief should have driven him to his father's
cigars-box.  Perhaps it was just a _beau geste_ of defiance, or a
reminder that one day he too would be grown up and free.  At any rate,
it was still a very large cigar.  Though he puffed at it painstakingly,
blowing the smoke far out of the window so as to escape detection, the
result was not encouraging.  The exquisite mauve-grey ash was indeed
less than a quarter of an inch long when his sense of wrong and
injustice deepened to an overwhelming despair.  It was not only that
even Christine had failed him--everything was failing him.  The shabby
plot of rising ground opposite, which justified Dr. Stonehouse's
contention that he looked out over open country, had become immersed in
a loathsome mist, greenish in hue, in which it heaved and rolled and
undulated like an uneasy reptile.  The house likewise heaved, and
Robert had to lean hard against the lintel of the window to prevent
himself from falling out.  A strange sensation of uncertainty--of
internal disintegration--obsessed him, and there was a cold moisture
gathering on his face.  He felt that at any moment anything might
happen.  He didn't care.  He wanted to die, anyhow.  They had forgotten
him, but when he was dead they would be sorry.  His father would give
him a beautiful funeral, and Christine would say, "We can't afford it,
Jim," and there would be another awful scene.

In the next room Edith and Christine were talking as they rolled up the
Axminster carpet which, since the bailiff had no claim on it, was to go
to the pawnbroker's to appease the butcher.  The door stood open, and
he could hear Edith's bitter, resentful voice raised in denunciation.

"I don't know why I stand it.  If my poor dear father, Sir Godfrey,
knew what I was enduring, he would rise from the grave.  Never did I
think I should have to go through such humiliation.  My sisters say I
ought to leave him--that I am wanting in right feeling, but I can't
help it.  I am faithful by nature.  I remember my promises at the
altar--even if Jim forgets his----"

"He didn't promise to keep his temper or out of debt," Christine said.

Edith sniffed loudly.

"Or away from other women.  Oh, it's no good, Christine, I know what I
know.  There's always some other woman in the background.  Only
yesterday I found a letter from Mrs. Saxburn--that red-haired vixen he
brought home to tea when there wasn't money in the house to buy bread.
I tell you he doesn't know what faithfulness means."

Robert, rising for a moment above his own personal anguish, clenched
his fist.  It was all very well--he might hate his father, Christine
might hate him, though he knew she didn't, but Edith had no right.  She
was an outsider--a bounder----

"He is faithful to his ideal," Christine answered.  "He is always
looking for it and thinking he has found it.  And except for Constance
he has always been mistaken."

"Thank you."

"I wasn't thinking of you," Christine explained.  "There have been so
many of them--and all so terribly expensive--never cheap or
common----"

They were dragging the carpet out into the landing.  Their voices
sounded louder and more distinct.

"I could bear almost everything but his temper," Edith persisted
breathlessly.  "He's like a madman----"

"He's ill--sometimes I think he's very ill----"

"Oh, you've always got an excuse for him, Christine.  You never see him
as he really is.  I can't think why you didn't marry him yourself.  I'm
sure he asked you.  Jim couldn't be alone with a woman ten minutes
without proposing.  And everyone knows how fond you are of him and of
that tiresome child----"

Robert Stonehouse gasped.  The earth reeled under his feet.  The stump
of the cigar rolled off the windowsill, and he himself tumbled from his
chair and was sick--convulsively, hideously sick.  For a moment he
remained huddled on the floor, half unconscious, and then very slowly
the green, soul-destroying mist receded and he found Christine bending
over him, wiping his face, with her pocket-Handkerchief.

"Robert, darling, why didn't you call out?"

"He's been smoking," Edith's voice declared viciously from somewhere in
the background.  "I can smell it.  The horrid little boy----"

"I didn't--I didn't----"  He kept his feet with an enormous effort,
scowling at her.  He lied shamelessly, as a matter of course and
without the faintest sense of guilt.  Everyone lied.  They had to.
Christine knew that as well as anyone.  Not that lying was of the
slightest use.  His father's temper fed on itself and was independent
alike of fact or fiction.  But you could no more help lying to him than
you could help flinching from a red-hot poker.  "I didn't," he repeated
stubbornly, and all the while repeating to himself, "It's my
birthday--and they've forgotten.  They don't care."  But he would
rather have died then and there than have reminded them.  He would not
even let them see how miserable he was, and to stop himself from crying
he kept his eyes fixed on Edith Stonehouse, who in turn measured him
with that exaggerated and artificial horror which she considered
appropriate to naughty children.

"Oh, how can you, Robert?  Don't you know what happens to wicked little
boys who tell lies?"

He hated her.  He hated the red, coarse-skinned face, the tight mouth
and opaque brown eyes and the low, stupid forehead with its
old-fashioned narrow fringe of dingy hair.  He knew that in spite of
Sir Godfrey and the family estate of which she was always talking, she
was common to the heart--not a lady like Christine and his mother--and
her occasionally adopted pose of authority convulsed him with a blind,
ungovernable fury.  He was too young to understand that she meant
well--was indeed good-natured and kindly enough in her natural
environment--and as she advanced upon him now, in reality to smooth his
disordered hair, he drew back, an absurd miniature replica of James
Stonehouse in his worst rages, his fists clenched, his teeth set on a
horrible recurring nausea.

"If you touch me, Edith--I'll--I'll bite you----"

"Hush, darling--you mustn't speak like that----"

"Oh, don't mind me, Christine.  I'm not accustomed to respect in this
house.  I don't expect it.  'Edith,' indeed!  Did you ever hear such a
thing!  I can't think what Jim was thinking about to allow it.  He
ought to call me 'Mother'----"

Robert tore himself free from Christine's soothing embrace.  He had a
moment's blinding, heart-breaking vision of his real mother.  She stood
close to him, looking at him with her grave eyes, demanding of him that
he should avenge this insult.  And in a moment he would be sick again.

"I wouldn't--wouldn't call you mother--not if you killed me.  I
wouldn't if you put me in the fire----"

"Robert, dear."

"You see, Christine--but of course you won't see.  You're blind where
he's concerned.  What a wicked temper.  Deceitful, too.  I'm sure I'm
glad he's not my child.  He's going to be like his father."

"I want to be like my father.  I wouldn't be like you for anything."

"Robert, be quiet at once or I shall punish you."

She was angry now.  She had been greatly tried during the last
twenty-four hours, and to her he was just an alien, hateful little boy
who made her feel like an interloper in her own house, bought with her
own money.  She seized him by the arm, shaking him viciously, and he
flew at her, biting and kicking with all his strength.

It was an ugly, wretched scene.  It ended abruptly on the landing,
where she let go her hold with a cry of pain and Robert Stonehouse
rolled down the stairs, bumping his head and catching his arm cruelly
in the banisters.  He was on his feet instantly.  He heard Christine
coming and he ran on, down into the hall, where he caught up his little
boots, which she had been cleaning for him, and after a desperate
struggle with the latch, out into the road--sobbing and blood-stained,
heart-broken with shame and loneliness and despair.



2

His relationship with the Brothers Banditti across the hill was
peculiar.  It was one of Dr. Stonehouse's many theories of life that
children should be independent, untrammelled alike by parental
restrictions and education, and except on the very frequent occasions
when this particular theory collided with his comfort and his
conviction that his son was being disgracefully neglected, Robert lived
the life of a lonely and illiterate guttersnipe.  He did not know he
was lonely.  He did not want to play with the other children in the
Terrace.  But he did know that for some mysterious reason or other they
did not want to play with him.  The trim nursemaids drew their starched
and shining darlings to one side when he passed, and he in turn scowled
at them with a fierce contempt to which, all unknown, was added two
drops of shame and bitterness.  But even among the real guttersnipes of
the neighbourhood he was an outcast.  He did not know how to play with
other children.  He was ignorant alike of their ways and their games,
and, stiff with an agonizing shyness, he bore himself before them
arrogantly.  It was natural that they in turn hated him.  Like young
wolves they flaired a member of a strange and alien pack--a creature
who broke their unwritten laws--and at first they had hunted him
pitilessly, throwing mud and stones at him, pushing him from the
pavement, jeering at him.  But they had not reckoned with the
Stonehouse rages.  He had flung himself on them.  He had fought them
singly, by twos and threes--the whole pack.  In single combat he had
thrashed the grocer's boy who was several inches taller and two years
older than himself.  But even against a dozen his white-hot fury, which
ignored alike pain and discretion, made him dangerous and utterly
unbeatable.  From all encounters he had come out battered,
blood-stained, literally in shreds, but clothed in lonely victory.

Now they only jeered at him from a safe distance.  They made cruel and
biting references to the Stonehouse _menage_, flying with mock shrieks
of terror when he was unwise enough to attempt pursuit.  Usually he
went his way, his head up, swallowing his tears.

But the Brothers Banditti belonged to him.

On the other side of the hill was a large waste plot of ground.  A
builder with more enterprise than capital had begun the erection of
up-to-date villas but had gone bankrupt in the process, and now nothing
remained of his ambition but a heap of somewhat squalid ruins.  Here,
after school hours, the Brothers met and played and plotted.

They had not always been Banditti.  Before Robert's advent they had
been the nice children of the nicest people of the neighbourhood.
Their games had been harmless, if apathetic, and they had always gone
home punctually and clean.  The parents considered the waste land as a
great blessing.  Robert had come upon them in the course of his lonely
prowlings, and from a distance had watched them play hide and seek.  He
had despised them and their silly game, but, on the other hand, they
did not know who he was and would not make fun of him and taunt him
with unpaid bills, and it had been rather nice to listen to their
cheerful voices.  The ruins, too, had fired his imagination.  He had
viewed them much as a general views the scene of a prospective battle.
And then--strangest attraction of all--there had been Frances Wilmot.
She was different from any other little girl he had ever seen.  She was
clean and had worn a neat green serge dress with neat brown shoes and
stockings which toned with her short curly brown hair, but she did not
shine or look superior or disdainful.  Nor had she been playing with
her companions, though they ran back to her from time to time as though
in some secret way she had led their game.  When Robert had come upon
her she was sitting on the foundations of what was to have been a
magnificent portico, her arms clasped about her knees, and a curious
intent look on her pointed delicate face.  That intent look, as he was
to discover, was very constant with her.  It was as though she were
always watching something of absorbing interest which no one else could
see.  Sometimes it amused her, and and then a flicker of laughter ran
up from her mouth to her grey eyes and danced there.  At other times
she was sorry.  Her face was like still water, ruffled by invisible
winds and mirroring distant clouds and sunshine.

Robert had watched her, motionless and unobserved, for several minutes.
It had been a very unhappy day.  Christine had gone off in a great
hurry on some dark errand in the city connected with "raising money" on
a reversion and had forgotten to wash him, and though he did not like
being washed, the process did at least make him feel that someone cared
about him.  Now at sight of this strange little girl an almost
overpowering desire to cry had come over him--to fling himself into
someone's arms and cry his heart out.

She had not sat there for long.  She had got up and moved
about--flitted rather--so that Robert, who had never heard of a
metaphor, thought of a brown leaf dancing in little gusts of wind.  And
then suddenly she had seen him and stood still.  His heart had begun to
pound against his ribs.  For it was just like that that in his dreams
his mother stood, looking at him.  She, too, had grey eyes, serene and
grave, penetrating into one's very heart.

And after a moment she had smiled.

"Hallo!"

Robert's voice, half choked with tears had croaked back "Hallo!" and
she had come a little nearer to him.

"What's your name?"

"Robert--Robert Stonehouse."

"Where do you come from?"

He had jerked his head vaguely in the direction of the hill, for he did
not want her to know.

"Over there."

"Why are you crying?"

"I--I don't know."

"Would you like to play with us?"

"Yes--I--I think I would."

She had called the other children and they had come at once and stood
round her, gazing wide-eyed at him, not critically or unkindly, but
like puppies considering a new companion.  The girl in the green serge
frock had taken him by the hand.

"This is a friend of mine, Robert Stonehouse.  He's going to play with
us.  Tag--Robert!"

And she had tapped him on the arm and was off like a young deer.

All his awkwardness and shyness had dropped from him like a disguise.
No one knew that he was a strange little boy or that his father owed
money to all the tradespeople.  He was just like anyone else.  And he
had run faster than the fastest of them.  He had wanted to show her
that he was not just a cry baby.  And whenever he had come near her he
had been all warm with happiness.

In three days the nice children had become the Brothers Banditti with
Robert Stonehouse as their chief.  Having admitted the stranger into
their midst he had gone straight to their heads like wine.  He was a
rebel and an outlaw who had suddenly come into power.  At heart he was
older than any of them.  He knew things about reversions and bailiffs
and life generally that none of them had ever heard of in their
well-ordered homes.  He was strong and knew how to fight.  The nice
children had never fought but they found they liked it.  Once, like an
avenging Attila, he had led them across the hill and fallen upon his
ancient enemies with such awful effect that they never raised their
heads again.  And the Banditti had returned home whooping and drunk
with victory and the newly discovered joy of battle.  His hand was
naturally against all authority.  He led them in dark plottings against
their governesses and nursemaids, and even against the Law itself as
personified by an elderly, somewhat pompous policeman whose beat
included their territory.  On foggy afternoons they pealed the
doorbells of such as had complaint against them, and from concealment
gloated over the indignant maids who had been lured down several
flights of stairs to answer their summons.  And no longer were they
nice children who returned home clean and punctual to the bosom of
their families.

Very rarely had the Banditti showed signs of revolt against Robert's
despotism, and each time he had won them back with ease which sowed the
first seeds of cynicism in his mind.  It happened to be another of the
elder Stonehouse's theories--which he had been known to expound
eloquently to his creditors--that children should be taught the use of
money, and at such times as the Stonehouse family prospered Robert's
pocket bulged with sums that staggered the very imagination of his
followers.  He appeared among them like a prince--lavish, reckless,
distributing chocolates of superior lineage with a haughty magnificence
that brought the disaffected cringing to his feet.

But even with them he was not really happy.  At heart he was still a
strange little boy, different from the rest.  There was a shadow over
him.  He knew that apart from him they were nice, ordinary children,
and that he was a man full of sorrows and mystery and bitter
experience.  He despised them.  They could be bought and bribed and
bullied.  But if he could have been ordinary as they were, with quiet,
ordinary homes and people who loved one another and paid their bills,
he would have cried with joy.

When he did anything particularly bold and reckless he looked out of
the corners of his eyes at Frances Wilmot to see if at last he had
impressed her.  For she eluded him.  She never defied his authority,
and very rarely took part in his escapades.  But she was always there,
sometimes in the midst, sometimes just on the fringe, like a bird,
intent on business of its own, coming and going in the heart of human
affairs.  Sometimes she seemed hardly to be aware of him, and sometimes
she treated him as though there were an unspoken intimacy between them
which made him glow with pride for days afterwards.  She would put her
arm about him and walk with him in the long happy silence of
comradeship.  And once, quite unexpectedly, she had seemed gravely
troubled.  "Are you a good little boy, Robert?" she had asked, as
though she really expected him to know, and relieve her mind about it.

And afterwards he had cried to himself, for he was sure that he was not
a good little boy at all.  He was sure that if she knew about his
father and the bailiffs she would turn away in sorrow and disgust.

He knew that she too was different from the others, but with a greater
difference than his own.  He knew that the Banditti looked up to her
for the something in her that he lacked, that if she lifted a finger
against him, his authority would be gone.  And the knowledge darkened
everything.  It was not that he cried about his leadership.  He would
have thrown it at her feet gladly.  But he longed to prove to her that
if he was not a good little boy he was, at any rate, a terribly fine
fellow.  He had to make her look up to him and admire him like the rest
of the Banditti, otherwise he would never hold her fast.  And
everything served to that end.  Before her he swaggered monstrously.
He did things which turned him sick with fear.  Once he had climbed to
the top of a dizzy wall in the ruins, and had postured on the narrow
edge, the bricks crumbling under him, the dust rising in clouds, so
that he looked like a small devil dancing in mid-air.  And when he had
reached ground again he had found her reading a book.  Then, the
plaudits of the awestruck Banditti sounded like jeers.  Nothing had
ever hurt so much.

About the time that the Banditti first came into his life the vision of
his mother began to grow not less wonderful, but less distinct.  She
seemed to stand a little farther off, as though very gradually she were
drawing away into the other world, where she belonged.  And often it
was Frances who played with him in his secret stories.



3

He threw his indoor shoes into the area.  In the next street, beyond
pursuit, he sat down on a doorstep and, put on his boots, lacing them
with difficulty, for he was half blind with tears and anger.  He could
not make up his mind how to kill Edith.  Nothing seemed quite bad
enough.  He thought of boiling her in oil or rolling her down hill in a
cask full of spikes, after the manner of some fairy story that
Christine had told him.  It was not the pain, though his arm felt as
though it had been wrenched out of its socket, and the blood trickled
in a steady stream from his bumped forehead.  It was the indignity, the
outrage, the physical humiliation that had to be paid back.  It made
him tremble with fury and a kind of helpless terror to realize that,
because he was little, any common woman could shake and beat him and
treat him as though he belonged to her.  He would tell his father.
Even his father, who had so far forgotten himself as to marry such a
creature, would see that there were things one couldn't endure.  Or he
would call up the Banditti and plot a devastating retaliation.

In the meantime he was glad he had bitten her.

He walked on unsteadily.  The earth still undulated and threatened
every now and then to rise up like a wave in front of him and cast him
down.   He was growing cold and stiff, too, in the reaction.  He had
stopped crying, but his teeth chattered and his sobs had degenerated
into monotonous, soul-shattering hiccoughs.  Passers-by looked at him
disapprovingly.  Evidently that nasty little boy from No. 10 had been
fighting again.

He had counted on the Banditti, but the Banditti were not on their
usual hunting-ground.  An ominous silence answered the accustomed
war-cry, uttered in an unsteady falsetto, and the ruins had a more than
usually dejected look, as though they had suddenly lost all hope of
themselves.  He called again, and this time, like an earth-sprite,
Frances Wilmot rose up from a sheltered corner and waved to him.  She
had a book in her hand, and she rubbed her eyes and rumpled up her
short hair as though rousing herself from a dream.

"I did hear you," she said, "but I was working something out.  I'll
tell you all about it in a minute.  But what's happened?  Why is your
face all bleeding?"

She seemed so concerned about him that he was glad of his wounds.  And
yet she had the queer effect of making him want to cry again.  That
wouldn't do.  She wouldn't respect him if he cried.  He thrust his
hands deep into his pockets and knitted his fair brows into a fearful
Stonehouse scowl.

"Oh, it's nothing.  I've had a row--at home.  That's all.  My father's
new wife h-hit me--and I b-bit her.  Jolly hard.  And then I fell
downstairs."

"Why did she hit you?"

"Oh, I don't know.  She's just a beast----"

"Of course you know.  Don't be silly."

"Well, she said I'd been smoking, and I said I hadn't----"

"Had you?  You look awfully green."

"Yes, I had."

"What's the good of telling lies?"

"It's no good telling the truth," Robert answered stolidly.  "They only
get crosser than ever.  She hadn't any right to hit me.  She's not even
a relation."

"She's your step-mother."

He began to tremble again uncontrollably.

"She's n-not.  Not any sort of a mother.  My mother's dead."

It was the first time he had ever said it, even to himself.  It threw a
chill over him, so that for a moment he stopped thinking of Edith and
his coming black revenge.  He had done something that could never be
undone.  He had closed and locked a great iron door in his mother's
face.  "She's just a beast," he repeated stubbornly.  "I'd like to kill
her."

Frances considered him with her head a little on one side.  It was like
her not to enter into any argument.  One couldn't tell what she was
thinking.  And yet one knew that she was feeling things.

"I'd wipe that blood off," she said.  "It's trickling on to your
collar.  No, not with your hand.  Where's your hanky?"

He tried to look contemptuous.  He did, in fact, despise handkerchiefs.
The nice little girls in the Terrace had handkerchiefs, ostentatiously
clean.  He had seen them, and they filled his soul with loathing.   Now
he was ashamed.  It seemed that even Frances expected him to have a
handkerchief.

"I haven't got one," he said.

"How do you blow your nose, then?"

"I don't," he explained truculently.

She executed one of her queer little dances, very solemnly and intently
and disconcertingly.  It seemed to be her way of withdrawing into
herself at critical moments.  When she stopped he was sure she had been
laughing.  Laughter still twinkled at the corners of her mouth and in
her eyes.

"Well, I'm going to tidy you up, anyhow.  Come sit down here."

He obeyed at once.  It comforted him just to be near her.  It was like
sitting by a fire on a cold day when you were half frozen.  Something
in you melted and came to life and stretched itself, something that was
itself gentle and compassionate.  It was difficult to remember that he
meant to kill Edith frightfully, though his mind was quite made up on
the subject.  Meantime Frances had produced her own handkerchief--a
large clean one--and methodically rubbed away the blood and some of the
tear stains, and as much of the dirt as could be managed without soap
and water.  This done, she refolded the handkerchief with its soiled
side innermost, and tied it neatly round the wounded head, leaving two
long ends which stood up like rabbit's ears.  A gust of April wind
wagged them comically, and made mock of the sorrowful, grubby face
underneath.  Even Frances, who was only nine herself, must have seen
that the sorrow was not the ordinary childish thing that came and went,
leaving no trace.  In a way it was always there.  When he was not
laughing and shouting you saw it--a careworn, anxious look, as though
he were always afraid something might pounce out on him.  It ought to
have been pathetic, but somehow or other it was not.  For one thing, he
was not an angel-child, bearing oppression meekly.  He was much more
like a yellow-haired imp waiting sullenly for a chance to pounce back,
and the whole effect of him was at once furtive and obstinate.  Indeed,
anyone who knew nothing of the Stonehouse temper and duns and forgotten
birthdays would have dismissed him as an ugly, disagreeable little boy.

But Frances Wilmot, who knew nothing of these things either, crouched
down beside him, her arm about his shoulder.

"Poor Robert!"

He began to hiccough again.  He had to clench his teeth and his fists
not to betray the fact that the hiccoughs were really convulsively
swallowed sobs asserting themselves.  He wanted to confide in her, but
if she knew the truth about his home and his people she wouldn't play
with him any more.  She would know then that he wasn't nice.  And
besides, he had some dim notion of protecting her from the things he
knew.

"You t-t-tied me up jolly well," he said.  "It's comfy now.  It was
aching hard."

"I like tying up things," she explained easily, "You see, I'm going to
be a doctor."

The rabbit's ears stopped waving for a minute in sheer astonishment.

"Girls aren't doctors."

"Yes, they are.  Heaps of them.  I'm reading up already, in that book.
It's all about first-aid.  There's the bandage I did for you.  You can
read how it's done."

He couldn't.  And he was ashamed again.  In his shame he began to
swagger.

"My father's a doctor--awfully clever----"

"Is he?  How jolly!  Why didn't you tell me?  Has he lots of patients?"

"Lots.  All over the world.  But he doesn't think much of other
doctors.  L-licensed h-humbugs, he calls them."

She drew away a little, her face between her hands, and he felt that
somehow he had failed again--that she had slipped through his fingers.
If only for a moment she had looked up to him and believed in him the
evil spirit that was climbing up on to his shoulders would have fled
away.  There was a stout piece of stick lying amidst the rubble at his
feet, and he took it up and felt it as a swordsman tests his blade.

"I'm going to be a doctor too," he said truculently.  "A big doctor.  I
shall make piles of money, and have three ass-assistants.  P'r'aps, if
you're any good you shall be one of them."

She did not answer.  The intent, observing look had come into her eyes.
The cool wind lifted the brown hair so that it was like a live thing
floating about her head.  She seemed as lovely to him as his mother.
He wanted terribly to say to her, "It's my birthday, Francey, and they
haven't even wished me many happy returns;" but that would have shown
her how little he was, and how unhappy.  Instead, he began to lunge and
parry with an invisible opponent, talking in a loud, fierce voice.

"I wish the others would come.  I've got a topping plan.  Edith goes
shopping 'bout six o'clock when it's almost dark.  We'll wait at the
corner of John Street and jump out at her and shriek like Red Indians.
And then she'll drop dead with fright.  She's such a silly beast----"

Then to his amazement he saw that Francey had grown quite white.  Her
mouth quivered.  It was as though she were going to cry.  And he had
never seen her cry.

"They--they aren't coming, Robert."

"N-not coming?  W-why not?"

"There's been a row.  Someone complained.  Their people won't let them
come any more.  Not to play with you.  They say--they say----"

He went on fighting, swinging his sword, over his head, faster and
faster.  Someone was pressing his heart so that he could hardly
breathe.  It was all over.  They knew.  Everything was going.  Finished.

"What do they say?"

"They say you're not a nice little boy----"

There were some tall weeds growing out of the tumbled bricks.  He
slashed at them through the mist that was blinding him.  He would cut
their heads off, one after another--just to show her.

"I don't care--I don't care----"

"That's why I waited this afternoon.  I wanted to tell you.  And that
I'd come--if you liked--sometimes--as often as I could----"

"I don't care--I don't care," he chanted.

One weed had fallen, cut in two as by a razor.  Now another.  You had
to be jolly strong to break them clean off like that.  He wasn't
missing once.

"Don't!"

"I shall.  Why shouldn't I?  You couldn't do it like that."

Another.  No one to play with any more.  Never to be able to pretend
again that one was just like everyone else.  People drawing away and
saying to each other, "He's not a nice little boy!"

"Please--please, don't, Robert!"

"Why not?  They're only weeds--beastly, ugly things."

"They've not done you any harm.  It's a shame to hurt them.  I like
them."

"They're no good.  It's practice.  I'm a soldier.  I'm cutting the
enemy to pieces."

A red rage was mounting in him.  He hardly knew that she had stood up
until he saw her face gleaming at him through the mist.  She was whiter
than ever, and her eyes had lost their distant look and blazed with an
anger profounder, more deadly, than his own.

"You shan't!"

"Shan't I?"

She caught the descending stick.  He tried to tear it from her, and
they fought each other almost in silence, except for the sound of their
quick, painful breath.  He grew frantic, twisting and writhing.  He
began to curse her as his father cursed Christine.  But her slim brown
wrists were like steel.  And suddenly, looking into her eyes he saw
that she wasn't angry now.  She knew that she was stronger than he.
She was just sorry for him, for everything.

He dropped the stick.  He turned on his heel, gulping hard.

"I don't fight with girls," he said.

He walked away steadily with his head up.  He did not once look back at
her.  But as he climbed the hill he seemed to himself to grow smaller
and smaller, more and more tired and lonely.  He had lost her.  He
would never play with her again.  The Brothers Banditti had gone each
to his home.  They sat by the fireside with their people, and were nice
children.  To-morrow they would play just as though nothing had
happened.  And Francey would be there, dancing in and out----

He stumbled a little.  The hiccoughs were definitely sobs, hard-drawn,
shaking him from head to foot.  It was his birthday.  And at the bottom
of the hill, hidden in evening mist, the big dark house waited for him.



4

There was light showing in the dining-room window, so that he knew his
father had come home.  At that all his sorrow and sense of a grievous
wrong done to him was swallowed up in abject physical terror.  Even
later in life, when things had shrunk into reasonable proportions, it
was difficult for him to see his father as others had seen him, as an
unhappy not unlovable man, gifted with an erratic genius which had been
perverted into an amazing facility for living on other people's money,
and cursed with the temper of a maniac.  To Robert Stonehouse his
father was from first to last the personification of nightmare.

He stood now in the deep shadow of the porch, trying to make up his
mind to ring the bell.  His legs and arms had become ice-cold and
refused to move.  There did not seem to be anything alive in him except
his heart, which was beating all over him, in his throat and head and
body, with a hundred terrible little hammers.  He thought of the Prince
in the story which Christine had read aloud to him.  The Prince, who
was a fine and dashing fellow, had gone straight to the black enchanted
cave where the dragon lived, and had thumped on the door with the hilt
of his gold sword and shouted: "Open, Sesame!"  And when the door
opened, he had gone straight in, without turning a hair, and slain the
dragon and rescued the Princess.

Somehow the story did not make him braver.  He had no sword, and his
clothes were not of the finest silk threaded with gold.  He was a small
boy in a patched sailor-suit, with a bandage round his head and a dirty
face--cold, hungry and buffeted by a day of storms.  He wished he could
stay there in the shadow until he died, and never have to fight anyone
again, or screw himself to face his father, or live through any more
rows.  But it seemed you didn't die just because you wanted to.  All
that happened was that you grew colder and more miserable, knowing that
the row would be a great deal worse when it came.  Goaded by this
reasoning, he crept down the area steps to the back door which, by a
merciful chance, had been left unlocked, and made his way on tiptoe
along the dark stone passage to the kitchen.

It was a servantless period.  But there was a light in the servants'
living-room, and the red comforting glow of a fire.  The bailiff lived
there.  Robert could hear him shuffling his feet in the fender, and
sniffing and clearing his throat as though the silence bothered him,
and he were trying to make himself at home.  For a moment Robert longed
to go in and sit beside him, not saying anything, but just basking in
the quiet warmth, protected by the presence of the Law which seemed so
astonishingly tolerant in the matter of the Stonehouse shortcomings.
For the bailiff was a good-natured man.  He had endeavoured to make it
clear to Robert from the beginning, by means of sundry winks and
smiles, that he understood the whole situation, which was one in which
any gentleman might find himself, and that he meant to act like a
friend.  But Robert had only scowled at him.  And even now, frightened
as he was, he disdained all parley.  The bailiff was an enemy, and when
it came to a fight the Stonehouse family stood shoulder to shoulder.
So he crept past the cheerful light like a hunted mouse, and up the
stairs to the green-baize door, which shut off the kitchen from the
library and dining-room.

It was an important door.  Dr. Stonehouse had had it made specially to
muffle sounds from the servants' quarters whilst he was working.  He
had never worked, and there had been very rarely any servants to
disturb him, but the door remained invested with a kind of solemnity.
Among other virtues it opened at a touch, itself noiseless.

To Robert it was the veritable entrance to the dragon's cave.  On one
side of it everything was dim and quiet.  And then it swung back, and
you fell through into the dragon's clutches.  You heard the awful roar,
and your heart fainted within you,

He fell over the top step.  He felt he was going to be sick again.  It
was the old, familiar sound.  He had heard it so often, it was so much
part of his daily life that it ought not to have frightened him.  But
it was always new, always more terrifying.  Each time it had new notes
of incalculable menace.  It was like a brutal hammer, crashing down on
bruised flesh and shrinking, quivering nerves, never quite killing you,
but with each blow leaving you less capable of endurance.

His father, Christine and Edith were in the dining-room.  Robert knew
they were all there, though he could not see them.  The dining-room
door at the end of the unlit passage stood half open, showing the
handsome mahogany sideboard and the two Chippendale chairs on either
side guarding it like lions.  They had a curious tense, still look, as
though what they saw in the hidden side of the room struck them stiff
with astonishment and horror.

Dr. Stonehouse was speaking.  His voice was so low-pitched that Robert
could not hear what he said.  It was like the murderous, meaningless
growling of a mad dog; every now and then it seemed to break free--to
explode into a shattering roar--and then with a frightful effort to be
dragged back, held down, in order that it might leap out again with a
redoubled violence.  It was punctuated by the sharp, spiteful smack of
a fist brought down into the open hand.

Edith whined and once Christine spoke, her clear still voice patient
and resolute.

Robert crouched where he had fallen.  The baize door swung back, and
touched him very softly like a hand out of the dark.  It comforted him.
It reminded him that he had only to choose, and it would stand between
him and this threatening terror--that it would give him time to rush
back down the stone stairs--out into the street--further and further
till they would never find him again.  But he could not move.  He
couldn't leave Christine like that.  His heart was sick with pity for
her.  Why did his father speak to her like that?  Didn't he see how
good and faithful she was?  Didn't he know that he, Robert, his son,
had no one else in the whole world?

His father was speaking more clearly--shouting each word by itself.

"You understand what I say, Christine.  Either you do what I tell you,
or you get out of here; and, by God, this time you shan't come back.
You'll never set eyes on him again."

"I shall always take care of Robert.  I promised Constance when she was
dying.  She begged of me----"

"It's a lie--a damned lie!  You're not fit to have control over my son.
You can't be trusted.  You're a bad friend----"

"I have done all I can.  I have told you there is only one thing
left--to sell this house---start afresh."

"Very well, then.  That's your last word--and mine."

Suddenly it was still.  The stillness was more terrible than anything
Robert had ever heard.  He gulped and turned like a small,
panic-stricken animal.  At the bottom of the stairs against the light
from the kitchen he could see the bailiff's bulky, honest shadow.

"Look 'ere, little mister, what's wrong up there?  Anything I can
do----"

The silence was gone.  It was broken by the overturning of a chair, by
a quiet, sinister scuffling--Edith's voice whining, terrified, thrilled
by a silly triumph.

"Don't--don't, Jim.  Remember yourself----"

The door was dashed open, and something fell across the light, and
there was Christine huddled beneath the sideboard, her head resting
against its cruel corner.  Her face was towards Robert.  He was not to
forget it so long as he lived.  It was so white and still, so angerless.

His paralysing terror was gone.  He leapt to his feet.  He raced down
the passage, flinging himself on his father, beating him with his
fists, shrieking:

"You devil--you devil!"

After that ho did not know what happened.  He seemed to be enveloped in
a cloud of struggling figures.  He heard the bailiff's voice booming,
"Come now, sir, this won't do; I am surprised at a gentleman like you!"
and his father's answer, incoherent, shaken with rage and shame.  Then
he must have found his way upstairs.  He never remembered how he got
there, but he was lying in his bed, in all his clothes, his head hidden
beneath the blankets, twitching from head to foot as though his body
had gone mad.

Downstairs the lock of the front door clicked.  There was something
steadfast and reassuring in the sound, as though it were trying to send
a message.  "Don't worry, I shall come back."  But Robert could not
feel or care any more.  He was struggling with his body as a helpless
rider struggles with a frantic runaway horse.  He found out for the
first time that his body wasn't himself at all.  It was something else.
It did what it wanted to.  He could only cling on to it for dear life.
But gradually it seemed to weaken, to yield to his exhausted efforts at
control, and at last lay stretched out, relaxed, drenched with an icy
sweat.  The real himself sank into seas of darkness from which
convulsive, tearing shudders, less and less frequent, dragged him, with
throbbing heart and starting eyes, back to the surface.

His bandage had slipped off.  He held it tight between his hands.  He
was too numb and stupefied even to think of Francey, but there was
magic in that dirty, blood-stained handkerchief.  It might have been a
saint's relic, or a Red Indian's totem, preserving him from evil.  He
knew nothing about saints or totems, but he knew that Francey was good
and stronger than any of them.

Downstairs the silence remained unbroken.  It was an aghast silence,
heavy with remorse and shame and self-loathing.  It was like the thick
dregs lying at the bottom of the cup.  But to Robert it was just
silence.  He sank into it, deeper and deeper, until he slept.

He began to dream.  The dreams walked about inside his brain, and were
red-coloured as though they were lit up by the glow of a hidden
furnace.  All the people who took part in them came and went in great
haste.  Or they made up hurried tableaux--Francey holding the stick and
looking at him in white anger, Christine huddled on the floor, his
father black and monstrous towering over her.  Finally, they all
disappeared together, and Robert knew that it was because the Dragon
had woken up and was coming to devour them.  He was climbing up from
the dining-room.  Robert heard his tread on the stairs--heavy,
stumbling footsteps such as one would expect from a dragon on a narrow,
twisting staircase.  They came nearer and nearer, and with every thud
Robert seemed to be lifted with a jerk from the depths in which he was
lying, and to be aware of his body stiffening in terror.

Then at the last step the Dragon fell, and Robert was awake.  He sat
bolt upright.  There had been no mistaking that dull thump.  It
lingered in his ears like the echo of a thunder-clap.  The Dragon had
fallen and killed himself, for he did not move.  It was pitch dark in
the room, but very slowly and quietly, under the pressure of an
invisible hand, the door opposite his bed began to open.  The light
outside made a widening slit in the darkness.  It was like sitting in a
theatre watching the curtain go up on a nightmare.  He could see the
banisters, the glow from the hall beneath, and something black with a
white smudge at the end of it lying stretched out from the head of the
stairs.  His body crawled out of bed.  He himself wanted to hide under
the clothes, but his body would not let him.  It carried him on against
his will.  When he was near enough he saw that the long black thing was
a man's arm and the white smudge a hand, clenched and inert, on the red
carpet.  His body tottered out on the landing.  It was his father lying
stretched on the stairs, face downwards.

He tried to scream, but his throat and tongue were dry and swollen.
Nor could he touch that still thing, in its passivity more terrible
than in its violence.  He was afraid that every moment it would lift
its face, and show him some new unthinkable horror.  He skirted it as
though it might leap upon him and devour him, and rushed downstairs,
faster and faster, with a thousand devils hunting at his heels.

And then he seemed again to be dreaming.  The bailiff ran up from the
kitchen in his shirt-sleeves, and he and Edith went up the stairs
together, leaving him alone in the library.  The fire had gone out, but
he cowered up against the grate, hiding his face in his arms.

They were moving the Dragon.  Bump--bump--bump--bump.  He thought he
heard Edith cry out, "Oh, God!" and then silence again.  Presently
Edith stood in the doorway, looking at him.  Her eyes were red-rimmed,
and yet there was an air of importance, of solemn triumph about her.

"Your father is--is very ill.  The man downstairs has gone for the
doctor, and I am going to ask Christine to come round.  You must be a
good boy, Robert.  You must do as I tell you and go to bed."

So they meant to leave him alone in the house with that dreadful still
thing lying somewhere upstairs.  Or perhaps it wasn't really still.  It
might have strange powers now.  You might come upon it anywhere.  You
couldn't be sure.  It might even be in your bed.  He did not want to
disobey Edith.  Just then he could have clung to her.  But he could not
go up those stairs.  He could not pass those open doors, gaping with
unspeakable things.  He felt that if he kept very still, hiding his
face, They would not touch him.  There seemed to be a thin--frightfully
thin--partition between him and the world in which they lived, and that
by a sudden movement he might break through.  He had to hold fast to
his body.  It was beginning to run away again, to start into long
agonized shudderings.

At last a key turned in the latch.  Invisible people went up the stairs
in silence.  But he knew that Christine was among them.  He knew
because of the sense of sweet security and rest that came over him.  He
tumbled on to the hearthrug and fell asleep.

He was cold and stiff when the opening of the library door wakened him.
He did not know who had opened the door.  All he saw was Christine
coming down the stairs.  Her face was old and almost silver grey.  She
was not crying like Edith, whose sniffs came assertively and at regular
intervals from somewhere in the hall.  There was a still, withdrawn
look about her, as though she were contemplating something unbreakable
that had at last been broken, as though a light had gone out in her for
ever.  So that Robert could not run to her as he had meant to do.

It was Edith speaking.

"You won't leave me, will you, Christine?  Poor Jim!  And then that
man--I should die of fright.  Besides, it wouldn't be right--not
proper--to-morrow one of my sisters----"

"Very well.  I will spend the night here.  But Robert must go to my
people.  They won't mind now.  I shall be back in half an hour."

She helped him into his reefer coat, which she had brought down with
her.  And still he could not speak to her.  She was a long way off from
him.  As they went into the hall he hid his face against her arm for
fear of the things that he might see.  But once they were outside, and
the good night wind rushed against his face, a great intoxicating joy
came over him.  He wanted to dance and shout.  The Dragon was dead.  No
one could frighten them again.

"Aren't we ever coming back, Christine?"

"No, dear, I don't think so."

He looked back at the grim, high house.  For a moment a sorrow as deep
as joy rushed over him.  It was as though he knew that something
besides the Dragon had died up there in that dimly lit room--as though
he were saying good-bye to something he would never find, though he
hunted the world over.

He had been a little boy.  He would never be quite a little boy again.

Or perhaps the Dragon wasn't dead at all--perhaps Dragons never died,
but lived on and on, hiding in secret places, waiting to pounce out on
you and drag you back.

He seized Christine's hand.

"Let's run," he whispered.  "Let's run fast."




II

1

He discovered that there were people in the world who could make scenes
without noise.  They were like the crocodiles he had met on his visit
to the Zoo, lying malignantly inert in their oily water.  But one
twitch of the tail, one blink of a lightless eye, was more terrifying
than the roar of a lion.

No one made a noise in Christine's home.  The two sisters looked at
Robert as though he were a small but disagreeable smell that they tried
politely to ignore.  They asked him if he wanted a second helping in
voices of glacial courtesy.  They said things to each other and at
Christine which were quiet and deadly as the rustle of a snake in the
grass.  Robert had never fled from his father as he fled from their
restrained disgust.  He had never been more aware of storm than in the
smother of the heavily carpeted, decorously silent rooms.  It broke,
three days later, not with thunder and lightning, but with the brief
malicious rattle of a machine-gun.

"You ought not to have brought him here.  You have no pride.  But,
then, you never had.  At least some consideration for our feelings
might have been expected.  We have suffered enough.  If you knew what
people said----  Mrs. Stonehouse has been talking.  She offered to
take the child.  As his natural guardian she had the right.  An
unpardonable, undignified interference----"

Christine hardly answered.  Her fragile face wore the look of quiet
obstinacy which had braved James Stonehouse and the worst disasters.
Robert had seen it too often not to understand.  But now his father was
dead, and instead; inexplicably, he had become the source of trouble.
He disgraced Christine.  Her people hated her because she was good to
him.  He felt the shame of it all over him like a horrible kind of
uncleanliness, and beneath the shame a burning sense of wrong.  He hid
in dark places.  He refused to answer even when Christine called him.
He skulked miserably past Christine's sisters when he met them in the
passage.  He scowled at them, his head down, like a hobbled, angry
little bull.  And Christine's sisters drew in their nostrils in a last
genteel effort at self-control.

Christine packed his trunk with ragged odds and ends of clothing, and
they made a long journey to No. 14, Acacia Grove, where Christine had
taken two furnished rooms and a scullery, which served also as kitchen
and bath-room.  Acacia Grove was the deformed extremity of a
misbegotten suburb.  There were five acacia trees planted on either
side of the unfinished roadway, but they had been blighted in their
youth, and their branches were spinsterish and threadbare.  Behind the
houses were a few dingy fields, and then a biscuit factory, an obscene,
congested-looking building with belching chimneys.

Every morning at nine o'clock Robert walked with Christine to the
corner of the road, and a jolly, red-faced 'bus, rollicking through the
neighbourhood like a slightly intoxicated reveller who has landed by
mistake in a gathering of Decayed Gentlefolk, carried her off
citywards, and at dusk returned her again, grey and worn, with wisps of
tired brown hair hanging about her face and bundles of solemn letters
and folded parchment documents bulging from her dispatch-case.  Then
she and Robert shopped together at the Stores, and afterwards she
cooked over a gas-jet in the scullery, and they had supper together,
almost in the dark, but very peacefully.

It was too peaceful.  One couldn't believe in it.  When supper was over
Robert washed up and Christine uncovered the decrepit, second-hand
typewriter which she had bought, and began to copy from the letters,
bending lower and lower over the crabbed writing and sighing deeply and
impatiently as her fingers blundered at the keys.  On odd nights, when
there was no copying to be done, she tried to teach Robert his letters
and words of one syllable, but they were both too tired, and he yawned
and kicked the table and was cross and stupid with sleepiness.  At nine
o'clock he washed himself cautiously and crept into the little bed
beside her big one and lay curled up, listening to the reassuring
click-click of the typewriter, until suddenly it was broad daylight
again, and there was Christine getting breakfast.

In the day-time Robert played ball in the quiet street or sat with his
elbows on the window-sill and watched the people go in and out of the
houses opposite.  The people were grey and furtive-looking, as though
they were afraid of attracting the notice of some dangerous monster and
had tried to take on the colour of their surroundings in
self-protection.  They seemed to ask nothing more for themselves than
that they should be forgotten.  Robert knew how they felt.  He felt
like that himself.  He was never sure that he was really safe.  He
dared not ask questions lest he should find out that his father wasn't
dead after all, or that they were on the brink of some new convulsion.
He did not even ask where Christine went in the day-time, or what had
become of Edith, or where their money came from.  He clung desperately
to an ignorance which allowed him to believe that he and Christine
would always live like this, quietly and happily.  When the landlady's
shadow came heavy-footed up the stairs, he hid himself and stuffed his
fingers in his ears lest he should hear her threaten them with instant
expulsion.  (It was incredible that she and Christine should be talking
amicably about the weather.)  Or when they went to the butcher's, he
hung behind in dread anticipation of the red-faced man's insolent "And
what about that there little account of ours, Ma'am?"  But the
red-faced man smiled ingratiatingly and patted him on the back and
called him a fine young fellow.  Christine counted out her money at the
desk.  It made Robert dizzy with joy and pride to see her pay her bill,
and tears came into his throat and nearly choked him.  On the way home
he behaved abominably, chased cats or threw stones with a reckless
disregard for their neighbours' windows, and Christine, looking into
his flushed, excited face, had a movement that was like the shadow of
his own secret fear.

"Robert, Robert, don't be so wild.  You might hurt yourself--or someone
else.  It frightens me."

And then at once he walked quietly beside her, chilled and dispirited.
At any moment the new-found commonplaces might drop from him, and
everyone would find out--the neighbours who nodded kindly and the
tradespeople who bowed them out of their shops--just as Francey and the
Banditti had found out--and turn away from him, ashamed and sorry.

He did not think of Francey very often.  For when he did it was almost
always in those last moments together that he remembered her--the
Francey who was too strong for him, the Francey who knew that he was a
nasty little boy who couldn't even beat a girl--who told lies--the
Francey who despised him.  And then it was as though his body had been
bruised afresh from head to foot.  But he still had her handkerchief.
He even kept it hidden from Christine lest she should insist on washing
it.  For by now it was incredibly dirty.

In the day-time he never thought of his father at all.  But in his
sleep one nightmare returned repeatedly.  It never varied; it was
definite and horrible.  In it his father, grown to demonic proportions,
towered over Christine's huddled body, his eyes terrible, his fists
clenched and raised to strike.  Then in that moment, at the very height
of his awful fear and helpless hatred, the wonderful truth burst upon
Robert, and he danced gleefully, full of cruel triumph, about the
black, suddenly impotent figure, shouting:

"You can't--you're dead--you're dead--you can't----"

And then he would wake up with a hideous start, sweating, his eyes hot
with unshed tears, and Christine's hand would come to him out of the
darkness and clasp his in reassuring firmness.

There was another dream.  Or, rather, it was half a dream and half one
of these stories that he told himself just before he fell asleep.  It
came to him at dusk when he stood at the gate and waited for Christine
to come home.  In the long day of silent games he had lost touch,
little by little, with reality.  Hunger had made him faint and drowsy.
Things changed, became unfamiliar, fantastic.  Between the stunted
trees he could see the afterglow of the sunset like the reflection of a
blazing city.  The road then was full of silence and shadow.  The drab
outlines grew faint and the mean houses were merged into the vaster
shapes of night.  Robert waited, motionless, breathless.  He was sure
that something was coming to him down the path of fading light.  He did
not know what it was.  Once, indeed, it had been Francey, with her
queer dancing step, her hair flying about her head like a flock of
little red-brown birds.  She had hovered before him, on tiptoe, as
though the next gust of wind would blow her on her way down the street,
and looked at him.  They had not spoken, but he had seen in her eyes
how sorry she was that she had not understood.  And a warm content had
flowed over him.  All the sore, aching places were healed and comforted.

But that had been only once.  And then he wasn't sure that he hadn't
made it up.  At all other times the thing was outside himself too
strange to have been imagined.  It shook him from head to foot with
dread and longing.  He wanted to run to meet it, to plunge into it,
reckless and shouting, as into a warm, dancing, summer sea.  And yet it
menaced him.  It was of fire and colour, of the rumble and thud of
armies, of laughter and singing and distant broken music.  It was all
just round the comer.  If he hurried he would see it, lose himself in
it, march to the tune he could never quite catch.  But he was afraid,
and whilst he tried to make up his mind the light faded.  The sounds
died.  After all, it was only Christine, trudging wearily through the
dusk.



2

The six forms were marshalled in squares down the centre of the
drill-hall, Form I, with Robert Stonehouse at the bottom, holding the
place of dishonour under the shadow of the Headmaster's rostrum.
Robert did not know that he was at the bottom of Form I, or that such a
thing as Form I existed.  He did not know that he was older than the
eldest of his class-mates, but he was aware of being unusually and
uncomfortably large.  Under the curious stare that had greeted him on
his first appearance and which now pressed on him from the rear and
sides, he felt himself shoot up, inch by inch, into a horrible
conspicuousness, whilst his feet grew flat and leaden, and his hands
were too swollen to squeeze into his trousers pockets.

". . . we have left undone those things which we ought to have done and
we have done those things which we ought not to have done . . ."

He wondered what they were saying.  It sounded rather like one of those
tongue-twisters which his father had taught him in a playful
moment--"round the rugged rock the ragged robber ran"--but it was
evidently no joking matter.  And it was something which everyone knew
except himself.  The urchin on his left piped it out in an assured,
self-satisfied treble.   The clergyman kneeling behind the raised desk
came in with a bang at the beginning of each sentence, and then
subsided into an indistinguishable murmur.  Evidently he knew what he
was saying so well that he did not need even to think about it, for his
eyes wandered over his folded hands as though in methodical search for
somebody.  They reached Form I, and Robert, who saw them coming, broke
instinctively into a panic-stricken gabble.  Of all the poems which
Christine had read aloud to him, Casablanca was the only one he could
remember, and he had got as far as "whence all but he had fled" before
he saw that it was of no good.  The subterfuge had been recognized.
The clergyman had stopped praying and was gazing at him earnestly.
Robert gazed back, fascinated and open-mouthed.

". . . and there is no health in us . . ."

But the strain of that encounter was too much for him.  He tried to
escape, first to the ceiling and finally to his boots.  The stare
pursued him, pointed at him.  In a moment the whole school would be on
his track.  His eyes, rolling desperately to their corners, encountered
a little dark man who had led in Form I and now stood sideways on, so
as to keep his charge under constant survey.  Even in that moment of
acute despair he arrested Robert's attention.  There was something odd
about him--something distressful and indignant.  Whilst he prayed he
made jerky, irritable movements which fluttered out the wings of his
gown, so that with his sleek black hair and pointed face he looked like
a large angry blackbird, trapped and tied by the foot.

"But Thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us . . ."

And then, suddenly, an amazing conviction broke upon Robert.  The
little man wasn't praying at all.  His lips moved, but the movement was
all wrong.  He was repeating two words, over and over again, at great
speed and with a suppressed violence.  They looked familiar--painfully,
elusively familiar.  Robert felt that in another moment he would
recognize them:

". . . spare Thou them that are penitent . . ."

Now Robert knew for certain.  It was his father's favourite answer to
all expostulations.  Of course that was it.  "Damned rot--damned
rot--damned rot."  The little man was swearing passionately to himself.
It was incredible, but there was no mistake possible.  And in the full
blast of the discovery his dark eyes, hunted and angry-looking behind
their round glasses, met Robert's, widened, passed on, and came back
again.  It was an extraordinary moment.  Robert could not have looked
away to save his life.  He knew that he had betrayed himself.  The
little man knew that he knew.  He grew very red, coughed, and blew his
nose violently, his eyes meantime returning repeatedly to Robert's
flushed and frightened face with an expression utterly unfathomable.
It was almost as though he were trying to signal----

"Amen!" declared the whole school with infinite relief and satisfaction.

The clergyman sighed deeply and raised himself painfully from his knees.

"Hymn number 503."

A boy came out from the class next to Robert's and walked to the piano,
and Robert forgot everything else, even his own imminent disgrace.  He
had never seen such red hair before--deep red with a touch of purple,
like the leaves of a beech tree in autumn--or such a freckled face.
The freckles lay thick on the small unimportant nose and clashed
painfully against the roots of the amazing hair.  They crowded out the
flaxen eyebrows altogether.  And yet he was pretty in a wistful,
whimsical sort of way.  He made Robert want to laugh.  Someone close to
Robert did titter, and muttered, "Go it, Carrots!" and Robert saw that
the boy had heard and was horribly frightened.  He winced and faltered,
and Robert poked out viciously with his elbow.

"Shut up!" he whispered,

His victim was too astonished even to retaliate.

The red-haired boy had reached the piano.  And at once a change came
over him.  He wasn't frightened any more.  He played the first verse
over without a stumble, calmly, confidently, as though he knew that now
no one had the right to laugh.  The light from an upper window made a
halo of his blazing head and lit up his small round face, faintly and
absurdly grave, but with something elfish and eager lurking behind the
gravity.  Robert stared at him as an Ancient Briton might have stared
at the first lordly Roman who crossed his ken.  He felt uncouth and
cumbersome and stupid.  And yet he could have knocked the red-headed
boy down easily with one hand.

The clergyman led the singing.  The urchin on Robert's right had
produced a hymn-book from his pocket and opened it and found his place
with the same air of smug efficiency.  Robert had no book.  He longed
for one.  He knew that the clergyman was watching him again.  His
companion nudged him, and by a stab of a stumpy, inky forefinger
indicated the verse which he himself was singing in an aggressive
treble.  But Robert only stared helplessly.  At another time he might
have recognized "God--love--dove--" and other words of one syllable,
and he liked the tune.  But now he could see nothing but the clergyman
and think of nothing but the little dark man.  He wondered madly what
the latter was singing now and whether he had managed to fit in "damned
rot--damned rot" to the music.  But he did not dare to look.

A second prod roused him with a ghastly self-betraying start.

"You gotter sing," the small boy whispered fiercely; "gotter sing,
idjit."

"Wh-a-a-t?"

Robert made a loud, unexpected noise in his throat.  His companion
choked, spluttered and buried his impertinent face in a grubby
handkerchief.  The dark man left his post hastily and stationed himself
immediately at Robert's side in anticipation of a further outbreak.
Someone in the rear giggled hysterically.  Robert dropped his head and
riveted his swimming eyes on the clergyman's boots.  He made no further
attempt to save himself.  He was caught by his mysterious, relentless
destiny.  He had been found out.



3

Mr. Morton, the headmaster, believed in Hygiene and the Educational
Value of Beauty.  The classroom smelt vividly of carbolic.  There was a
large lithograph of "Love and Life" on the pure white wall and a pot of
flowers on the high window-sill.  Maps, blackboards and all other
paraphernalia of learning were kept in merciful concealment.

Robert took possession of the desk nearest him and was at once ejected.
Its rightful owner scowled darkly at him.  At the next desk he tried to
anchor himself, and there was a scuffle and a smothered exchange of
blows, from which he escaped with a scraped shin and a strange,
unfamiliar sense of being afraid.  There was no fight in him.  He
didn't want to fight.  He wanted to belong--to be one of the herd--and
he knew dimly that he would first have to learn its laws and submit to
its tortures.  He tried to grin back when the titter, which seemed
endemic, broke out afresh as he stumbled on his ignominious pilgrimage,
but the unasked-for partition in their amusement seemed to exasperate
them.  They whispered things to one another.  They commented on his
clothes.  He realized suddenly how poorly dressed he was.  There was a
patch on the knee of his trousers and a mended tear on his shiny
jacket.  His finger-nails weren't very clean.  Christine had gone off
too early to be sure that he had done them, and he had never thought
much of that sort of thing.  Now he was paralysed with shame.  He could
feel the tears strangling him.

Fortunately the desk in the far corner belonged to nobody.  It was old
and battered and covered with the undecipherable carvings of his
predecessors, but at once he loved it.  It was his.  Its retired
position seemed to offer him protection.  He hid behind it, drawing a
long, shuddering sigh of thankfulness.

The little dark man stood on the raised platform and surveyed them all.
His expression was nearly a grimace; as though he had just swallowed a
disagreeable medicine.  He pursed his lips and held tight to the lapels
of his coat, his piercing yet distressful eyes blinking rapidly behind
their glasses with a kind of nervous malice.

"Well, my delightful and learned young friends----"

The class wilted in anticipation.  But before he spoke again the door
opened and they rose thankfully with a shuffle of feet and
surreptitious clatter of desks.  The clergyman waved to them.  If the
little dark man was like a blackbird, captive and resentful, the
newcomer was like a meagre and somewhat fluttered hen.  His hands and
wrists were long and yellow and sinewy.  He wore no cuffs, but one
could see the beginnings of his Jaeger undervest under the black
sleeve.   He rubbed his chin or smoothed the back of his small head
almost ceaselessly.

"You can sit down, boys.  One moment, Mr. Ricardo, one moment
only----"

He spoke in an undertone.  Robert knew it was about him.  They both
looked in his direction.  The little man jerked his head.

"Robert Stonehouse."

He sat motionless, trying to hide from them.  But it was of no good.
The clergyman made an elevating gesture, and he rose automatically as
though he were tied to that gentleman's hand by an invisible string.
The desk was much too small for him and he had to wiggle to get free
from it.  The lid banged.   Instantly every boy had turned in his seat
to gaze at him, and he saw that this was the worst place that could
have fallen to his lot.  In his corner he was trapped, a sea of
mocking, curious faces between him and his tormentors.

The clergyman smiled palely at him.

"I understand that you are a new boy, Stonehouse, and I don't wish to
be too severe with you.  At the same time we must begin as we are to go
on.  And you were not behaving very well at prayers this morning, were
you?"

Robert moved his lips soundlessly.  But no answer was expected of him.
The question was rhetorical.  "You weren't," the enemy said,
"attending.  You were trying to make your companions laugh----"
This, at least, was unbearably unjust.

"I wasn't," Robert interrupted loudly.

Someone moved to compassion hissed, "Say 'sir'--say sir,'" but he was
beyond help.  From that moment on he was beyond fear.  He dug himself
in, dogged and defiant.

"Come now, Stonehouse, I saw you myself.  You were only pretending to
join in, now weren't you?  How was it?  Didn't you know the prayer?"

"No."

"Don't be so abrupt, my boy.  Say 'sir' when you answer me.  How is it
that you don't know it?  You go to church, don't you?"

"No."

"Say 'sir.'"

"Sir."

"Well, chapel, then.  You go to chapel, no doubt?"

Robert stared blankly.

"You don't?  But surely your mother takes you----"

"I haven't got a mother."  His voice sounded in his own ears like a
shout.  He scowled down at the faces nearest him.  He was ready to
fight them now.  If they were going to say anything about his mother,
good or bad, he would fly at them, just as he had flown at his old
aggressors in the Terrace, regardless of size and numbers.

"Your father, then?"

"I haven't got a father."

His questioner smiled faintly, not without asperity.

"Come, come, you are not yet a gentleman in independent circumstances.
Who takes care of you?"

"Christine."

"And who, pray, is Christine?"

Who was Christine?  It was as though suddenly the corner of a curtain
had been raised for a moment, letting him look through into a strange
new country.

"I don't know."

The clergyman waved his hand, damping down the titters that spluttered
up nervously, threatening to explode outright.  He himself had an air
of slight dishevelment, as though his ideas had been blown about by a
rude wind.

"I remember--Mr. Morton spoke to me--your guardian, of course.  You
should answer properly.  But still, surely you have been taught--some
religious instruction.  You say your prayers, don't you?"

"No."  He added after a moment of sudden, vivid recollection: "Not now."

It was nothing short of a debacle.  He had pulled out the keystone of
an invisible edifice which had come tumbling about their ears, leaving
him in safety.  Without knowing how or why, he knew he had got the
better of them all.  The grins died out of the upturned faces.  They
looked at him with amazement, with horror, yes--with respect.

"But you have been taught your catechism--to--to believe in God?"

"No."

"But the hymn--at least you could have sung the hymn, my poor boy.  You
can read, can't you?"

"No."

The awe passed before a storm of unchecked laughter.  For one
spectacular moment he had held them all helpless, every one of them, by
the sheer audacity of his admissions.  Now with one word he had
fallen--an ignominious, comic outcast.  The clergyman turned away,
shaken but satisfied.

"You have a great deal to learn.  I doubt if Mr. Morton quite
realized----  A heavy task in front of you, too, Mr. Ricardo.  One
word, please----"

They spoke in undertones.  Robert slid back into his seat.  He could
feel exultant glances sting and pierce him on every side.  And yet when
the door closed he had to look up.  He was driven by a relentless
curiosity to meet the worst.  Mr. Ricardo had resumed his place.  He
did not so much as glance at Robert.  He clung on to the lapels of his
coat and blinked up at the window as though nothing had happened.  But
there was something impish twitching at the corners of his nervous
mouth.

"My delightful young friends," he said, "you will be kind enough to
leave Stonehouse in peace both now and hereafter.  I know your amiable
propensities, and my own conviction is that he is probably worth the
pack of you.  Get out your history books----"

So he was a friend.  A powerful friend.  But not powerful enough.  No
one looked at Robert again.  And yet he knew, with all the certainty of
inherited instinct, that they were waiting for him.



4

He went out into the school-yard like an early Christian into the
arena.  He knew exactly what to expect.  It was just the Terrace over
again.  He would have to fight them all until they learnt to leave him
alone.  Somehow he knew for certain that to be left alone was the best
he could expect.  They would never really forgive him for being
different from themselves.  It was very mysterious.  It couldn't be his
father or the unpaid bills any more.  It seemed that if you were born
different you remained different, however hard you tried.  He had
wanted so much to go to school, to run with a band again, to play games
with them and have them call out, "Hallo, Stonehouse!" as he heard
other boys call to each other across the street.  He had meant to be
exactly like them at all costs.  It had seemed so easy, since his
father was dead and Christine paid the butcher.  But at once he had
been found out, a marked man.  He hadn't got a father and mother like
ordinary people, he didn't go to church, he didn't say his prayers, he
couldn't read, and he didn't know who God was--or even Christine----

There was a moment of suspense before the attack opened.  Like an old,
experienced general he made his way with apparent indifference towards
the wall.  But he was not quite quick enough.  Someone prodded him
sharply in the back.  Someone hissed in mocking imitation:

"I don't know--I don't know!"

He was too cunning to retaliate.  He waited till he had reached his
chosen ground, then he turned with his fists clenched.  The storm had
already gathered.  It was only a little school, and the story of the
new boy's "break" with old Jaegers had reached even the big louts who
lingered on in Form VI.  They made a rough half-circle round their
intended victim, only partially malevolent in their intentions.  The
fact that he had bearded a contemptible old beast like Jaegers was
rather in his favour than otherwise, but his assertion that he did not
say his prayers and knew nothing about God smacked of superiority.  He
had to be taken down.  And, anyhow, a new boy was an object of
curiosity and his preliminary persecution a time-honoured custom.  A
fight was not in their calculations--the very idea of a new boy
venturing to fight beyond their imaginations.  And Robert did not want
to fight.  He felt oddly weary and disinclined.  But to him there was
no other outcome possible.  It was his only tradition.  It blinded him
to what was kindly or only mischievous in the faces round him.  He had
a momentary glimpse of the red-headed boy who stood just outside the
circle, munching an apple and staring at him with astonished blue eyes,
and then his attention fixed itself on his enemy-in-chief.  There was
no mistaking him.  He was a big, lumpy fellow, fifteen years of age,
with an untidy mouth, the spots of a premature adolescence and an air
of heavy self-importance.  When he spoke, the rest fell into awed
attention.

"Hallo, new kid, what's your name?"

"Robert Stonehouse."

"Don't be so abrupt, my boy,"--a delighted titter from the small
fry--"say 'sir' when you answer me."

"I shan't."

The little colourless eyes widened in sheer incredulity.  For a moment
the role of humorist was forgotten.

"Look here--no cheek, or I'll smack your head."

"He hasn't been properly brought up," one of the spotty youth's
companions remarked, not ill-naturedly.  "Can't expect him to have
manners.  He never had a father or a mother, poor darling----"

"Then where did he come from?"

"God made him."

"He told old Jaegers he'd never even heard of God."

"Dear, dear, what a naughty boy.  He doesn't even say his prayers."

"But he lives with a lady called Christine----"

"How nice for him.  Is she a pretty lady, Stonehouse?"  Up till now
nothing had stirred in him.  He hadn't cared.  He had indeed felt
something of the superiority which they suspected in him.  If that was
all they could do----  Now, suddenly, the blood rushed to the roots of
his fair hair.

"Shut up.  You leave Christine alone."

The big boy was too delighted to be angry.

"Hoity-toity.  She must be a high-stepper.  No trespassers allowed--eh,
what? young cockalorum.  Come on, what's she like?  Who is she?

"He doesn't know."

"She isn't his mother."

"He says she isn't."

"P'r'aps he doesn't know that either.  P'r'aps that's what she
says----"

The full extent of the innuendo, like the majority of the audience, he
did not understand, but he saw the wink which passed between the two
elder boys.  Ever since that day when he had gathered flowers for his
mother in Kensal Green Cemetery he had known of dark things, just
beyond his understanding.  He had wandered in the midst of them too
long not to be aware of them on the instant.  And it was against
Christine--who had suffered from them so terribly--they dared----  A
great sigh tore itself free from him.  He put his head down.  He flew
at the spotty youth like a stone from a catapult, and they went down
together in a cloud of dust.

After that, as in most of his uneven, desperate encounters, he hardly
knew what happened.  He felt nothing.  In reality it was an absurd
spectacle.  The spotty youth, bounding up from his momentary
discomfiture, caught Robert by the collar and smacked him shamefully,
severely, as the outrage merited.  And when justice had been satisfied,
he released the culprit, and Robert, without pause, returned, fighting
with fists and feet and teeth, as he had learnt to do from dire
necessity.  It was unprecedented.  The spotty youth gasped.  His
companions offered intervention.

"I'll hold the beggar."

But honour was at stake.  The small fry, startled out of caution, were
tittering in hysterical excitement.

"Th-thanks--you keep out of it--I'll manage him."'

The second beating was more drastic.  The third was ineffectual.  The
spotty youth, besides being exhausted, was demoralized with sheer
bewilderment.  He was not clever, and when events ran out of their ruts
he lost his head.  He had made the same discovery that the Terrace boys
had made long since, namely that short of killing Robert Stonehouse
there was no way of beating him, and he drew back, panting,
dishevelled, his manly collar limp and his eyes wild.

"There--that'll teach you----"

Robert laughed.  He put his tongue out.  He knew it was vulgar but it
was the only retaliation he had breath for.  His clothes were dusty and
torn, his nose bloody.  He was a frightful object.  But he knew that he
had won.

The spotty youth wiped his hands on his handkerchief with exaggerated
disgust.

"Dirty little beast.  I wouldn't touch him again--not with the end of a
barge pole."

He never did.  Nobody did.  Though he did not know it, it was Robert's
last fight.  But he had won immunity at a high cost.  The small fry
skirted him as they went out through the school gates.  It was more
than fear.  They distrusted him.  He was not one of them.  He did not
keep their laws.  His wickedness was not their wickedness, his courage
not their courage.  He ought not to have fought a boy in the sixth
form.  He ought to have taken his beating quietly.  Even if he had
"blubbed" they might afterwards have taken him to their bosoms in
understanding and inarticulate sympathy.  As it was, he was a devil--a
foreign devil, outside the caste for ever.

Only the small red-haired boy, waiting cautiously till everyone else
was out of sight, came after him as he trailed forlornly down the
street.  He was still chewing meditatively at the core of his apple,
and his eyes, vividly blue amidst the freckles, considered Robert out
of their corners with solemn astonishment.

"I say, Stonehouse, you can fight."

Robert nodded.  He was still breathless.

"I--I'm used to it."

"I'm glad you kicked that beast Saunders.  You hurt him, too.  I saw
him make a face.  I wish I could fight like that.  But I'm no good at
it.  I'm not 'fraid--not really--but I just hate it.  You like it,
don't you?"

Robert swaggered a little.

"Rather."

There was a moment's silence,

"I say--if you like it--would you mind licking Dickson Minor for me?
He's always ragging me--you see, I've a rotten time--because of my
hair, and about playing the piano.  Dickson's the worst.  I'd be
awfully glad, if you wouldn't mind, of course."

Robert surreptitiously wiped the blood from his nose on to his sleeve.
As usual he had no handkerchief.  A warm, delicious solace flowed over
his battered spirit.  His heart swelled till it hurt him.  It opened
wide to the little red-haired boy.  If only Francey could see him
now--the defender of the oppressed.  But he did not dare to think of
that.  After all, he might cry.

He nodded negligently.

"All right.  I don't mind."

"P'r'aps, when he knows you're standing up for me, he'll leave me
alone."

"He'd better."

"My name's Rufus--Rufus Cosgrave.  You see, I was born like this, and
my father thought it would be a good joke.  I call it beastly."

"Mine's Robert."

The red-haired boy meditated a little longer.  He rubbed his arm
against Robert's softly like a young pony.

"I say, let's be friends--shall we?"

Robert gulped and turned his head away.

"All right.  I don't mind."

They parted shyly at the corner of Cosgrave's road--a neat double file
of vastly superior villas, as Robert realized with a faint sinking of
the heart; but Robert did not go home.  He made his way out to the
dingy fields behind the biscuit factory, and watched the local rag and
bobtail play football, lying hidden in the long grass under the wall so
that they should not see him and fall upon him.  Even when it grew dusk
and he knew that Christine must be almost home, he still wandered about
the streets.  He was hungry and footsore, his head and body ached, but
he put off the moment when he would have to face her to the very last.
He loved her, and he was not really afraid, though he knew that the
sight of his torn, blood-stained clothes would rouse her to a queer
unreasonable despair; but he had talked so much, so proudly and so
confidently of going to school.  And now, how should he tell the tale
of his disgrace, how make clear to her the misery which the
unfathomable gulf between himself and his companions caused in him, or
that because a red-haired, freckled small boy had asked him to fight
Dickson Minor he had lain in the grass with his face hidden in his arms
and wept tears of sacred happiness?  There were things you could never
tell, least of all to people whom you loved.  They were locked up in
you, and the key had been lost long since.

The street lamps came to life one by one.  He strolled down Acacia
Grove, whistling and swinging his legs with an exaggerated
carelessness.  He could see their light in the upper window of No. 14.
He was sure that Christine would watch for him, and when the hall door
opened suddenly, he stopped short, shrinking from their encounter.  But
it was a man who came out of the gate towards him.  For one moment an
awful, reasonless terror made him half turn to run, to run headlong,
never to come back; the next, he recognized the slight, jerky limp
which made his form master so comically bird-like, and stood still,
knowing that now Christine had heard everything, the very worst.
Probably Mr. Ricardo had come to tell her that she must take him away,
that he was too bad and too stupid to be with other boys, and a lump
gathered in his throat because he would never see Rufus Cosgrave again:
never fight for him.

Mr. Ricardo halted, peering through the dusk.

"That you, Stonehouse?"

"Yes"--he added painfully, because the little man had been kind to
him--"sir."

"Your--Miss Forsyth is getting anxious about you.  Why are you so late?"

Robert muttered "Football," knowing it was a lie, and that somehow or
other his companion knew it too.  He heard Mr. Ricardo sigh deeply and
wearily.

"Well, I'm very late myself.  I don't know this neighbourhood.  Is
there a station or a 'bus near here?"

"There's a 'bus." Robert pointed eagerly.  "I'll show you if you like."

"Thanks--if it doesn't take you too long."

They walked side by side in silence, Mr. Ricardo's stick tapping
smartly on the pavement, he himself apparently deep in thought.  It
seemed to Robert that he had escaped, until suddenly a thin hand took
him by the shoulder and shook him with a friendly impatience.

"Football.  Nonsense.  A boy like you doesn't play football.  He hasn't
had the chance.  Besides, it's not his line.  He plays a lone game.
No.  You've been moping round--crying possibly.  Well, I do that myself
sometimes.  It's a crying business, unless you've got nerves and guts.
But you've got that all right.  I saw you fight that stupid bully
Saunders from my window, and you beat him, too.  I was fighting with
you, though you didn't know it.  It was I who kicked him that time you
caught him on the shin."

Robert would have laughed had he been less miserable, and had he not
caught beneath Mr. Ricardo's brief amusement a real and angry
satisfaction.  In the dark, too, he had an uneasy feeling that after
all he was going to be found out.

"And then after you'd stood up to and beaten a fellow twice your size
you went away by yourself and howled.  Shall I tell you why?  You'll be
astonished.  Probably you won't understand in the least.  You cried
because you're a young idiot.  You find yourself in a herd of
half-baked living creatures, and you see that they are wearing chains
round their ankles and rings through their noses so that they can't
move or breathe properly, and you think to yourself that that's the
proper thing, and you come crying home for someone to tie you up like
the rest.  It's natural.  It's the race instinct and has had its uses.
But it's dangerous.  It kills most of us.  We start out with brains to
use and eyes to see with and hands to make with and we end up by
thinking nothing and seeing nothing and making nothing that hasn't been
thought and seen and made for the last two thousand years.  Most of us,
even when we know what is happening to us, are cowed and blackmailed
into surrender.  We have to compromise--there are circumstances--always
circumstances--unless we are very strong--we give in--beaten out of
shape----"

His sentences, that had become painful and disjointed, broke off, and
there was another silence.  Robert could say nothing.  He was dazed
with the many words, half of which, it was true, he had not understood
at all.  And yet they excited him.  They seemed to pierce through and
touch some sleeping thing in himself which stirred and answered: "Yes,
yes, that's true--that's true."

The pressure on his shoulders increased a little.

"But you're not afraid of anything, are you, Stonehouse?"

"No--no, sir.  I don't think so--not really----"

"I don't think you are, either.  I liked the way you stood up to that
poor faggot of hereditary superstitions and prejudices who was trying
to frighten you into being as big a humbug as himself.  He'll never get
over it.  I daresay he'll make things very unpleasant for you in his
charming Christian way.  How old are you, Stonehouse?"

"Ten--nearly, sir."

"You're big and precocious for your age.  You'll get the better of him.
But if you'd been brought up with other children you'd have whined and
cringed--'Yes, sir,' 'No, sir'--and been a beastly canting hypocrite
all your life.  You're wonderfully lucky if you only knew it,
Stonehouse.  You're nearly ten, and you can't read and you don't say
your prayers and your catechism and you know nothing about God
Almighty.  You've a sporting chance of becoming a man----"

Robert stumbled over his own feet.  A deeper, almost overpowering,
tiredness had come over him.  And yet he was fascinated.  He had to try
to understand.

"Isn't there--I mean--isn't there anyone like God?"

Mr. Ricardo stopped short.  He made a strange, wild gesture.  Standing
there in the half-darkness he was more than ever like some poor hobbled
bird trying desperately, furiously to beat its way back to freedom.

"Superstition--superstition, Stonehouse--the most crushing, damnable
chain of all, the symbol of cowardice, of greed and vanity, the enemy
of truth and knowledge, the hot-bed on which we breed the miserable
half-men who cumber this earth, a pitiable myth----"

He had almost shouted.  It was as though he had been addressing a vast
audience.  His voice dropped now, and he walked on, peering about him
anxiously.

"Well--well, you are too young.  There are things you can't understand.
But I shall teach you.  No, there is no God, Stonehouse."

Robert was vaguely sorry.  It was true that he had no clear idea of
God, and yet in some way He had been mixed up with the bands and music
and marching crowds that were always just round the corner.  In his
expansive, genial moments, so rare towards the end.  Dr. Stonehouse had
been known to say, "God bless you, Christine," and that had always
meant a few hours' peace.  It seemed very sad.

"What are you going to be, Stonehouse?"

"A doctor, sir."

"Why?"

It was impossible to tell the whole truth--namely, that because Francey
had said she was to be a doctor he had said he would be one too, and a
better one at that.  He gave half-measure.

"I want to be."

"Well, that's a good reason.  It might be a great profession, but it
has its liars and tricksters like the rest.  It is eaten up by little
men who wrap themselves in priestly garments and hide their ignorance
behind oracular silences.  They play up to the superstitious weakness
of the mob, and replace one religion by another.  They don't care what
beastly misery and evil they keep alive so long as they can pull off
their particular little stunts.  You mustn't be like that, Stonehouse.
To be free--to be free--and strong enough to go one's way and trample
down the people who try to turn you aside; that is the only thing worth
while.  Don't let them catch you, Stonehouse.  You don't know how
cunning they can be--cunning and cruel."

He sighed again, and Robert did not try to answer.  He had given up all
hope of understanding, and his tiredness was now such that he had to
set his teeth to keep the tears back.  At the corner they waited in
silence watching the jolly, yellow-eyed 'bus rumble towards them down
the High Street.

"Your guardian will tell you what we have arranged," Mr. Ricardo said
abruptly and with a complete change of tone.  "In a month you will read
better than any of them.  As to the rest, you will have to compromise.
So long as you know what you are doing and don't humbug yourself,
there's no harm done.  With the necessity you will shake yourself free.
You can say, 'I believe in God the Father Almighty' with your lips and
in your heart, as I do, damned rot--damned rot.'"

He laughed, and in the lamplight Robert saw his face, puckered with an
impish, malicious merriment.  Robert laughed too.  So he had guessed
right.  He felt proud and pleased.

"Good night, Stonehouse."

"Good night, sir."

Robert took off his battered cap politely as did other boys.  Mr.
Ricardo scrambled into the 'bus with an unexpected agility, and from
the bright interior in which he sat a huddled, faceless shadow, he
waved.  Robert waved back.  A fresh rush of elation had lifted him out
of his sorrowful weariness.  His disgrace had been miraculously turned
to a kind of secret triumph.  He was different; but then, how
different!  He didn't wear chains or a ring through his nose.  He was
going to know things that no one else knew.  And one day he would be
big and free.



5

It did not last.  By the time he had dragged himself up to the top of
their stairs there was nothing left but hunger, the consciousness of
tattered, blood-stained clothes, and a sore, tired body.  After all, he
was only a small boy who had wanted to play with other boys, and had
been cast out.  Even Mr. Ricardo could never make them play with him.

It was dark in the sitting-room.  Against the grey, ghostly light of
the window he could see Christine bowed over her typewriter.  She was
so still that she frightened him.  All the terrors of night which lay
in wait for him ever since his fathers dead hand had touched his door
and opened it, rushed down upon him with a sweep of black, smothering
wings.  He called out "Christine!  Christine!" in a choked voice, and
she moved at once, and he saw her profile, sharp-drawn and unfamiliar.

"Is that you, Robert?  What is it, dear?"

So she had not been worrying about him at all.  She did not know that
it was long past their usual supper-time.  She had been thinking of
something else.  It made her seem a terrifyingly long way off, and he
shuffled across the room to her, and touched her to make sure of her.
And it was strange that her hand glided over him anxiously,
questioningly, as though in the darkness she too had been afraid and
uncertain.

"Your form-master, Mr. Ricardo, has been here.  We've been talking
about you.  Is your coat very, very torn?"

"Not--not very."

"Never mind.  I'll mend it afterwards--when you've gone to bed."

Because he was so tired himself the unutterable weariness in her voice
smote him on the heart unbearably.  He had never heard it before.  It
made him think of her, for the first time, not just as Christine, who
looked after him and loved him, but as someone apart whom, perhaps, he
did not know at all.  Hadn't they asked him, "Who is Christine?"  And
he hadn't answered.  He hadn't known.

"Mr. Ricardo says you will need a lot of help to pick up with the other
boys.  Poor little Robert!  But he takes an interest in you, and you
are to go to his house in the afternoon to be coached, and in a few
weeks you will know as much as any of them."

He did not know what "coaching" meant, but all of a sudden he had
become afraid of Mr. Ricardo.  He did not want to go to him.  He knew
that Mr. Ricardo would not like him to play with other boys, even if he
got a chance.  He would want him to be alone and different always.

"He doesn't believe in God," Robert asserted accusingly.  "He said he
didn't."

"Perhaps not, dear."

"Doesn't that matter?"

"I don't suppose God minds--if He exists."

"Don't you believe in Him, Christine?"

"I don't know.  People say they believe too easily.  I expect I believe
as much as the others.  With most of us it's just--just a hope."

They had never talked together in that way before.  It made her more
than ever someone apart from him, who had her own thoughts, and perhaps
her own secret way of being unhappy.  He was frightened again, not of
the darkness now, but of something nearer--something so real and deadly
that the old spectres became almost comic, like ghosts made up of
dust-sheets and broom-handles.  Supposing Christine went still further
from him--supposing she left him altogether alone?  She wouldn't do it
of her free will, but there were things people couldn't help.  People
died.  The thought was a cruel hand twining itself into the strings of
his heart.  He tried to see her face.  Was she young?  He didn't know.
He had never thought about it.  She had been grown-up.  That covered
everything.  Now in the pale, unreal light her face and hair were a
strange dead gray, and she was old--old.

"Christine, how--how long do people live?"

"It depends.  Sometimes to a hundred--sometimes just a minute.

"But if one is careful, Christine--I mean, really careful?"

"It doesn't always help, Robert.  And even if it did, the people who
need to live most have to take risks----"  She broke off, following
her thought further till it was far beyond his reach.  "In fifteen
years you will be grown up.  You will be able to take care of yourself.
What will you be then?"

"A doctor," he said firmly; "and I'll look after you, Christine, and
you'll live for ever and ever."

"A doctor--a doctor!"  She seemed startled, almost frightened.  "Yes,
of course.  Your father would want it.  He was always proud of his
profession, though he made fun.  But it will mean more--waiting a
little longer."

She brooded, her hand covering her eyes, and he crept nearer to her,
pressing himself against her arm, trying to draw her back.

"Christine, who--who are you?"

"I don't know, Robert, I don't know----"

"I mean--why do you look after me? You're not my mother."

"Why, I love you."

"But you didn't at the beginning.  You couldn't have done."

"Your father and I were friends.  Yes, always--always--right through
everything--to the very end.  When your mother came into our lives, I
loved her almost more.  That will seem very strange to you one of these
days, but it was true.  When she was dying she asked me to take care of
you both."  She drew herself up, and pushed the untidy wisps of hair
out of her face, and with that gesture she seemed suddenly to grow
vigorous and young.  "Why, Robert, it's better than if you were my own
son; it's as though in you I had a little of those two always with me."

"Christine, you won't ever leave me, will you?"

For now his fear had him by the throat.  She didn't--she never had
belonged to him.  It was his father and his mother, who were dead.

"Of course not--not so long as you need me.  You mustn't worry.  It's
because we're both tired and hungry.  We'll get supper."

Her voice was its old self.  But whilst she laid the cloth he stood
pressed against the window and looked out with blind eyes into the
darkness, so that she should not see his slow, hot tears.  He was aware
of great and bitter loss.  But he loved Christine more than he had ever
done.  His love had ceased to be instinctive.  It had become conscious
of itself and of her separateness.  And it would never be quite free
again from pain.




III

1

Long before he could read words of three syllables, Robert had learnt the
Origin of Man, and had made a vivid, somewhat fanciful picture of that
personage's pathetic beginnings as a miasm floating on the earth's
surface, and of his accidental, no less pathetic progression as a Survival
of the Fittest.  He gathered that even more than old Jaegers, Mr. Ricardo
hated God Almighty and Jesus Christ, the latter of whom was intimately
connected with something called a Sun Myth--chiefly, Robert supposed,
because He was the Son of God.  Mr. Ricardo could not leave these two
alone.  He hunted them down, he badgered and worried them, he covered them
with gibes and insults.  It seemed to Robert sometimes that even the
multiplication table was really a disguised missile hurled in their
unsuspecting and non-existent faces.

Mr. Ricardo appeared to have no friends.  As far as Robert could make out,
when he was not at school he sat at his desk in the untidy, stuffy attic
in the still more untidy, stuffy boarding-house where he lived, and wrote
feverishly.  What he wrote Robert did not know.  There was an air of
mystery about the whole business, as though he were concocting a deadly
explosive which might go off at any moment.  Sometimes he seemed dated,
sometimes cast down by the results, but always doggedly resolved.

"It is a long, hard struggle, Stonehouse," he would say.  "There are more
fools in this world than you could conceive possible.  Thank your stars
your friend isn't one of them.  A fine, intelligent woman--a unique woman."

He talked a good deal about Christine and women in general.

"When once we can get them on our side," was one of his dark sayings, "the
last trench will be in our hands."

Then, one evening, to Robert's astonished displeasure, he walked home with
him, and somehow drifted up their dark stairs to the little sitting-room
where Christine was laying supper.  It appeared that he had come to give
an account of his pupil's progress, but he was oddly excited, and when
Christine invited him to share their meal--surely he could have seen there
wasn't enough to go round, Robert thought--he accepted with a transparent,
childlike eagerness that made Robert stare at him as at a stranger.  And
after supper, with the self-conscious air of a man who has waited for this
moment, be produced from his coat pocket a crumpled newspaper with the
title _Unshackled_ printed in aggressive letters on its pale-green cover.

"In my leisure time I write a good deal on a subject very dear to me, Miss
Forsyth," he said and screwed up his sharp nose in a kind of nervous
anguish.  "I have here an article published last week--you are a
broad-minded, intelligent woman--I thought perhaps it might interest
you--if you would care to glance over it."

Christine lay back in her chair, her face in shadow.  But the lamplight
fell on her two hands.  Red and misshapen as they were now, they were
still noble hands, and their repose had dignity and beauty.

"Won't you read it to us, Mr. Ricardo?  My eyes are tired at night."

He cleared his throat.

"It is an answer to Bishop Crawford's recent letter to _The Times_, which
you may have seen.  I have called it 'Unmasking the Oracle.'"

Robert leant out of the window and watched the sun sink into mist and
smoke.  He wished Mr. Ricardo hadn't come; and that he would go away soon.
In a few minutes the light would begin to die, and the sharp black lines
of the roofs and spires, which on the ruins of their dull selves seemed to
be built anew into a witchlike fantastic city, would be lost to him for
another night.  Robert did not want to hear about God and the origin of
man now.  He kicked impatiently.  Christine would sit up later than ever.
And, besides with Mr. Ricardo's voice rising and falling, growing shriller
and more passionate, one could not listen to that low, mysterious hum that
was so like a far-off music.

Mr. Ricardo made a sweeping, crushing gesture.  "That, surely, settles the
controversy.  He will hardly be able to answer that, I think."

Christine stirred, and opened her eyes, and smiled a little.

"I could not answer it, at any rate.  It sounds very clever."  She took
the paper from him and held it to the light, and Robert turned, hoping
that now he would really go.  "But--but I didn't quite understand--have I
lost the place?--this is by E. T. Richards."

Then Robert saw an astonishing thing.  Suddenly Mr. Ricardo seemed to
shrivel--to cower back into himself.  His fierce, triumphant energy had
gone as at a blasting touch of magic.  He looked ashamed and broken.

"A _nom de plume_--_a nom de guerre_, rather, Miss Forsyth--you
understand--in my opinion--the scholastic profession--the stronghold of
the worst bigotry and prejudice--for myself I should not care--I have
always wanted to come out into the open--but I have a sister--poor
girl!--a long, sad illness--for her sake--I can't afford----"

Christine folded the paper gently as though she were afraid of hurting it.

"Of course.  It would be unwise--unnecessary.  Why should one sacrifice
oneself to fight something that doesn't exist?"

He clenched his fists.

"One must fight error, Miss Forsyth."

"At any rate it's brave of you to try--to do what you think is right." And
now it seemed she was trying to find something that would comfort
him--just as she had once given Robert peppermint balls when he had hurt
himself.  "If ever you feel inclined, won't you come again--and read to
us?"

He looked at her with dark, tragic eyes.

"Thank you, thank you."

Robert went with him to the door, and for a moment he wavered on the
steps, blinking, and squeezing his soft hat between his bony hands.

"A great woman--a kind woman--you must be worth her while, Stonehouse."

And then, without so much as a "good night," he limped down the steps and
along the street, flitting in and out of the lamplight like a hunted bat.

It was the first of many tiresome evening visits.  But the next day he was
always himself again, and the class wilted under his merciless,
contemptuous sarcasms.  Only Robert was not afraid.  He knew that the lash
would never come his way, and he could feel the little man's unspoken
pride, when he showed himself quicker than his companions, like a secret
Masonic pressure of the hand.  And there was something else.  It was a
discovery that made him at first almost dizzy with astonishment.  He
wasn't stupid.  Just as he was stronger, so he was cleverer than boys
older than himself.  He could do things at once over which they botched
and bungled.  He outstripped them when he chose.  Even his ignorance did
not handicap him for long.  For Mr. Ricardo had kept his promise.  He
taught well, and in those long afternoons in the hot boarding-house attic
Robert had raced over the lost ground.  He did not always want to work.
He gazed out of the window, half his mind busy planning what he and Rufus
Cosgrave would do when they met at the corner of the street, but he could
not help understanding what was so obvious, and there were moments when
sheer interest swept him off his feet, and even Rufus was forgotten.  He
took an audacious pleasure, too, in leaping suddenly over the heads of the
whole class to the first place.  He did not always bother.  He liked to
wait for some really teasing question, and then, when silence had become
hopeless, hold up his hand.  Mr. Ricardo would look towards him,
apparently incredulous and satirical, but Robert could read the message
which the narrowed eyes twinkled at him.

"Of course you understand, Stonehouse."

And then he would answer and sweep the sullen class with a cool,
exasperating indifference as he sat down.  For he did not want them any
more.  He returned instinctive enmity with the scorn of a growing
confidence.  It was rather fine to stand by yourself, especially when you
had one friend who thought you splendid whatever you did, who clung to
you, and whom you had to protect.  When he walked arm in arm with Rufus
Cosgrave in the playground he trailed his coat insolently, and the
challenge was not once accepted.  From the biggest boys to Dickson Minor,
no one cared to risk the limitless possibilities of an encounter, and the
word "carrots" was not so much as whispered in his hearing.

Then in the late afternoon the real day seemed to begin.  Then the
hardness and distrust with which he had unconsciously armed himself fell
away, and he and Rufus Cosgrave sat side by side in the sooty grass behind
the biscuit factory, and with arms clasped about their scarred and grubby
knees planned out the vague but glorious time that waited for them.  Rufus
was to be a Civil Servant.  He did not seem to care much for the prospect
or even to be very clear as to what would be expected of him.  He felt,
with Robert, that a Civil Servant sounded servile and romanceless, but
unfortunately the profession, whatever it was, ran in the family.

"My father's one, you know.  So I've got to.  I'd rather play the piano.
But, of course, I wouldn't say so to anyone but you.  It sounds too
beastly silly----"

"I'd say whatever I wanted to," Robert retorted grandly, "I'll always say
what I want to and do what I jolly well like when I'm grown up anyhow.
You can if you're strong enough."

"But then people hate you," Rufus said sadly.

"That doesn't matter a bit."

"Don't you mind people not liking you?"

"Rather not."

Rufus fumbled anxiously.

"Wouldn't you be pleased if--if you were asked to play in the eleven--and
the chaps cheered you like they do Christopher when he kicks a goal?"

"I shouldn't care--not a button."  But he knew even then that it was not
true.  His heart had leapt at the very thought.  He drew his fair brows
together in the portentous Stonehouse scowl.  "It's silly to mind what
silly people think.  And kicking goals is no good.  I'm going to be a
doctor--not just the ordinary sort--a big doctor--and I'll discover
things--and people like Christopher'll come and beg me to keep them alive."

Rufus sighed deeply.

"I wish I was like that.  I mind awfully--being ragged, and all that.  I
was awfully miserable until you came.  If you went away--or didn't care
any more--I don't know what I'd do.  But if I went away you wouldn't
mind----"

"Yes, I would."

"But you're so much stronger."

"I like being strongest."

And then and there he expounded the doctrine of the Survival, and Rufus
began to shiver all over like a frightened pony.

"I think it's perfectly beastly.  What'll happen to me?  Anyone can lick
me.  I wouldn't have a chance."

The tears came into his round, blue eyes and trickled down his freckled
cheeks, and a sudden choking tenderness, a dim perception of all that this
one friend meant to him, made Robert fling his arms about him and hug him
close.

"Yes--you would.  Because I'll look after you--always--honest injun."



2

There was one secret that he never told to anyone--not even to Cosgrave.
He was ashamed of it.  He knew it was silly--sillier than in believing in
God--and he had almost succeeded in forgetting it when it came true.  It
happened.  Just when he was least expecting it it came round the corner.
First the music, a long way off, but growing louder and fiercer so that it
seemed as though his fancy had suddenly jumped out of his brain and was
running about by itself, doing just what it liked; then lights, torches
with streaming flags of fire that put out the street lamps altogether, and
the shadows of people marching--running--leaping--capering.

Robert ran too.  He did not stop to think what it was.  He was wild with
excitement, and as he ran he bounded into the air and waved his arms in a
pent-up joy of living and moving.  He never had much chance to run.  You
couldn't run by yourself for nothing.  People stared or were annoyed when
you bumped against them.  But now there was something to run for.  There
was no one to see or hear him in the deserted Grove, and with each bound
he let out an unearthly, exultant whoop.

At the corner where Acacia Grove met the High Street Rufus Cosgrave
squirmed out of the pushing, jostling crowd and caught hold of him.  He
was capless, panting.  His red hair stood on end.  In the flickering torch
light he looked like a small, delirious Loga.

"I say--Stonehouse--I was coming for you--it's a circus--they're going all
the way down to the Green--they've got their tent there--if we could only
climb up somewhere--I can't see a thing--not even the elephant's legs."

"If we cut round by Griffith's Road we'll get there first," Robert
shouted.  "Only we've got to run like mad."

He seized Rufus by the hand and they shot free of the procession, up and
down dim and decorous streets, swerving round corners and past astonished
policemen whose "Now then, you young devils" was lost in the clatter of
their feet.  Cosgrave gasped, but Robert's hold was relentless,
compelling.  He could have run faster by himself, but somehow he could not
let Cosgrave go.  "You've got to stick it," he hissed fiercely.  "It's
only a minute."

Cosgrave had no choice but to "stick it."  It did not even occur to him to
resist though his eyes seemed to be bulging out of his head and his lungs
on the point of bursting.  But the reward was near at hand.  There, at the
bottom of Griffith's Road, they could see it--the Green, unfamiliar with
its garish lights and the ghostly, gleaming tents.

"We've done it!" Robert shouted.  "Hurrah--hurrah!"

They had, in fact, time to spare.  The procession was still only half-way
down the High Street, a dull red glow, like the mouth of a fiery cave,
widening with every minute as though to swallow them.  There was, indeed,
a disconcerting crowd gathered round the chief entrance, but Robert was
like a general, cool and vigorous, strung up to the finest pitch of
cunning.  He wormed his way under the ropes, he edged and insinuated
himself between the idle and good-natured onlookers, with Cosgrave, tossed
and buffeted, but still in tow, struggling in the backwash.  At last they
were through, next to the entrance, and in the very front row of all.

"Now you'll see the elephant," Robert laughed triumphantly, "every bit of
him,"

"Oh, my word!" Cosgrave gasped.  "Oh, my word!"

It was coming.  It made itself felt even before it came into sight by the
sudden tensity of the crowd, the anxious pressure from behind, the
determined pushing back by the righteously indignant in front, the craning
of necks, and indistinguishable, thrilling murmur.  A small boy, whom
Robert recognized as the butcher's son, evidently torn between the dignity
and excitement of his new post, stalked ahead and thrust printed notices
into the outstretched hands.  Robert seized hold of one, but he was too
excited to read.  He felt Rufus poke him insistently.

"What's it say--what's it say?"

"Shut up--I don't know--look for yourself."

There they were.  The six torch-bearers were dressed like mediaeval pages,
or near enough.  Their tight-fitting cotton hose, sagging a little at the
knees, were sky-blue, and their tunics green and slashed with yellow.
They wore jaunty velvet caps and fascinating daggers, ready to hand.  As
they reached the entrance to the tent they halted, and with some uneasy
shuffling formed up on either side, making a splendid passage of fire for
the ten Moorish horsemen who rode next, fierce fellows these, armed to the
teeth, with black, shining faces and rolling eyes.  A band struck up
inside the tent to welcome them, and they rode through, scarcely bending
their proud heads--much to the relief of the more timorous members of the
crowd who had eyed the rear end of their noble steeds with a natural
anxiety.  Unfortunately the torches smoked a good deal, and there was some
grumbling.

"'Ere, take the stinking thing out of me eyes, can't yer?"

"Right down dangerous, I calls it.  If one of them there sparks gets into
me 'at I'll be all ablaze in half a jiffy.  And oo'll pay for the
feathers, I'd like to know?"

"Oh, shut up--shut up!" Robert whispered bitterly.  "Why can't everyone
shut up?"

"The Biggest and Best Show in Europe," Rufus was reading aloud in a
squeaky treble; "un-pre-ce-dented spectacles--performing sea-lions--great
chariot-race--the Legless Wonder from Iceland--Warogha, the Missing
Link--the greatest living Lady Equestrian, Madame Gloria Marotti,
Mad-rad--oh, I can't read that--Gyp Labelle, the darling of the Folies
Bergeres--what's Folies Bergeres, Robert----?  Oh, my word--my word!"

It was the Shetland ponies that had saved Robert the trouble of replying
that he didn't know.  After the ferocious magnificence of the Moorish
gentlemen, they came as a sort of comic relief.  Everyone laughed, and
even the lady with the feather hat recovered her good temper.

"Why, you could keep one of them in the back yard--not an inch bigger than
our collie, is he, 'Enry?  And Jim's not full grown--not by 'alf."

"As though anyone cared about her beastly collie!" Robert thought.

The elephants, a small one and a big one together to show their absurd
proportions, came next.  The earth shook under them.  They waved their
trunks hopefully from side to side, and their little brown eyes, which
seemed to have no relation to their bodies, peered out like prisoners out
of the peep-holes of a monstrous moving prison.  When the man next to
Robert offered the smallest of them an empty paper-bag it curled its trunk
over his head and opened its pointed mouth and let out a piercing squeal
of protest which alarmed its tormentor, and caused his neighbours to
regard him with nervous disapproval.  But the big elephant seemed to
exercise a soothing influence over its companion.  It waved its trunk
negligently as though in contemptuous dismissal of a commonplace incident.

"My dear," it said, "that's all you can expect of such people."

There were men seated on the big elephants' necks, their legs tucked
comfortably behind the enormous flapping ears.  They looked mysterious and
proud in their position.  They wore turbans and carried sticks with
pointed iron spikes at the head, and when they came to the low entrance of
the tent they prodded their huge beasts, which went down on their knees,
painfully yet with a kind of sorrowful pride, and blundered through amidst
the admiring murmur of the crowd.

"The way they manage them big brutes!" declared the lady with the
feathered hat disconsolately.  "And there's our George, a proper 'uman
being, and can't be got to do a thing--nohow."

The band inside had stopped, beaten in the hard-fought contest with its
rival at the far end of the procession, which thereupon broke out into
throaty triumphant trumpet blasts and exultant roll of drums.  Rufus
clutched wildly at Robert's sleeve.

"Oh, my word, just look at her!  Oh, my word!"

Robert craned forward, peering round the embonpoint of the man next him.
The procession now scarcely moved, and there was a space between the last
elephant and the great coal-black horse that followed--a wide, solemn
space, that invited you to realize that this was the finest sight you had
ever seen in your life.  He was indeed a splendid, terrifying creature.
As Rufus Cosgrave said loudly, he was not like a human horse at all.  One
could imagine him having just burst out of hell, still breathing fire and
smoke and rolling his eyes in the anguish of his bridled wickedness.  In
the glare from the tent-door he gleamed darkly, a wild thing of black
flames, and those in the front row of the crowd trod nervously on the toes
of those behind, edging out of reach of his restless, dancing hoofs.  For
it seemed impossible that the woman in the saddle should be really his
master.  And yet she sat upright and unconcerned.  In its black,
close-fitting habit, her supple body looked a living, vital part of the
splendid beast.  She was his brain, stronger than his savage instinct, and
every threatening move of his great limbs was dictated to him without a
sound, almost without a gesture.  A touch of a slender, patent-leather
boot set him prancing, an imperceptible twist of the wrist and he stood
stock still, foam-necked and helpless.  It was a proud--an awe-inspiring
spectacle.  And it was not only her fearless strength.  She was fair and
beautiful.  So Robert saw her.  He saw nothing else.  He gazed and gazed,
heart-stricken.  He did not hear Rufus speak to him, or the band which was
blaring out a Viennese waltz, an old thing, whistled and danced half to
death long since, but which, having perhaps a spark of immortal youth left
among the embers, had not lost its power to make the pulses quicken.
Indeed it even played a humble part in this great moment in Robert's life.
Though he did not hear it, it poured emotion into the heated, dusty air.
It painted the tawdry show with richer colours.  It was the rider's
invisible retinue.  At a touch from her heel the horse danced to it, in
perfect time, arching his great neck, and rolling his wild eyes.

She was proud, too.  Robert saw how she disdained the gaping multitude.
She rode with haughtily lifted head and only once her glance, under the
white, arrogant lids, dropped for an instant.  Was it chance, was it the
agonized intensity of his own gaze which drew it to the small boy almost
under her horse's hoofs?  (For he had held his ground.  He was not afraid.
Unlike the rest, his trust in her was limitless and unquestioning.  And if
she chose to ride him down, he would not care, no more than a fanatic
worshipper beneath the wheels of a Juggernaut.)  Now under her eyes his
heart stood still, his knees shook.  She did not smile; she did not
recognize his naked, shameless adoration.  And that too was well.  A smile
would have lowered her, brought her down from her superb distance.  His
happiness choked him.  She was the embodiment of everything that he had
heard pass in the distance from the silent dusks of Acacia
Grove--splendour and power, laughter and music, the beat of a secret pulse
answering the tread of invisible processions.  She came riding out of the
mists of his fancy into light, a living reality that he could take hold
of, and set up in his empty temple.  She was not his mother, nor Francey,
nor God, but she was everything that in their vague and different ways
these three had been to him before he lost them.  She was something to be
worshipped, to be died for, if necessary, with joy and pride.

But in a moment it was over.  She looked away from him and rode forward,
like a monarch into a grandly illuminated castle, amidst the whispered
plaudits of her people.

A little girl on a Shetland pony rode at her heels, Robert saw her without
wanting to see her.  She obtruded herself vulgarly.  She was dressed as a
page, her painfully thin legs looking like sticks of peppermint in their
parti-coloured tights, and either was, or pretended to be, terrified of
her minute and tubbily good-natured mount.  At its first move forward she
fell upon its neck with shrill screams and clung on grotesquely, righting
herself at last to make mock faces at the grinning crowd.

"Oh, la, la--la-la!"

She was a plain child with a large nose, slightly Jewish in line, a wide
mouth, and a mass of crinkly fair hair that stood out in a pert halo about
her head.  Robert hated her for the brief moment in which she invaded his
consciousness.  It was quite evident that she was trying to draw attention
from the splendid creature who had preceded her to her own puny and
outrageous self, and that by some means or other she succeeded.  She
gesticulated, she drew herself up in horrible imitation of a proud and
noble bearing, she pretended that the rotund pony was prancing to the
music, and, finally, burst into fits of laughter.  The crowd laughed with
her, helplessly as though at a huge joke which she shared with each one of
them in secret.

"Oh, la la, la la."

The man at Robert's side wiped his eyes.

"Well, did you see that?  Upon my word----"

"A baggage--that's what I call 'er," the feathered lady retorted severely.
"Mark my words--a baggage."

Rufus jogged Robert in the side.

"Wasn't she a joke?  Didn't she make you scream?"

Robert hated them all.  Beastly, despicable people who liked beastly,
despicable things.

More horsemen, camels, clowns on foot and clowns on donkeys.  Finally the
band, slightly winded by this time, and playing raggedly.  The
torch-bearers formed up, and a large gentleman in riding boots stood for a
moment in the light.

"To-morrow evening at eight o'clock--the first performance of the Greatest
Show in Europe--a unique opportunity--better book your seats early, ladies
and gentlemen----"

Then the flaps of the tent fell and all the lights and sounds seemed to go
out at once.  The crowd melted away, and only Robert and his companion
remained gazing spellbound at the closed and silent cave which had
swallowed all the enchantment.

Rufus put his hands into his hair and tugged it desperately.

"Oh, if only I could go--if only I could----  Don't you want to go,
Robert?"

Robert woke partially from his dream.

"I'm going."  He turned, and with his hands thrust into his pockets began
to walk homewards.  Rufus trotted feverishly at his side.

"I say, are you really?  But then you've got no people; jolly for you.  I
wish I hadn't.  My pater's so beastly strict; I'm scared of him.  I say,
when will you go?"

"To-morrow night, of course."

"Have you got the money?"

"No, but I'll get it."

"Oh, I say, I wish I could.  P'r'aps I could too.  I've got money--yes, I
have, even if it is in a beastly tin box.  What's the good of saving till
you're grown up?  I shan't want it then like I do now.  It's silly.  All
grown-up people are silly.  When I'm grown up I'll be different.  I say,
Robert, I can come with you, can't I?"

"Oh, yes--if you want to."  He was indifferent.  It puzzled him slightly
that Rufus should be so eager.  What did he know of the true inwardness of
what he had seen?  What had it got to do with him, anyway?

Rufus brooded, his freckled face puckered with anxious contriving.

"I say, I've got an idea!  I'll tell the pater you've asked me to come
over and spend the evening with you at your place.  It'll be sort of true,
won't it?  And then he'll never think about the money.  You won't mind,
will you?  It'll never come out--and if it does, I'll say I made it up."

"I don't care.  All right."

Rufus drew a great sigh of relief.

"Isn't it ripping?  Oh, I say, I wish it was to-morrow night.  I hope I
don't die first.  What did you like best, Robert?  Who are you keenest on?"

Robert did not answer.  It would have been sacrilege to talk her over--to
drag her down into a silly controversy.  He longed for the moment when
Rufus would have to leave him.  He wanted to be alone and silent.  Even
the thought of Christine and of her inevitable questions hurt him like the
touch of a rough, unfeeling hand.

"I liked that kid best--that girl on the funny pony.  She must have been
at the Folies Bergeres, don't you think?  Folies Bergeres sounds French,
and she was making sort of French noises.  She made me laugh."  Something
wistful and hungry came into his shrill voice.  He pressed close to
Robert's side.  "I like people who make me laugh.  I like them better than
anything in the world, don't you?  It's jolly to be able to laugh like
that--right from one's inside----"

But Robert only smiled scornfully, hugging his secret closer to himself.



3

She came on for the last time in the Final, when the whole circus,
including the Legless Wonder, paraded round the ring to the competitive
efforts of both bands.  Robert's eyes followed her with anguish.  It
wasn't happiness any more.  He might have been a condemned man counting
the last minutes of his life.  He was almost glad when it was over and her
upright figure had vanished under the arch.  People began to fidget and
reach for their hats and coats.  A grubby youth with a hot, red face and a
tray slung round his neck pushed his way between the benches shouting:
"Signed photographs of the c'lebrities, twopence each!" in a raucous
indifferent voice.  Robert waved to him, and he took no notice.

"Hi--hi!" Robert called faintly.

The youth stopped.  He was terribly bored at first, but his boredom became
a cynical amusement.  There were twenty different photographs of Madame
Gloria Moretti:

Madame Moretti full face, side face, three-quarter face, on her famous
horse Arabesque, with her beautiful foot on Arabesque's prostrate form, in
evening dress, stepping into her car--a car, at any rate--and so on, with
"Gloria Moretti" scrawled nobly across every one of them.  Robert bought
them all.  He stuffed them into his coat pockets, into his trouser
pockets.  He dropped them.  He dropped the pennies and sixpences which he
tried to count into the tray with shaking fingers.  He was drunk and
reckless with his despairing love.   The sales-boy winked at everyone in
general.

"Takin' it 'ard, ain't 'e, the young dawg?"

People smiled tolerantly.  Their smiles said as plainly as possible: "We
remember being just as silly as that," and Robert hated them.  It wasn't
true.  They didn't remember.  They had forgotten.  Or, if they remembered
at all, it was only the things they had done, not what they had felt--the
frightful pain that was an undreamed-of happiness, and the joy that tore
the heart out of you, and the wonder of a new discovery.  You lost
yourself, You gave everything that you were and had.  You asked nothing,
hoped for nothing.  And suddenly you became strong so that you were not
afraid any more of anything in the world--not of punishment nor disgrace,
nor even laughter.

But they pretended to understand.  Their pretence made you despise and
pity them.  It was a horrid thing, as though a skeleton came to life and
jiggled its bones and mouthed at you, "You see, I used to do that too."
That was why you told lies to them--even to Christine.

He had forgotten his cap.  The sales-boy ran after him with it and stuck
it on his thick fair hair back to front.

"There--you'll be losing your 'ead next!"

It was dusk outside.  The evening performance began at once, and already a
thick black stream of people was pouring up the roped gangways and
frothing and seething at the box offices.  As they came out of the
darkness they had a mystical air of suddenly returned life.  They were
pilgrims' souls surging at the entrance of Paradise.  In a little while
they would see her.  Not that they would know what they saw.  They would
not be able to understand how great, how brave and splendid she was.  In
their blindness of heart they would prefer the ugly little French girl
with her shrill voice and absurd caperings; their clapping would be
half-hearted, polite, and there would be no passionate, insistent pair of
hands to beat up their flagging enthusiasm and bring her back once more
into the arena, bowing in regal scorn of them.

For he, Robert, had brought her back twice, just because he wouldn't
stop--had beaten his hands till even now they were hot and swollen.  She
had not known, and he would not have had her know for the whole world.
That was part of the mystery.  You yourself were as nothing.

But it did hurt intolerably to think that perhaps because he was not there
she would not be called back so often.  It was as though he betrayed
her--broke his allegiance.  That afternoon, when it had seemed that the
evening could never really come, he had told himself that this was the
last time; but now, standing on the dim outskirts of the crowd, the
photographs that he hadn't been able to fit into his pockets held fast in
his burning hands, he saw how impossible, how even wrong and faithless
that decision had been.  So long as a shilling remained to him he had to
go, he had to take his place among her loyal people.  It meant being
"found out" hopelessly and violently.   They--the mysterious "they" of
authority--might destroy him utterly.  That would be the most splendid
thing of all.  He would have done all that he could do.  He would have
laid his last tribute at her unconscious feet and gone out in fire and
thunder.

He had actually joined the box-office queue when Rufus Cosgrave found him.
Rufus had been running hard and he was out of breath, and his blue eyes
had a queer, strained look, as though they had wanted to cry and had not
had the time.  And on his dead-white face the freckles stood out,
ludicrously vivid.

"Oh, I say, Robert, where have you been?  I waited and waited for you.
And then I went round to your place--and Miss Forsyth said she didn't know
and she seemed awfully worried--and--and--oh, I say--you're not going
again, are you?"

Robert nodded calmly.  But his heart had begun to beat thickly with the
premonition of disaster.

"Yes, I am."

"You might have told me--oh, I say, do listen--do come out a minute--I'm
in an awful hole--there's going to be an awful row--I'm--I'm so beastly
scared----"

He was shivering.  He did not seem to know that people were looking at
him.  His voice was squeaky and broken.  He tugged at Robert's sleeve.
"Oh, I say--do come----"

Robert looked ahead of him.  It meant losing his place.  Instead of being
so close to her that he could smell the warm, sweet scent of her as she
passed, he would have to peer between peopled heads, and she would be a
far-off vision to him.  And yet, oddly enough, it did not occur to him to
refuse.  He stood out, and they walked together towards the dark, huddled
army of caravans beyond the tents.

"What is it?  What's the row?"

"It's Father--he's got wind of something--Mother told me--he's going to
open my money-box when he comes home to-night.  I didn't know he'd kept
count--just the sort of beastly thing he would do--and oh, Robert, when he
finds out I've been cramming him he'll kill me--he will, really----"

At another time Robert might have consoled him with the assurance that
even the beastliest sort of father might hesitate to risk his neck on such
slight provocation, but he himself was overwrought with three days of
peril, of desperate subterfuge and feverish alternations between joy and
anguish.  Now, in the mysterious twilight, the most terrible, as the most
wonderful things seemed not merely possible but likely.  It made it all
the more terrible that Rufus should have to endure so much because he had
taken a fancy to a silly kid who laughed like a hyena till you laughed
yourself, however much you hated her.

He held Cosgrave's sticky hand tight, and at that loyal understanding
pressure Cosgrave began to cry, shaking from head to foot, jerking out his
words between his chattering teeth.

"It's s-stupid to cry--I do w-wish I w-wasn't always c-crying about
everything--after all--he c-can't kill me more than once, can he?  But
he's such a beast.  He h-hates anyone else to h-have a good time and tell
lies.  He's always so j-jolly glad to let into me or mother--and when he
finds out we've been stuffing him he--he goes mad--and preaches for days
and days.  Mother's a brick.  She gave me a shilling to put back--but
he--he keeps her short, and she has to tell about every penny.  She says
she'll have to pretend she lost it.  And it's not enough, anyway.
Oh--Robert, you don't know what a row there'll be."

But Robert knew.  He felt the cruel familiar ruffling of the nerves.  He
heard the thud of his father's step, the horrible boom of his father's
voice, "You're a born liar, Christine--you're making my son into a liar."
It was as though Dr. Stonehouse had pushed off the earth that covered him
and stood up.

It was awful that Rufus should be frightened too.  It wasn't fair.  He
wasn't strong enough.

"I say--we'll have to do something.  How much did you take out?"

"'Bout three shillings--there was an extra penny or two--p'r'aps he
wouldn't notice that, though--I thought p'r'aps--oh, I don't know what I
thought--but I had to come to tell you--I hadn't anyone else----"

Robert nodded.  He stopped and looked back towards the big central tent.
It had grown at once larger and vaguer.  The lighted entrance had a sort
of halo round it like the moon before it is going to rain.  There was an
empty, sinking feeling in his stomach, and he too had begun to tremble, in
little, uncontrollable gusts.  He let go his hold on Rufus's hand so that
he should not know.

"I've got two bob--somewhere," he heard himself saying casually and rather
grandly.

He knew now that he would never see her again.  There was no struggle in
his mind, because there did not seem to be any choice.  It wasn't that
little Cosgrave counted more--he hardly counted at all in that moment.
But she, if she knew he existed, would expect him to do the right, the
fine thing.  Francey would have expected it.  And she was only a mere
girl.  How much more this noble, wonderful woman?  It was better than
clapping.  Somewhere at the back of his mind was the idea that he offered
her a more gallant tribute, and that one day she would know that he had
stuck up for Cosgrave for her sake, and, remote and godlike though she
was, be just a little pleased.  The comfort of it was a faint warm light
showing through his darkness.  It was all he had.  As he dug those last,
most precious shillings out of the chaos of his pockets he felt himself go
sick and faint, just as he had done when, in a desperate fight, a boy
bigger than himself had kicked his shin.

"There--you can put them back, can't you?  He'll never know----"

Rufus stopped crying instantly, after the miraculous fashion of his years.
He cut an elfish caper.  He rubbed himself against his saviour like some
small grateful animal.

"I say, you are a brick.  I knew you'd help somehow.  Won't he be sold,
though?  I'll just love to see his beastly face!  What luck--not having a
father, like you.  I say, though, is that all you've got?  You won't be
able to go to the show now--and you're so keen, aren't you?"

"It doesn't matter," Robert answered carelessly.  "I don't mind much--not
really."

He began to walk on, Rufus tagging valiantly at his heels.

"And--and if anyone asks--you'll say I was at your place--doing
prep.--won't you?"

"Oh, rather----"

"It's awfully decent of you.  You don't mind telling fibs, do you, Robert?"

"One has to," Robert answered austerely.  "Everyone has to."

Now that it was all over and he turned his back on her for ever, the
splendid glow of renunciation began to fade.  Life stretched before him, a
black limitless emptiness.  He wished agonizedly that Arabesque had gone
mad and bolted and that he had stopped him and saved his rider's life,
dying gloriously and at once, instead of miserably and by inches, like
this.  He felt that in a moment the pain in his throat would get the
better of him and he would begin to cry.

They stopped at the far end of the Green where it was dark and they could
hardly see each other.  He heard Cosgrave breathing heavily through his
nose, almost snorting, and then a timid, shamefaced whisper:

"You are decent to me.  I say--I do love you so, Robert."

It was an awful thing to have said.  They both knew it.  If anyone had
overheard them the shame would have haunted them to their death.  And yet
it was wonderful too.  Never to be forgotten.

"You oughtn't to say rotten, stupid things like that--like silly girls."
And then, as though it had been torn from him.  "I love you too, Rufus."

After that he ran madly so that Rufus could not overtake him--above all so
that he could not hear the band which had begun to play the opening march.



4

But before he had stopped running he had begun to plot again.  Even though
he had made the great renunciation he could not help hoping.  It was the
kind of hope that, when one is very young, follows on the heels of
absolute despair, and is based on magical impossibilities.  It was like
his birthday hopes, which had been known to rise triumphant above the most
obvious and discouraging facts.  After all there was to-morrow.  He would
tell Christine everything--open his heart to her as to a good and
understanding friend--and she would give him six-pence so that he could
stand in the cheap places, or perhaps a shilling so that he could go
twice.  He would tell her how he had saved Cosgrave from a fearful row,
and she would approve of him and sympathize with Cosgrave, who had such
beastly, understanding people.

He would hug her and say;

"It's jolly to have someone like you, Christine!"

And she would be enormously pleased, and in the dusk they would sit close
together and he would tell her of his superb being who changed the course
of his life, who was like his mother and Francey and God rolled into one,
and for whose sake he had emptied the housekeeping purse.

Perhaps it would all have happened just as he planned it, could it have
happened then and there.  But the front door was closed and he had to wait
a long time for the landlady's heavy answering tread.  When she came at
last it was from upstairs--he could tell by her breathing and a familiar
creak--and a cold dead hand laid itself on his heart and squeezed the hope
out of it.  They had been talking about him--those two grown-up people.
He knew the kind of things they had said: "It's very tiresome of him to be
out so late, Mrs. Withers," and, "Boys is worritting, outrageous critters,
M'am," and the cruel impossibility of reaching their far-off impervious
understanding lamed him before the door had opened.

Mrs. Withers' lumpy figure loomed up grotesquely against the yellow murk.

"Is that you, Master Robert?  You'd better run up quick.  Your aunt is
going to give you a jacketing, I can tell you."

"Aunt" was the term with which Mrs. Withers covered up what she considered
privately to be an ambiguous relationship.

Robert slunk past her.  He crawled upstairs with an aggressive
deliberation.  He would show how much he cared.  He was not afraid of
Christine.  He had seen her unhappy too often.  In a way he knew that he
was stronger than she was.  For she was old and had no one to love but
himself.

All the same he was afraid.  With every step he took he seemed to climb
farther and farther into the midst of fear.  It was all around him--in the
close, airless dark and in the deathly quiet light that came from the open
doorway overhead.  What was waiting for him there?  His father, risen
unimaginably loathsome from the grave?  For he could never be in the dark
without thinking of his father.  Or something else?  At least he knew that
the never-really-believed-in time of peace was over and that the monster
which had lain hidden and quiescent so long was crouched somewhere close
to him, ready to leap out.

Christine sat by the table under the light.  There was a drawer beside her
which she had evidently torn out of its place in panic-stricken haste, for
the floor about her was littered with its contents--gloves and
handkerchiefs and ribbons.  She held a shabby, empty purse in her limp
hand, and it was as though she had sat down because she had no longer the
strength to stand.  He had not known before how grey her hair was.  Her
face was grey, too, and withered like a dead leaf.

He stood hesitating in the doorway and they looked at one another.  There
was no question of punishment or reproof between them.  It was the old
days over again when they had clung together in the face of a common
peril--helpless and horribly afraid.  She tried to smile and push the
empty purse out of sight as though it were of no account at all.  And all
at once he was ashamed and miserable with pity.

"I was beginning to get quite worried about you." He could hardly hear
her.  "Where have you been, Robert?"

He answered heavily, not moving from the doorway where he hung like a
sullen shadow.

"At the Circus."

"Is there a Circus?  Why didn't Mrs. Withers tell me?  If I had known that
I shouldn't have worried.  I expect you were there yesterday too--and the
day before, weren't you, dear?"

He nodded, and she began to bundle everything back into the drawer, as
though at last a tiresome question had been satisfactorily settled.

"I knew it was all right.  Mr. Ricardo was here this afternoon.  He
thought I was ill--he thought you had told him you couldn't come because I
was ill.  I said I had had to stay at home--it was easier--I knew there
had been a mistake."

The old life again.  They were confederates and she had lied to shield him
even from herself.  She was looking past him as though she saw someone
standing behind him in the dark passage.  He was so sure of it that he
wanted to turn round.  But he did not dare.

"I wish I'd known.  We--we might have gone together.  I used to be very
fond of a good circus.  Did they have elephants?  Robert--Robert, dear,
why didn't you tell me about it?"

He shook his head.  He knew now that he could never have told her or made
her understand.  She would have thought him silly--or disloyal.  She would
never see that this new love had nothing to do with the Robert who would
die if Christine left him.  It had to do with another boy who longed for
bands and processions and worshipped happy, splendid people who did not
have to tell lies and who were so strong and fearless that even fierce
animals had to obey them.  They were different.  They did not live in the
same life.  You could love them without pain or pity.

It was a secret thing, inside himself.  If he tried to drag it out and
show it her, no one could tell what would happen to it.

She sighed deeply.

"It's this being away all day.  If I had been at home you would have asked
me for the money, wouldn't you?  And then you forgot to tell me.  But I've
been a little worried.  You didn't take it all, did you, dear?"

"Yes, I did.  I spent it at the Circus.  And then I gave some to Cosgrave."

He saw the blood rush up wildly into her white face.  The next minute she
had laughed--a gay, unfamiliar laugh--and he winced and shivered as though
she had struck him.

"Why, that's so like your father--that's just what your father would have
done.  He loved doing kind, generous things--giving money away."

And now he knew for certain who it was who stood behind him in the dark
passage.  He could not bear it.  He slammed the door to, closing his eyes
tight so that he should not see.  He ran to her, pressing himself against
her, stammering passionately.

"I'm not like my father--I'm not--I'm not.  I won't be."

She petted him tenderly.  She was grave now and sure of herself.

"You mustn't say that, Robert.  Your father was a wonderful man, in many
ways.  People didn't understand him--only your mother and I.  If your
mother had lived it would all have been quite different.  He was
unfortunate and often very unhappy.  The world thinks so much of money.
But he despised it.  It was nothing to him.  You're like that too.  You
didn't realize, did you?  It didn't seem a great deal.  It was just a
beginning.  But I have had to do without food.  I've been hungry
sometimes--I think I ought to tell you this, so that you may
understand--I've looked into shop-windows at lunch-time.  You see, it was
to pay for the time when you are preparing to be a doctor.  It means
hundreds of pounds, Robert.  But I calculated that if I saved a little
every week--I'd manage it--if I didn't die or lose my work."

"Don't, Christine--please don't!  Oh, Christine!"

"If I lost my work--Mr. Percy is very kind.  He is an old friend and knows
the position.  But he has his business to consider.  I'm not quick--my
eyes aren't strong.  There are younger, cleverer people.  We've got to
look things in the face, Robert.  If I lost my work there would be nothing
between us and the workhouse--nothing--nothing--nothing."

He was shivering as if with bitter cold.  His teeth chattered in his head.
He caught a ghost-like glimpse of a boy in the glass opposite--a strange,
unfamiliar figure with a white, tear-stained face and haggard eyes and
fair hair all on end.

"Oh, Christine--I'm frightened!"

"You think money must come from somewhere.  Something will turn up.  That
was what your father used to say.  He was so hopeful.  It wasn't possible
that it shouldn't turn up.  But I was younger and stronger then--I can't
begin again.--I can't--I can't.  If you're not good, Robert, I can't go
on."

"I will be good.  I won't tell lies.  I won't spend money ever again.  I
won't love anyone but you.  I won't be a doctor; I'll be something
cheap--now."

He had forgotten the photographs.  He still held them in one
tight-clenched hand.  But she had seen them.  And all at once she braced
herself although to meet an implacable enemy.  She was not tender any
more.  She was the Christine who had faced bailiffs and his father's
strange, gay friends--ice-cold and bitter and relentless.  She took the
pictures from him.  With a terrible ironic calm she sorted them from his
pockets, and spread them out on the table like a pack of cards.  He dared
not look at her.  He was afraid to see what she was seeing.  She had torn
open the door of his secret chamber, and there in that blasting light was
his treasure, naked, defenceless.  He could have cried out in his dread,
"Only don't say anything--don't say anything!"

"So that's what you liked so much, Robert--that's what you spent the money
on.  It's the old story--beginning again--only worse."  She added, almost
to herself:

"A vulgar, common woman."

She put her face between her hands.  He could hear her quiet crying.  It
was awful.  His love for her was a torture.  Because she was not wonderful
at all but human and pitiful like himself, he felt her grief like a knife
turning and turning in his own heart.  But he could not comfort her.  He
could only stare aghast at that row of faces--grinning, smirking,
arrogant, insolent faces.

It was true.  The jolly lights had been turned out.  The band had stopped
playing.

A vulgar, common woman!

      *      *      *      *      *

He stood with his back to the Circus entrance where he could smell the
sawdust and hear the hum of the audience crowding into their seats.  The
invisible band gave funny noises like a man clearing his throat.  There
was still a number of people coming in--some strolling idly, others pulled
along by their excited charges.  It was queer, Robert thought, that they
should be excited.  The smell of the sawdust made him feel rather sick.

He gave out his last handbill.  Nobody noticed him.  They took the slip of
paper which he thrust into their hands without looking at him.  He went
and stood at the box-office where the big man in riding boots was counting
out his money.  It was a high box-office, so that Robert had to stand on
tip-toe to be seen.

"I've finished," he said.

The man glanced at him and then remembered.

"Oh, yes, you're the young feller.  Given 'em all out, eh?  Not thrown 'em
on the rubbish heap?  Well, what is it?"

"I want my sixpence."

"Oh, sixpence I promised you, did I?  Well, here's a shilling seat.
That'll do better, eh, what?  You can go in now."

"I want my sixpence."

"You don't want--don't want to go to the Circus?"

"I don't like Circuses."

The big man stared down at the white set face gazing stolidly back at him
over the wooded ledge.  He tossed the coin indignantly across.

"Well, of all the unnatural, ungrateful young jackanapes----"

But he was so astonished that he had to lean out of his box and watch the
blasphemer--a quaint figure, bowed as though under a heavy burden, its
hands thrust hard into its trousers pockets--stalk away from the great
tent and without so much as a backward glance lose itself among the crowd.




PART II

I

1

They came to an idle halt near Cleopatra's needle, and leaning against
the Embankment wall, looked across the river to the warehouses opposite,
which, in the evening mist, had the look of stark cliffs guarded by a
solitary watchful lion.  The smaller of the two young men took off his
soft hat and set it beside him so that he could let the wind brush
through his thick red hair.  He held himself very straight, his slender
body taut with solemn exultation.

"If only one could do something with it," he said; "eat it--hug it--get
inside of it somehow--belong to it.  It hurts--this gaping like an
outsider.  Look now--one shade of purple upon another.  Isn't it
unendurably beautiful? But if one could write a sonnet--or a sonata--or
paint a picture----  That's where the real artist has the pull over us
poor devils who can only feel things.  He wouldn't just stand here.  He'd
get out his fountain pen or his paint-box and make it all his for ever
and ever.  Think of Whistler now--what he would do with it."

"I can't," Stonehouse said.  "Who's Whistler?"

Cosgrave laughed in anticipation of his little joke.  "Nobody, old
fellow.  At least, he never discovered any bugs."

The wind snatched up his forgotten hat and it sailed off up river into
the darkness like a large unwieldy bird.  He looked after it ruefully.

"That was a new hat.  I'll have to go home without one, and the Pater
will think I've been in a drunken brawl, and there'll be a beastly row."

"That's the one thing he'll never believe.  Well, I don't care.  It'll be
over soon.  If I've passed that exam.  I'll get away and he won't be able
to nag me any more.  And you, do think I've passed, don't you,
Stonehouse?"

"If you didn't imagine your answers afterwards."

"Honour bright, I didn't.  I believe I did a lot better, really.  You
know, I'm so awfully happy to-night I'd believe anything.  It's queer how
this old river fits in with one's moods, isn't it?  Last time we were
here I wanted to drown myself, and there it was ready to hand, as it
were--offering eternal oblivion--and all that.  I thought of all the
other fellows who had drowned themselves, and felt no end cheered up.
And now it makes me think of escape--of getting away from
everything--sailing to strange, new countries----"

"The last time you were here," Stonehouse said, "you'd just come out of
the exam.  If you really answered as you say you did, there was no reason
for your wanting to drown yourself."

"But I did.  You're such a distrustful beggar.  You think I just imagine
things.  No, I'll tell you what it was--I didn't care.  There I was--I'd
swotted and swotted.  I'd thought that if only I could squeeze through
I'd be the happiest man on earth.  And then, when it was all over I began
to think: 'What's it all for, what's it all about?  What's the good?'
Suppose I have passed, I'll get some beastly little job in some stuffy
Government office, 200 pounds a year, if I'm lucky.  And then if I'm good
and not too bright they'll raise me to 250 pounds in a couple of years'
time, and so it'll go on--nothing but fug, and dinge, and skimping, and
planning--with a fortnight at the seaside once a year or a run over to
Paris.  I suppose it was good enough for our grandfathers,
Stonehouse--this just keeping alive?  But it didn't seem good enough to
me.  Don't you feel like that sometimes--when you think of the time when
you'll be able to stick M.D., or whatever it is, after your name--as
though, after all, it didn't matter a brace of shakes?"

Robert Stonehouse roused himself from his lounging attitude and thrust
his hands deep into his trousers pockets.  There was a nip in the wind,
and he had no overcoat.

"No.  When I've got through this next year I shall feel that I've climbed
out of a black pit and that the world's before me--to do what I like
with."

"Well--you're different."  Cosgrave sighed, but not unhappily.  "You're
going to do what you want to do, and I expect you'll be great guns at it.
I dare say if I were to play the piano all day long--decently, you know,
as I do sometimes, inside me at any rate--and get money for it, I'd think
it worth while----  But it takes a lot to make one feel that way about
a Government office."

His voice was quenched by a sudden rush of traffic--a tram that jangled
and swayed, a purring limousine full of vague, glittering figures, and a
great belated lorry lumbering in pursuit like an uncouth participant in
some fantastic race.  They roared past and vanished, and into the empty
space of quiet there flowed back the undertones of the river, solitary
footfalls, the voice of the drowsing city.  The loneliness became
something magical.  It changed the colour of Cosgrave's thoughts.  He
pressed closer to his companion, and, with his elbows on the balustrade
and his hands clenched in his hair, spoke in an awed whisper.

"It does seem worth while now.  That's what's so extraordinary.  I feel I
can stick anything--even being a Government clerk all my life.  I don't
even seem to mind home like I did.  I'm in love.  That's what it is.
You've never been in love, have you, Stonehouse?"

"No."

"You're such a cast-iron fellow.  I don't know how I have the nerve to
tell you things.  Sometimes I think you don't care a snap for anything in
the world, except just getting on."

Robert Stonehouse hunched his shoulders against the wind.  There was more
than physical discomfort in the movement--a kind of secret distress and
resentment.

"You do talk a lot of sentimental rubbish," he said.  "It seems to me
it's only a hindrance--this caring so much for people.  It gets in a
man's way.  Not that it matters to you just now.  You've got a slack
time.  You can afford to fool around."

"You think I'm a milksop," Cosgrave said patiently, "I don't mind.  I
dare say it's true.  There's not much fight in me.  I don't seem able to
do without people like you can.  I think, sometimes, if I hadn't had you
to back me up I'd never have been able to stick things.  Of course, I'm
not clever, either.  But you're wrong about being in love.  It doesn't
get in one's way.  It helps.  Everything seems different."

Stonehouse was silent, his fair, straight brows contracted.  When he
spoke at last it was dispassionately and impersonally, as one giving a
considered judgment.  But his voice was rather absurdly young.

"You may be right.  I hadn't thought about it before.  It didn't seem
important enough.  There was a woman I knew when I was a kid--a common
creature--who was fond of saying that 'it was love that made the world go
round.'  (My father married her for her money, which didn't go round at
all.)  Still, in her way, she was stating a kind of biological fact.  If
people without much hold on life didn't fall in love they'd become
extinct.  They wouldn't have the guts to push on or the cheek to
perpetuate themselves.  But they do fall in love, and I suppose, as you
say, things seem different.  _They_ seem different--worth while.  So they
marry and have children, which seems worth while too--different from
other people's children, at any rate, or they wouldn't be able to bear
the sight of them.  What you call love is just a sort of trick played on
you.  If crowds are of any use I suppose it's justified.  It's a big
'if,' though."

Cosgrave smiled into the dark.

"It sounds perfectly beastly.  Not a bit encouraging.  But I don't care,
somehow.  Do you mind if I tell you about her?  I've got to talk to
somebody."

"I don't mind.  But I don't want to stand here any longer.  It's cold,
and, besides, I've got to be up west by six."

They turned and strolled on toward Westminster.  Robert Stonehouse still
kept his hands thrust into his pockets, and the position, gave his
heavy-shouldered figure a hunched fighting look, as though he had set
himself to stride out against a tearing storm.  He took no notice of
Cosgrave, who talked on rapidly, stammering a little and scrambling for
his words.  The wind blew his hair on end, and he walked with his small
wistful nose lifted to the invisible stars.

"You see, I can't tell anyone at home about her.  It's not as though she
were even what people call a lady.  (Oh, I'm perfectly sane--I don't
humbug myself.)  Mother'd have a fit, and the Pater only looks at that
kind of thing in one way--his own particularly disgusting way.  She drops
her aitches sometimes.  But she's good, and she's pretty as a flower.  I
met her at a dance club.  I'd never been to such a place before.  And
then one evening it suddenly came over me that I wanted to be among a lot
of people who were having a good time.  So I plunged.  You pay sixpence,
you know, and everybody dances with everybody.  Of course I can't dance.
She saw me hanging round and looking glum, I suppose, and she was nice to
me.  She taught me a few steps, and I told her about the exam, and how
worried I was about it, and we became friends.  I've never had a
girl-friend before.  It's amazing.  And she's different, anyway----
She's on the stage--in the chorus to begin with--but you'd think they'd
given her a lead, she's so happy about it.  That's what I love about her.
Everything seems jolly to her.  She enjoys things like a kid--a 'bus
ride, a cinema, our little suppers together.  She loves just being alive,
you know.  It's extraordinary--I say, are you listening, Stonehouse?"

"I didn't know you wanted me to listen.  I thought you wanted to talk.  I
was thinking of an operation I saw once--you wouldn't understand--it was
a ticklish job, and the man lost his head.  He tried to hide it, but I
knew, and he saw I knew.  A man like that oughtn't to operate."

"And did the other fellow die?"

"Oh, yes.  But he would have died anyway, probably.  It wasn't that that
mattered.  It was losing his nerve like that."

"If I saw an operation," Cosgrave said humbly, "I should be sick."

Stonehouse had not heard.  They reached the bridge in silence, and under
a street lamp stopped to take leave of one another.  It was their
customary walk and the customary ending, and each wondered in his
different way how it was that they should always want to meet and to talk
to one another of things that only one of them could understand.

"Why does he bother with me?" Cosgrave thought.

But he was sorry for Robert, partly because he guessed that he was hungry
and partly because he knew that he was not in love.

"I wish you'd come along too," he said a little breathlessly; "I want you
to meet her, you know--for us all to be friends together--just a quiet
supper--and my treat, of course."

It was very transparent.  He tried to look up at his companion boldly and
innocently.  But the light from the street lamp fell into his strange
blue eyes, with their look of young and anxious hopefulness, and made
them blink.  Robert Stonehouse laughed.  He knew what was in Cosgrave's
mind, and it seemed to him half comic and half pathetic and rather
irritating.

"I don't suppose you have enough to pay for supper, anyway," he said
roughly, "or you'll go without your lunch to-morrow.  Don't be an idiot.
Look after yourself and I'll look after myself.  Besides, if you think
I'm not going to have a square meal to-night you're enormously mistaken.
I'm going to dine well--where you'll never Set your foot, not until
you're earning more than 250 pounds a year, at any rate."

"Word of honour?"

"Oh, word of honour, of course."

A shy relief came into the pinched and freckled face.

"Oh, well then--but I do want you to meet all the same; you see, she'd
like it--she knows all about you.  I'm always bragging about you.
Perhaps I could bring her round--if Miss Forsyth wouldn't mind--if she's
well enough."

Robert Stonehouse half turned away, as though shrinking from an
unwelcome, painful touch.

"She's all right."

"Then may we come?  I'm not afraid of Miss Forsyth.  She's an
understanding person.  She won't think people common because of their
aitches.  Give her my love, won't you, Robert.  And good night."

"Oh, good night!"  He added quickly, sullenly: "You look blue with cold.
Why don't you wear a decent coat?  It's idiotic!"

"Because my coat isn't decent.  I don't want her to see me shabby.  And I
like to pretend I'm rather a strong, dashing fellow who doesn't mind
things.  Besides, look at yourself!"

"I'm different."

"You needn't rub it in."  He was gay now with an expectation that bubbled
up in him like a fountain.  He made as though to salute Robert solemnly
and then remembered and clutched at his wind-blown hair instead.  "Oh, my
hat!  Well, it will make Connie laugh like anything!" he said.



2

To be a habitue of Brown's was to prove yourself a person of some means
and solid discrimination.  At Brown's you could get cuts from the joint,
a porter-house steak, apple tart, and a good boiled pudding as nowhere
else in the world.  You went in through the swinging doors an ordinary
and fallible human being, and you came out feeling you had been fed on
the very stuff which made the Empire.  You were slightly stupefied, but
you were also superbly, magnificently unbeatable.

Mr. Brown was an Englishman.  But he did not glory in the fact.  It was,
as he had explained to Robert one night, his kindly, serious face glowing
in the reflection from the grill, a tragedy.

"To be born an Englishman and a cook--it's like being born a bird without
wings.  You can't soar--not however hard you try--not above roasts and
boils.  Take vegetables.  An Englishman natur'lly boils.  And it's no
good going against nature.  You're a doctor--or going to be--and you know
that.  You've got to do the best you can, but you can't do more.  That's
my motto.  But if I'd been born a Frenchman----  Well it's no use
dreaming.  If them potatoes are ready, Jim, so'm I."

Mr. Brown had taken a fancy to Robert Stonehouse from the moment that the
latter had challenged him on the very threshold of his kitchen and
explained, coolly and simply, his needs and his intentions.  Mr. Brown
was frankly a Romantic, and Robert made up to him for the souffles and
other culinary adventures which Fate had denied him.  He liked to dream
himself into Robert's future.

"One of these days I'll be pointing you out to my special
customers--'Yes, sir, that's Sir Robert himself.  Comes here every
Saturday night for old times' sake.  Used to work here with me--waited
with his own hands, sir--for two square meals and ten per cent. of his
tips.  You don't get young men like that these days--no, sir."

Robert accepted his prophetic vision gravely.  It was what he meant to
happen, and it did not seem to him to be amusing.

Brown's was tucked away in a quiet West End side street, and there was
only one entrance.  At six o'clock the tables were still empty, and
Robert walked through into the employees' dressing-room.  He put on his
white jacket, slightly stained with iodoform, and a black apron which
concealed his unprofessional grey trousers, and went to work in the
pantry, laying out plates and dishes in proper order, after the manner of
a general marshalling his troops for action.  He was deft handed, and
responsible for fewer breakages than any of the old-timers--foreigners
for the most--who flitted up and down the passages with the look of bats
startled from their belfries and only half awake.  Through an open, glass
window he could see into the huge kitchen, where Mr. Brown brooded over
his oven, and catch rich, sensuous odours that went to his head like so
many etherealized cocktails.  He had not eaten since the morning, and
though he was too strong to faint, it grew increasingly difficult to fix
his mind on the examination question which he had set himself.  He found
himself wondering instead, what would happen if old Brown lost his
_flair_ for the psychological moment in roasts, and why it was that a man
who had performed an operation successfully a hundred times should
suddenly go to pieces over it?  What made him lose faith in himself?
Nerves?  A matter of the liver?  We were only at the beginning of our
investigations.  And then poor little Cosgrave, who as suddenly began to
believe in himself and in life generally because he had fallen in love
with a chorus girl!

The head waiter looked round the pantry door.  He was a passionate
Socialist who, in his spare time, preached the extermination of all such
as did not work for their daily bread.  But he disliked Robert bitterly,
as a species of bourgeois blackleg.

"You're wanted.  There's a party of ten just come in.  Hurry up, can't
yer?"

Robert put down his plates and went into the dining-room with the wine
list.  His table-napkin he carried neatly folded over one arm.

And there was Francey Wilmot.

She had other people with her, but he saw her first.  He could not have
mistaken her.  Of course, she had changed.  She was taller, for one
thing, and wore evening dress instead of the plain brown frock that he
remembered.  But her thick hair had always been short, and now it was
done up it did not seem much shorter.  And it still had that quaint air
of being brushed up from her head by a secret, rushing wind--of wanting
to fly away with her.  She was burnt, too, with an alien sun and wind.
Her face and neck were a golden brown, and in reckless contrast with her
white shoulders.  One saw how little she cared.  She sat with her elbows
on the table, and the sight of the supple hands and strong, slender
wrists stopped Robert Stonehouse short, as though a deep, old wound which
had not troubled him for years had suddenly begun to hurt again.  And yet
how happy he had been, as a little boy, when she had just touched him.

It was evidently a celebration in her honour.  A tall young man with side
whiskers who came in late presented her with a bunch of roses in the name
of the whole company and with a gay, exaggerated homage.  They were a
jolly crowd.  They had in common their youth and an appearance of
good-natured disregard for the things that ordinary people cared about.
Otherwise they were of all sorts and conditions, like their clothes.  Two
or three were in evening dress, and one girl who sat at the end of the
table and smoked incessantly wore a shabby coat and skirt and a raffish
billycock hat.  Chelsea or the University Schools was stamped on all of
them.  There wasn't much that they didn't know, and there was very little
that they believed in--not even themselves.  For they were of the very
newest type, and would have scorned to admit to a Purpose or a Faith.
But they could not help being young and rather liking one another, and
the good food and the promise of a riotous evening.

Robert knew their kind.  He even knew by sight the side-whiskered young
man who now clapped his hands like an Eastern potentate.  He had been of
Robert's year at the University, and had been ploughed twice.

"Wine-ho!  Fellow creatures, what is it to be?  In honour of the occasion
and to show our contempt of circumstances, shall we say a magnum of
Heidsieck?  All in favour wave their paws----"

The girl in the billycock hat blew a great puff of smoke towards him.

"Oh, death and damnation, Howard!  Haven't I been explaining to you all
the afternoon that I owe rent for a fortnight to a devil in female form,
and that unless someone buys 'A Sunset over the Surrey Cliffs seen Upside
Down,' Gerty will be on the streets?  Make it beer with a dash o'
bitters."

Finally it was Francey who decided.  She beckoned, not looking at him,
and Robert with a little obsequious bow, handed her the wine card and
waited at her elbow.  He was not afraid of Howard's recognition.  They
had never spoken to one another, and in any case Howard would not believe
his eyes.

It was strange to stand near to her again and to recognize the little
things about her that had fascinated small Robert Stonehouse--the line of
her neck, the brown mole at the corner of her eye which people were
always trying to rub off, the way her hair curled up from her temples in
two unmistakable horns.  He had teased her about them in his shy, clumsy
way.  A very subtle and sweet warmth emanated from her like a breath.  It
took him back to the day when he had huddled close to her, hiccoughing
with grief and anger, and yet deeply, deliriously happy because she was
sorry for him.  It made him giddy with a sense of unreality, as though
the present and the intervening years were only part of one of his night
stories, which, after their tiresome, undeviating custom, had got tangled
up in a monstrous, impossible dream.  And then a new fancy took
possession of him.  He wanted to bend closer to her and say, very
quietly, as though he were suggesting an order, "What about your
handkerchief?  Do you want it back, Francey?"

Amidst his austerely disciplined thoughts the impulse was like a mad,
freakish intruder, and it frightened him, so that he drew back sharply.

"Cider-cup," she said.  "It's my feast--and I like seeing the fruit and
pretending I can taste it.  And then Howard won't get drunk and recite
poetry.  Three orders, waiter."

He took the wine card, but she held it a moment longer, as though
something had suddenly attracted her attention.  Their hands had almost
touched.

"Yes--three orders will be enough."

The company groaned, but submitted.  In reality they were too stimulated
already by an invisible, exuberant spirit among them to care much.  From
where he waited for Francey's order on the threshold of the pantry Robert
could see and hear them.  It was really the old days over again.
Fundamentally things outside himself did not change much.  The Brothers
Banditti had grown up.  They were not nice children any more.  The
innocent building-ground and nefarious plottings against unpopular
authority had given place to restaurants and more subtle wickednesses.
But still Francey played her queer, elusive role among them.  She was of
them--and yet she stood a little apart, a little on one side.  Probably
Howard thought himself their real leader.  They did not talk to her
directly very much, nor she to them.  But all the time they were playing
up to her, trying to draw her attention to themselves and make her laugh
with them.  She did laugh.  It did not seem to matter to her at all that
they were often crude and blatant and sometimes common in their
self-expression.  She laughed from her heart.  But her laughter was a
little different.  It sat by itself, an elfish thing, with a touch of
seriousness about it, its arms hugging its knees, and looked beyond them
all and saw how much bigger and finer the joke was than they thought it.
She was the spirit of their good humour.  They could not have done
without her.

And he, Robert Stonehouse, stood outside the circle, as in reality he had
always done.  But now he did not want to belong.  He knew now how it
hindered men to run with the herd--even to have friends.  It wasted time
and strength.  And these people were no good anyhow.  Howard was one of
these dissipated duffers who later on would settle down as a miraculously
respectable and incapable G.P.  The rest were vague, rattle-brained
eccentrics who would fizzle out, no one would know how or care.

Only Francey----  But even in the old days it was only because of
Francey that the Banditti had meant anything to him.

The head waiter pushed across the counter a jug of yellowish liquid in
which floated orange peel and a few tinned, dubious-looking cherries.

"Take it, for God's sake!  People who want muck like that ought to keep
to Soho."

Robert poured out with an eye trained to accurate measurements in the
laboratory.  It was his practice to do well everything that he had to do.
Otherwise you lost tone--you weakened your own fibre so that when the big
thing came along you slumped.  But he could not forget Francey Wilmot's
nearness.  It did not surprise him any more.  But it charged him with
unrest, and he and his unrest frightened him.  He knew how to master
ordinary emotion.  Even when he carried off the Franklin Scholarship in
the teeth of a brilliant opposition he had not allowed himself a moment's
triumph.  It was all in the day's work--a single step on the road which
he had mapped out deliberately.  But this was outside his experience.  It
had pounced on him from nowhere, shaking him.

He had to look up at her again.  And then he saw that she was looking at
him too, steadily, with a deep, inquiring kindness.

It was as though she had said aloud:

"Are you really a good little boy, Robert?"

The cider poured over the edge of the glass and over the table-cloth and
in a dismal stream on to the lap of the girl with the raffish billycock
hat.

"Well, that settles that," she said good-humouredly.  "My only skirt,
friends.  She can't turn me out in my petticoat, can she?  Oh, leave it
alone, garcong; it doesn't matter a tinker's curse----"

He could not help it.  In the midst of his angry confusion he still had
to seek out her verdict on him--just as Robert Stonehouse had always done
when he had been peculiarly heroic or unfortunate.  And there it was,
dancing beneath her gravity, her unforgotten, magic laughter.

At half-past ten Brown's cleared its last table.  Robert Stonehouse
rolled down his sleeves, picked up the parcel which had been placed ready
for him on the pantry counter, said good-night to the head waiter, who
did not answer, and with his coat-collar turned up about his ears went
out in the street.  It was quiet as a country lane and empty except for
the girl who waited beyond the lamp light.  He knew her instantly, and in
turn two sensations that were equally foreign and unfamiliar seized him.
The first was sheer panic, and the second was a sense of inevitability.
The second was the oddest of the two, because he did not believe in Fate,
but he did believe in his own will.

It was his own will, therefore, that made him walk steadily and
indifferently towards her.  His head bent as though he did not see her.
It was really the wind in her hair now.  It caught the ends of her long,
loose coat and carried them out behind her.  Her slender feet moved
uncertainly in the circle of lamp-light.  Any moment they might break
into one of the quaint little dances.  Or the wind might carry her off
altogether in a mysterious gust down the street and out of sight.  It was
like his vision of her that evening in Acacia Grove.  It made him feel
more and more unreal and frightened of himself.

He was almost past her when he spoke.

"Robert Stonehouse," she said rather authoritatively, as though she
expected him to run away; "Robert Stonehouse----"

He stopped short with his heart beating in his throat.  But he did not
take the hand that she held out to him.  He could only stare at her,
frowning in his distress, and she asked: "You do know who I am, don't
you?"

"Yes.  Francey--Francey Wilmot--Miss Wilmot."  He forced himself to stop
stammering, and added stiffly: "I did not know you had recognized me."

"Didn't you?  I thought----  Well, I did recognize you anyhow.  I was
so astonished at first that I thought it was a sort of materialization.
But you were absurdly the same.  And then when you poured the cider out
on to poor Gerty's skirt----"

"Was that one of my childish customs?" he asked.  "I'd forgotten."

"I nearly stood up and shook hands."

"I'm glad you didn't."

"I thought you'd feel like that.  I remembered that you had been rather a
touchy little boy----"

"I was thinking of your friends.  Howard, for instance."

"Why, do you know Howard?"

"By sight."

"If you've never even spoken to him you can't, of course, tell what he
would have felt.  Do you mind walking home with me?  I don't live far
from here, and we can talk better."

He held his ground, obstinate and defiant.  It was unjust that anyone,
knowing himself to be brilliantly clever, should yet be made an oaf by an
incident so trivial.

"I'm sorry.  I don't see what we can have to talk about.  I'm not keen on
childish recollections.  I haven't time for them.  And it's fairly
obvious we don't move in the same set and are not likely to meet again."
He burst out rudely.  "I suppose you were just curious----"

"Of course.  You'd be curious if you found me selling flowers in
Piccadilly.  You'd come up and say: 'allo!  Francey, what have you been
doing with yourself?'  And you'd have tried to give me a leg up, if it
only ran to buying a gardenia for old times' sake."

He suspected her of poking fun at him.  And yet there was that subtle
underlying seriousness about her and a frank, disarming kindliness.

"You think I'm down on my luck," he retorted, "and so anybody has a right
to butt in."

"Not a right.  Of course, if I'd met you in Bond Street, all sleek and
polished, I shouldn't have dreamed of butting in.  I should have said to
myself, 'Well, that's the end of the little Robert Stonehouse saga as far
as I'm concerned,' and I don't suppose I should ever have thought of you
again.  But now I shall have to go on thinking--and wondering what
happened--and worrying."  She drew her cloak closer about her like a bird
folding its wings, and added prosaically: "I say, don't you find it
rather cold standing about here?"

He turned with her and walked on sullenly, his head down to the wind.  He
thought: "I shall tell her nothing at all."  But to his astonishment she
was silent, and finally he had to speak himself.

"I'm afraid this silly business has broken up your party.  Or was it
getting too lively for you?  Howard's beanos used to have a considerable
reputation."

"He often seems drunk when he isn't," she returned tranquilly.  "I think
it's because he enjoys things more than most people are able to.  It
wasn't that.  I wanted to see you so much, and I knew Brown's would be
closing about now.  So I sent them to a theatre.  It seemed the safest
place."

"And they went like lambs.  But, then, the Banditti always did."

"Oh, the Banditti!"  He guessed that she was smiling to herself.  "The
Banditti wouldn't have grown up like that.  They were much too
nice--never quite really wicked, were they?  Just carried off their feet.
Still, they were never quite the same after you left.  I think they
always hankered a little after the good old days when they rang
door-hells and chivied their governesses.  Probably they will never be so
happy again."

"They had you.  It was you they really cared about.  Everybody did what
you liked."

"You didn't."

"I did--in the end."

It was odd that they should be both thinking of that last encounter and
that they should speak of it so guardedly, as though it were still a
delicate matter.

"I didn't know you were never coming again.  I waited for you in the
afternoon--for weeks and weeks."

"Did you?"  He looked at her quickly, taken off his guard, and then away
again with a scornful laugh.  "Oh, I don't believe it.  You knew I wasn't
nice--not your sort.  You're just making it up."

"I wonder why you say that?" she asked dispassionately.  "It's cheap and
stupid.  You're not really stupid and you weren't cheap, even if you
weren't nice.  And you know that I don't tell lies."

For a moment he was too startled and too ashamed to answer.  Cheap.  That
was just the word for it.  The sort of thing that common young men said
to their common young women.  And, of course, he did know.  Her integrity
was a thing you felt.  But he could never bring himself to tell her that
he had been afraid to believe too easily, or that he did not want to have
to remember her afterwards, waiting there day by day, in their deserted
playground.  It troubled him already, like a vague, indefinite pain.

He did not even apologize.

"I suppose I should have come back sooner or later.  But I didn't have
the chance.  My father died that night--unexpectedly."  He brushed aside
her low interjection.

"Oh, I was jolly glad.  But after that we had to clear out.  There was no
money at all."

"But you lived in a big house.  Your father was a great doctor."

"I was a great liar," he retorted impatiently.  "I suppose I wanted to
impress you.  Perhaps he was a great doctor.  Anyhow, he never did any
work.  There was a bailiff in the house when he died and a pile of bills.
And not much else."

"What happened, then?  Did you go with your stepmother?  I remember how
you hated her!  You wouldn't admit that she was a mother of any sort."

"No.  I don't know what became of her.  I never saw her again after that
night.  I think she went to live with her own people.  Christine took
care of me."

"I don't remember Christine.  I don't think you ever told me about her."

"I wouldn't have known how to explain.  I don't know now.  She was a sort
of friend--my father's and mother's friend.  There was an understanding
between her and my mother--a promise--I don't know what.  So she took me
away with her.  Not that she had any money, either.  We went to live in
two rooms in the suburbs, and she worked for us both.  She had never
worked before--not for money--and she wasn't young.  But she did it."

"A great sort of friend.   And she came through too----?"

He did not answer at once, and he felt her look at him quickly,
anxiously, as though she had felt him shrink back into himself.  She
heard something in his silence that he did not want her to hear.  He put
his head down to the wind again, hiding a white, hard face.

"Oh, yes, and we still live in two rooms--over a garage in Drayton Mews.
My room 'folds up' in the day-time, and she sits there and knits woollen
things for the shops.  She has to take life easily now.  She had an
illness, and her eyes trouble her.  But she's better--much better.  And
next year everything will be different."

The street had run out into the still shadows of a great dim square.  For
a moment they hesitated like travellers on the verge of unknown country;
then Francey crossed over to the iron-palinged garden and they walked on
side by side under the trees that rattled their grimy, fleshless limbs in
an eerie dance.  There was no one else stirring.  The eyes of the stately
Georgian houses were already closed in the weariness of their sad old age.

But she asked no questions.  She seemed to have drifted away from him on
a secret journey of her own.  He had to draw her back--make her
realize----

"I shall be a doctor then," he said challengingly.

"You said you would be a doctor.  We quarrelled about it."

"How you remember things----"

"You were such a strange little boy.  Besides, you remember them too."

"That's different.  I've never had anyone else----"  He caught himself
up.  "I suppose you think I'm still bragging?"

"You never bragged.  You always did what you said you were going to
do--even stupid things, like climbing that old wall."

So she had seen him, after all.  She had watched--perhaps a little
frightened for him, a little impressed by his reckless daring.

"Oh, well, I admit it didn't seem likely.  People think you have to have
a lot of money.  We've often laughed about it.  For we hadn't anything
except what we saved from week to week.  And yet we've done it.  You can
do anything so long as you don't mind what you do.  It depends on the
stuff you're made of."

He threw his head up and walked freely, with open shoulders.  After all,
he was proud of those years, and had a right to be.  They had tested
every inch of him, and it would have been stupid to pretend that he did
not know his own mettle.  He heard his footsteps ring out through the
fitful whimpering of the wind and they seemed to mark the rhythm of his
life--a steady, resolute progression.  The lighter fall of Francey
Wilmot's feet beside him was like an echo.  But yet it had its own
quality.  Not less resolute.

He heard her say quickly, almost to herself:

"It must have been hard going--but awfully worth while.  An adventure.  I
can't be sorry for anyone who suffers on an adventure--any sort of
adventure--even if it's only in oneself."

She was more moved than he could understand.  But the wind, d

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