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 ESS HJfHWJwg ^ 
 
 
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CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR6011.O76L8 1922 
 
 3 1924 008 768 016 
 
B Cornell University 
 M Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924008768016 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
THE NEW CLASSICS SERIES 
 
 "In the American Grain" 
 
 hy William Carlos Williams 
 
 "A Season in Hell" 
 
 by Arthur Rimbaud 
 
 "Three Lives" by Gertrude Stein 
 
 "The Longest Journey" 
 
 by E. M. Forster 
 
 "A Room with a View" 
 
 by E. M. Forster 
 
 in preparatio n 
 
 "Three Tales" by Gustave Flaubert 
 
 A Selection of 
 The Short Stories of Henry James 
 
 AND others 
 
<?. zM. Forster 
 
 THE 
 LONGEST 
 JOURNEY 
 
 V^w ^Directions 
 
 THE NEW CLASSICS SERIES 
 Norfolk, Conn. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ALFEED A. KNOPF, INO. 
 
 A NEW DIBBOTIONS WARTIME BOOK 
 
 THIS COMPLETE OOPYblGHT EDITION 
 
 IS PRODUCED IN FULTj COMPLIANCE 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 GOVERNMENT'S REGULATIONS FOR CONSERVING PAPER 
 
 AND OTHER ESSENTIAL MATERIALS 
 
 /^^ 
 
 Uj 
 
 
 
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 •< 
 
 ^ri^f 
 
 iCK 
 
 >;\ / 
 
 M)4NTJ1P*.CTUBED IN THE UNITED STATES Off iMEBIOa 
 
Fratribus 
 

 Contents 
 
 
 Cambridge 
 
 Part I 
 
 II 
 
 Sawston 
 
 Part II 
 
 169 
 
 Wiltshire 
 
 Part III 
 
 261 
 
Part I— Cambridge 
 
Part I — Cambridge 
 I 
 
 THE cow is there," said Ansell, lighting a match 
 and holding it out over the carpet. No one 
 spoke. -He waited till the end of the match fell 
 off. Then he said again, "She is there, the cow,. There, 
 novf." 
 
 "You have not proved it," said a voice. 
 
 "I have proved it to myself." 
 
 "I have proved to myself that she isn't," said the voice. 
 "The cow is not there." Ansell frowned and lit another 
 match. 
 
 "She's there for me," he declared. "I don't care 
 whether she's there for you or not. Whether I'm in Cam- 
 bridge or Iceland or dead, the cow will be there." 
 
 It was philosophy. They were discussing the existence 
 of objects. Do they exist only when there is some one to 
 look at them? or have they a real existence of their own? 
 It is all very intereisting, but at the same time it is difiS- 
 cult. Hence the cbw. She seemed to make things easier. 
 She was so familiar, so solid, that surely the truths that 
 she illustrated would in time become familiar and solid also. 
 Is the cow there or not? This was better than deciding be- 
 tween objectivity and subjectivity. So at Oxford, just at 
 the same time, one was asking, "What do our rooms look 
 like in the vac. ?" 
 
 "Look here, Ansell. I'm there — in the meadow — the 
 cow's there. You're there — ^the cow's there. Do you agree 
 so far?" 
 
 — 11 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Well, if you go, the cow stops ; but if I go, the cow goes. 
 Then what will happen if you stop and I go?" 
 
 Several voices cried out that this was quibbling. 
 
 "I know it is," said the speaker brightly> and silence de- 
 scended again, while they tried honestly to think the mat- 
 ter out. 
 
 RickiCj on whose carpet the matches were being dropped, 
 dicTnot like to join in the discussion. It was too difficult 
 for him. He could not even quibble. If he spoke, he 
 should simply make himself a fool. He preferred to 
 listen, and to watch the tobacco-smoke stealing out past 
 the window-seat into the tranquil October air. He could 
 see the court too, and the college cat teasing the college 
 tortoise, and the kitchen-men with supper-trays upon their 
 heads. Hot food for one — that must be for the geograph- 
 ical don, who never came in for Hall ; cold food for three, 
 apparently at half-a-crown a head, for some one he did not 
 know; hot food, a la carte — obviously for the ladies haunt- 
 ing the next staircase ; cold food for two, at two shillings — 
 going to Ansell's rooms for himself and Ansell, and as it 
 passed under the lamp he saw that it was meringues again. 
 Then the bedmakers began to arrive, chatting to each other 
 pleasantly, and he could hear Ansell's bedmaker say, "Oh 
 dang!" when she found she had to lay Ansell's tablecloth; 
 for there was not a breath stirring. The great elms were 
 motionless, and seemed still in the glory of midsummer, for 
 the darkness hid the yellow blotches on their leaves, and 
 their outlines were still rounded against the tender sky. 
 Those elms were Dryads — so Rickie believed or pretended, 
 and the line between the two is subtler than we admit. At 
 all events they were lady trees, and had for generations 
 fooled the college statutes by their residence in the haunts of 
 youth. 
 
 ,But what about the cow? He returned to her with a 
 start, for this would never do. He also would try to think 
 
 — 12 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 the matter out. Was she there or not? The cow. There 
 or not. He strained his eyes into the night. 
 
 Either way it was attractive. If she was there, other 
 cows were there too. The darkness of Europe was dotted 
 with them, and in the far East their flanks were shining in 
 the rising sun. Great herds of them stood browsing in 
 pastures where no man came nor need ever come, or plashed 
 knee-deep by the brink of impassable rivers. And this, 
 moreover, was the view of Ansell. Yet Tilliard's view had 
 a good deal in it. One might do worse than follow Tilliard, 
 and suppose the cow not to be there unless oneself was there 
 to see her. A cowless world, then, stretched round him on 
 every side. Yet he had only to peep into a field, and, click ! 
 it would at once become radiant with bovine life. 
 
 Suddenly he realized that this, again, would never do. 
 As usual, he had missed the whole point, and was over- 
 laying philosophy with gross and senseless details. For if 
 the cow was not there, the world and the fields were not 
 there either. And what would Ansell care about sunlit 
 flanks or impassable streams? Rickie rebuked his own 
 grovelling soul, and turned his eyes away from the night, 
 which had led him to such absurd conclusions. 
 
 The fire was dancing, and the shadow of Ansell, who 
 stood close up to it, seemed to dominate the little room. He 
 was still talking, or rather jerking, and he was still lighting 
 matches and dropping their ends upon the carpet. Now 
 and then he would make a motion with his feet as if he were 
 running quickly backward upstairs, and would tread on the 
 edge of the fender, so that the fire-irons went flying and the 
 buttered-bun dishes crashed against each other in the hearth. 
 The other philosophers were crouched in odd shapes on the 
 sofa and table and chairs, and one, who was a little bored, 
 had crawled to the piano and was timidly trying the Prelude 
 to. Rhinegold with his knee upon the soft pedal. The air 
 was heavy with good tobacco-smoke and the pleasant 
 warmth of tea, and as Rickie became more sleepy the events 
 
 —13^ 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 of the day seemed to float one by one before his acquiescent 
 eyes. In the morning he had read Theocritus, whom he 
 beHeved to be the greatest of Greek poets; he had lunched 
 with a merry don and had tasted Zwieback biscuits ; then he 
 had walked with people he liked, and had walked just long 
 enough; and now his room was full of other people whom 
 he liked, and when they left he would go and have supper 
 with Ansell, whom he liked as well as any one. A year ago 
 he had known none of these joys. He had crept cold and 
 friendless and ignorant out of a great public school, pre- 
 paring for a silent and solitary journey, and praying as a 
 highest favour that he might be left alone. Cambridge had 
 not answered his prayer. She had taken and soothed him, 
 and warmed him, and had laughed at him a littld, saying 
 that he must not be so tragic yet awhile, for his boyhood had 
 been but a dusty corridor that led to the spacious halls of 
 youth. In one year he had made many friends and learnt 
 much, and he might learn even more if he could but con- 
 centrate his attention on that cow. 
 
 The fire had died down, and in the gloom the man by the 
 piano ventured to ask what would happen if an objective 
 cow had a subjective calf. Ansell gave an angry sigh, and 
 at that moment there was a tap on the door. 
 
 "Come in!" said Rickie, 
 
 The door opened. A tall young woman stood framed in 
 the light that fell from the passage. 
 
 "Ladies !" whispered every one in great agitation. 
 
 "Yes?" he said nervously, limping towards the door (he 
 was rather lame). "Yes? Please come in. Can I be any 
 good " 
 
 "Wicked boy!" exclaimed the young lady, advancing a 
 gloved finger into the room. "Wicked, wicked boy!" 
 
 He clasped his head with his hands. 
 
 '•A^iesX Oh how perfectly awful !" 
 
 "Wick^, intolerable boy!" She turned on the electric 
 light. The philosophers were revealed with unpleasing sud- 
 
 —14— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 denness. "My goodness, a tea-party! Oh really, Rickie, 
 you are too bad ! I say again : wicked, abominable, intoler- 
 able boy! I'll have you horsewhipped. If you please" — 
 she turned to the symposium, which had now risen to its 
 feet — "If you please, he asks me and my brother for the 
 week-end. We accept. At the station, no Rickie. We 
 drive to where his old lodgings were — Trumpery Road or 
 some such name — and he's left them. I'm furious, and be- 
 fore I can stop my brother, he's paid off the cab and there 
 we are stranded, I've walked — walked for miles. Pray 
 can you tell me what is to be done with Rickie?" 
 
 "He must indeed be horsewhipped," said TiUiard pleas- 
 antly. Then he made a bolt for the door. 
 
 "TiUiard — do stop — let me introduce Miss Pembroke — 
 don't all go !" For his friends were flying from his visitor 
 like mists before the sun. "Oh, Agnes, I am so sorry ; I've 
 nothing to say. I simply forgot you were coming, and 
 everything about you." 
 
 "Thank you, thank you ! And how soon will you remem- 
 ber to ask where Herb^ is?" 
 
 "Where is he, then?" " 
 
 "I shall not tell you." 
 
 "But didn't he walk with you?" 
 
 "I shall not tell, Rickie. It's part of your punishment. 
 You are not really sorry yet. I shall punish you again 
 later." 
 
 She was quite right. Rickie was not as much upset as he 
 ought to have been. He was sorry that he had forgotten, 
 and that he had caused his visitors inconvenience. But he 
 did not feel profoundly degraded, as a young man should 
 who has acted discourteously to a young lady. Had he 
 acted discourteously to his bedmaker or his gyp, he would 
 have minded just as much, which was not polite of him. 
 
 "First, I'll go and get food. Do sit down and rest. Oh, 
 let me introduce " 
 
 Ansell was now the sole remnant of the discussion party. 
 —15— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 He still stood on the hearthrug with a burnt match in his 
 hand. Miss Pembroke's arrival had never disturbed him. 
 
 "Let me introduce Mr. Ansell — Miss Pembroke." 
 
 There came an awful moment — a moment when he almost 
 regretted that he had a clever friend. Ansell remained ab- 
 solutely motionless, moving neither hand nor head. Such 
 behaviour is so unknown that Miss Pembroke did not realize 
 what had happened, and kept her own hand stretched out 
 longer than is maidenly. 
 
 "Coming to supper?" asked Ansell in low, grave tones. 
 
 "I don't think so," said Rickie helplessly. 
 
 Ansell departed without another word. 
 
 "Don't mind us," said Miss Pembroke pleasaiitly. 
 "Why shouldn't you keep your engagement with your 
 friend? Herbert's finding lodgings, — that's why he's not 
 here, — and they're sure to be able to give us some dinner. 
 What jolly rooms you've got!" 
 
 "Oh no — not a bit. I say, I am sorry. I am sorry. I 
 am most awfully sorry." 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Ansell " Then he burst forth. "Ansell isn't a 
 
 gentleman. His father's a draper. His uncles, are farmers. 
 He's here because he's so clever — just on account of his I 
 brains. Now, sit down. He isn't a gentleman at all." 
 And he hurried off to order some dinner. 
 
 "W-hat a snob the bo y js^gettrng,!" thought Agnes, a 
 good deal mollified" iFnever struck her that those could 
 be the words of affection — that Rickie would never have spo- 
 
 Eken them about a person whom he disliked. Nor did it 
 strike her that Ansell'sjiumble birth scarcely explained the 
 quality of his rudeness^" She was willing to find life full of 
 trivialities. Six months ago and she might have minded; 
 but now — she cared not what men might do unto her, for 
 she had her own splendid lover, who could have knocked 
 all these unhealthy undergraduates into a cocked-hat. She 
 dared not tell Gerald a word of what had happened; he 
 
 — 16~ 
 
Cambridge 
 
 might have' come up from wherever he was and half killed 
 Ansell. And she determined not to tell her brother either, 
 for her nature was kindly, and it pleased her to pass things 
 over. 
 
 She took oflf her gloves, and then she took off her ear- 
 rings and began to admire them. These ear-rings were a 
 freak of hers — ^her only freak. She had always wanted 
 some, and the day Gerald asked her to marry him she went 
 to a shop and had her ears pierced. In some wonderful 
 way she knew that it was right. And he had given her the 
 rings — little gold knobs, copied, the jeweller told them, from 
 something prehistoric — ^and he had kissed the spots of 
 blood on her handkerchief. Herbert, as usual, had been 
 shocked. 
 
 "I can't help it," she cried, springing up. "I'm not like 
 other girls." She began to pace about Rickie's room, for 
 she hated to keep quiet. There was nothing much to see 
 in it. The pictures were not attractive, nor did they attract 
 her — school groups, Watts' "Sir Percival," a dog running 
 after a rabbit, a man running after a maid, a cheap brown 
 Madonna in a cheap green frames — in short, a collection 
 where one mediocrity was generally cancelled by another. 
 Over the door there hung a long photograph of a city with 
 waterways, which Agnes, who had never been to Venice, 
 took to be Venice, but which people who had been to 
 Stockholm knew to be Stockholm. Rickie's mother, look- 
 ing rather sweet, was standing on the mantelpiece. Some 
 more pictures had just arrived from the framers and were 
 leaning with their faces to the wall, but she did not bother 
 to turn them round. On the table were dirty teacups, a 
 flat chocolate cake, and Qmar Khayyam, with an Oswego 
 biscuit between his pages. Also a vase filled with the crim- 
 son leaves of autumn. This made her smile. 
 
 Then she saw her host's shoes: he had left them lying 
 on the sofa. Rickie was slightly deformed, and so the 
 shoes were not the same size, and one of them had a thick 
 
 —17— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 heel to help him towards an even walk. "Ugh!" she ex- 
 claimed, and removed them gingerly to the bedroom. 
 There she saw other shoes and boots and pumps, a whole 
 row of them, all deformed. "Ugh! Poor boy! It is to.o 
 bad. Why shouldn't he be like other people? This hered- 
 itary business is too awful." She shut the door with a 
 ~sig^. Then she recalled the ^perfect form of Gerald, his 
 athletic walk, the poise of his shoulders, his arms stretched 
 forward to receive her. Gradually she was comforted. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, miss, but might I ask how many 
 to lay?" It was thq bedmaker, IVIrs. Aberdeen.. 
 
 "Three, I think," said Agnes, smiling pleasantly. "Mr. 
 Elliot'll be back in a minute. He has gone to order dinner." 
 
 "Thank you, miss." 
 
 "Plenty of teacups to wash up!" 
 
 "But teacups is easy washing, particularly Mr. Elliot's." 
 
 "Why are his so easy?" 
 
 "Because no nasty corners in them to hold the dirt. JAr. 
 Anderson — ^he's below — has crinkly noctagons, and one 
 wouldn't believe the difference. It was I bought these for 
 Mr. Elliot. His one thought is to save one trouble. I 
 never seed such a thoughtful gentleman. The world, I 
 say, will be the better for him." She took the teacups into 
 the gyp room, and then returned with the tablecloth, and 
 added, "if he's spared." 
 
 "I'm afraid he isn't strong," said Agnes. 
 
 "Oh, miss, his nose! I don't know what he'd say if he 
 knew I mentioned his nose, but really I must speak to some 
 one, and he has neither father nor mother. His nose ! It 
 poured twice with blood in the Long."^ 
 
 "Yes?" ■" — 
 
 "It's a thing that ought to be known. I assure you, 
 that little room ! . . . And in any case, Mr. Elliot's a gentle- 
 man that can ill aflFord to lose it. Luckily his friends were 
 up; and I always say they're more like brothers than any- 
 thing else." 
 
 -i8— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "Nice for him. He has no real brothers." 
 "Oh, Mr. Hornblower, he is a merry gentleman, and Mr. 
 Tilliard too l™ And Mr. Elliot himself likes his romp at 
 times. Why, it's the merriest staircase in the buildings! 
 Last night the bedmaker from W said to me, 'What are 
 you doing to my gentlemen? Here's Mr. Ansell come back 
 'ot with his collar flopping.' I said, 'And a good thing.' 
 Some bedders keep their gentlemen just so; but surely, 
 miss, the world being what it is, the longer one is able to 
 laugh in it the better." 
 
 Bedmakers have to be comic and dishonest. It is ex- 
 pected of them. In a picture of university life it is their 
 only function. So when we meet one who has the face of 
 a lady, and feelings of which a lady might be proud, we 
 pass her by. 
 
 "Yes ?" said Mi^ Pembroke, and then their talk was 
 stopped by the arrival of her brother. 
 
 "It is too bad !" he exclaimed. "It is really too bad." 
 "Now, Bertie boy, Bertie boy ! I'll have no peevishness." 
 "I am not peevish, Agnes, but I have a full right to be. 
 Pray, why did he not meet us? Why did he not provide 
 rooms? And pray, why did you leave me to do all the 
 settling? All the lodgings I knew are full,, and our bed- 
 rooms look into a mews. I cannot help it. And then — 
 look here ! It really is too bad." He held up his foot like 
 a wounded dog. It was dripping with water. 
 
 "Oho! This explains the peevishness. Off with it at 
 once. It'll be another of your colds." 
 
 "I really think I had better." He sat down by the fire 
 and daintily unlaced his boot. "I notice a great change in 
 university tone. I can never remember swaggering three 
 abreast along the pavement and charging inoffensive visi- 
 tors into a gutter when I was an undergraduate. One of the 
 men, too, wore an Eton tie. But the others, I should say, 
 came from very queer schools, if they came from any 
 schools at all." 
 
 —19— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Mr. Pembroke was nearly twenty years older than his 
 sister, and had never been as handsome. But he was not at 
 all the person to knock into a gutter, for though not in or- 
 ders, he had the air of being on the verge of them, and his 
 features, as well as his clothes, had the clerical cut. In 
 his presence conversation became pure and colourless and 
 full of under statements, and — ^just as if he was a real cler- 
 gyman — neither men nor boys ever forgot that he was 
 there. He had observed this, and it pleased him very much. 
 His conscience permitted him to enter the Church when- 
 ever his profession, which was the scholastic, should de- 
 mand it. 
 
 "No gutter in the world's as wet as this," said Agnes, 
 who had peeled oflf her brother's sock, and was now toasting 
 it at the embers on a pair of tongs. 
 
 "Surely you know the running water by the edge of the 
 Trumpington road? It's turned on occasionally to clear 
 away the refuse — a most primitive idea. When I was up 
 we had a joke about it, and called it the 'Pem.' " 
 "How complimentary!" 
 
 "You foolish girl,— not after me, of course. We called 
 it the 'Pem' because it is close to Pembroke College. I 
 
 remember " He smiled a little, and twiddled his toes. 
 
 Then he remembered the bedmaker, and said, "My sock 
 is now dry. My sock, please." 
 
 "Your sock is sopping. No, you don't!" She twitched 
 the tongs away from him. Mxs^ Aberdeen, without speak- 
 ing, fetched a pair of Rickie's socks and a pair of Rickie's 
 shoes. 
 
 "Thank you ; ah, thank you. I am sure Mr. Elliot would 
 allow it." Then he said in French to his sister, "Has 
 there been the slightest j^ign_xiLFrederick ?" 
 
 "Now, do call him Rickie, and taUTTJnglish. I found 
 him here. He had forgotten about us, and was very sorry. 
 Now he's gone to get some dinner, and I can't think why 
 
 I ; >i I I. » ' 
 
 he isn't back, 
 
 — 20 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 Mrs. Aberdeen left them. 
 
 "He wants pulling up sharply. There is nothing original 
 in absent-njihdedness^ True originality lies elsewhere. 
 Really, the lower^lasses-»have no nous. However can I 
 wear such" deformities ?" For he had been madly trying 
 to cram a right-hand foot into a left-hand shoe. 
 
 " "Don't !" said Agnes hastily. "Don't touch the poor fel- 
 low's things." The sight of the smart, stubby patent 
 leather made her almost feel faint. She had known 
 Rickie for many years, but it seemed so dreadful and so 
 different now that he was a man. It was her first great 
 contact with the abnormal, and unknown fibres of her be- 
 ing rose in revolt against it. She frowned when she heard 
 his uneven tread upon the stairs. 
 
 "Agnes — ^before he arrives — ^you ought never to have left 
 me and gone to his rooms alone. A most elementary trans- 
 gression. Imagine the unpleasantness if you had found 
 him with friends. If Gerald " 
 
 Rickie by now had got into a fluster. At the kitchens 
 he had lost his head, and when his turn came — ^he had had 
 to wait — ^he had yielded his place to those behind, saying 
 that he didn't matter. And he had wasted more precious 
 time buykig bananas, though he knew that the Pembrokes 
 were not partial to fruit. Amid much tardy and chaotic 
 hospitality the meal got under way. All the spoons and 
 forks were anyhow, for Mrs. Aberdeen's virtues were not 
 practical. The fish seemed never to have been alive, the 
 meat had no kick, and the cork of the college claret slid 
 forth silently, as if ashamed of the contents. Agnes was 
 particularly pleasant. But her brother could not recover 
 himself. He still remembered their desolate arrival, and he 
 could feel the waters of the Pem eating into his instep. 
 
 "Rickie," cried the lady, "are you aware that you haven't i 
 congratulated me on my engagement?" 
 
 Rickie laughed nervously, and said, "Why no! No more 
 I havQ." 
 
 — 21 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 . "Say sovssSia^g^mstty^ then." 
 
 "I hope you'll be very happy," he mumbled. "Bijt-J 
 don'tjcnow anythin^^bout marriage." 
 
 "Oh, you awf'il boy I gerbe^, isn't he just the same? 
 But you do know something about Gerald, so don't be so 
 chilly and cautious. I've just realized, looking at thos? 
 groups, that you must have been at school together. Did 
 you come much across him?" 
 
 "Very little," he answered, and sounded shy. He got 
 up hastily, and began to muddle with the coffee. 
 
 "But he was in the same house. Surely that's a house 
 group ?" 
 
 "He was a prefect." He made his coffee on the simple 
 system. One had a brown pot, into which the boiling stuff 
 was poured. Just before serving one put in a drop of cold 
 water, and the idea was that the grounds fell to the bottom. 
 
 "Wasn't he a kind of athletic marvel? Couldn't he 
 knock any boy or master down?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "If he had wanted to," said Mr. Pembroke, who had 
 not spoken for some time. 
 
 "If he had wanted to," echoed Rickie. "I do hope, 
 Agnes, you'll be most awfully happy. I don't know any- 
 thing about the army, but I should think it must be most 
 awfully interesting." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke laughed faintly. 
 
 "Yes, Rickie. The army is a most interesting profession, 
 — the profession of Wellington and Marlborough and Lord 
 Roberts; a most interesting profession, as you observe. A 
 profession that may mean death — death, rather than dis- 
 honour." 
 
 "That's nice," said Rickie, speaking to himself,. "Any 
 profession may mean dishonour, but one isn't allowed to 
 die instead. The army's different. If a soldier makes a 
 mess, it's thought rather decent of him, isn't it, if he blows 
 
 — 22 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 out his brains? In the other professions it somehow seems 
 cowardly." 
 
 "I am not competent to pronounce," said Mr. Pembroke, 
 who was not accustomed to have his schoolroom satire com- 
 mented 01^. "I merely know that the army is the finest 
 profession in the world. Which reminds me, Rickie — ^have 
 you been thinking about yours?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Not at all?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Now, Herbert, don't bother him. Have another 
 meringue." 
 
 "But, Rickie, my dear boy, you're twenty. It's time you 
 thought. The Tripos is the beginning of life, not the end. 
 In less than two years you will have got your B.A. What 
 are you going to do with it?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "You're M.\, aren't you ?" asked Agnes ; but her brother 
 proceeded — 
 
 "I have seen so many promising, brilliant lives wrecked 
 simply on account' of this — not settling soon enough. My 
 dear boy, you must think. Consult your tastes if possible — 
 but think. You have not a moment to lose. The Bar, like 
 your father?" 
 
 "Oh, I wouldn't like that at all." 
 
 "I don't mention the Church." 
 
 "Oh, Rickie, do be a clergyman!" said Miss Pembroke. 
 "You'd be simply killing in a wide-awake." 
 
 He looked at his guests hopelessly. Their kindness and 
 competence overwhelmed him. "I wish I could talk to them 
 as I talk to myself," he thought. "I'm not such an ass when 
 I talk to myself. I don't believe, for instance, that quite 
 all I thought about the cow was rot." Aloud he said, "I've 
 sometimes wondered about writing." 
 
 "Writing?" said Mr. Pembroke, with the tone of one who 
 —23— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 gives everything its trial. "Well, what about writing? 
 What kind of writing?" 
 
 "I rather like," — he suppressed something in his throat, — 
 "I rather like trying to write little stories." 
 
 "Why, I made sure it was poetry !" said Agnes. "You're 
 just the boy for poetry." 
 
 "I had no idea you wrote. Would you let me see some- 
 thing? Then I could judge." 
 
 The author shook his head. "I don't show it to any one. 
 It isn't anything. I just try because it amuses me." 
 
 "What is it about?" 
 
 "Silly nonsense." 
 
 "Are you ever going to show it to any one?" 
 
 "I don't think so." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke did not reply, firstly, because the meringue 
 he was eating was, after all, Rickie's; secondly, because it 
 was gluey and stuck his jaws together. Agnes observed that 
 [the writing was really a very good idea: there was Rickie's 
 aunt, — she could push him. 
 
 "Aunt Emily never pushes any one; she says they always 
 rebound and crush her." 
 
 "I only had the pleasure of seeing your aunt once. I 
 should have thought her a quite uncrushable person. But 
 she would be sure to help you." 
 
 ''I couldn't show her anything. She'd think them even 
 sillier than they are." 
 
 "Always running yourself down! There speaks the 
 artist !" 
 
 "I'm not modest," he said anxiously. "I just know 
 they're bad." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke's teeth were clear of meringue, and he 
 could refrain no longer. "My dear Rickie, your father and 
 mother are dead, and you often say your aunt takes no 
 interest in youT" Therefore your life depends on yourself. 
 Think it over carefully, but settle, and having once settled, 
 stick. If you think that this writing is practicable, and 
 
 —24— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 that you could make your living by it — that you could, if 
 needs be, support a wife — ^then by all means write. But 
 you must work. Work and drudge. Begin at the bottom 
 of the ladder and work upwards." 
 
 Rickie's head drooped. Any metaphor silenced him. 
 He never thought of replying that art is not a ladder — ^with 
 a curate, as it were, on the first rung, a rector on the second, 
 and a bishop, still nearer heaven, at the top. He never re- 
 torted that the artist is not a bricklayer at all, but a horse- 
 man, whos5 business it is to catch Pegasus at once, not to 
 - practise for him by mounting tamer colts. This is hard, 
 hot, and generally ungraceful work, but it is not drudgery. 
 For drudgery is not art, and cannot lead to it. 
 
 "Of course I don't really think about writing," he said, 
 as he poured the cold water into the coffee. "Even if my 
 things ever were decent, I don't think the magazines would 
 take them, and the magazines are one's only chance. I read 
 somewhere, too, that, .Marie Corelli^s about the only person 
 who makes a thing out of literature. I'm certain it 
 wouldn't pay me." 
 
 "I never mentioned the word 'pay,' " said Mr. Pembroke 
 uneasily. "You must not consider money. There are 
 ideals too." 
 
 "I have no ideals." 
 
 "Rickie!" she exclaimed. "Horrible boy!" 
 
 "No, Agnes, I have no ideals." Then he got very red, 
 for it was a phrase he had caught from Ansell, and he 
 could not remember what came next. 
 
 "The person who has no ideals," she exclaimed, "is to 
 be pitied." 
 
 "I think so too," said Mr. Pembroke, sipping his coffee. 
 "Life without an ideal would be like the sky without the 
 sun." 
 
 Rickie looked towards the night, wherein there now 
 twinkled innumerable stars— gods and heroes, virgins and 
 brides, to whom the Greeks have given their names. 
 
 —25— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Life without an ideal " repeated Mr. Pembroke, and 
 
 then stopped, for his mouth was full of coffee grounds. 
 The same affliction had overtaken Agnes. After a little 
 jocose laughter they departed to their lodgings, and Rickie, 
 having seen them as far as the porter's lodge, hurried, sing- 
 ing as he went, to Ansell's room, burst open the door, and 
 said, "Look here! Whatever do you mean by it?" 
 
 "By what?" Ansell was sitting alone with a piece of 
 paper in front of him. On it was a diagram — a circle in- 
 side a square, inside which was again a square. 
 
 "By being so rude. You're no gentleman, and I told her 
 so." He slammed him on the head with a sofa-cushion. 
 "I'm certain one ought to be polite, even to people who 
 aren't saved." ("Not saved" was a phrase they applied 
 just then to those* whom they did not like or intimately 
 know.) "And I believe she is saved. I never knew any 
 one so always good-tempered and kind. She's been kind 
 to me ever since I knew her. I wish you'd heard her trying 
 to stop her brother : you'd have certainly come round. Not 
 but what he was only being nice as well. But she is really 
 nice. And I thought she came into the room so beautifully. 
 Do you know — oh, of course, yjju despise music — but An- 
 derson was playing Wagner, and he'd just got to the part 
 where they sing 
 
 •Rheingold ! 
 Rheingold !' 
 
 and the sun strikes into the waters, and the music, which 
 up to then has so often been in E flat " 
 
 "Goes into D sharp. I have not understood a single 
 word, partly because you talk as if your mouth was full of 
 plums, partly because I don't know whom you're talking 
 about." 
 
 "Miss Pembroke— whom you saw." 
 
 "I saw no one." 
 
 "Who came in?" 
 
 "No one came in." 
 
 —26— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "You're an ass!" shrieked Rickie. "She came in. You 
 saw her come in. She and her brother have been to 
 dinner." 
 
 "You only think so. They were not really there." 
 
 "But they stop till Monday." 
 
 "You only think that they are stopping." 
 
 "But — oh, look here, shut up! The girl like an 
 empress " 
 
 "I saw no empress, nor any girl, nor have you seen them." 
 
 "Ansell, don't rag." 
 
 "^iot;^I iiever -rag, and you know it. She was not 
 reall3rthere." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Then Rickie exclaimed, 
 "I've got you. You say — or was it Tilliard? — no, you say 
 that the cow's there. Well — there these people are, then. 
 Got you. Yah!" 
 
 "Did it never strike you that phenomena may be of two 
 kinds: one, those which have a real existence, such as the 
 cow; two, those which are the subjective product of a dis- 
 eased imagination, and which, to our destruction, we invest 
 with the semblance of reality? If this never struck you, 
 let it strike you now." 
 
 Rickie spoke again, but received no answer. He paced 
 a little up and down the sombre room. Then he sat on the 
 edge of the table and watched his clever friend draw within 
 the square a circle, and within the circle a square, and inside 
 that another circle, and inside that another square. 
 
 "Why will you do that?" 
 
 No answer. 
 
 "Are they real?" 
 
 "The inside one is — the one in the middle of everything, 
 that there's never room enough to draiw." 
 
 —27— 
 
II 
 
 A LITTLE this side of Madingley, to the left of the 
 road, there is a secluded dell, paved with grass and 
 planted with fir-trees. It could not have been 
 worth a visit twenty years ago, for then it was only a scar of 
 chalk, and it is not worth a visit at the present day, for the 
 trees have grown too thick and choked it. But when Rickie 
 was up, it chanced to be the brief season of its romance, a 
 season as brief for a chalk-pit as a man — its divine interval 
 between the bareness of boyhood and the stuffiness of age. 
 Rickie had discovered it in his second term, when the 
 January snows had melted and left fiords and lagoons of 
 clearest water between the inequalities of the floor. The 
 place looked as big as Switzerland or Norway — ^as indeed 
 for the moment it was — ^and he came upon it at a time when 
 his life too was beginning to expand. Accordingly the dell 
 became for him a kind of church — a church where indeed 
 you could do anything you liked, but where anything you 
 did would be transfigured. Like the ancient Greeks, he 
 could even laugh at his holy place and leave it no less holy. 
 He chatted gaily about it, and about the pleasant thoughts 
 with which it inspired him ; he took his friends there ; he even 
 took people whom he did not like. "Procul este, prof anil" 
 exclaimed a delighted aesthete on being introduced to it. 
 * But this was never to be the attitude of Rickie. He did not 
 ^love the vulgar herd, but he knew that his own vulgarity 
 would be greater if he forbade it ingress, and that it was not 
 by preciosity that he would attain to the intimate spirit of 
 the dell. Indeed, if he had agreed with the aesthete, he 
 would possibly not have introduced him. If the dell was to 
 bear any inscription, he would have liked it to be "This way 
 
 —28— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 to Heaven," painted on a'sign-post by the high-road, and he 
 did not realize till later years that the number of visitors 
 would not thereby have sensibly increased. 
 
 On the blessed Monday that the Pembrokes left, he walked 
 out here with three friends. It was a day when the sky 
 seemed enormous. One cloud, as large as a qbntinent, was 
 voyaging near the sun, whilst other clouds seemed anchored 
 to the horizon, too lazy or too happy to move. The sky it- 
 self was of the palest blue, paling to white where it ap- 
 proached the earth ; and the earth, brown, wet, and odorous, 
 was engaged beneath it on its yearly duty of decay. Rickie 
 was open to the complexities of autumn; he felt extremely 
 tiny — extremely tiny and extremely important; and perhaps 
 the combination is as fair as any that exists. He hoped 
 that all his life he would never be peevish or unkind. 
 
 "Elliot is_in a dangerous state," said Assell. They had 
 reached the dell, and had sTiood 'for some time in silence, 
 each leaning against a tree. It was too wet to sit down. 
 
 "How's that?" asked Rickie, who had not known he was 
 in any state at all. He shut up Keats, whom he thought 
 he had been reading, and slipped him back into his coat-, 
 pocket. Scarcely ever was hejyithout^a book. 
 
 "He's tryi;ng to like people.'' 
 
 "Then he's'dbne for," said,.Widdrington. "He's dead." 
 
 "He's trying to like Homblower." 
 
 The others gave shrill agonized cries. 
 
 "He wants to bind the college together. He wants to 
 link us to the beefy set." 
 
 "I do like Hornblower," he protested. "I don't try." 
 
 "And Homblower tries to like you." 
 
 "That part doesn't matter." 
 
 "But he does try to like you. He tries not to despise 
 you. It is altogether a most public-spirited affair." 
 
 "Tilliard started them," said Widdrington. "Tilliard ' 
 thinks it such a pity the college should be split into sets." 
 
 "Oh, Tilliard I" said Ansell, with much irritation. "But 
 —29— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 what can you expect from a person who's eternally beauti- 
 ful? The other night we had been discussing a long time, 
 and suddenly the light 'was turned on. Every one else 
 looked a sight, as they ought. But there was Tilliard, 
 sittipg neatly on a little chair, like an undersized god, with 
 not a curl crooked. I should say he will get into the For- 
 eign Office." 
 
 "Why are ji3Q5L_of_us so uglyj"' laughed Rickie. 
 
 "ItT^merely a sign of our salvation — ^merely another sign 
 that the college is split." 
 
 " "The college isn't split," cried Rickie, who got excited on 
 this subject with unfailing regularity. "The college is, and 
 has been, and always will be, one. What you call the jieeiy 
 set aren't a set at all. They're just the rowing people, and 
 naturally they chiefly"see each other ; but they're always nice 
 to me or to any one. Of course, they think us rather asses, 
 but it's quite in a pleasant way." 
 
 "That's my whole objection," said Ansell. "What right 
 have they to think us asses in a pleasant way? Why don't 
 they hate us? What right-has. Hornb toyer to smack me 
 on the back when.rye been rude to him?" 
 
 "Well, what right have you to be rude' to him?" 
 
 "Because I hate hmi. You think itjs so s^ndidjo^ 
 
 hate no one._^ I tell you it is a crime. YoiJ want to love 
 
 1 e very one equally, and that's^ worse than' impossibTe^^'s 
 
 ;* wrong. When you denounce sets, you're reairy"^Trying to 
 
 i destroy friendship." 
 
 ^^ maintain," said Rickie — it was a verb he clung to, in 
 
 the hope that it would lend stability to what followed — "I 
 
 maintain that one can like many more people than one 
 
 Isupposes." 
 
 ' "And I maintain that you hate many more people than 
 you pretend." 
 
 "I hate no one," he exclaimed With extraordinary vehe- 
 mence, and the dell re-echoed that it hated no one. 
 
 —30— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "We are obliged to believe you," said Widdrington, 
 smiling a little ; "but we are sorry about it." 
 
 "Not even your father ?" asked Ansell. 
 
 Rickie was silent. 
 
 "Not even your father?" 
 
 The cloud above extended a great promontory across the 
 sun. It only lay there for a moment, yet that was enough 
 to summon the lurking coldness from the earth. 
 
 "Does he hate his father ?" said Widdrington, who had not 
 known. "Oh, good!" 
 
 "But his father's dead. He will say it doesn't count." 
 
 "Still, it's something. Do you hate yours?" 
 
 Ansell did not reply. Rickie said: "I say, I wonder 
 whether one ought to talk like this?" 
 
 "About hating dead people ?" 
 
 ..Yesrrr" — -~ 
 
 "Did you hate your mother ?" asked Widdrington. 
 
 Rickie turned crimson. 
 
 "I don't see Hornblower's such a rotter," remarked the 
 other man, whose name was James. 
 
 "James, you are diplomatic," said Ansell. "You are trying 
 to tide over an awkward moment. You can go." 
 
 Widdrington was crimson too. In his wish to be 
 sprightly he had used words without thinking of their mean- 
 ings. Suddenly he realized that "father" and- "mother" 
 really meant father and mother — people whom he had him- 
 self at home. He was very uncomfortable, and thought 
 Rickie had been rather queer. He too tried to revert to 
 Horriblower, but Ansell would not let him. The sun came 
 out, and struck on the white ramparts of the dell. Rickie 
 looked straight at it. Then he said abruptly— 
 
 "I think I want to talk." 
 
 "I think you do," replied Ansell. 
 
 "Shouldn't I be rather a fool if I went through Cambridge 
 without talking? It's said never to come so easy again. 
 
 —31— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 All the people are dead too. I can't see why I shouldn't 
 tell you most things about my birth and parentage and 
 education." 
 
 "Talk away. If you bore us, we have books." 
 
 r With this invitation JR.ickie began to relate his history. 
 
 ' The reader who has no book will be obliged to listen to it 
 
 Some people spend their lives in a suburb, and not for 
 
 any urgent reason. This had been the fate of Rickie. He 
 
 had opened his eyes to filmy heavens, and taken his first 
 
 ^walk on asphalt. He had seen civilization as a row of semi- 
 
 ! detached villas, and society as a state in which men do not 
 
 know the men who live next door. He had himself become 
 
 part of the grey monotony that surrounds all cities." There~ 
 
 '•"was no necessity for this — it was only rather convenient to 
 
 his father. 
 
 Mr. Elliot was a barrister. In appearance he resembled 
 his son, being weakly and lame, with hollow little cheeks, a 
 broad white band of forehead, and stiflf impoverished hair. 
 His voice, which he did not transmit, was very suave, with 
 a fine command of cynical intonation. By altering it ever 
 so little he could make people wince, especially if they were 
 simple or poor. Nor did he transmit his eyes. Their 
 peculiar flatness, as if the soul looked through dirty window- 
 panes, the unkindness of them, the cowardice, the fear in 
 them, were to trouble the world no longer. 
 
 He married a girl whose voice was beautiful. There 
 was no caress in it, yet all who heard it were soothed, as 
 though the world held some unexpected blessing. She 
 called to her dogs one night over invisible waters, and he, a 
 tourist up on the bridge, thought "that is extraordinarily 
 adequate." In time he discovered that her figure, face, and 
 thoughts were adequate also, and as she was not impossible 
 socially, he married her. "I have taken a plunge," he told 
 his family. The family, hostile at first, had not a word to 
 say when the woman was introduced to them ; and his sister 
 
 —32— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 declared that the plunge had been taken from the opposite 
 bank. 
 
 Things only went right for a little time. Though beauti- 
 ful without and within, Mrs. Elliot had not the gift of mak- 
 ing her home beautiful; and one day, when she bought a 
 carpet for the dining-room that clashed, he laughed gently, 
 said he "really couldn't," and departed. Departure is per- 
 haps too strong a word. In Mrs. Elliot's mouth it became, 
 "My husband has to sleep more in town." He often came 
 down to see them, nearly always unexpectedly, and occasion- 
 ally they went to see him. "Father's house," as Rickie 
 called it, only had three rooms, but these were full of books 
 and pictures and flowers; and the flowers, instead of being 
 squashed down into the vases as they were in mummy's 
 house, rose gracefully from frames of lead which lay coiled 
 at the bottom, as doubtless the sea serpent has to lie, coiled 
 at the bottom of the sea. Once he was let to lift a frame 
 out — only once, for he dropped some water on a creton. 
 "I think he's going to have taste," said Mr. Elliot languidly. 
 "It is quite possible," his wife replied. She had not taken 
 off her hat and gloves, nor even pulled up her veil. Mr. 
 Elliot laughed, and soon afterwards another lady came in, 
 and they went away. 
 
 "Why does father always laugh?" asked Rickie in the 
 evening when he and his mother were sitting in the nursery. 
 
 "It is a way of your father's." 
 
 "Why does he always laugh at me? Am I so funny?" 
 Then after a pause, "You have no sense of humour, have 
 you, mummy?" 
 
 Mrs. Elliot, who was raising a thread of cotton to her 
 lips, held it suspended in amazement. 
 
 "You told him so this afternoon. But I have seen you 
 laugh." He nodded wisely. "I have seen you laugh ever 
 so often. One day you were laughing alone all down in 
 the sweet peas." 
 
 "Was I?" 
 
 —33— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Yes. Were you laughing at me?" 
 
 "I was not thinking about you. Cotton, please — a reel 
 of No. 50 white from my chest of drawers. Left-hand 
 drawer. Now which is your left hand?" 
 • "The side my pocket is." 
 
 "And if you had no pocket?" 
 
 "The side mjy bad foot is." 
 
 "I meant you to say, 'the side my heart is,' " said Mrs. 
 Elliot, holding up the duster between them. "Most of us 
 — I mean all of us — can feel on one side a little watch, that 
 never stops ticking. So even if you had no bad foot you 
 would still know which is the left. No. 50 white, please. 
 No; I'll get it myself." For she had remembered that the 
 dark passage frightened him. 
 
 These were the outlines. Rickie filled them in with the 
 slowness and the accuracy of a child. He was never told 
 anything, but he discovered for himself that his farther and 
 mother did not love each other, and that his mother was" 
 lovable. He discovered that Mr. Elliot had dubbed him 
 (Rickie because he was rickety, that he took pleasure in al- 
 \luding to his son's deformity, and was sorry that it was 
 not more serious than his own. Mr. Elliot had not one 
 scrap of genius. He gathered the pictures and the books 
 and the flower-supports mechanically, not in any impulse of 
 love. He passed for a cultured man because he knew how 
 to select, and he passed for an unconventional man because 
 he did not select quite like other people. In reality he 
 ^ never did or said or thought one single thing that had the 
 slightest beauty or value. And in time Rickie discovered 
 this as well. 
 
 The boy grew up in great loneliness. He worshipped 
 his mother, and she was fond of him. But she was digni- 
 fied and reticent, and pathos, like tattle, was disgusting to 
 her. She was afraid of intiniacy, in case it led to confi- 
 dences and tears, antf so alTKer life she held her son at a 
 little distance. Her kindness and unselfishness knew no 
 
 —34— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 limits, but if he tried to be dramatic and thank her, she 
 told him not to be a little goose. And so the only person he 
 .came t£_know at all was himself . He would play H'alma 
 against himself. He would conduct solitary conversations, 
 in which one part of him asked and another part answered. 
 It was an exciting game, and concluded with the formula: 
 "Good-bye. Thank you. I am glad to have met you. I 
 hope before long we shall enjoy another chat." And then 
 perhaps he would sob for loneliness, for he would see real 
 people — real brothers, real friends — doing in warm life the 
 things he had pretended. "Shall I ever have a friend?" he 
 demanded at the age of twelve. "I don't see how. They 
 walk too fast. And a brother I shall never have." 
 
 ("No loss," interrupted Widdrington. 
 
 "But I shall never have one, and so I quite want one, 
 even now.") 
 
 When he was thirteen Mr. Elliot entered on his illness. 
 The pretty rooms in town would not do for an invalid, and 
 so he came back to his home. One of the first consequences 
 was that Rickie was sent to a public school. Mrs. Elliot 
 did what she could, but 'she had no hold whatever over her 
 husband. 
 
 "He worries me," he declared. "He's a joke of which 
 I have got tired." ^ 
 
 "Would it be possible to send him to a private tutors? 
 
 "No," said Mr. Elliot, who had all the money. 
 "Coddling." 
 
 "I agree that boys ought to rough it; but when a boy 
 is lame and very delicate, he roughs it sufficiently if he 
 leaves home. Rickie can't play games. He doesn't make 
 friends. He isn't brilliant. Thinking it over, T feel that 
 as it's like this, we cai?"t"ever hope to give him the ordinary 
 education. Perhaps you could think it over too." 
 
 "No." ^ _. 
 
 "I am sure that things are best for him as they are. The 
 day-school knocks quite as many corners off him as he can 
 
 —35— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 stand. He hates it, but it is good for him. A public school 
 will not be good for him. It is too rough. Instead of get- 
 ting manly and hard, he will " 
 
 ^_/"My head, please." 
 
 Rickie departed in a state of bewildered misery, which 
 was scarcely ever to grow clearer. 
 
 - Each holiday he found his father more irritable, and a 
 little weaker. Mrs. Elliot was quickly growing old. She 
 had to manage the servants, to hush the neighbouring chil-^ 
 dren, to answer the correspondence, to paper and re-paper; 
 the rooms — and all for the sake of a man whom she did not 
 like, and who did not conceal his dislike for her. One dayl 
 she found Rickie tearful, and said rather crossly, "WelV 
 what is it this time?" 
 
 He replied, "Oh, mummy, I've seen your wrinkles — ^your 
 grey hair — I'm unhappy." 
 
 Sudden tenderness overcame her, and she cried, "My 
 darling, what does it matter? Whatever does it matter 
 
 now 
 
 ?" 
 
 He had never known her so emotional. Yet even better 
 did he remember another incident Hearing high voices 
 from his father's room, he went upstairs in the hope that 
 the sound of his tread might stop them. Mrs. Elliot burst 
 open the door, and seeing him, exclaimed, "My dear! If 
 you please, he's hit me." She tried to laugh it off, but a 
 few hours later he saw the bruise which the stick of the in- 
 valid had raised upon his mother's hand. 
 
 God alone knows how far we are in the grip of our 
 \ bodies. He alone can judge how far the cruelty of Mr. 
 Elliot was the outcome of extenuating circumstances. But 
 Mrs. Elliot could accurately judge of its extent. 
 
 At j agt he died. Rickie was now fifteen, and got off a 
 whole weeFs~school for the funeral. His mother was ; 
 rather strange. She was much happier, she looked younger, | 
 and her mourning was as unobtrusive as convention per-/ 
 
 -36- ./..,, ,...- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 mitted. All this he had expected. But she seemed to be 
 watching him, and to be extremely anxious for his opinion 
 on any subject — more especially on his father. Why? At 
 last he saw that she was trying to establish confidence 
 between them. But confidence cannot be established in a 
 moment. They were both shy. The habit of years was 
 upon them, and they alluded to the death of Mr. Elliot as 
 an irreparable loss. 
 
 "Now that your father has gone, things will be very 
 different." 
 
 "Shall we be poorer, miother?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 "But naturally things will be very different." 
 
 "Yes, naturally." 
 
 "For instance, your poor father liked being near Lon- 
 don, but I almost think we might move. Would you like 
 that?" 
 
 "Of course, mummy." He looked down at the ground. 
 He was not accustomed to being consulted, and it bewildered 
 him. 
 
 "Perhaps you might like quite a different life better?" 
 
 He giggled. 
 
 "It's a little difficult for me," said Mrs. Elliot, pacing 
 vigorously up and down the room, and more and more did 
 her black dress seem a mockery. "In some ways you ought 
 to be consulted : nearly all the money is left to you, as you 
 must hear some time or other. But in other ways you're 
 only a boy. What am I to do?" 
 
 "I don't know," he replied, appearing more helpless and 
 unhelpful than he really was. 
 
 "For instance, would you like me to arrange things ex- 
 actly as I like?" 
 
 "Oh do!" he exclaimed, thinking this a most brilliant 
 suggestion. "The very nicest thing of all." And he added, 
 
 —37— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 in his half-pedantic, half-pleasing way, "I shall be as wax 
 in your hands, mamma." 
 
 She smiled. "Very well, darling. You shall be." And 
 she pressed him lovingly, as though she would mould him 
 into something beautiful. 
 
 For the next few days great preparations were in the air. 
 She went to see his .father's sister, the gifted and vivacious 
 ^Lunt Emily. They were to live in the country — somewhere 
 right in' the country, with grass and trees up to the door, 
 and birds singing everywhere, and a tutor. For he was 
 not to go back to school. Unbelievable ! He was never to 
 go back to school, and the headmaster had written saying 
 that he regretted the step, but that possibly it was a wise 
 one. 
 
 It was raw weather, and Mrs. Elliot watched over him 
 with ceaseless tenderness. It seemed as if she could not do 
 too much to shield him and to draw him nearer to her. 
 
 "Put on your greatcoat, dearest," she said to him. 
 
 "I don't think I want it," answered Rickie, remembering 
 that he was now fifteen. 
 
 "The wind is bitter. You ought to put it on." 
 
 "But it's so heavy." 
 
 "Do put it on, dear." 
 
 He was not very often irritable or rude, but he answered, 
 "Oh, I shan't catch cold. I do wish you wouldn't keep on 
 bothering." 
 
 He did not catch cold, but while he was out his mothert 
 
 di^. She only survived her husband eleven days, a coinJ 
 
 "cidepce which was recorded on their tombstone. / 
 
 Such, in substance, was the story which Rickie told his 
 friends as they stood together in the shelter of the dell. 
 The green bank at the entrance hid the road and the world, 
 and now, as in spring, they could see nothing but snow- 
 white ramparts and the evergreen foliage of the firs. Only 
 
 -38- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 from time to time would a beech leaf flutter in from the 
 woods above, to comment on the waning year, and the 
 warmth and radiance of the sun would vanish behind a 
 passing cloud. 
 
 About the greatcoat he did not tell them, for he could 
 not have spoken of it without tears. 
 
 —39— 
 
Ill 
 
 MR. ANSELL, a provincial draper of moderate 
 prosperity, ought by rights to have been classeS 
 not with the cow, but with those phenomena that 
 are not really there. But his son, with pardonable illogical- 
 ity, excepted him. He never suspected that his father might 
 be the subjective product of a diseased unaginatiQn. From~~" 
 his earliest years he had taken him for granted, as a most 
 undeniable and lovable fact. To be bom one thing and 
 grow up another — ^Ansell had accomplished this without 
 weakening one of the ties that bound him to his home. 
 The rooms above the shop still seemed as comfortable, the 
 garden behind it as gracious, as they had seemed fifteen 
 years before, when he would |itbehind Misg Appleblossom's 
 central throne, and she, like some allegoricaTfigUfe, woul3~ 
 send the change and receipted bills spinning away from her 
 in little boxwood balls. At first the young man had attrib- 
 uted these happy relations to his own tact. But in time he 
 perceived that the tact was all on the side of his father. 
 Mr. Ansell was not merely a man of some education; he 
 had what no education can bring — the .power of detecting 
 jKhat is impo rtant. Like many fathers, he had spared no 
 expense over his boy, — he had borrowed money to start 
 him at a rapacious and fashionable private school; he had 
 sent him to tutors; he had sent him to Cambridge. But he 
 knew that all this was not the important thing. The im- 
 I portant thing was^reedom^ The boy must use his educa- 
 tion as he chose, and if he paid his father back it would 
 certainly not be in his own coin. So when Stewart said, 
 "At Cambridge, can I read for the Moral Science Tripos?" 
 
 —40— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 Mr. Ansell had only replied, "This philosophy — do you saj 
 that it lies behind everything?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so. It, tries to^scover what is good and 
 true. 
 
 "Then, my boy, you had better read as much of it as you 
 can." 
 
 And a year later: "I'd like to take up this philosophy 
 seriously, but I don't feel justified." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because it brings in no return. I think I'm a great 
 philosopher, but then all philosophers think that, though 
 they don't dare to say so. But, however great I am, I 
 shan't earn money. Perhaps I shan't ever be able to keep 
 myself. I shan't even get a good social position. . You've 
 only to say one word, and I'll work for the Civil Service. 
 I'm good enough to get in high." 
 
 Mr. AnselL-liked. money and social positioji. But he 
 knew that there is a more important thing, and re- 
 plied, "You must take up this philosophy seriously, I 
 think." 
 
 "Another thing — there are the girls." 
 
 "There is enough money now to get }JlaTy and Maud as 
 good husbands as they deserve." And Mary and Maud 
 took the same view. 
 
 It was in this _glebeian household that Ricjjie spent part 
 of the Christmas vacation. Hi s o wn home, such as it was, 
 was with the Silts, needy cousins of his father's, and com- 
 bined to a peculiar degree the restrictions of hospitality 
 with the discomforts of a boarding-house. Such pleasure 
 as he had outside Cambridge was in the homes of his 
 friends, and it was a particular joy and honour to visit An- i 
 sell, who, though as free from social snobbishness as most '■ 
 of us w ill ever manage to be, was rather careful when he 
 drove up to the fagade of his shop. 
 
 "I like our new lettering," he said thoughtfully. The 
 words "Stewart Ansell" were repeated again and again 
 
 —41— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 along the High Street — curly gold letters that seemed to 
 float in tanks of glazed chocolate. 
 
 "Rather!" said Rickie. But he w onder ed whether one 
 of the bonds that kept the Ansell faniil^united might not^ 
 be their co tn glete absence of taste — a surer bond by far than 
 the identity of it. ~ And he wondered this again when he sat 
 at tea opposite a long row of crayons — Stewart as a baby, 
 Stewart as a small boy with large feet, Stewart as a larger 
 boy with smaller feet, Mary reading a book whose leaves 
 were as thick as eider-downs. And yet again did he won- 
 der it when he woke with a gasp in the night to find a harp 
 in luminous paint throbbing and glowering at him from the 
 adjacent wall. "Watch and pray" was written on the harp, 
 and until Rickie hung a towel over it the exhortation was 
 partially successful. 
 
 It was a very happy visit. Miss Appleblosaspm — who 
 now acted as housekeepet— had met him before, during her 
 never-forgotten expedition to Cambridge, and her admira- 
 tion of University life was as shrill and as genuine now 
 as it had been then. The girls at first were a little aggres- 
 sive, for on his arrival he had been tired, and Maud had 
 taken it for haughtiness, and said he was looking down on 
 them. But this passed. They did not fall in love with 
 him, nor he with them, but a morning was spent very 
 pleasantly in snow-balling in the back garden. Ansell was 
 rather diflferent to what he was in Cambridge, but to Rickie 
 not less attractive. And there was a curious charm in the 
 hum of the shop, which swelled into a roar if one opened 
 the partition door on a market-day. 
 
 ( "Listen to your money!" said Rickie. "I wish I could 
 
 !hear mine. I wish my money was aUve." 
 
 V- "I don't understand." 
 
 II "Mine's dead money. It's come to me through about six 
 
 ' dead people — silently." 
 
 '' "Getting a little smaller and a little more respectable 
 each time, on account of the death-duties." 
 
 —42— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "It needed to get respectable." 
 
 "Why? Did your people, too, once keep a shop?" 
 
 "Oh, not as bad as that! They only swindled. About 
 a hundred years ago an Elliot did something shady and 
 founded the fortunes of our house." 
 
 "I never knew any one so relentless to his ancestors. 
 You make up for your soapiness towards the liv- 
 ing." 
 
 "You'd be relentless if you'd heard the Silts, as I have, 
 talk about 'a fortune, small perhaps, but unsoiled by trade !' 
 Of course Aunt Emily is rather different. Oh, goodness 
 me ! I've forgotten my aunt. She hves not so far. I shall 
 have to call on her." 
 
 Accordingly he wrote to Mrs. FaiHng, and said he should 
 like to pay his respects. He told her about the Ansells, and 
 so worded the letter that she might reasonably have sent 
 an invitation to his friend. 
 
 She replied that she was looking forward to their tete- 
 d-tete. 
 
 "You mustn't go round by the trains," said Mr. Ansell. 
 "It means changing at Salisbury. By the road it's no great 
 way. Stewart shall drive you over Salisbury Plain, and 
 fetch you too." 
 
 "There's too much snow," said Ansell. 
 
 "Then the girls shall take you in their sledge." 
 
 "That I will," said Maud, who was not unwilling to see 
 the inside of Cadover. But Rickie went round by the 
 trains. 
 
 "We have all missed you," said Ansell, when he returned. 
 "There is a general feeling that you are no nuisance, and 
 had better stop till the end of the vac." 
 
 This he could not do. He was bound for Christmas to 
 the ^Silts=r-"as a real guest," Mrs. Silt had, written, under- 
 lining the word "real" twice. And after Christmas he 
 must go to the Pembrokes. 
 
 "These are no reasons. The only real reason for doing 
 
 —43— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 a thing is because you want to do it. I think the talk about 
 'engagements' is cant." 
 
 "I think perhaps it is," said Rickie. But he went. 
 Never had the turkey been so athletic, or the plum-pudding 
 tied into its cloth so tightly. Yet he knew that both these 
 symbols of hilarity had cost money, and it went to his heart 
 when Mr. Silt said in a hungry voice, "Have you thought at 
 all of what you want to be ? No ? Well, why should you ? 
 You have no need to be anything." And at dessert: "I 
 wonder who Caj^vgj:. goes to? I expect money will follow 
 money. It always does." It was with a guilty feeling of 
 relief that he felt for the Pembrokes. 
 
 The Pembrokes lived in an adjacent suburb, or irather 
 "sububurb," — ^the tract ca lled Sawston.^ celebrated for its 
 piihlic sflinnl. Their style of life, however, was not par- 
 ticularly suburban. Their house was small and its name 
 was ^helthorpcj but it had an air about it which suggested a 
 certain amount of money and a certain amount of taste. 
 There were decent water-colours in the drawing-room. 
 Madonnas of acknowledged merit hung upon the stairs. A 
 replica of the Hermes of Praxiteles — of course only the 
 bust — stood in the hall with a real palm behind it. Agnes, 
 in her slap-dash way, wa§^ a good housekeeper, and kdpt"the 
 pretty things well dusted. It "was she who insisted on the 
 strip of brown holland that led diagonally from the front 
 door to the door of Herbert's study: boys' grubby feet 
 should not go treading on her Indian square. It was she 
 who always cleaned the picture-frames and washed the bust 
 and the leaves of the palm. In short, if a house could speak 
 — and sometimes it does speak more clearly than the people 
 who live in it — thej iguse of th e Pembrokes would have said, 
 "I am not quite like other houses, yet t "am perfectly com- 
 fortable. I contain works of art and a microscope and 
 books. But I do not live for any of these things or suffer 
 them to disarrange me. I live for myself and for the greater 
 
 —44— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 houses that shall come after me. Yet in me neither the 
 cry of money nor the cry for money shall ever be 
 heard." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke was at the station. He did better as a 
 host than as a guest, and welcomed the young man with real 
 friendliness. 
 
 "We were all coming, but Gerald has strained his ankle 
 slightly, and wants to keep quiet, as he is playing next week 
 in a match. And, needless to say, that explains the absence 
 of my sister." 
 "Gerald Dawes?" 
 
 ' YesTheTwith us. I'm so glad you'll meet again." 
 "So am I," said Rickie with extreme awkwardness. 
 "Does he remember me ?" 
 "Vividly." 
 
 Vivid also was Rickie's remembrance of him. 
 "A splendid fellow," asserted Mr. Pembroke. 
 "I hope that Agnes is well." 
 
 "Thank you, yes ; she is well. And I think you're looking 
 more like other people yourself." 
 
 "I've been having a very good time with a friend." 
 "Indeed. That's right. Who was that?" 
 Rickie had a young man's reticence. He generally spoke j 
 of "a friend," "a person I know," "a place I was at." I 
 When the book of life is opening, our readings are secret, J 
 and we are unwilling to give chapter and verse. Mr. Pem- 
 broke, who was half way through the volume, and had 
 skipped or forgotten the earlier pages, could not understand 
 Rickie's hesitation, nor why with such awkwardness he 
 should pronounce the harmless dissyllable "Ansell." 
 
 "Ansell? Wasn't that the pleasant fellow who asked us 
 to lunch?" 
 
 "No. That was Anderson, who keeps below. You j^ 
 didn't see Ansell. The ones who came to breakfast were 
 Tilliard and Hornblower." 
 
 —45— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Of course. And since then you have been with the 
 JiltSi How are they?" 
 
 "Very well, thank you. They want to be remembered to 
 you." 
 
 The Pembrokes had formerly lived near the Elliots, and 
 had shown great kindness to Rickie when his parents died. 
 They were thus rather in ±he_pQsitipn of farnily_fj;iends. 
 
 "Please remember us when you write." He added, 
 almost roguishly, "The Silts are kindness itself. All the 
 same, it must be just a little — dull, we thought, and we 
 thought that you might like a change. And of course we are 
 delighted to have you besides. That goes without saying." 
 
 "It's very good of you," said Rickie, who had accepted 
 the invitation because he felt he ought to. 
 
 "Not a bit. And you mustn't expect us to be otherwise 
 than quiet in the holidays. There is a library of a sort, as 
 you know, and you will find Gerald a splendid fellow." 
 
 "Will they be married soon?" 
 
 "Oh no!" whispered ,Mr^Pembroke, shutting his eyes, 
 as if Rickie had made some terrible faux pas. "It will be a 
 very long engagement. He must make his way first. I 
 have seen such endless misery result from people marrying 
 before they have made their way." 
 
 "Yes. That is so," said Rickie despondently, thinking of 
 the . Silts . 
 
 "It's a sad unpalatable truth," said Mr. Pembroke, think- 
 ing that the despondency might be personal, "but one must 
 accept it. My sister and Gerald, I am thankful to say, have 
 accepted it, though naturally it has been a little pill." 
 
 Their cab lurched round the corner as he spoke, and the 
 two patients came in sight. Agnes_was leaning over the 
 crepsoted garden-gate, and behind her there stood a young 
 man who had the figure of a Greek athlete and the face of an 
 English one. He was fair and clean-shaven, and his colour- 
 less hair was cut rather short. The sun was in his eyes, 
 and they, like his mouth, seemed scarcely more than slits in 
 
 — ^46 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 his healthy skin. Just where he began to be beautiful the 
 clothes started. Round his neck went an up-and-down collar 
 and a mauve-and-gold tie, and the rest of his limbs were 
 hidden by a grey lounge suit, carefully creased in the right 
 places. 
 
 "Lovely! lovely!" cried Agnes, banging on the gate. 
 "Your train must have been to the minute." 
 
 "Hullo!" said the athlete, and vomited with the greeting 
 a cloud of tobacco-smoke. It must have been imprisoned 
 in his mouth some time, for no pipe was visible. 
 
 "Hullo!" returned Rickie, laughing violently. They 
 shook hands. 
 
 "Where are you going, Rickie?" asked Agnes. "You 
 aren't grubby. Why don't you stop ? Gerald, get the large 
 wicker-chair. !^erbert has letters,, but we can sit here till 
 lunch. It's like spring." 
 
 The garden of Shelthorpe was nearly all in front — an un- 
 usual and pleasant arrangement. The front gate and the 
 servants' entrance were both at the side, and in the re- 
 maining space the gardener had contrived a little lawn 
 where one could sit concealed from the road by a fence, 
 from the neighbour by a fence, from the house by a tree, 
 and from the path by a bush. 
 
 "This is the lovers' bower," observed Agnes, sitting down 
 on the bench. Rickie stood by her till the chair arrived. 
 
 "Are you smoking before lunch ?" asked Mr. Dawes. 
 
 "No, thank you. I hardly ever smoke." 
 
 "No vices. Aren't you at Cambridge now?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What's your college?" 
 
 Rickie told him. 
 
 "Do you know Carruthers?" 
 
 "Rather!" 
 
 "I mean A. P. Carruthers, who got his socker blue." 
 
 "Rather ! He's secretary to the college musical society." 
 
 "A. P. Carruthers?" 
 
 —47— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Mr. Dawes seemed offended. He tapped on his teeth, 
 and remarked that the weather had no business to be so 
 warm in winter. 
 
 "But it was fiendish before Oiristmas," said Agnes. 
 
 He frowned, and asked, "Do you know a man called 
 ^errish?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Ah." 
 
 "Do you know James?" 
 
 "Never heard of him." 
 
 "He's my year too. He got a blue for hockey his second 
 term." 
 
 "I know nothing about the 'Varsity." 
 
 Rickie winced at the abbreviation "'Varsity." It .was at 
 that time the proper thing to speak of "the University." 
 
 "I haven't the time," pursued Mr. Dawes. 
 
 "No, no," said Rickie politely. 
 
 "I had the chance of being an Undergrad. myself, and, by 
 Jove, I'm thankful I didn't!" 
 
 "Why?" asked Agnes, for there was a pause. 
 
 "Puts you back in your profession. Men who go there 
 first, before the Army, start hopelessly behind. The same 
 with the Stock Exchange or Painting. I know men in 
 both, and they've never caught up the time they lost in the 
 'Varsity — unless, of course, you turn parson." 
 
 "I love Cambridge," said she. "All those glorious build- 
 ings, and every one so happy and running in and out of 
 each other's rooms all day long." 
 
 "That might make an Undergrad happy, but I beg 
 leave to state it wouldn't me. I haven't four years to throw 
 away for the sake of being called a 'Varsity man and hob- 
 nobbing with Lords." 
 
 Rickie was prepared to find his old schoolfellow un- 
 grammatical and, bumptious, but he was not prepared to find 
 him peevish. Athletes, he believed, were simple, straight- 
 
 -48- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 forward people, cruel and brutal if you like, but never petty. 
 They knocked you down and hurt you, and, then went on 
 their way rejoicing. For this, Rickie thought, there is 
 something to be said : he had escaped the sin of despising the 
 physically strong — a sin against which the physically weak 
 must guard. But here was Dawes returning again and 
 again to the subject of the University, full of transparent 
 jealousy and petty spite, nagging, nagging, nagging, like a 
 maiden lady who has not been invited to a tea-party. Rickie 
 wondered whether, after all, Ansell and the extremists might 
 not be right, and bodily beauty and strength be signs of the 
 soul's damnation. 
 
 He glanced at Agnes. She was writing down some order- 
 ings for the tradespeople on a piece of paper. Her hand- 
 some face was intent on the work. The bench on which she 
 and Gerald were sitting had no back, but she sat as straight 
 as a dart. He, though strong enough to sit straight, did 
 not take the trouble. 
 
 "Why don't they talk to each other?" thought Rickie. 
 
 "Gerald, give this paper to the cook." 
 
 "I can give it to the other slavey, can't I ?" 
 
 "She'll be dressing." 
 
 "Well, there's Herbert." 
 
 "He's busy. Oh, you know where the kitchen is. Take 
 it to the cook." 
 
 He disappeared slowly behind the tree. 
 
 "What do you think of him?" she immediately asked. 
 
 He murmured civilly. 
 
 "Has he changed since he was a schoolboy ?" 
 
 "In a way." 
 
 "Do tell me all about him. Why won't you?" 
 
 She might have seen a flash of horror pass over Rickie's 
 face. The horror disappeared, for, thank God, he was 
 now a man, whom civilization protects. But he and Gerald 
 had met, as irwere, behind the scenes, befoue our decorous 
 drama opens, and there the elder boy had done things to him 
 
 —49— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 — absurd things, not ^,worth chronicling separately. An 
 apple-pie bed is nothing; pincEes, kicks, boxed ears, twisted 
 arms, pulled hair, ghosts at night, inky books, befouled 
 photographs, amount to very little by themselves. But 
 let them be united and continuous, and you have a hell 
 that no grown-up devil can devise. Between Rickie and 
 Gerald there lay a shadow that darkens life more of- 
 ten than we suppose. The bully and his victim never quite 
 forget their first relations. They meet in clubs and coun- 
 try houses, and clap one another on the back; but in both 
 the memory is green of a more strenuous day, when they 
 were boys together. 
 
 He tried to say, "He was the right kind of boy, and I 
 was the wrong kind." But Cambridge would not let him 
 smooth the situation over by self-belittlement. If he had 
 been the wrong kind of boy, Gerald had been a worse 
 kind. He murmured, "We are different, very," and Miss 
 Pembroke, perhaps suspecting something, asked no more. 
 But she kept to the subject of Mr. Dawes, humorously 
 depreciating her lover and. discussing him without rever- 
 ence. Rickie laughed, but felt uncomfortable. When 
 people were engaged, he felt that they_ should be outside 
 griticism. Yet here he was criticizing. He could not help"" 
 it. He was dragged in. 
 
 "I hope his ankle is better." 
 
 "Never was bad. He's always fussing over some- 
 thing." 
 
 "He plays next week in a match, I think Herbert says." 
 
 "I dare say he does." 
 
 "Shall we be going?" 
 
 "Pray go if you like. I shall stop at home. I've had 
 enough of cold feet." 
 
 It was all very colourless and odd. 
 
 Gerald returned, saying, "I can't stand your cook, 
 f What's she want to ask me questions for? I can't stand 
 ; talking , to .servants. I say, 'If I speak to you," well and 
 
 —SO- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 good' — and it's another thing besides if she were pretty." 
 
 "Well, I hope our ugly cook will have lunch ready in a 
 minute," said Agnes. "We're frightfully unpunctual this 
 morning, and I daren't say anything, because it was the same 
 yesterday, and if I complain again they might leave. Poor 
 Rickie must be starved." 
 
 "Why, the Sjjts gave me all these sandwiches and I've 
 never eaten them. They always stuff one?' 
 
 "And you thought you'd better, eh?" said Mr. Dawes, 
 "in case you weren't stuffed here." 
 
 Miss Pembroke, who house-kept somewhat economi- 
 cally, looked annoyed. 
 
 The voice of Mr. Pembroke was now heard calling from/ 
 the house, "Frederick! Frederick! My dear boy, pardon 
 me. It was an important letter about the Church Defence, 
 otherwise Come in and see your room." 
 
 He was glad to quit the little lawn. He had learnt too 
 much there. It was. dreadful: they did not love each 
 other. 
 
 More dreadful even than the ^case of.^his father .and 
 mother ,. for they, until_they married, had got on pretty well. 
 But this man was already rude and brutal and cold: he 
 was still the school bully who twisted up the arms erf little 
 boys, and ran pins into them at chapel, and struck them in 
 the stomach when they were swinging on the horizontal bar. 
 Poor Agnes; why ever had she done it? Ought not 
 somebody to interfere? 
 
 He had forgotten his sandwiches, and went back to get 
 them. 
 
 Gerald, and Agnes were locked in each other's arms. 
 
 He only looked for a moment, but the sight burnt into his 
 brain. The man's grip was the stronger. He had drawn 
 the woman on to his knee, was pressing her, with all his 
 strength, against him. Already her hands slipped off him, 
 
 and she whispered, "Don't — you hurt " Her face had 
 
 no expression. It stared at the intruder and never saw him. 
 
 —51— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Then her lover kissed it, and immediately it shone with mys- 
 terious beauty, like some star. 
 
 vgickiejimped .away without the sandwiches, crimson and 
 afraid. He thought, "Po such, things actually happen?" 
 and he seemed to be looking down coloured valleys. 
 Brighter they glowed, till gods of pure flame were born in 
 them, and then he was looking at pinnacles of virgin snow. 
 While Mr. Pembroke talked, the riot of fair images 
 increased. 
 
 They invaded his being and lit lamps at unsuspected 
 shrines. Their orchestra commenced in that suburban 
 house, where he had to stand aside for the maid to carry in 
 the luncheon. Music flowed past him like a river. He 
 stood at the springs of creation and heard the primeval mo- 
 notony. Then an obscure instrument gave out a little 
 phrase. 
 
 The river continued unheeding. The phrase was re- 
 peated and a listener might know it was a fragment of the 
 Tune of tunes. Nobler instruments accepted it, the clario- 
 net protected, the brass encouraged, and it rose to the sur- 
 face to the whisper of violins. In full unison was Love 
 born, flame of the flame, flushing the dark river beneath him 
 and the virgin snows above. His wings were infinite, his 
 youth eternal; the sun was a jewel on his finger as 
 he passed it in benediction over the world. Creation, no 
 longer monotonous, acclaimed him, in widening melody, in 
 brighter radiances. Was Love a column of fire? Was he 
 a torrent of song? Was he greater than either— the touch 
 of a man on a woman? 
 
 It was the merest accident that Rickie had not been dis- 
 gusted. But this he could not know. 
 
 Mr. Pembroke, when he called the two dawdlers into 
 lunch, was aware of a hand on his arm and a voice that 
 murmured, "Don't — they may be happy." 
 
 He stared, and struck the gong. To its music they 
 approached, priest and high priestess. 
 
 —52— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "Rickie, can I give these sandwiches to the boot boy ?" said 
 the one. "He would love them." 
 
 "The gong ! Be quick ! The gong !" 
 
 "Are you smoking before lunch ?" said the other. 
 
 But they had got into heaven, and nothing could get them 
 out of it. Others might think them surly or prosaic. He 
 knew. He could remember every word they spoke. He 
 would treasure every motion, every glance of either, and so 
 in time to come, when the gates of heaven had shut, some 
 faint radiance, some echo of wisdom might remain with him 
 outside. 
 
 As a matter of fact, he saw them very little during his 
 visit. He checked himself because he was unworthy. 
 What right had he to pry, even in the spirit, upon their bliss ? 
 It was no crime to have seen them on the lawn. It would 
 be a crime to go to it again. He tried to keep himself and 
 his thoughts away, not because he was ascetic, but because 
 they would not like it if they knew. This behaviour of his 
 suited them admirably. And when any gracious little 
 thing occurred to them — any little thing that his sympathy 
 had contrived and allowed — they put it down to chance or 
 to each other. 
 
 So the lovers fall into the background. They are part of 
 the distant simrise, and only the mountains speak to them. 
 Rickie talks to Mr. Pembroke, amidst the unlit valleys of 
 oiif~15ver-habitaBIe" worlds "^ 
 
 —53— 
 
s 
 
 IV 
 
 AWSTON SCHOOL had been founded by a trades- 
 man in the seventeenth century. It was then a tiny 
 
 grammar-school in a tiny town, and the City Company 
 
 who governed it had to drive half a day through the woods 
 and heath on the occasion of their annual visit. In the twen- 
 tieth century they still drove, but only from the railway 
 station; and found themselves not in a tiny town, nor yet 
 in a large one, but amongst innumerable residences, de- 
 tached and semi-detached, which had gathered round the 
 school. For the intentions of the founder had been altered, 
 or at all events amplified, instead of educating the "poore 
 of my home," he now educated the upper classes of Eng- 
 land. The change had taken place not so very far back. 
 Till the nineteenth century the grammar-school was still com- 
 posed of day scholars from the neighbourhood. Then two 
 things happened. Firstly, the school's property rose in 
 value, and it became rich. Secondly, for no obvious reason, 
 it suddenly emitted a quantity of bishops. The bishops, like 
 the stars from a Roman candle, were all colours, and flew 
 in all directions, some high, some low, some to distant col- 
 onies, one into the Church of Rome. But many a fa:ther 
 l^aced their course in the papers ; many a mother wondered 
 whether her son, if properly ignited, might not burn as 
 bright ; many a family moved to the place where living and 
 education were so cheap, where day-boys were not looked 
 down upon, and where the orthodox and the up-to-date 
 were said to be combined. The school doubled its numbers. 
 It built new class-rooms, laboratories and a gymnasium. 
 It dropped the prefix "Grammar." It coaxed the sons of 
 the local tradesmen into a new foundation, the "Commer- 
 cial School," built a couple of miles away. And it started 
 
 —54— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 boarding-houses. It had not the gracious antiquity of Eton 
 or Winchester, nor, on the other hand, had it a conscious 
 poHcy like Lancing, Wellington, and other purely modern 
 foundations. Where traditions served, it clung to them. 
 Where new departures seemed desirable, they were made. 
 It aimed at priJducingthe^jiver^jgeEnglishman, and, to a 
 very great extent, it succeeded. 
 
 Here Mr. Pembroke_passe^_Jiis happy and industrious 
 life. His technical position was that of master to a form 
 low down on the Modern Side. "^ But his work lay else- 
 where. He organized. If no organization existed, he 
 would create one. If one did exist, he would modify 
 it. "An organization," he would say, "is after all not an 
 end in itself. It must contribute to a movement." When> 
 one good custom seemed likely to corrupt the school, he wasj 
 ready with another; he believed that without innumerable' 
 customs there was no safety, either for boys or men. 
 
 Perhaps he is right, and always will be right. Perhaps 
 each of us would go to ruin if for one short hour we acted j 
 as we thought fit, and attempted the service of pefect free- , 
 dom. The school caps, with their elaborate symbolism, were | 
 his; h^ the many-tinted bathing-drawers, that showed how 
 far a boy could swim; his the hierarchy of jerseys and 
 blazers. It was he who instituted Bounds, and call, and the 
 two sorts of exercise-paper, and the three sorts of caning, 
 and "The Sawtonian," a bi-terminal magazine. His plump 
 finger was in every pie. The dome of his skull, mild but 
 impressive, shone at every master's meeting. He was 
 generally acknowledged to be the coming man. 
 
 His last achievement had been the organization of the 
 day-boys. They had been left too much to themselves, 
 and were weak in esprit de corps; they were apt to regard 
 home, not school, as the most important thing in their lives. 
 Moreover, they got out of their parents' hands; they did 
 their preparation any time and sometimes anyhow. They 
 shirked games, they were out at all hours, they ate what they 
 
 —55— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 should not, they smoked, they bicycled on the asphalt. Now 
 all was over. Like boarders, they were to be in at 7.15 p.m., 
 and were not allowed out after unless with a written order 
 from their parent or guardian; they, too, must work at fixed 
 hours in the evening, and before breakfast next morning 
 from 7 to 8. Games were compulsory. They must not go 
 to parties in term time. They must keep to bounds. Of 
 course the reform was not complete. It was impossible to 
 control the dieting, though, on a printed circular, day-parents 
 were implored to provide simple food. And it is also be- 
 lieved that some mothers disobeyed the rule about prepar- 
 ation, and allowed their sons to do all the work over-night 
 and have a longer sleep in the morning. But the gulf be- 
 tween day-boys and boarders was considerably lessened, and 
 grew still narrower when the day-boys too were organized 
 into a House with house-master and colours of their own. 
 "Through the House," said Mr. Pembroke, "one learns 
 patriotism for the school, just as through the school one 
 learns patriotism for the country. Our only course, there- 
 fore, is to organize the day-boys into a House." The head- 
 master agreed, as he often did, and the new community was 
 formed. Mr^JPembr^cg, to avoid the tongues of malice, had 
 refused the post of house-master for himself, saying to^r. 
 Jaskson, JKhaJaught the sixth, "You keep too much in the 
 background. Here is a cTiance for you." But this was a 
 failure. Mr. Jackson, a scholar and a student, neither felt 
 nor conveyed any enthusiasm, and when confronted with his 
 House, would say, "Well, I don't know what we're all here 
 for. Now I should think you'd better go home to your 
 mothers." He returned to his background, and next term 
 Mr. Pembroke was to take his place. 
 r Such were the themes on which Mr. Pembroke discoursed 
 / to Rickie's civil ear. He showed him the school, and the 
 I library, and the subterranean hall where the day-boys might 
 {_^ leave their coats and caps, and where, on festal occasions, 
 they supped. He showed him Mr. Jackson's pretty house, 
 
 -S6- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 and whispered, "Were it not for his brilliant intellect, it 
 would be a case of Quickmarch!" He showed him the 
 racquet-court, happily completed, and the chapel, unhappily 
 still in need of funds. Eickie. was impressed, but then he 
 was impressed, by everything. Of course a House of day- 
 boys seemed a little shadowy after Agnes and Gerald, but he 
 imparted some reality even to that. 
 
 "The racquet-court," said Mr. Pembroke, "is most grati- 
 fying. We never expected to manage it this year. But be- 
 fore the Easter holidays every boy received a subscription 
 card, and was given to understand that he must collect thirty 
 shillings. You will scarcely believe me, but they nearly all 
 responded. Next term there was a dinner in the great 
 school, and all who had collected, not thirty shillings, but as 
 much as a pound, were invited to it — for naturally one was 
 not precise for a few shillings, the response being the 
 really valuable thing. Practically the whole school had to 
 come." 
 
 "They must enjoy the court tremendously." 
 
 "Ah, it isn't used very much. Racquets, as I daresay you 
 know, is rather an expensive game. Only the wealthier 
 boys play — and I'm sorry to say that it is not of our wealth-"* 
 ier boys that we are always the proudest. But the point is 
 that no public school can be called first-class until it has one. 
 They are building them right and left." 
 
 "And now you must finish the chapel ?" 
 
 "Now we must complete the chapel." He paused rever- 
 ently, and said, "And here is a fragment of the original 
 building." 
 
 Rickie at once had a rush of sympathy. He, too, looked 
 with reverence at the morsel of Jacobean brickwork, ruddy 
 and beautiful amidst the machine-squared stones of the 
 mod gm apse . The two men, who had so little in common, 
 were thrilled with patriotism. They rejoiced that their 
 country was great, noble, and old. 
 
 "Thank God I'm English," said Rickie suddenly. 
 
 _57_ 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Thank Him indeed," said Mr. Pembroke, laying a hand 
 on his back. 
 
 "We've been nearly as great as the Greeks, I do believe. 
 
 Greater, rm_sure, than the Italians, though they did get 
 
 closer to beauty. " Greater "tlrair-llTe- French, though we do 
 
 (Take all their ideas. I can't help thinking that England is 
 
 'immense. Enghsh literature certainly." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke removed his hand. He found such patri- 
 otism somewhat craven. Genuine patriotism comes _gfl^ 
 from th e heart. It Jknows no parleying with^ reason. 
 English ladies will declare abroad that there are no fogs in 
 London, and Mr. Pembroke, though he would not go to this, 
 was only restrained by the certainty of being found out. 
 On this occasion he. remarked that_die Greeks la cked spi r- 
 itual insight, and had a l(jw;^conception,of woman. 
 
 "As to _wmnen — oh ! there they were dreadful," said 
 
 Sickie, leaning his hand on the chapel. I realize that more 
 
 and more. But as to spiritual insight, I don't quite like to 
 
 , say ; and I find Plato too difficult, but I know men who 
 
 don't, and I fancy they mightn't agree with you." 
 
 "Far be it from me to disparage Plato. And for philoso- 
 phy as a whole I have the greatest respect. But it is the 
 crown of a man's education, not the foundation. Myself, I 
 read it with the utmost profit, but I have known endless 
 trouble result from boys who attempted it too soon, before 
 they were set." 
 
 "But if those boys had died first," cried Rickie with 
 sudden vehemence, "without knowing what there is to 
 know — " 
 
 "Or isn't to know !" said Mr. Pembroke sarcastically. 
 
 "Or what there isn't to know. Exactly. That's it." 
 
 "My dear Rickie, what do you mean? If an old friend 
 may be frank, you are talking great rubbish." And, with 
 a few well-worn formulae, he propped up the young man's 
 orthodoxy. The props were unnecessary. Rickie had his 
 own equilibrium. Neither the Revivalism that assails a 
 
 -S8- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 \ boy at about the age of fifteen, nor the scepticism that 
 meets him five years later, could sway him from his al- 
 legiance to the church into which he had been born. But 
 i his equilibrium was personal, and the secret of it useless to 
 ! others. He desired that each man should find his own. 
 
 "What does philosophy do?" the propper continued. 
 "Does it make a man happier in life? Does it make him 
 die more peacefully? I fancy that in the long-run Herbert 
 Spencer will get no further than the rest of us. Ah, Rickie ! 
 I wish you could move among the school boys, and see their 
 |iealthy contempt for all they cannot touch!" Here he was 
 going too far, and had to add, "Their spiritual capacities, 
 of course, are another matter." Then he remembered the 
 Greeks, and said, "Which proves my original state- 
 ment." 
 
 Submissive signs, as of one propped, appeared in Rickie'fl 
 
 face. Mr. Pembroke then questioned him about the men 
 
 who found Plato not difficult. But here he kept silence, 
 
 / patting the school chapel gently, and presently the convert 
 
 I sation turned to topics with which they were both more com- 
 
 '1 petent to deal. 
 
 "Does Agnes take much interest in the school?" 
 
 "Not as much as she did. It is the result of her engage- 
 ment. If our naughty soldier had not carried her off, she 
 might have made an ideal schoolmaster's wife. I often chaff 
 him about it, for he a little despises the intellectual profes- 
 sions. Natural, perfectly natural. How can a man who 
 faces death feel as we do towards mensa or tupto?" 
 
 "Perfectly true. Absolutely true." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke remarked to himself that Frederick was 
 improving. 
 
 "If a man shoots straight and hits straight and speaks 
 straight, if his heart is in the right place, if he has the in- 
 stincts of a Christian and a gentleman — then I, at all events, 
 ask no better husband for my sister." 
 
 "How could you get a better?" he cried. "Do you re- 
 
 —59— 
 
The Longest Journe^ 
 
 member the thing in 'The Clouds'?" And he quoted, as 
 well as he could, from the invitation of the Dikaios Logos, 
 the description of the young Athenian, perfect in body, 
 placid in mind, who neglects his 'work at the Bar and trains 
 all day among the woods and meadows, with a garland on 
 his head and a friend to set the pace ; the scent of new leaves 
 is upon them; they rejoice in the freshness of spring; over 
 their heads the plane-tree whispers to the elm, — ^perhaps the 
 most glorious invitation to the brainless life that has ever 
 been given. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Mr. Pembroke, who did not want a 
 brother-in-law out of Aristophanes. Nor had he got one, 
 for Mr. Dawes would not have bothered over the garland or 
 noticed the spring, and would have complained that the 
 friend ran too slowly or too fast. 
 
 "And as for her !" But he could think of no classical 
 
 parallel for Agnes. She slipped between examples. A 
 kindly Medea, a Cleopatra with a sense of duty — these 
 , suggested her a little. She was not born in Greece, but came 
 overseas to it — a dark, intelligent princess. With all her 
 splendour, there were hints of splendour still hidden — hints 
 of an older, richer, and more mysterious land. He smiled 
 at the idea of her being "not there." Ansell, clever as he 
 was, had made a bad blunder. She had more reality than 
 any other woman in the world. 
 
 Mr. Pembroke looked pleased at this boyish enthusiasm. 
 He was fond of his sister, though he knew her to be full of 
 faults. "Yes, I envy her," he said. "She has found a 
 worthy helpmeet for life's journey, I do believe. And 
 though they chafe at the long engagement, it is a blessing in 
 disguise. They learn to know each other thoroughly before 
 contracting more intimate ties." 
 
 Rickie did not assent. The length of the engagement 
 seemed to him unspeakably cruel. Here were two people 
 who loved each other, and they could not marry for years be- 
 cause they had go-ifiagtly money. Not all Herbert's pious 
 
Cambridge 
 
 skill could make this out a blessing. It was bad enough 
 being "so rich" at the Silts ; here he was more ashamed of it 
 than ever. In a few weeks he would come of age and his 
 money be his own. What a pity things were so crookedly 
 arranged. He did not want money, or at all events he did 
 not want so much. 
 
 "Suppose," he meditated, for he became much worried 
 over this, — "suppose I had a hundred pounds a-year less 
 than I shall have. Well, I should still have enough. I don't 
 want anything but food, lodging, clothes, and now and then 
 a railway fare. I haven't any tastes. I don't collect 
 anything or play games. Books are nice to have, but after 
 all there is Mudie's, or if it comes to that, the Free Library. 
 Oh, my profession! I forgot I shall have a profession. 
 Well, ihat will leave me with more to spare than ever." 
 And he supposed away till he lost touch with the world and 
 with what it permits, and committed an unpardonable sin. 
 
 It happened towards the end of his visit— another air- 
 less day of that mild January. Mr. Dawes was playing 
 against a scratch team of cads, and had to go down to the 
 ground in the morning to settle something. Riokie pro- 
 posed to come too. 
 
 Hitherto he had been no nuisance. "You will be 
 frightfully bored," said Agnes, observing the cloud on her 
 lover's face. "And Gerald walks like a maniac." 
 
 "I had a little thought of the Museum this morning," said 
 Mr. Pembroke. "It is very strong in flint arrow-heads." 
 
 "Ah, that's your line, Rickie. I do envy you and Her- 
 bert the way you enjoy the past." 
 
 "I almost think Fll go with Dawes, if he'll have me. I 
 can walk quite fast just to the ground and back. Arrow- 
 heads are wonderful, but I don't really enjoy them 
 yet, though I hope I shall in time." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke was offended, but Rickie held firm. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour he was back at the house alone, 
 nearly crying. 
 
 — 6l — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Oh, did the wretch go too fast?" called Miss Pembroke 
 from her bedroom window. 
 
 "I went too fast for him." He spoke quite sharply, and 
 before he had time to say he was sorry and didn't mean ex- 
 actly that, the window had shut. 
 
 "They've quarrelled," she thought. "Whatever about?" 
 
 She soon heard. Gerald returned in a cold stormy 
 temper. Rickie had offered him money. 
 
 "My dear fellow don't be so cross. The child's mad." 
 
 "If it was, I'd forgive that. But I can't stand unhealth- 
 iness." 
 
 "Now, Gerald,jthat's whe re. I hate^you. You don't know 
 what it is to pity the weak." 
 
 "Woman's job. So you wish I'd taken a hundred 
 pounds a-year from him. Did you ever hear such blasted 
 cheek? Marry us — ^he, you, and me — a hundred pounds 
 down and as much annual — ^he, of course, to pry into all we 
 did, and we to kowtow^and eat dirt-pie to him. If that's 
 Mr. Rickety Elliot's idea of a soldier and an Englishman, 
 it isn't mine, and I wish I'd had a horse-whip." 
 
 She was roaring with laughter. "You're babies, a pair 
 of you, and you're the worst. Why couldn't you let the 
 little silly down gently? There he was puffing and sniff- 
 ing under my window, and I thought he'd insulted you. 
 Why didn't you accept?" 
 
 "Accept?" he thundered. 
 
 "It would have taken the nonsense out of him for ever. 
 Why, he was only talking out of a book." 
 
 "More fool he." 
 
 "Well, don't be angry with a fool. He means no harm. 
 
 tHe muddles all day with poetry and old dead people, and 
 then tries to bring it into life. It's too funny for words." 
 Gerald repeated that he could not stand unhealthiness. 
 "I don't call that exactly unhealthy." 
 "I do. And why he could give the money's worse." 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 —62— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 He became shy. "I hadn't meant to tell you. It's not 
 quite for a lady." For, like most men who are rather 
 animal, he was intellectually a prude. "He says he can't 
 ever marry, owing to his foot. It wouldn't be fair to pos- 
 terity. His grandfather was crocked, his father too, and 
 he's as bad. He thinks that it's hereditary, and may 
 get worse next generation. He's discussed it all over with 
 other Undergrads. A bright lot they must be. He daren't 
 risk having any children. Hence the hundred quid." 
 
 She stopped laughing. "Oh, little beast, if he said all 
 that!" 
 
 He was encouraged to proceed. Hitherto he had not 
 talked about their school days. Now he told her every- 
 thing, — ^the "barley-sugar," as he called it, the pins in chapel, 
 and how one afternoon he had tied him head-downward on 
 to a tree trunk and then ran (away — of course only for a 
 moment. 
 
 For this she scolded him well. But she had a thrill of 
 joy when she thought of the weak boy in the clutches of the 
 strong one. 
 
 -63- 
 
G ERALD died that aftern oon. He was broken up in 
 the football match. Rickie and Mr. Pembroke 
 were on the ground when the accident took place. 
 It was no good torturing him by a drive to the hospital, and 
 he was merely carried to the little pavilion and laid upon 
 the floor. A doctor came, and so did a clergyman, but it 
 ^emed better to leave him for the last few minutes with 
 I Agnes, who ha^ ridden down on her bicycle. 
 
 It was a strange lamentable interview. The girl was so 
 accustomed to health, that for a time she could not under- 
 stand. It must be a joke that he chose to lie there in the 
 dust, with a rug over him and his knees bent up towards his 
 chin. His arms were as she knew them, and their admirable 
 muscles showed clear and clean beneath the jersey. The 
 face, too, though a little flushed, was uninjured : it must be 
 some curious joke. 
 
 "Gerald, what have you been doing?" 
 
 He replied, "I can't see you. It's too dark." 
 
 "Oh, I'll soon alter that," she said in her old brisk way. 
 She opened the pavilion door. The people who were 
 standing by it moved aside. She saw a deserted meadow, 
 steaming and grey, and beyond it slate-roofed cottages, row 
 beside row, climbing a shapeless hill. Towards Londgn 
 the sky was yellow. "There. That's better." She sat 
 down by him again, and drew his hand into her own. "Now 
 we are all right, aren't we ?" 
 
 "Where are you?" 
 
 This time she could not reply. 
 
 "What is it? Where am I going?" 
 
 "Wasn't the rector here?" said she after a silence. 
 — 04 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "He explained heaven, and thinks that I — ^but — I couldn't 
 tell a parson ; but I don't seem to have any use for any of 
 the things there." 
 
 "We are Cbds.tiani§^' said Agnes shyly. "Dear love,., we 
 42H!L^'i^^5H5~*ll^^^ things, but, we believe them. I think 
 that you will get well and be as strong again as ever; but, 
 in any case, there is a spiritual life, and we know that some 
 day you and I — 
 
 "I shan't do as a spirit," he interrupted, sighing pitifully. 
 "I want you as I am, and it cannot be managed. The rec- 
 tor had to say so. I want — I don't want to talk. I can't 
 see you. Shut that door." 
 
 She obeyed, and crept into his arms. Only this time her 
 grasp was the stronger. Her heart beat louder and louder 
 as the sound of his grew more faint. He was crying like a 
 little frightened cjiild, and her lips were wet with his tears. 
 "Bear it bravely," she told him. 
 
 "I can't," he whispered. "It isn't to be done. I can't 
 see you," and passed from her trembling with open 
 eyes. 
 
 She rode home on her bicyde, leaving the others to 
 follow. Some ladies who did not know what had happened 
 bowed and smiled as she passed, and she returned their 
 salute. 
 
 "Oh, miss, is it true?" cried the cook, her face streaming 
 with tears. 
 
 Agnes nodded. Presumably it was true. Letters had 
 just arrived: one was for Gerald from his mother. Life, 
 which had given them no warning, seemed to make no 
 comment now. The^cident was outside nature, and would 
 surely pass away like a dream. jShe felt slightly irritable, 
 and the grief of the servants annoyed her. 
 
 They sobbed. "Ah, look at his marks! Ah, little he 
 thought— little he thought!" In the brown hoUand strip by 
 the front door a heavy football boot had left its impress. 
 They had not liked Gerald, but he was a man, they were wo- 
 
 -65- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 men, he had died. Their mistress ordered them to leave 
 her. 
 
 For many minutes she sat at the foot of the stairs, rub- 
 bing her eyes. An obscure spirit ual crisis wa s going on. 
 
 Should she weep like the servants ? or should she bear up 
 and trust in the consolerJTime?- Was the death of a man 
 so terrible after all ?'^"'^!sshe invited herself to apathy there 
 were steps on the gravel, and _Eidde^^lliQt_burst in. He 
 was splashed with mud, his breath was gone, and his hair 
 Tfell wildly over his meagre face. She thought, "These are 
 the people, who are left alive!" From the bottom of her 
 ■ soul she hated him. 
 
 "I came to see what you're doing," he cried. 
 
 "Resting." 
 
 He knelt beside her, and she said, "Would you 
 please go away?" 
 
 "Yes, dear Agnes, of course ; but I must see first that you 
 mind." 
 
 Her breath caught. Her eyes moved to the treads,, going 
 outwards, so firmly, so irretrievably. 
 
 He panted, "It's the worst thing that can ever happen to 
 you in all your life, and you've got to mind it — ^you've got 
 to mind it. They'll come saying, _„lgea£ up — trust to time.' 
 No, no ; they're wrong. Mind it." 
 
 p Through all her misery she knew that this boy was 
 /greater than they supposed. He rose to his feet, and with 
 intense conviction cried: "But I know — I understand. 
 It's your death as well as his. He's gone, Agnes, and his 
 arms will never hold you again. In God's name, mind such 
 a thing, and don't sit fencing with your soul. Don't stop 
 being great; that's the one crime he'll never forgive you." 
 
 She faltered, "Who — who forgives?" 
 
 "Gerald." 
 
 At the sound of his name she slid forward, and all her dis- 
 honesty left her. She^acknowledged that life's mM^inghad 
 vanished. Bending down, shT kissed tMTootprint. "TKvir 
 
 —66— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 can he forgive me?" she sobbed. "Where has he gone to? 
 You could never dream such an awful thing. He 
 couldn't see me though I opened the door — wide — plenty of 
 light; and then he could not remember the things that 
 should comfort him. He wasn't a — he wasn't ever a great 
 reader, and he couldn't remember the things. The rector 
 
 tried, and he couldn't — I came, and I couldn't " She 
 
 could not speak for tears. Rickie did not check her. He 
 let her accuse herself, and fate, andJEJerbert^ who hadLEOst:. 
 poned their marriage. ,She might have been a wife six 
 months; but Herbert had spoken of sdf-control and of all 
 life before them. He let her kiss the footprints till their 
 marks gave way to the marks of her lips. She moaned, 
 "He is gone-^where is he?" and then he replied quite 
 quietly, "He is in heaven." 
 
 She begged him not to comfort her ; she could not bear it. 
 
 "I did not come to comfort you. I came to see that you 
 mind. He is in heaven, Agties. The greatest thing is 
 over." 
 
 Per hatred wa s lulled. She murmured, "Dear Rickie!" 
 and held up"Hef Tiand" to him. Through her tears his mea- 
 gre face showed as a seraph's who spoke the truth and for- 
 bade her to juggle with her soul. "Dear Rickie — ^but for 
 the rest of my life what am I to do?" 
 
 "Anything — if you remember that the greatest thing is 
 over." 
 
 "I don't know you," she said tremulously. "You have 
 grown up in a moment. You never talked to us, and yet 
 you understand it all. Tell me again— I can only trust you 
 — where he is." 
 
 "He is in heaven." 
 
 "You are sure?" 
 
 It puzzled her that Rickie, who could Scarcely tell you 
 the time without a saving clause, should be so, certain_aboMt 
 immortality. 
 
 -67- 
 
VI 
 
 HE did not stop for the funeral. Mr;__Penibroke 
 thought that he had a bad_effect on Agnes, and 
 prevented her from acquiescing in the tragedy as 
 rapidly as she might have done. As he expressed it, "one 
 must not court sorrow," and he hinted to the young man 
 that they desired to be alone. 
 
 Rickie went back to the Silts. 
 
 He was only there a few days. As soon as term opened 
 he returned to Cambridge, for which he longed passionately. 
 The journey thither was now familiar to him, and he took 
 pleasure in each landmark. The fair valley of Tewin 
 Water, the cutting into Hitchin where the train traverses the 
 chalk, Baldock Church, Royston with its promise of downs, 
 were nothing in themselves, but dear as stages in the pil- 
 grimage towards the abode of peace. On the platform he 
 met friends. They had all had pleasant vacations: it_was 
 a,Jiappy_world. Th e atmosphe re alters. 
 
 Cambridge, according to her aiistoHi, welcomed her sons 
 with open drains. Pettycury was up, so was Trinity 
 Street, and navvies peeped out. of King's Parade. Here it 
 was gas, there electric light, but everywhere something, 
 and always a smell. It was also the day that the wheels fell 
 off the station tram, and Rickie, who was naturally inside, 
 was among the passengers who "sustained no injury but a 
 shock, and had as hearty a laugh over the mishap afterwards 
 as any one." 
 
 JiUiard fled into a hansom, cursing himself for having 
 tried to do the thing cheaply, ^wnblower also swept 
 past yelling derisively, with his luggage nStly piled above 
 his head. "Let's get out and walk," muttered Angell. But 
 Rickie was succouring a distressed female — Mrs. Aberdeen. 
 
 —68— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Aberdeen, I never saw J^ou : I am so glad to 
 see you — I am so very glad." Mrs. Aberdeen was cold. 
 She did not like being spoken to outside the college, and 
 was also, distrait about her basket. Hitherto no genteel eye 
 had ever seen inside it, but in the collision its little calico 
 veil fell off, and there was revealed — nothing. The basket 
 was empty, and never would hold anything illegal. All 
 the same she was distrait, and "We shall meet later, sir, I 
 dessy," was all the greeting Rickie got from her. 
 
 "Now what kind of a life has Mrs. Aberdeen?" he ex- 
 claimed, as he and Ansell pursued the Station Road. 
 "Here these bedders come and make us comfortable. We 
 owe an enormous amount to them, their wages are absurd, 
 and we know nothing about them. Off they go to Barnwell, 
 and then their lives are hidden. I just know that Mrs. 
 Aberdeen has a husband, but that's all. She never will talk 
 about him. Now I do so want to fill in her life. I see one- 
 half of it. What's the other half? She may have a real 
 jolly house, in good taste, with a little garden and books, 
 and pictures. Or, again, she mayn't. But in any case one 
 ought to know. I know she'd dislike it, but «he oughtn't 
 to dislike. After all, bedders are to blame for the present 
 lamentable state of things, just as much as gentlefolk. She 
 ought to want me to come. She ought to introduce me to 
 her husband." 
 
 They had reached the corner of Hills Road. Ansell 
 spoke for the first time. He said, "Ugh!" 
 
 "Drains?" 
 
 "Yes. A spiritual cesspool." 
 
 Rickie laughed. 
 
 " I expected it from your letter." 
 
 "The one you never answered?" 
 
 "I answer none of your letters. You are quite hopeless 
 by now. You can go to the bad. But I refuse to ac-^ 
 company you. I refuse to believe that every human being is] 
 a moving wonder of supreme interest and tragedy and] 
 
 -69- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 beauty — which was what the letter in question amounted to. 
 You'll find plenty who will believe it. It's a very popular 
 view among people who are too idle to think ; it saves them 
 the trouble of detecting the beautiful from the ugly, the in- 
 teresting from the dull, the tragic from the melodramatic. 
 You had just come from Sawston, and were apparently 
 carried away by the fact that Miss Pembroke had the usaa^l 
 amount of arms and legs." 
 
 Rickie was silent. He had told his friend how he felt, but 
 not what had happened, .^iisellcould discuss love and„death 
 admirably, but somehow he would not understand lovers or 
 a~dying man, and in the letter there had been scant allusion 
 to these concrete facts. Would Cambridge understand 
 them either? He watched some dons who were peeping 
 into an excavation, and throwing up their hands with hu- 
 morous gestures of despair. These men would lecture next 
 week on Catiline's conspiracy, on Luther, on Evolution, on 
 Catullus. They dealt with so much and they had experi- 
 enced so little. Was it possible he would ever come to think 
 Cambridge narrow ? In his short life Rickie had known two 
 sudden deaths, and that is enough to disarrange any placid 
 outlook on the world. He knew once for all that we are all 
 [of us bubbles on an extremely rough sea. Into this sea 
 humanity has built, as it were, some little breakwaters — 
 scientific knowledge, civilized restraint — so that the bubbles 
 do not break so frequently or so soon. But the sea has not 
 altered, and it was only a chance that he, Ansell, Tilliard, 
 and Mrs. Aberdeen had not all been killed in the tram. 
 
 They waited for the other tram by the Roman Catholic 
 Church, whose florid bulk was already receding into twilight. 
 It is the first big building that the incoming visitor sees. 
 "Oh, here come the colleges!" cries the Protestant parent, 
 and then learns that it was built by a Papist who made a 
 fortune out of movable eyes for dolls. "Built out of doll's 
 eyes to contain idols" — ^that, at all events, is the legend and 
 the joke. It watches over the apostate cjty, taller by many 
 
 —70— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 a yard than anything within, and asserting, however wildly, 
 that here is eternity, stability, and bubbles unbreakable upon 
 a windless sea. 
 
 A costly hymn tune announced five o'clock, and in the dis- 
 tance the more lovable note of St. Mary's could be heard, 
 speaking from the heart of the town. Then the tram 
 arrived — the slow stuffy tram that plies every twenty 
 minutes between the unknown and the market-place — and 
 took them past the desecrated grounds of Downing, past 
 Addenbrookes Hospital, girt like any Venetian palace with 
 a mantling canal, past the Fitz William, towering upon 
 immense substructions like any Roman temple, right up to 
 the gates of one's own college, which looked like nothing 
 else in the world. The porters were glad to see them, but 
 wished it had been a hansom. "Our luggage," explained 
 Rickie, "comes in the hotel omnibus, if you would kindly 
 pay a shilling for mine." Ansell turned aside to some large 
 lighted windows, the abode of a hospitable don, and from 
 other windows there floated familiar voices and the familiar 
 mistakes in a_Beethoven_sonata. Th&.£allege, .though small, 
 was civilizedj. and proud of its civilization. It was not 
 sufficient gfory to be a Blue there, nor an additional glory to 
 get drunk. Many a maiden lady who had read that 
 Cambridge men were sad dogs, was surprised and perhaps 
 a little disappointed at the reasonable life which greeted her. 
 Mis^ Appleblossom in particular had had a tremendous 
 shock.~"TBrsIght of young fellows making tea and drinking 
 water had made her wonder whether this was Cambridge 
 College at all. "It is so," she exclaimed afterwards. "It 
 is just as I say ; and what's more, I wouldn't have it other- 
 wise, Stewart says it's as easy as easy to get into the swim, 
 and not at all expensive." The direction of the swim was 
 determined a little by the genius of the place; — for places have 
 a genius, though the less we talk about it the better — and a 
 good deal by the tutors and resident fellows, who treated 
 with rare dexterity the products that came up yearly from 
 
 —71— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 the public schools. They taught the perky boy that he was 
 not everything, and the limp boy that he might be some- 
 thing. They even welcomed those boys who were neither 
 limp nor perky, but odd — ^those boys who had never been at 
 a public school at all, and such do not find a welcome every- 
 where. And they did everything with ease — one might al- 
 most say with nonchalance, — so that the boys noticed noth- 
 ing, and received education, often for the first time in their 
 lives. 
 
 But liickie turned to none of these friends, for justjthgn^ 
 he loved- his rooms better than any person. They were all 
 he really possessed in the world, the only place he could call 
 his own. Over the door was his name, and through the 
 paint, like a grey ghost, he could still read the name of his 
 predecessor. With a sigh of joy he entered the perishable 
 home that was his for a couple of years. There was 
 a beautiful fire, and the kettle boiled at once. He made tea 
 on the hearth-rug and ate the „biscuits_which-Mra.. Aberdeen 
 had brought for him up from Anderson's. "Gentlemen," ~ 
 she said, "must learn to give and take." He sighed again 
 and again, like one who had escaped from danger. With 
 his .head on the fender an,d all his limbs relaxed, he felt 
 almost as safe as he felt once when his mother killed a ghost 
 in the passage by carrying him through it in her arms. 
 There was no ghost now; he_^jyas frightened at. reality; he 
 was frightened at the splendours and horrors of the world. 
 
 A letter from Miss Pembroke was on the .table. He did 
 not hurry to open it, for she , and all that she did, was over- 
 whelming. She wrote likejJ Le Sibyl ; her sorrowful face 
 moved over the stars and shattered their harmonies; last 
 night he saw her with the eyes of Blake, a virgin widow, 
 tall, veiled, consecrated, with her hands stretched out against 
 an everlasting wind. Why should she write? Her letters 
 were not for the likes of him, nor to be read in rooms like 
 his. 
 
 "We are not leaving Sawston," she wrote. "I saw how 
 
 " —72— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 selfish it was of me to risk spoiling Herbert's career. I 
 
 shall get used to any place. Now that he is gone, nothing 
 
 of that sort can matter. Every one has been most kind, 
 
 /but you have comforted me most, though you did not mean 
 
 I to. I cannot think how you did it, or understood so much. 
 
 S I still think of you as a little boy with a lame leg, — ^I know 
 
 you will let me say this, — ^and yet when it came to the point 
 
 \you knew more than people who have been all their lives 
 
 1 with sorrow and death." 
 
 i' Rickie^bumt tihi.s letter, which he ought not to have done, | 
 for it was one of the fgw tributes Miss Pembroke ever paid j 
 to imagination. But he felt that it did not belong to him : j 
 words so sincere_should be for Gerald alone. The smoke' 
 rushed up the chimney, and hejuidulged in a vision. He 
 saw it reach the outer air and beat against the low ceiling 
 of clouds. The clouds were too strong for it; but in them 
 was one chink, revealing one star, and through this the 
 smoke escaped into the light of stars innumerable. Then 
 — but tlaen the vision failed, and the voice of science whis- 
 pered that ail smoke remains on earth in the form of smuts, 
 and is" troublesome to Mrs. Aberdeen. 
 
 "I am jolly unpractical," he mused. "And what is the 
 point of it when real things are so wonderful? Who wants 
 visions in a world, that has. Agnes and Gerald?" He 
 turned on the electric light and pulled open the fable-drawer. 
 There, among spoons and corks and string, he found a frag- 
 ment of a little story that he had tried to write last term. 
 It was called "The Bay of the Fifteen Islets," and the ac- 
 tion took place on St. John's Eve off the coast of Sicily. A 
 party of tourists land on one of the islands. Suddenly the 
 boatmen become uneasy, and say that the island is not 
 generally there. It is an extra one, and they had better 
 have tea on one of the ordinaries. "Pooh, volcanic!" says 
 the leading tourist, and the ladies say how interesting. The 
 island begins to rock, and so do the minds of its visitors. 
 They start and quarrel and jabber. Fingers burst up 
 
 —73— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 through the sand — black fingers of sea devils. The island 
 tilts. The tourists go mad. But just before the catastro- 
 phe one man, integer vit<e scelerisque purus, sees the truth. 
 Here are no devils. Other muscles, other minds, are pull- 
 ing the island to its subterranean home. Through the ad- 
 vancing wall of waters he sees no grisly faces, no ghastly 
 
 medieval limbs, but ■ But what nonsense! AJ/henj^L 
 
 things are so wonderful, what is. the^ point of pretendingj" 
 And so Rickie deflected his enthusiasms. Hitherto they 
 had played on gods and heroes, on the infinite and the im- 
 possible, on virtue and beauty and strength. Now, with 
 a steadier radiance, they transfigured a man who was dead 
 and a woman who was still alive. 
 
 -74— 
 
VII 
 
 LOVE, say orderly people, can be fallen into by two , 
 methods: (i) through the desires, (2) through the] 
 imagination. And if the orderly people are English, ' 
 they add that ( i ) is the inferior method, and characteristic '' 
 of the South. It is inferior. Yet those who pursue it at all 
 events know what they want ; they are not puzzling to them- 
 selves or ludicrous to others ; they do not take the wings of 
 the morning and fly into the uttermost parts of the sea before -, 
 walking to the registry office; they cannot breed a tragedy/ 
 quite like Rickie's. 
 
 He is, of course, absurdly young — not twenty-one — 
 and he will be jengaged to be married^at twenty-three. He 
 has no knowledge of 'the world ; for example, "he thinks 
 that if you do not want money you can give it to friends who 
 do. He believes in huipmnity because _he jknows a dozen 
 decent people. He^elieves in women begsiASe he.,has loved . 
 his inother. And his friends are as young and as ignorant 
 as himielf. They are full of the wine of life. But they 
 Jiave not tasted the cup — let us call it the teacup — of expe- 
 (rience, which has made men of Mr. Pembroke's type what 
 they are. Oh, that teacup! To be taken at prayers, at 
 friendship, at love, till we are quite sane, efficient, quite ex- 
 perienced, and quite useless to God or man. We must drink 
 it, or we shall die. But we need not drink it always. Here 
 is our problem and our salvation. There comes a moment 
 — 'God knows when — at which we can say, "I will experience 
 no longer. I will create. I will be an experience." But 
 to do this we must be both acute and heroic. For it is 
 , not easy, after accepting six cups of tea, to throw the 
 seventh in the face of the hostess. And to Rickie this mo- 
 ment has not, as yet, been offered. 
 
 Ansell, at the end of his third year, got a first in the Moral 
 
 —75— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Science Tripos. Being a scholar, he kept his rooms in col- 
 lege, and at once began to work for a Fellowship. Rickie 
 got a creditable secony in the Qassical Tripos, Part I., and 
 retired to sallow lodgings in Mill Lane, carrying with him 
 the degree of B.A. and a small exhibition, which was quite 
 as much as he deserved. For Part II. he read Greek Arch- 
 P aeology, and got a second. All this means that Ansell w|s 
 I much cleverer than Rickie. As for the cow, she was 
 instill going strongi though ttfrning a little academic as the 
 years passed over her. 
 
 "We are bound to get narrow," sighed Rickie. He and 
 his friend were lying in a meadow during their last summer 
 term. In his incurable love for flowers he had plaited two 
 garlands of buttercups and cow-parsley, and AnselVs lean 
 Jewish face was framed in one of them. "Cambridge is 
 wonderful, but — ^but it's so tiny. You have no idea — at 
 least, I think you have no idea — ^how the great world looks 
 down on it." - - ~ 
 
 "I read the letters in the papers." 
 
 "It's a bad look-out." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "Cambridge has lost touch with the times." ' 
 
 "Was she ever intended to touch them?" 
 
 "She satisfies," said Rickie mysteriously, "neither the pro- 
 fessions, nor the public schools, nor the great thinking mass 
 of men and women. There is a general feeling that her day 
 is over, and naturally one feels pretty sick." 
 Do you still write short stories?" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because your English has gone to the devil. You think 
 and talk in Journalese. Define a great thinlcing mass." 
 
 Rickie sat up and adjusted his floral crown, 
 
 "Estimate the worth of a general feeling." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 "And thirdly, where is the great world?** 
 
 "Oh that !" 
 
 -76- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "Yes. That," exclaimed Ansell, rising from his couch in 
 violent excitement. "Where is it? How do you set about 
 finding it? How long does it take to get there? What does 
 it think? What does it do? What does it want? Oblige 
 me with specimens of its art and literature." Silence. "Till 
 you do, my opinions will be as follows : There is no great 
 world at all, only a little earth, for ever isolated from the 
 rest of the little solar system. The earth is full of tiny so- 
 cieties, and Cambridge is one of them. All the societies are 
 jiarrow, but some are good and some are bad — just as one 
 house is beautifiil inside and another ugly. Observe the met- 
 aphor of the houses : I am coming back to it. The good so- 
 cieties say, 'I tell you to do this because I am Cambridge.' 
 The bad ones say, 'I tell you to do that because I am the 
 great world, — not because I am 'Peckham,' or 'Billingsgate,' 
 or 'Park Lane,' but 'because I am the great world.' They 
 lie. And fools like you listen to thern, and believe that they 
 are a thing which does not exist and never has existed, and 
 confuse 'great,' which has no meaning whatever, with 'good,' 
 which means salvation. Look at this great wreath: it'll be 
 dead to-morrow. Look at that good flower: it'll come up; 
 again next year. Now for the other metaphor. To compare 
 the world to Cambridge is like Qomparing the outsides of) 
 houses with the inside of a house. No intellectual[ 
 effort is needed, no moral result is attained. You only 
 have to say, 'Oh, what a difference!' and then come in- 
 doors again and exhibit your broadened mind." 
 
 "I never shall come indoors again," said Rickie. "That's 
 the whole point." And his voice began to quiver. "It's 
 well enough for those who'll get a Fellowship, but in a few 
 weeks I shall go down. In a few years it'll be as if I've 
 never been up. It matters very much to me what the world 
 is like. I can!t answer your questions about it; and that's 
 no loss to you, but so much the worse for me. And then 
 you've got a house — not a metaphorical one, but a house 
 with father and sisters. I haven't, and never shall have. 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 There'll never again be a home for me like Cambridge. 
 I shall only look at the outside of homes. According to 
 your metaphor, I shall live in the street, and it matters very 
 much to me what I find there." 
 
 "You'll live in another house right enough,"said Ansell, 
 rather uneasily. "Only take care you pick out a decent 
 one. I can't think why you flop about so helplessly, like 
 a bit of seaweed. In four years you've taken as mudi root 
 as any one." 
 "Where?" 
 
 "I should say you've been fortunate in your friends." 
 "Oh — that!" But he jaajiiot jgynical— or cv nical in a 
 ver^ tender way. He was JhinMn^pfJhe_irony_ of frien?- 
 ""f^ship — so_strqng it is, and so fragile. We fly togetherTTike 
 'straws in an eddy, to part in the open stream. Nature has 
 : no use for us: she has cut her stuff differently. Dutiful 
 \ sons, loving husbands, responsible fathers — these are what 
 1 she wants, and if we are friends it must be in our spare time. 
 ' Abram and Sarai were sorrowful, yet their seed became as 
 ' sand of the sea, and distracts the politics of Europe at this 
 moment. But a few verses of poetry is all that survives of 
 David and Jonathan. 
 ' "I wish we were labelled," said Rickie. He wished that 
 all the confidence and mutual knowledge that is born in such 
 \a place as Cambridge could be organized.- People went 
 \down into the world saying, "We know and like each other ; 
 Iwe shan't forget." But they did forget, for man is so made 
 that^ he cannot_rememb^r long without a symbol; he;, wished^ 
 there was a society, a kind of friendship office, where tEe" 
 Wiarriage of tffle minds could be registered. 
 I "Why labels?" 
 
 "To know each other again." 
 
 "I have taugjit you pessimism spendidly." He looked at 
 his watdi. " ~~ ' — 
 
 "What time?" 
 "Not twelve." 
 
 -78- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 Rickie got up. 
 
 "Why go?" He stretched out his hand and caught hold 
 of Rickie's ankle. 
 
 "I've got that Miss Pembroke to lunch — ^that girl whom 
 you say never's there." 
 
 "Then why go? All this week you have pretended Miss 
 Pembroke awaited you. Wednesday — Miss Pembjaoke to 
 lunch. Thursday — Miss Pembroke to tea. Now again — 
 and you didn't even invite her." 
 
 "To Cambridge, no. But the Hall man they're stopping 
 with has so many engagements that ^she and her friend can 
 often come to me, I'm glad to say. I don't think Fever told 
 you much, but over two years ago the man she was going to 
 marry was killed at football. She nearly died of grief. 
 This visit to Cambridge is almost the first amusement she 
 has felt up to taking. Oh, they go back tomorrow! Give 
 me breakfast tomorrow." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 "But I shall see you this evening. I shall be round at 
 your paper on Schogenhauer. Lemme go." 
 
 "Don't go,^ he said idly. ~^'It's much better for you to talk 
 to me." 
 
 "Lemme go, Stesvart." 
 
 "It's amusing that you're so feeble. You — simply — can't 
 — get — away. I wish I wanted to bully you." 
 
 Rickie laughed, and suddenly overbalanced into the grass. 
 Ansell, with unusual playfulness, held him prisoner. They 
 lay there for few minutes, talking and ragging aimlessly. 
 Then Rickie seized his opportunity and jerked away. 
 
 "Go, go !" yawned the other. But he was a little vexed, 
 for he was a young man with great capacity for pleasure, 
 and it pleased him that morning to be with his friend. The 
 thought of two ladies waiting lunch did not deter him; 
 stupid women, why shouldn't they wait? Why should they 
 interfere with their betters? With his ear on the ground he 
 listened to Rickie's departing steps, and thought, "He wastes 
 
 —79— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 a lot of time keeping iengagements. Why will he be 
 pleasant to fools?" And then he thought, "Why has he 
 turned so unhappy? It isn't as if he's a philosopher, or 
 tries to solve the riddle of existence. And he's got money 
 of his own." Thus thinking, he fell asleep. 
 
 Meanwhile Rickie hurried away from him, and slackened 
 and stopped, and hurried again. He was due at the Union 
 
 r in ten minutes, but he could not bring himself there. He 
 darednat. meet Miss Pembroke : he |ovedJier. 
 
 The devil must have planned it. They Tiad started so 
 
 • gloriously; she had been a goddess both injoy and sorrow. 
 She was a goddess still. But he had dethroned the god 
 whom once he had glorified equally. Slowly, slowly, the 
 image of Gerald had faded. That was the first step. Rickie 
 had thought, "No matter. He will be bright again. Just 
 now all the radiance chances to be in her." And^^on her he 
 
 Ijad fixed his eyes. He thought of her awake. He enter- 
 tained her willingly in dreams. He found her in poetry and 
 music and in the sunset. She made him kind and strong. 
 She made him clever. Through her he kept Cambridge in 
 its proper place, and lived as a citizen of the great world. 
 But one night he dreamt that she lay in his arms. This 
 displeased him. He determined to think a little about 
 Gerald instead. Then the fabric collapsed. 
 
 It was jha3^4_2B-KJckie thus to meet the devil,. He did not 
 deserve it, for he was comparatively civilized^ and knew that 
 there ^F^s nething_shameful_i;j love. But to love this 
 woman! If only it had been any one else! Love in 
 return — that he could expect from no one, being too ugly 
 and too unattractive. But the love he offered would not 
 then have been vile. The insult to Miss Pembroke, who 
 was consecrated, and whom he had consecrated, who could 
 still see Gerald, and always wouW^see him, shining on his 
 everlasting throne — ^this was th^ crime from the devil, the 
 crime that no penance would ever purge. She knew nothing. 
 "—80— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 She never would know. But the crime was registered in 
 heaven. 
 
 He had been tempted to confide in Ansell. But to what 
 purpose? He would say, "I_Jove_Misj_ Eefflhrokg," and 
 Stewart would reply, "You ass." And then. "I'm never 
 going to tell her." "You ass," again. After all, it was not 
 a practical question; ^nes would never hear of Jus.jFjJl. 
 If his friend had been, as he expressed it, "labelled" ; if he 
 had been a father, or still better a brother, one might tell him 
 of the discreditable passion. But why irritate him for no 
 reason? Thinking "I am always angling for sympathy; I 
 must stop myself," he hurried onward to the Union. 
 
 He found his guests half way up the stairs, reading the 
 advertisements of coaches for the Long Vacation. He 
 heard ^rs. Lewin say, "I wonder what he'll end by doing." 
 A little overactingfhis part, he apologized nonchalantly for 
 his lateness. 
 
 "It's always the same," cried Agnes. "Last time he for- 
 got I was coming altogether." She wore a flowered muslin 
 — something indescribably liquid and cool. It reminded him 
 a little of those swift piercing streams, neither blue nor 
 green, that gush out of the dolomites. Her face was clear 
 and brown, like the face of a mountaineer ; her hair was so 
 plentiful that it seemed banked up above it; and her little 
 toque, though it answered the note of the dress, was almost 
 ludicrous, poised on so much natural glory. When she 
 moved, the sunlight flashed on her ear-rings. 
 
 He led them up to the luncheon-room. By now he was 
 conscious of his limitations as a host, and never attempted 
 to entertain ladies in his lodgings. Moreover, the Union 
 seemed less intimate. It had a faint flavour of a London 
 club ; it marked the undergraduate's nearest approach to the 
 great world. Amid its waiters and serviettes one felt im- 
 personal, and able to conceal the private emotions. Rickie 
 felt that if Miss Pembroke knew one thing about him, she 
 
 —8 1— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 knew everything. During this visit he took her to no place 
 that he greatly loved. 
 
 "Sit down, ladies. Fall to. I'm sorry. I was out to- 
 wards Coton with a dreadful friend." 
 
 Mrs. LgwJELgushed up her veil."* She was a typical May>- 
 term chaperon, always pleasant, always hungry, and always 
 tired. Year after year she came up to Cambridge in a tight 
 silk dress, and year after year she nearly died of it. Her 
 feet hurt, her limbs were cramped in a canoe, black spots 
 danced before her eyes from eating too much mayonnaise. 
 But still she came, if not as a mother as an aunt, if not as 
 an aunt as a friend. Still she ascended the roof of King's, 
 still she counted the balls of Clare, still she was on the point 
 of grasping the organization of the May races. "And who 
 is your friend ?" she asked. 
 
 "Hi^name_is_Ansell." 
 
 "Well, now, did I see him two years ago — as a bedmaker 
 in something they did at the Foot Lights? Oh, how I 
 roared." 
 
 "You didn't see Mr. Ansell at the Foot Lights," said 
 Agnes, smiling. 
 
 "How do you know ?" asked Rickie. 
 
 "He'd scarcely be so frivolous." 
 
 "Do you remember seeing him?" 
 
 "For a moment." 
 
 What a memory she had! And how splendidly during 
 that moment she had behaved ! 
 
 "Isn't he marvellously clever?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 "Oh, give me clever people!" cried Mrs. Lewin. "They 
 are kindness itself at the Hall, but I assure you I am de- 
 pressed at times. One cannot talk bump-rowing for ever." 
 
 "I never hear about him, Rickie ; but isn't he really your 
 greatest friend?" 
 
 "I don't go in for greatest friends." 
 
 "Do you mean you like us all equally?" 
 —82— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "All differently, those of you I like." 
 
 "Ah, you've caught it!" cried Mrs. Lewin. "Mr. Elliot 
 gave it you there well." 
 
 Agnes laughed, and, her elbows on the table, regarded 
 them both through her fingers — a habit of hers. Then she 
 said, "Can't we see the great Mr. Ansell?" 
 
 "Oh, let's. Or would he frighten me?" 
 
 "He would frighten you," said Rickie. "He's a trifle 
 weird." 
 
 "My good Rickie, if you knew the ^eatiyx_djil|i.ei^„.of 
 §awstpn — every one saying the proper thing at the proper 
 time, I so proper, Herbert so proper! Why, -vueirdness J5 
 tJ2e_on£jhing_LlongJor ! Do arrange something." 
 
 "I'm afraid there's no opportunity. Ansell goes some vast 
 bicycle ride this afternoon; this evening you're tied up at 
 the Hall ; and tomorrow you go." 
 
 "But there's breakfast tomorrow." said Agnes. "Look 
 here, Rickie, bring Mr. Ansell to breakfast with us at 
 Buol's." 
 
 Mrs. Lewin seconded the invitation. 
 
 "Bad luck again," said Rickie boldly ; "I'm already fixed 
 up for breakfast. I'll tell him of your very kind intention." 
 
 "Let's have him alone, "murmured Agnes. 
 
 "My dear girl, I should die through the floor ! Oh, it'll 
 be all right about breakfast. I rather think we shall get 
 asked this evening by that shy man who has the pretty rooms 
 in Trinity." 
 
 "Oh, very well. Where is it you breakfast, Rickie?" 
 
 He fahered. "To Ansell's, it is^ " It seemed as if he 
 
 was making some great admission. So self-conscious was 
 he, that he thought the two women exchanged glances. 
 Had Agnes already explored that part of him that did not 
 belong to her? Would another chance step reveal the part 
 that did ? He asked them abruptly what they would like to 
 do after lunch. 
 
 "Anything," said Mrs. Lewin, — "anything in the world." 
 -83- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 A walk? A boat? Ely? A drive? Some objection 
 was raised to each. "To tell the truth," she said at last, 
 "I do feel a wee bit tired, and what occurs to me is this. 
 You and Agnes shall leave me here and have no more 
 bother. I shall be perfectly happy snoozling in one of these 
 delightful drawing-room chairs. Do what you like, and 
 then pick me up after it." 
 
 "Alas ! it's against regulations," said Rickie. "The Union 
 won't trust lady visitors on its premises alone." 
 
 "But who's to know I'm alone? With a lot of men in 
 the drawing-room, how's each to know that I'm not with the 
 others ?" 
 
 "That would shock Rickie," said Agnes, laughing. " He's 
 frightfully high-principled." 
 
 "No, I'm riot," said "Rickie, thinking of his recent 
 shiftiness over breakfast. 
 
 "Then come for a walk with me. I want exercise. 
 Some connection of ours was once rector of Madingley. 
 I shall walk out and see the church." 
 
 Mrs. Lewin was accordingly left in the Union. 
 
 "This is jolly !" Agnes exclaimed as she strode along the 
 somewhat depressing road that leads out of Cambridge past 
 the observatory. "Do I go too fast?" 
 
 "No, thank you. I get stronger every year. If it wasn't 
 for the look Of the thing, I should be quite happy." 
 
 "But you don't care for the look of the thing. It's only 
 ignorant people who do that, surely." 
 
 "Perhaps. I care. I |ikp people w ho arp wpll-maHe and 
 beautiful. They ^re_of_some use in_thejffiQrld- Iun3er- 
 stan^ why they are there. I cannot understand why the 
 ugly and crippled are there, however healthy they may feel 
 inside. ^ Don't you know how Turner spoils his pictures 
 by introducing a man like a bolster in the foreground? 
 Well, in actual life every landscape is spoilt by men of worse 
 shapes still." 
 
 I "You sound like a bolster with the stuffing out." They 
 1 -84- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 laughed. She always blew his cobwebs away like this, with 
 a puff of humorous mountain air. Just now — the associa- 
 tions he attached to her were various — she reminded him of 
 a heroine of Meredith's — but a heroine at the end of the 
 book. All had been written about her. She had played her 
 mighty part, and knew that it was over. He and he alone 
 was not content, and wrote for her daily a trivial and im- 
 possible sequel. 
 
 ^st time they had talked about Gera ld. Butjthat^was 
 some six _^months ,agp, when things felt easier. Today 
 Gerald was the faintest blur. Fortunately the cgny£rsa- 
 tion t timedt o Mr,,.JEembroke ,and to educatipn. Did wo- 
 men lose a lot by not knowing Greek? "A heap," said 
 Rickie, roughly. But modern languages? Thus they got 
 to Geimany, which he had visited last Easter with Ansell; 
 and thence to the German Emperor, and what a to-do he 
 made; and from him to our own king (still Prince of 
 Wales), who had lived while an undergraduate at Mading- 
 ley Hall. Here it was. And all the time he thought, "It 
 is hard on her. She has no right to be walking with me. 
 She would be ill with disgust if she knew. ^[ti£jiard_pn 
 Jjer to be loved." 
 
 They looked at the Hall, and went inside the pretty 
 little church. Some Arundel prints hung upon the pillars, 
 and Agnes expressed the opinion that pictures inside a 
 place of worship were a pity. Rickie did not agree with 
 this. He said again that nothing beautiful was ever to be 
 tegretted. ' 
 
 "^ "You're cracked on beauty," she whispered — ^they were 
 still inside the church. "Do hurry up and write something." 
 
 "Something beautiful ?" 
 
 "I believe you can. I'm going to lecture you seriously all 
 the way home. Take; care that you don't wastej^oiir life." 
 
 They continued the conversation outside^ "But I've got 
 to hate my own writing. I believe that most people come 
 to that stage — not so early though. What I write is too silly. 
 
 -85- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 It can't happen. For instance, a stupid vulgar man is en- 
 gaged to a lovely young lady. He wants her to live in the 
 towns, but she only cares for woods. She shocks him this 
 way and that, but gradually he tames her, and makes her 
 nearly as dull as he is. One day she has a last explosion 
 — over the snobby wedding-presents — ^and flies out of the 
 drawing-room window, shouting, "Freedom and truth!" 
 Near the house is a little dell full of fir-trees, and she runs 
 into it. He comes there the next moment. But she's 
 gone." 
 
 "Awfully exciting. Where?" 
 
 "Oh Lord, she's a Dryad!" cried Rickie, in great dis- 
 gust. "She's turned into a tree." 
 
 "Rickie, it's very good indeed. The kind of thing has 
 something in it. Of course you get it all through Greek 
 and Latin. How upset the man must be when he sees the 
 girl turn." 
 
 r- "He doesn't see her. He never guesses. Such a man 
 Icpuld never see a Dryad." 
 
 "So you describe how she turns Just before he comes up?" 
 
 "No. Indeed I don't ever say that she does turn. I 
 don't use the word 'Dryad' once." 
 
 "I think you ought to put that part plainly. Otherwise, 
 with such an original story, people might miss the point. 
 Have you had any luck with it?" 
 
 "Magazines? I haven't tried. I know what the stuff's 
 worth. You see, a year or two ago I had a great idea of get- 
 ting into touch with Nature, just as the Greeks were in 
 touch; and seeing England so beautiful, I used to pretend 
 that her trees and coppices and summer fields of parsley 
 were alive. It's funny enough now, but it wasn't funny 
 then, for I got in such a state that I believed, actually be- 
 lieved, that Fauns lived in a certain double hedgerow near 
 the Gog Magogs, and one evening I walked a mile sooner 
 than go through it alone." 
 
 "Good gracious!" SJie laid her hand on his shoulder. 
 
Cambridge 
 
 He moved to the other side of the road. "It's all right 
 now. I've changed those follies for bthers. But while I 
 had them I began to write, and even now I keep on writing, 
 though I know better. I've got a quite a pile of little sto- 
 ries, all harping on this lidiculous idea of getting into touch 
 with Nature." 
 
 "I wish you weren't so modest. It's simply splendid as 
 an idea. Though — but tell me about the Dryad who was 
 engaged to be married. What was she like?" 
 
 "I can show you the dell in which the young person dis- 
 appeared. We pass it on the right in a moment." 
 
 "It does seem a pity that you don't make, something ^pf 
 your talents. It seeins such a waste to write little stories 
 and never publish them. You must have enough for a 
 book. Life is so full in our days that short stories are the 
 very thing; they get read by people who'd never tackle a 
 , novel. For example, at our Dorcas we tried to read out a 
 I long affair by Henry James — Herbert saw it recommended 
 [ifl'The Times.' There was no doubt it was very good, but 
 one simply couldn't remember from one week to another 
 what had happened. So now our aim is to get something 
 that just lasts the hour. I take you seriously, Rickie, and 
 that is why I am so offensive. You are too modest. Peo-fc 
 pie who think they can do nothing so often do nothing. If 
 want you to plunge." 
 
 It thrilled him like a trumpet-blast. She took him seri- 
 ously. Could he but thank her for her divine affability! 
 But the words would stick in his throat, or worse still 
 would bring other words along with them. His breath came 
 quickly, for he seldom spoke of his writing, and no one, not 
 even Ansell, had advised him to plunge. 
 
 "But do you really think that I could take up literature ?" 
 
 "Why not? You can try. Even if you fail, you can try. 
 Of course we think you tremendously clever; and I met 
 one of your dons at tea, and he said that your degree was 
 not in the least a proof of your abilities : he said that you 
 
 -87- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 knocked up and got flurried in examinations. Oh!" — her 
 ' cheek flushed, — "I wish I^as a man. ThfeJivholejvorldJies 
 before them. They can do anything. They aren't cooped 
 up with servants and tea-parties and twaddle. But where's 
 this dell where the Dryad disappeared?" 
 
 "We've passed it." He had meant to pass it. It was 
 too beautiful. All he had read, all he had hoped, all he had 
 loved, seemed to quiver in its enchanted air. It was peril- 
 ous. He dared not enter it with such a woman. 
 
 "How long ago?" She turned back. "I don't want to 
 miss the dell. Here it must be," she added after a few 
 moments, and sprang up the green bank that hid the 
 entrance from the road. "Oh, what a jolly place!" 
 
 "Go right in if you want to see it," said Rickie, and did 
 qot. offer, to _go ..with her. She stood for a momentlookmg 
 at the view, for a few steps will increase a view in Cam- 
 bridgeshire. The wind blew her dress against her. Then, 
 like a cataract again, .she vanished pure and cool into the 
 dell. 
 
 The young man thought of her feelings no longer. His 
 heart throbbed louder and louder, and seemed to shake him 
 to pieces. 
 
 "Rickie!" 
 
 She was calling from the dell. For an answer he sat 
 down where he was, on the dust-bespattered margin. She 
 -could call as loud as she liked. The devil had done much, 
 but he should not take him to her. 
 
 ' "Rickie !" — and it came with the tones of an angel. He 
 drove his fingers into his ears, and invoked the name of 
 Gerald. But there was no sign, neither angry motion in the' 
 air nor hint of January mist. Jun&— fields of June, sky 
 of June, songs of June. Grass of June beneath him, 
 grass of June over the tragedy he had deemed immortal 
 A bird called out of the dell: "Rickie!" 
 
 A bird flew into the dell. 
 • 
 
 —88— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "Did you take me for the Dryad?" she asked. She was 
 ,§itting^down with his head on her lap. He had laid it there 
 for a moment before he went out to die, and she had not 
 let him take it away. 
 
 "I prayed you might not be a woman," he whispered. 
 
 "Darling, I am very much a woman. I do not vanish in- 
 to groves and trees. I thought you would never come to 
 me. 
 
 "Did you expect ?" 
 
 "I hoped. I called hoping." 
 
 Inside the dell it was neither June nor January. The 
 chalk walls barred out the seasons, and the fir-trees did not 
 seem to feel their passage. Only from time to time the 
 odours of summer slipped in from the wood above, to com- 
 ment on the waxing year. She bent down to touch him 
 with her lips. 
 
 He started, and cried passionately, "Never forget that 
 your greatest thing is over. I have forgotten: I am took 
 weak. You shall never forget. What I said to you then | 
 is greater than what I say to you now. What he gave you 
 then is greater than anything you will get from me." 
 
 She was frightened. Again she had the sense of some- 
 thing abnormal. Then she said, "What is all this non- 
 sense?" and folded him in her arms. 
 
 -89- 
 
VIII 
 
 ANSELL stood looking at his breakfast-table, which 
 was laid for four instead of two. His bedmaker, 
 equally peevish, explained how it had happened. 
 Last night, at one in the morning, the porter had been awoke 
 with a note for the kitchens, and in that note Mr. Elliot said 
 that all these things were to be sent to Mr. Ansell's. 
 
 "The fools have sent the original order as well. Here's 
 the lemon-sole for two. I can't move for food." 
 
 "The note being ambigerous, the Kitchens judged best to 
 send it all." She spoke of the kitchens in a half-respect- 
 ful, half-pitying way, much as one speaks of Parliament. 
 
 "Who's to pay for it?" He peeped into the new dishes. 
 Kidneys entombed in an omelette, hot roast chicken in 
 watery gravy, a blazed but pallid pie. 
 
 "And who's to wash it up ?" said the bedmaker to her help 
 outside. 
 
 Ansell had disputed late last night concerning Schopen- 
 hauer, and was a little cross and tired. He bounced over to 
 Tilliard, who kept opposite. Tilliard was eating 'gooseberry 
 jam. 
 
 "Did Elliot ask you to breakfast with me?" 
 
 "No," said Tilliard mildly. 
 
 "Well, you'd better come, and bring every one you know." 
 
 So Tilliard came, bearing himself a little formally, for 
 he was not very intimate with his neighbour. Out of the 
 window they called to.,W!idiington. But he laid his hand 
 on his stomach, thus indicating it was too late. 
 
 "Who's to pay for it?" repeated Ansell, as a man 
 appeared from the Buttery earring coffee on a bright tin 
 tray. 
 
 — 90 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "College coffee ! How nice !" remarked Tilliard, who was 
 cutting the pie. "But before term ends you must come and 
 try niy new machine. My sister gave it me. There is a 
 bulb at the top, and as the water boils — " 
 
 "He might have counter-ordered the lemon-sole. That's 
 Rickie all over. Violently economical, and then loses his 
 head, and all the things go bad." 
 
 "Give them to the bedder while they're hot." This was 
 done. She accepted them dispassionately, with the air of 
 one who lives without nourishment. Tilliard continued to 
 describe his sister's coffee machine, 
 
 "What's that ?" They could hear panting and rustling on 
 the stairs. 
 
 "It sounds like a lady," safd Tilliard fearfully. He 
 slipped the piece of pie back. It fell into position like a 
 brick. 
 
 "Is it here? Am I right? Is it here?" The door 
 opened and in came Mrs. Lewin. "Oh horrors ! I've made 
 a mistake." ' 
 
 "That's all right," said Ansell awkwardly. 
 
 "I wanted Mr. Elliot. Where are they?" 
 
 "We expect Mr. Elliot every moment," said Tilliard. 
 
 "Don't tell me I'm right," cried Mrs. Lewin, "and that 
 you're the ^mfying Mr. AnselL" And, with obvious relief, 
 she wrung TiIHard^armiy by the hand. 
 
 "I'm Ansell," said Ansell, looking very uncouth and grim. 
 
 "How stupid of me not to know it," she gasped, and 
 would have gone on to I know not what, but the door opened 
 again. It was Rickie. 
 
 "Here's Miss Pembroke," he said. "Lj.ffi„gaing. to marry . 
 her." 
 
 There was a profound silence. 
 
 "We oughtn't to have done things like this," said Agnes, 
 turning to Mrs. Lewin. "We have no right to take Mr. 
 Ansell by surprise. It is Rickie's fault. He was that obsti- 
 nate. He would bring us. He ought to be horsewhipped." 
 
 —91— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "He ought, indeed," said Tilliard pleasantly, and bolted. 
 Not till he gained his room did he realize that he had been 
 less apt than usual. As for Ansell, the first thing he said 
 was, "Why didn't you counter-order the lemon-sole?" 
 
 In such a situation Mrs. Lewin was of priceless value. 
 She led the way to the table, observing, "I quite agree with 
 Miss Pembroke. I loathe surprises. Never shall I forget 
 my horror when the knife-boy painted the dove's cage with 
 the dove inside. He did it as a surprise. Poor Parsival 
 nearly died. His feathers were bright green!" 
 
 "Well, give me the lemon-soles," said Rickie. "I like 
 them." 
 
 "The bedder's got them." 
 
 "Well, there you are ! ■ What's there to be annoyed 
 about?" 
 
 "And while the cage was drying we put him among the 
 bantams. They had been the greatest allies. But I sup- 
 pose they took him for a parrot or a hawk, or something 
 that bantams hate ; for while his cage was drying they picked 
 out his feathers, and picked out his feathers, and Picked 
 out his feathers, till he was perfectly bald. 'Hugo, look,' 
 said I. 'This is the end of Parsival. Let me have no more 
 surprises.' He burst into tears." 
 
 Thus did Mrs. Lewin create an atmosphere. At first it 
 seemed unreal, but gradually they got used to it, and breathed 
 scarcely anything else throughout the meal. In such an 
 atmosphere everything seemed of small and equal value, and 
 the engagement of Eickie ,and Agnes, like t^ie feathers of 
 Earsival, fluttered Jightly to, th^e ground. Ansell was gener- 
 ally silent. He was no match for these two quite clevef 
 women. Only once was there a hitch. 
 
 They had been talking gaily enough about the betrothal 
 when Ansell suddenly interrupted with, "When is the 
 marriage ?" 
 
 "Mr. Ansell," said Agnes, blushing, "I wish you hadn't 
 —92— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 asked that. That part's dreadful. Not for years, as far 
 as we can see." 
 
 But Rickie had not seen as far. He had not talked to her 
 of this at all. Last night they had spoken only of love. He 
 exclaimed, "Oh, Agnes— don't !" Mrs. Lewin laughed 
 roguishly. 
 
 "Why this delay?" asked Ansell. 
 
 Agnes looked at Rickie, who replied, "I must get money, 
 worse luck." 
 
 "I thought you'd got money." 
 
 He hesitated, and then said, "I must get my foot on the 
 ladder, then." 
 
 Ansell began with, "On which ladder?" but Mrs. Lewin, 
 using the privilege of her sex, exclaimed, "Not another 
 word. If there's a thing I abominate, it is plans. My head 
 goes whirling at once." What she really abominated was 
 questions, and she saw that Ansell was turning serious. 
 To appease him, she put on her clever manner and asked 
 him about Germany. How had it impressed him? Were 
 we so^ totally unfitted to repel invasion? Was not 
 German scholarship overestimated? He replied discourte- 
 ously, but he did reply ; and if she could have stopped him 
 thinking, her triumph would have been complete. 
 
 When they rose to go, Agnes held Ansell's hand for a 
 moment in her own. 
 
 "Good-bye," she said. "It was very unconventional of 
 us to come as we did, but I don't think any of us a re conven- 
 tipnal people." 
 
 He only replied, "Good-bye." The ladies started oflF. 
 Rickie lingered behind to whisper, "I would have it so. I 
 would have you begin square together. I can't talk yet — 
 , |[ye loved her for years — I can't think what she's done it 
 for] rm~goihg' to^wriie'short stories. I shall start this 
 afternoon. She declares there may be something in me." 
 As soon as he had left, Tilliard burst in, white with 
 
 —93— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 agitation, and crying, "Did you see my awful faux pas — 
 about the horsewhip? What shall I do? I must call on 
 Elliot. Or had I better write?" 
 
 "Miss Pembroke will not mind," said Ansell gravely. 
 "She is unconventional." He knelt in an arm-chair and hid 
 his face in the back. 
 
 "It was like a bomb," said Tilliard. 
 
 "It was meant to be." 
 
 "I do feel a fool. What must she think?" 
 
 "Never mind, TiUiard. You've not been as big a fool as 
 myself. At all events, you told her he must be horse- 
 whipped." 
 
 Tilliard hummed a little tune. He hated anything nasty, 
 and there was nastiness in Ansell. "What did you tell her?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "What do you think of it?" 
 
 "I think: Damn those women." 
 
 "Ah, yes. One hate s, one's, friends to get engaged. It 
 makes one feel so old: I think that is one of the reasons. 
 The brother just above me has lately married, and my 
 sister was quite sick about it, though the thing was suitable 
 in every way." 
 
 "Damn these women, then," said Ansell, bouncing round 
 in the chair. "Damn these particular women." 
 
 "They looked and spoke like ladies." 
 
 "Exactly. Their diplomacy was ladylike. Their lies 
 
 were ladylike. They've caught Elliot in a most ladylike 
 
 way. I saw it all during the one moment we were natural. 
 
 Generally we were clattering after the married one, whom 
 
 ^:^like a fool — I took for a fool. But for one moment we 
 
 ( were natural, and during that moment Miss Pembroke told 
 
 a lie, and made Rickie believe it was the truth." 
 "- "What did she say?" 
 
 "She said .Ve see' instead of 'I see.' " 
 
 Tilliard burstintd^ laughter. "THis jaundiced young phil- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 Osopher, with his kinky view of life, was too much for him. 
 
 "She said 'we see,'" repeated Ansell, "instead of 'I see,' 
 and she made him believe that it was the truth. She 
 caught him and makes him believe that he caught her. She 
 came to see me and makes him think that it is his idea. 
 That is what I mean when I say that she is a lady." 
 
 "Vou are too subtle for me. My dull eyes could only see 
 two happy people." 
 
 "I never said they weren't happy." 
 
 "Then, my dear Ansell, why are you so cut up? It's 
 beastly when a friend marries, — and I grant he's rather 
 young, — but I should say it's "the best thing for him. A de- 
 cent woman — and you have proved not one thing against 
 her — a decent woman will keep him up to the mark and 
 stop him getting slack. ^She'U^nake him responsibla -and 
 manly , for much as I like Rickie, I always think him a li{- 
 tle effeminat e. And, really," — ^his voice grew sharper, for 
 he was irritated by Ansell's conceit, — "and, really, you talk 
 as if you were mixed up in the affair. They pay a civil 
 visit to your rooms, and you see nothing but dark plots and 
 challenges to war." 
 
 "War!" cried Ansell, crashing his fists together. "It's 
 war, then!" 
 
 "Oh, what a lot of tommy-rot," said Tilliard. "£an^ 
 a man an d woman get engaged ? My dear boy — excuse me 
 talking like this — what on earth is it to do with us ? We're 
 his friends, and I hope we always shall be, but we shan't 
 keep his friendship by fighting. We're bound to fall into 
 the background, ^^^ia^firstr^frieads some way after. Xcai 
 ' may resent the order, but it is ordained by nature." 
 
 "'TrEe^poiiiins, not what's ordained by nature or any other 
 fool, but what's righf." 
 
 "You are~Kopelessly unpractical," said Tilliard, turning 
 away. "And let me remind you that you've already given 
 away your case by acknowledging that they're happy." 
 
 "She is happy because she has conquered; he is happy 
 
 —95— 
 
 -\ 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 because he has at last hung all the world's beauty on to a 
 
 single peg. He was always trying to do it. He used to call 
 
 the peg humanity. Will either of these happinesses last? 
 
 His .can't. Hers only for a time. I fight this woman not 
 
 only because she fights me, but because I foresee the most 
 
 appalling catastrophe. She wants Rickie, partly Tolreplace 
 
 anotEef man whom "she lost two years ago, partly to make 
 
 something out of him. He is to write. In time she will 
 
 get sick of this. He won't get famous. She will only see 
 
 ^how thin he is and how lame. She will long jor a jo llier 
 
 ^husband, and I don't blame her. And, having made him 
 
 thoroughly miserable and degraded, she will bolt — if she 
 
 can do it like a lady." 
 
 ^/ Such were the ppinons of Stewart Ansell. 
 
 — 96 — 
 
IX 
 
 Seven letters written in June: — > 
 
 Cambridge. 
 
 Dear Rickie, — I would rather write, and you can guess 
 what kind of letter this is when I say it is a fair copy: I 
 have been making rough drafts all the morning. When I talk 
 I get angry, and also at times try to be clever — ^two reasons 
 why I fail to get attention paid to me. This is a letter of the 
 prudent sort. If it makes you break off. the engagement, Jits 
 work- is -done. You are not a person who ought to marry at 
 all. You are unfitted in body: that we once discussed. You 
 are also unfitted in soul : you want and you need to like many 
 people, and a man of that sort ought not to marry. "You 
 never were attached to that great sect" who can like one 
 person only, and if you try to enter it you will find destruc-v 
 tion. I have read in books, — and I cannot afford to despise -i 
 books, they are all that I have to go by — that men and women 
 ,^sire .different ,things. Maa jwants-toJovemankind ; woman 
 wants to love one man. When she has him her work 
 is'over." Sifie is the emissary ^gf Nature, and Nature's bidding 
 has been fulfilled. But man does not care a damn for Nature 
 — or at least only a very little damn. He cares for a hundred 
 things besides, and the more civilized he is the more he will 
 care for these other hundred things, and demand not only a 
 wife and children, but also friends, and work, and spiritual 
 freedom. 
 
 I believe you to be extraordinarily civilized. — Yours ever, 
 
 S. A. 
 
 Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road, 
 Sawston. 
 Dear Ansell, — But I'm in love — a detail you've forgot- 
 ten. I can't Jlisten_to._EjigIisk_Essays. The wretched Agnes 
 may be an "emissary of Nature," but I only grinned when I 
 
 —97— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 read it. I may be extraordinarily civilized, but I don't feel 
 so; I'm in love, and I've found a woman to love me, and I 
 mean to have the hundred other things as well. She wants 
 me to have them — friends, and work, and spiritual freedom, 
 and everything^ You and your books miss this, beqause your 
 ^books^are too sedat^. Read poetry — not only Shelley .^Un3er- 
 stand Beatrice, and Clara Middleton, and Brunhilde in the 
 first scene of Gotterdammerung. Understand Goethe when 
 he says "the eternal feminine leads us on," and don't write 
 another English Essay. — ^Yours ever affectionately, 
 
 R. E. 
 
 Cambridge. 
 Dear Rickie, — ^What am I to say? "Understand Xanthippe, 
 and Mrs. Bennett, and Elsa in the question scene of Lo- 
 hengrin"? "Understand Euripides when he says the eter- 
 nal feminine leads us a pretty dance"? I shall say nothing ot 
 the sort. The allusions in this English Essay shall not be lit- 
 erary. My personal objections to Miss Pembroke are as fol- 
 lows : — 
 '^(i) She is not serious. 
 
 I (2) She is not truthful. 
 
 f. 
 
 Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road, 
 Sawston. 
 My Dear Stewart, — You couldn't know. I didn't know 
 for a moment. But this letter of yours is the most wonder- 
 ful thing that has ever happened to me yet — more wonderful 
 (I don't exaggerate) than the moment when Agnes promised 
 to marry me. I always knew you liked me, but I never 
 knew how much until this letter. Up to now I think we 
 have been too much like the strong heroes in books 
 who feel so much and say so little, and feel all the more for 
 saying so little. Now that's over and we shall never be that 
 kind of an ass again. We've hit — ^by accident — upon some- 
 thing permanent. You've written to me, "I hate the woman 
 '-who will be your wife," and I write back, "Hate her. Can't 
 I love you both?" She will never come between us, Stewart 
 (She wouldn't wish to, but that's by the way), because our 
 friendship has now passed beyond intervention. No third 
 person could break it. We couldn't ourselves, I fancy. We 
 
 -98- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 may quarrel and argue till one of us dies, but the thing is 
 registered. I only wish, dear man, you could be happier. 
 For me, it's as if a light was suddenly held behind the world. 
 
 R.E. 
 
 Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road, 
 Sawston. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Lewin, — The time goes flying, but I am 
 getting to learn my wonderful boy. We speak a great deal 
 about his work. He has just finished a curious thing called 
 "Nemi" — about a Roman ship that is actually sunk in some 
 lake. I cannot think how he describes the things, when he has 
 never seen them. If, as I hope, he goes to Italy next year, 
 he should turn out something really good. Meanwhile we are 
 hunting for a publisher. Herbert believes that a collection of 
 short stories is hard to get published. It is, after all, better 
 to write one long one. 
 
 But you must hot think we only talk books. What we say 
 on other topics cannot so easily be repeated! Oh, Mrs. 
 Lewin, he is a dear, and dearer than ever now that we have 
 him at Sawston. Herbert, in a quiet way, has been making 
 inquires about those Cambridge friends of his. Nothing 
 against them, but they seem to be terribly eccentric. None 
 of them are good at games, and they spend all their spare 
 time thinking and discussing. They discuss what one knows 
 and what one never will know and what one had much better 
 not know. Herbert says it is because they have not got 
 enough to do. — Ever your grateful and affectionate friend, 
 
 Agnes Pembroke. 
 
 Shelthorpe, 9 Sawston Park Road, 
 Sawston. 
 Dear Mr. Silt, — Thank you for the congratulations, 
 which I have handed over to the delighted Rickie.^ I am 
 sorry that the rumor reached you that I was not pleased. 
 Anything gleases me that promises^fflx siiter!s,happiaess, and 
 I have knowrT'your cousin nearly as long as you have. 
 It will be a very long engagement, for he must make his way 
 first. The dear boy is not nearly as wealthy as he supposed; 
 
 1 The congratulations were really addressed to Agnes — a social 
 blunder which Mr. Pembroke deftly corrects. ^ 
 
 -99— 
 
The Longest Journey. 
 
 having no tastes, and hardly any expenses, he used to talk as 
 if he were a millionaire. He must at least double his income 
 before he can dream of more intimate ties. This has been 
 a bitter pill, but I am glad to say that they have accepted it 
 bravel". 
 
 Hopmg that you and Mrs. Silt will profit by your week at 
 Margate. — I remain, yours very sincerely, 
 
 Herbert Pembroke^ 
 
 Cadover, Wilts. 
 
 Dear IMiss Pembroke, l_i hear that you are going to 
 J Agnes, J 
 
 marry my'^nephew.^ I have no idea what he is like, and won- 
 der whether you would bring him that I may find out. Isn't 
 September rather a nice month? You might have to go to 
 Stone Henge, but with that exception would be left un- 
 molested. I do hope you will manage the visit. We met once 
 at Mrs. Lewin's, and I have a very clear recollection of you. — 
 Believe me, yours sincerely, 
 
 Emily Failing. 
 
 — 100 — 
 
X 
 
 THE rain tilted a little from the south-west. For 
 the most part it fell from a grey cloud silently, 
 but now and then the tilt increased, and a kind of 
 sigh passed over the country as the drops lashed the walls, 
 trees, shepherds, and other motionless objects that stood in 
 their slanting career. At times the cloud would descend 
 and visibly embrace the earth, to which it had only sent 
 messages; and the earth itself would bring forth clouds — 
 clouds of a whiter breed — ^which formed in shallow valleys 
 and followed the courses of the streams. It seemed the 
 rbeginning of life. Again God said, "Shall we divide the 
 Waters from the land or not? Was not the firmament la- 
 bour and glory sufficient?" At all events it was the begin- 
 ning of life paatorgj, ..-^behind which imagination cannot 
 travel. 
 
 Yet complicated people were getting wet — ^not only the 
 shepherds. For instance, the piano-tuner was sopping. 
 So was the vicar's wife. So were the lieutenant and the 
 peevish danisms in~Tiis Battleston car. Gallantry, charity, 
 and art pursued their various missions, perspiring and muddy, 
 while out on the slopes beyond them stood the eternal 
 man and the eternal dog, guarding eternal sheep until the 
 world is vegetarian. 
 
 Inside an arbour — which faced east, and thus avoided 
 the bad weather — there sat a complicated person who was dry. 
 She looked at the drenched world with a pleased expres- 
 sion, and would smile when a cloud would lay down on the 
 village, or when the rain sighed louder than usual against 
 her solid shelter. Ink, paper-clips, and foolscap paper were 
 on the table before her, and she could also reach an um- 
 brella, a waterproof, a walking-stick, and an electric bell. 
 
 — lOI — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Her age was between elderly and old, and her forehead was 
 wrinkled with an expression of slight but perpetual pain. 
 But the lines round her mouth indicated that she had 
 laughed a great deal during her life, just as the clean tight 
 skin round her eyes perhaps indicated that she had not often 
 cried. She was dressed in brown silk. A bro%vn silk 
 shawl lay most becomingly over her beautiful hair. 
 
 After long thought she wrote on the paper in front of 
 lier, "The subject of this memoir first saw the light at 
 Wolverhampton on May the 14th, 1842." She laid down 
 Jier pen and said "Ugh !" A robin hopped in and she wel- 
 comed him. A sparrow followed and she stamped her 
 root. She watched some thick white water which was slid- 
 ing like a snake down the gutter of the gravel path. It had 
 just appeared. It must have escaped from a hollow in the 
 chalk up behind. The earth could absorb no longer. The 
 lady did not think of all this, for she hated questions of 
 whence and wherefore, and the ways of the earth ("our 
 dull stepmother") bored her unspeakably. But the water, 
 just the snake of water, was amusing, and she flung her 
 golosh at it to dam it up. Then she wrote feverishly, 
 "The subject of this memoir first saw the light in the mid- 
 dle of the night. It was twenty to eleven. His pa was a 
 parson, but he was not his pa's son, and never went 
 to heaven." There was the sound of a train, and presently 
 white smoke appeared, rising laboriously through the heavy 
 air. It distracted her, and for about a quarter of an hour 
 she sat perfectly still, doing nothing. At last she pushed 
 the spoilt paper aside, took a fresh piece, and was beginning 
 to write, "On May the 14th, 1842," when there was a crunch 
 on the gravel, and a furious voice said, "I am sorry for 
 I Flea Th ompson." 
 
 "I daresay I am sorry for him too," said the lady; her 
 voice was languid and pleasant. "Who is he?" 
 
 "Flea's a liar, and the next time we meet he'll be a foot- 
 — 102 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 ball." Off slipped a sodden ulster. He hung it up angrily 
 upon a peg: the arbour provided several. 
 
 "But who is he, and why has he that disastrous name?" 
 
 "Flea? Fleance. All the Thompsons are named out of 
 Shakespeare. He grazes the Rings." 
 
 "Ah, I see. A pet lamb." 
 
 "Lamb ! Shepherd !" 
 
 "One of my Shepherds?" 
 
 "The last time I go with his sheep. But not the last time 
 he sees me. I am sorry for him. He dodged me today." 
 
 "Do you mean to say" — she became animated — "that you 
 /have been out in the wet keeping the sheep of Flea 
 I Thompson?" 
 
 ' "I had to." He blew on his fingers and took off his cap. 
 Water trickled over his unshaven cheeks. His hair was so 
 wet that it seemed worked upon his scalp in bronze. 
 
 "Get away, bad dog !" screamed the lady, for he had given 
 himself a shake and spattered her dress with water. He 
 was a powerful boy of twenty, admirably muscular, but 
 rather too broad for his height. People called him "Podge" 
 until they were dissuaded. Then they called him "Stephen" 
 or "Mr. Wonham." Then he said, "You can call me Podge 
 if you like." 
 
 "As for Flea — !" he began tempestuously. He sat down 
 by her, and with much heavy breathing t^ jthe story, — 
 "Flea has a girl at Wintersbridge, and I had to gowtth his 
 sheep while he went to see her. Two hours. We agreed. 
 Half an hour to go, an hour to kiss his girl, and half an 
 hour back — and he had my bike. Four hours ! Four hours 
 and seven minutes I was on the Rings, with a fool of a dog, 
 and sheep doing all they knew to get the turnips." 
 
 "My farm is a mystery to me," said the lady, stroking her 
 fingers. "Some day you must really take me to see it. It 
 must be like a ^Ibert and Sullivan opera, with a chorus of 
 agitated employers. How is it that I have escaped? Why 
 
 —103— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 r 
 
 \ca 
 
 have I never been summoned to milk the cows, or flay the 
 pigs, or drive the young bullocks to the pasture?" 
 
 He looked at her with astonishingly blue eyes — ^the only 
 dry things he had about him. He could not see into her: 
 she would have puzzled an older and cleverer man. He 
 may have seen round her. 
 
 A thing of beauty you are not. But I sometimes think 
 you are a joy for ever." 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" 
 
 "Oh, you understand right enough," she exclaimed irri- 
 tably, and then smiled, for he was conceited, and did not like 
 being told that he was not a thing of beauty. "Large and 
 steady feet," she continued, "have this disadvantage — ^you 
 can knock down a man, but you will never knock down a 
 
 oman." 
 I don't know what you mean. I'm not likely — " 
 
 "Oh, never mind — never, never mind. I was being 
 funny. I repent. Tell me about the sheep. Why did you 
 go with them?" , 
 
 "I did tell you. I had to." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "He had to see his girl." 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 His eyes shot past her again. It was so obvious that the 
 man had to see his girl. For two hours though — ^not for 
 four hours seven minutes. 
 
 "Did you have any lunch?" 
 
 "I don't hold with regular meals." 
 
 "Did you have a book?" 
 
 "I don't hold with books in the open. None of the older 
 men read." ~ 
 
 "Did you commune with yourself, or don't you hold 
 with that?" 
 
 "Oh Lord, don't ask me!" 
 
 "You distress me. You rob the_PastoraJ of its lingering 
 romance. Is there no poetry and no^thought m England? 
 
 — 104 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 Is there no one, in all these downs, who warbles with eager 
 thought the Doric lay?" 
 
 "Chaps sing to themselves at times, if you mean that." 
 
 "I dream ^J. Arcady.^ I open my eyes. Wiltshire. Of 
 Amaryllis: Flea Thompson's girl. Of the pensive shep- 
 herd, twitching his mantle blue: you in an ulster. Aren't 
 you sorry for me?" 
 
 "May I put in a pipe?" 
 
 "By all means put a pipe in. In return, tell me of what 
 you were thinking for the four hours and the seven 
 minutes." 
 
 He laughed shyly. "You do ask a man such questions." 
 
 "Did you simply waste the time?" 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 "I thought that jCQ]onel_Robert Ingersoll says you must 
 be strenuous." 
 
 At the sound of this name he whisked open a little cup- 
 board, and declaring, "I haven't a moment to spare," took 
 out of it a pile of "Clarion" and other reprints, adorned as 
 to their covers with bald or bearded apostles of humanity. 
 Selecting a bald one, he began at once to read, occasionally 
 exclaiming, "That's got them," "That's knocked Genesis," 
 with similar ejaculations of an aspiring mind. She glanced 
 at the pile. Renan, minus the style. Darwiti, minus the 
 modesty. A comic edition of the book^of Job, by 
 "Excelsior," Pittsburgh, Pa. "The Beginning of Life," with 
 diagrams. "Angel or Ape ?" by Mrs. Julia P. Chunk. She 
 was amused, and wondered idly what was passing within his 
 narrow but not uninteresting brain. Did he suppose that 
 he was going to "find out"? She had tried once herself, 
 but had since subsided into a sprightly orthodoxy. Why 
 didn't he read poetry, instead of wasting his time between 
 books like these and country like that? 
 
 The cloud parted, and the increase of light made her look 
 up. Over the valley she saw a grave sullen down, and on 
 its flanks a little brown smudge — ^her sheep, together with 
 
 —105— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 her shepherd, Fleance Thompson, returned to his duties at 
 last. A trickle of water came through the arbour roof. 
 She shrieked in dismay. 
 
 "That's all right," said her companion, moving her chair, 
 but still keeping his place in his book. 
 
 She dried up the spot on the manuscript. Then she 
 wrote: "A^ithgny Eustrace Failing, the subject of this 
 mgmoir, was born at Wolverhampton." But sHe'wfote no 
 more. She was fidgety. Another drop fell from the roof. 
 Likewise an earwig. She wished she had not been so 
 playful in flinging her golosh into the path. The boy who 
 was overthrowing religion breathed somewhat heavily as he 
 did so. Another earwig. She touched the electric bell. 
 
 "I'm going in," she observed. "It's far too wet." Again 
 the cloud parted and caused her to add, "Weren't you rather 
 kind to Flea?" But he was deep in the book. He read 
 like a poor person, with lips apart and a finger that followed 
 the print. At times he scratched his ear, or ran his tongue 
 along a straggling blonde moustache. His face had after 
 all a certain beauty : at all events the colouring was regal — a 
 steady crimson from throat to forehead: the sun and the 
 winds had worked on him daily ever since he was bom. 
 "The face of a strong man," thought the lady. "Let him 
 thank his stars he isn't a silent strong man, or I'd turn him 
 into the gutter." Suddenly it struck her that he was like 
 an Irish terrier. He worried infinity as if it was a bone. 
 Gnashing his teeth, he tried to carry the eternal subtleties 
 by violence. As a man he often bored her, for he was 
 always saying and doing the same things. But as a phikfiOr 
 pher he really was a joy for ever, an inexhaustible buffoon. 
 Taking up her pen, she began to caricature him. She drew 
 a rabbit-warren where rabbits were at play in four di- 
 mensions. Before she had introduced the principal figure, 
 she was interrupted by the footman. He had come up from 
 the house to answer the bell. On seeing her he uttered a 
 respectful cry. 
 
 — io6 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "Madam! Are you here? I am very sorry. I looked 
 for you everywhere. Mr^ Elliot and Miss Pembrpke^ar- 
 riyed nearly an hour ago." . -— 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear!" exclaimedc^rs. Failing-. "Take 
 these papers. Where's the umbrella? Mr. Stephen will 
 hold it over me. You hurry back and apologize. Are they 
 happy ?" 
 
 "Miss Pembroke inquired after you, madam." 
 
 "Have they had tea?" 
 
 "Yes, madam." 
 
 "J-dghton!" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "I believe you knew she was here all the time. You 
 didn't want to wet your pretty skin." 
 
 "You must not call me 'she' to tlie servants," said Mrs. 
 Failing as they walked away, she limping with a stick, he 
 holding a great umbrella over her. "I will not have it." 
 Then more pleasantly, "And don't tell him bellies. \Veall^ 
 lie. I knew quite well they were coming by the four-six 
 train. I saw it pass." 
 
 "That reminds me. Another child run over at the Roman \ 
 crossing. Whish — bang — dead."^" 
 
 "Oh: my foot ! Oh my foot, my foot !" said Mrs. Failing, 
 and paused to take breath. 
 
 "Bad?" he asked callously. 
 
 Xdgjiton, with^bowed head, passed them with the manu- 
 script and disappeared among the laurels. The twinge of 
 pain, which had been slight, passed away, and they pro- 
 ceeded, descending a green airless corridor which opened 
 into the gravel drive. 
 
 "Isn't it odd," said Mrs. Failing, "that the Greeks should 
 be enthusiastic about laurels — that Apollo should pursue any 
 one who could possibly turn into such a frightful plant? 
 What do you make of Rickie?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know." 
 
 "Shall I lend you his story to read?" 
 — 107 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 "Don't you think, Stephen, that a person in your pre- 
 carious position ought to be civil to my relatives?" 
 
 "Sorry, Mrs. Failing. I meant to be civil. I only hadn't 
 anything to say." 
 
 She laughed. "Are you a dear boy? I sometimes 
 wonder; or are you a brute?" 
 
 Again he had nothing to say. Then she laughed more 
 mischievously, and said — 
 
 "How can you be either, when you ^re_a philosopher? 
 Would you mind telling me — I am so anxious to learn — 
 ■wchat happens to people when they die ?" 
 
 "Don't ask me." He knew by bitter experience that she 
 was making fun of him. 
 
 "Oh, but I do ask you. Those paper books of yours are 
 rso up-to-date. For instance, what has happened to the child 
 ] you say was killed on the line?" 
 
 -^ The rain increased. The drops, pattered hard on the 
 
 leaves, and outside.Jthe^ corridor men and women were 
 
 struggling, however stupidly, with the facts of life. Inside 
 
 it they wrangled. She teased the boy, and laugfieH at his 
 
 theories, and proved that no man can. be_an agnostic_who has 
 
 a sense of humour. Suddenly she stopped, not through 
 
 "any skill of his, but because she had remembered, some 
 
 (■ vrords., o£-Bacon : "The true atheist is he whose hands are 
 
 (cauterized by holy things." She thought of her distant 
 
 ^outh. The world was not so humorous then, but it had 
 
 ].:^[- been more important. For a moment she respected her 
 
 companion, and determind to vex him no more. 
 
 They left the shelter of the laurels, crossed the broad 
 drive, and were inside the house at last. She had got quite 
 wet, for the weather would not let her play the simple life 
 with impunity. As for him, he seemed a piece of the wet. 
 "Look here," she cried, as he hurried up to his attic, 
 "don't shave!" 
 He was delighted with the permission. 
 —1 08— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "I have an idea that Miss Pembroke is of the type that 
 Er?te?.4s to be unconvential and really isn't. I want to 
 see Tiow she takes it. Don't shave." 
 
 In the drawing-room she could hear the guests conversing 
 in the subdued tones of those who have not been welcomed. 
 Having changed her dress and glanced at^ the poems of 
 Mjltp?. she went to them, with uplifted hands of apoldgy 
 and horror. 
 
 "But I must have tea," she announced, when they had 
 assured her that they understood. "Otherwise I shall start 
 by being cross. Agnes, stop me. Give me tea." 
 
 Agnes, looking pleased, moved to the table and served her 
 hostess. Rickie followed with a pagoda of sandwiches and 
 little cakes. 
 
 "I feel twenty-seven years younger. ^Rickiej you are^so 
 Jike your father. I feel it ig twenty-seven ^ears ago, and 
 that he is bringing your mother to see me for the fit si time, s 
 It is curious — ^almost terrible — to §ee history repeating) 
 itself." '^ ^~"J 
 
 The remark was not tactful. 
 
 "I remember that visit well," she continued thoughtfully, 
 "I suppose it was a wonderful visit, though we none of us 
 knew it at the time. We all fell in love with your mother. 
 I wish she would have fallen in love with us. She couldn't 
 bear me, could she?" 
 
 "I never heard her say so. Aunt Emily," 
 "No; she wouldn't. I am sure your father said so, 
 though. My dear boy, don't look so shocked. Your _fathe r 
 ^and I hat ed each o ther. He said so, I said so, I say so ; say 
 so too. Then we~shall start fair. — Just a cocoanut cake. 
 — Agnes, don't you agree that it's always best to speak 
 out?" 
 
 "Oh, rather, Mrs. Failing. But I'm shockingly straight- 
 forward." 
 
 "So am I," said the lady. "I like to get down to the bed- 
 rock. — Hullo! Slippers? Slippers in the drawing-room?" 
 
 — 109 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 A young man had come in silently. Agnes observed with 
 a feeling of regret that he had not slmved. Rickie, after a 
 moment's hesitation, remembered who it was, and shook 
 hands with him. 
 
 "You've grown since I saw you last." 
 He showed his teeth amiably. 
 "How long was that?" asked Mrs. Failing. 
 "Three years, wasn't it? Came over from the Ansells — 
 friends." 
 
 "How disgraceful, Rickie ! Why don't you come and see 
 me oftener?" 
 
 He coi4d_not jretort that she never asked him. 
 "Agnes will make you come.' Oh, let me introduce — Mr. 
 Wonham — Miss Pembroke." 
 
 "I am deputy hostess," said Agnes. "May I give you 
 some tea?" 
 
 "Thank you, but I have had a little beer." 
 "It is one of the ghepherds," said Mrs. Failing, in low 
 tones. Agnes smiled rather wildly. Mrs. Lewin had 
 warned her that Cadover was an extraordinary "place, and 
 that one must never be astonished at anything. A_she2herd 
 ' ia thg^drawing-room ! No harm. Still one ought to know 
 Whether it was a shepherd or not. At alljevents he was in 
 S?"I'^*E^'?'^ f^lothing. She was anxious not to start with a 
 biurider, and therefore did not talk to the young fellow, but 
 tried to gather what he was from the demeanour of Rickie. 
 "I am sure, Mrs. Failing, that you need not talk of 
 'making' people come to Cadover. There will be no diffi- 
 culty, I should say." 
 
 "Thank you, my dear. Do you know who once said those 
 exact words to me ?" 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Eickie;s mother." 
 "Did she really?" 
 
 "My ^sister-in-law was a dear. You will have heard 
 
 Rickie's praises, but now you must hear mine. I never 
 
 — IK 
 
Cambridge 
 
 knew a woman who was so unselfish and yet had such ca- 
 pacities for life." 
 
 "Does one generally exclude the other?" asked Rickie. 
 
 'ineSSlfishpeople, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have 
 no colour. They think of other people because it is easier.] 
 They give money because they are too stupid or too idle to 
 spend it properly on themselves. That was the beauty of i 
 your mother — she gave away, but she also spent on herself, / 
 or tried to." 
 
 The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it 
 being September and only half-past six. From her low 
 chair Agnes could see the trees by the drive, black against a 
 blackening sky. That drive was half a mile long, and she 
 was praising its gravelled surface when Rickie called in a 
 voice of alarm, "I say, when did our train arrive?" 
 
 "Four-six." 
 
 "I said so." 
 
 "It arrived at four-six on the time-table," said Mr. 
 Wonham. "I want to know when it got to the station ?" 
 
 "I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you I looked at 
 my watch. I can do no more." 
 
 Agnes was amazed. Was Rickie mad? A minute ago 
 and they were boring each other over dogs. What had 
 happened ? 
 
 "Now, now! Quarrelling already?" asked Mrs. Failing. 
 
 The footman, bringing a lamp, lit up two angry faces. 
 
 "He says " 
 
 'He says- 
 
 "He says we ran over a child." 
 
 "So you did. You ran over a child in the village at four- 
 seven by my watch. Your train was late. You couldn't 
 have got to the station till four-ten." 
 
 "I don't believe it. We had passed the village by four- 
 seven. Agnes, hadn't we passed the village? It must 
 have been an express that ran over the child." 
 
 "Now is it likely" — ^he appealed to the practical world — 
 — Ill — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 ( 
 
 "is it likely that the company would run a stopping train 
 and then an express three minutes after it ?" 
 
 "A child " said Rickie. "I can't believe that the train 
 
 Icilled a child." He thought of their journey. They were 
 ( alone in ihe carriage. As the train slackened speed he had 
 ^•caught her for a moment in his arms. The rain beat on 
 the windows, but they were in heaven. 
 
 "You've got to believe it," said the other, and proceeded 
 to "rjib it in." His healthy, irritable face drew close to 
 Rickie's. "Two children were kicking and screaming on 
 the Roman crossing. Your train, being late, came down 
 on them. One of them was pulled off the line, but 
 the other was caught. How will you get out of that?" 
 
 "And how will you get out of it?" cried Mrs. Failing, 
 turning the tables on him. "Where's the child now? 
 What has happened to its soul? You must know, Agnes, 
 that this young gentleman is a philosopher." 
 
 "Oh, drop all that," said M r. W onham'. suddenly collaps- 
 ing. 
 
 "Drop it? Where? On my nice carpet?" 
 
 "I .hate philosophy," remarked Agnes, trying to turn the 
 subject, for she saw that it made Rickie unhappy. 
 
 "So do I. But I daren't say so before Stephen. He 
 d^S BJses us wome n." " 
 
 "No, I don't," said the victim, swaying to and fro on the 
 window-sill, whither he had retreated. 
 
 "Yes, he does. He won't even trouble to answer us. 
 /Stephen! Podge! Answer me. What has happened to 
 ^the child's soul?" 
 
 He flung open the window and leant from them Into the 
 dusk. They heard him mutter something about a bridge. 
 
 "What did I tell you? He won't answer my question." 
 
 The delightful moment was approaching when the boy 
 would lose his temper : she knew it by a certain tremor in 
 his heels. 
 
 "There wants a bridge," he exploded. "A bridge instead 
 — 112 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 of all this rotten talk and the level-crossing. It wouldn't 
 break you to build a two-arch bridge. Then the child's 
 soul, as you call it — well, nothing would have happened 
 to the child at all." 
 
 A gust of night air entered, accompanied by rain. The 
 flowers in the vases rustled, and the flame of the lamp shot 
 up and smoked the glass. Slightly irritated, she ordered 
 him to close the window. 
 
 —113— 
 
c 
 
 XI 
 
 lADOVER was not a large house. But it is the larg- 
 est house with which this story has dealings, and 
 must always be thought of with respect. It was 
 built about the year 1800, and favoured the architecture of 
 ancient Rome — chiefly by means of five lank pilasters, which 
 stretched from the top of it to the bottom. Between the pi- 
 lasters was the glass front door, to the right of them the 
 drawing-room windows, to the left of them the windows of 
 the dining-room, above them a triangular area, which the 
 better-class servants knew as a "pendiment," and which had 
 in its middle a small round hole, according to the usage of 
 Palladio. The classical note was also sustained by eight gray 
 steps which led from the building down into the drive, and 
 by an attempt at a formal garden on the adjoining lawn. 
 The lawn ended in a Ha-ha ("Ha! ha! who shall regard 
 it?"), and thence the bare land sloped down into the village. 
 The main garden (walled) was to the left as one faced 
 the house, while to the right was that laurel avenue, lead- 
 ing up to ^rs^__Failing^s arbour. 
 
 It was a comfortable but not very attractive place, and, 
 to a certain type of mind, its situation was not attractive 
 either. From the distance it showed as a grey box, huddled 
 against evergreens. There was no mystery about it. You 
 saw it for miles. Its hill had none of the beetling ro- 
 mance of Devonshire, none of the subtle contours that pre- 
 lude a cottage in Kent, but preferred its burden crudely, on 
 a huge bare palm. "There's Cadover," visitors would say. 
 "How small it still looks. We shall be late for lunch." 
 And the view from the windows, though extensive, would 
 not have been accepted by the Royal Academy. A valley, 
 
 —114— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 containing a stream, a road, a railway ; over the valley fields 
 of barley and wurzel,^ divided by no pretty hedges, and pass- 
 ing into a great and formless down — this was the outlook, 
 desolate at all times, and almost terrifying beneath a cloudy 
 sky. The down was called "Cadbury Range" ("Cocoa 
 Squares" if you were young and funny), because high 
 upon it — one cannot say "on the top," there being scarcely 
 any tops in Wiltshire — because high upon it there stood a 
 double circle of entrenchments. A bank of grass enclosed a 
 ring of turnips, which enclosed a second bank of grass, 
 which enclosed more turnips, and in the middle of the pat- 
 tern grew one small tree. British? Roman? Saxon? 
 Danish? The competent, reader will decide. The Thomp- 
 son family knew it to be far older than the Franco-Gef^ 
 man war.' It was the property of Government. It was 
 full of gold and dead soldiers who had fought with tfie 
 soldiers on Castle Rings and been beaten. The road to 
 Londinium, having forded the stream and crossed the val- 
 ley road and the railway, passed up by these entrenchments. 
 The road to London lay half a mile to the right of them. 
 To complete this survey one jnust mention the church 
 and the farm, both of which lay over the stream, in Cad- 
 ford. Between them they ruled the village, one claiming 
 the souls of the labourers, the other their bodies. If a man 
 desired other religion or other employment he must leave. 
 The church lay up by the railway, the farm was down by 
 the water meadows. The vicar, a gentle charitable man, 
 scarcely realized his power, and never tried to abuse 
 it. Mr. Wilbraham, the agent, was of another mould. He 
 knew' his placed and kept others to theirs : all society seemed 
 spread before him like a map. The line between the county 
 and the local, the line between the labourer and the ar- 
 tisan — he knew them all, and strengthened them with no 
 uncertain touch. Ever)^hing with him was graduated 
 — carefully graduated civility towards his superior, towards 
 his inferiors carefully graduated inicivility. So — 'for he 
 
 —115— 
 
The Longest Journey- 
 
 was a thoughtful person — so alone, declared he, could 
 things be kept together. 
 
 Perhaps the C^mic^Muse, to whom so much is now at- 
 tributed, had caused his estate to be left to Mr. Failing. 
 Mr. Failing was the author of some brilliant books oa_sQi. 
 . Cialism, — th at was why his wife married him, — and for 
 twenty-five years he reigned up at Cadover and.i£ied_toput 
 his theories into practice. He believed that thingscould be" 
 /^ept together by accenting the similarities, not^the difler- 
 i^nces of men. "We are all much more alike than we con- 
 fess," was one of his favourite speeches. As a speech it 
 sounded very well, and his wife had applauded; but when 
 it resulted in hard work, evenings in the reading-rooms, 
 mixed-parties, and long unobtrusive talks with dull people, 
 she got bored. In her piquant way she declared that she 
 was not going to love her husband, and succeeded. He 
 took it quietly, but his brilliancy decreased. His health 
 grew worse, and he knew that when he died there was no 
 one to carry on his work. He felt, besides, that he had 
 done very little. TeJl as he would, he had n ot a ptg.cticd 
 jnind, and could never dispense with Mrr~WiibraHsSr 
 For all his tact, he would often stretc^ljQut, the hand of 
 /"tirotherhood too soon, or withhold it when it would have 
 ; been accepted. Most , people misunders.tQCuiLlum, or on ly 
 j understood him when he was dead. In after years his reign 
 / became a golden age ; but he counted a few disciples in his 
 \ lifetime, a few young labourers and tenant farmers, who 
 swore tempestuously that he was not really a fool. This, 
 he told himself, was as much as he deserved. 
 
 Cadover was inherited by his widow. She tried to sell 
 it; she tried to let it; but she asked too much, and as it was 
 neither a pretty place nor fertile, it was left on her hands. 
 With many a groan she settled down to banishment. Wilt- 
 shire people, she declared, were the stupidest in England. 
 She told them so to their faces, which made them 
 — Il6 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 no brighter. And their county was worthy of them: no 
 distinction in it — no style — simply land. 
 
 But her wrath passed, or remained only as a graceful 
 fretfulness. She made the house comfortable, aruj, aban- 
 doned the farm to Mr. Wilbraham. With a good deal "of 
 care she selected a small circle of acquaintances, and had 
 them to stop in the summer months. In the winter she 
 would go to town and frequent the salons of the literary. 
 As her lameness increased she moved about less, and^at 
 the time of her nephew's visit seldom left the place that 
 had been forced upon her as a home. Just now she was 
 busy. A prominent politician had quoted her husband./ f 
 The young^generation asked, "Who is this Mr. Failing?" 
 and the publishers wrote, "Now is the time." She was col-; 
 lecting some essays and penning an introductory memoir. '' ^ 
 
 Rickie jadmired his aunt, but did not care for her. She 
 reminded him too much of his father. She had the same 
 affliction, the same heartlessness, the same habit of 
 taking life with a laugh — as if life is a pill! He^lso felt 
 th§t^ she had neglected him. He would not have asked 
 much: as for "prospects," they never entei'edhis head, but 
 she was his only near relative, and a littl^ Tcindness and hos- ■ 
 pitality during the lonely years would have made incalcul- 
 able difference. Now that he was happier and could bring ^ 
 her Agnes, she had asked him to stop at once. The sun 
 as it rose next morning spoke to him of a new life (He too 
 had a purpose and a value in the world at last. Leamng 
 out of the window, he gazed at the earth washed clean and 
 heard through the pure air the distant noises of the farm. 
 
 But that day nothing was to remain divine but the 
 weather. His aunt, for reasons of her own, decreed that he 
 should go for a ride with the Wonham boy. They were to 
 look at Old Sarum, proceed thence to Salisbury, lunch 
 there, see the sights, call on a certain canon for tea, and re- 
 turn to Cadover in the evening. The arrangement suited 
 
 —117— 
 
The Longest Journey- 
 
 no one. He did not want to ride, but to be with Agnes; 
 nor did Agnes want to be parted from him, nor Stephen 
 
 fto go with him. But the clearer the wishes of her guests 
 became, the more determined was Mrs. Failing to disregard 
 them. She smoothed away every difficulty, she converted 
 every objection into a reason, and she ordered the horses 
 for half -past nine. 
 
 "It is a bore," he grumbled as he sat in their little private 
 sitting-room, breaking his finger-nails upon the coachman's 
 gaiters. "I can't ride. I shall fall off. We should have , 
 been so happy here. It's just ^ike Aunt !&nily. _ Can't | 
 you imagine her saying afterwards, 'Lovers are absurd, j 
 I made a point of keeping them apart,' and then every- J 
 body laugliii^." i 
 
 With a pretty foretaste of the future, Agnes knelt before 
 him and did the gaiters up. "Who is this Mr. Wonham, 
 by the bye?" 
 
 "I don't know. Some connection of Mr. FaiHng^ 
 I think." 
 
 "Does he live here?" 
 
 "He used to be at school or something. He seems to 
 have grown into a tiresome person." 
 
 "I suppose that Mrs. Failing has adopted him." 
 
 "I suppose so. I believe that she has been quite kind. 
 I do hope she'll be kind to you this morning. I hate leav- 
 ing you with her." 
 
 "Why, you say she likes me." 
 
 "Yes, but that wouldn't prevent — you see she doesn't 
 iHiind what she says or what she repeats if it amuses her. 
 [if she thought it really funny, for instance, to break off our^ 
 
 engagement, she'dtry." 
 \ "Dear boy7 what a frightful remark! But it would be 
 funnier for us to see her trying. Whatever could she do ?" 
 
 He kissed the hands that were still busy with the 
 fastenings. "Nothing. I can't see one thing. We simply 
 lie open to each other, you and I. There isn't one new 
 
 — ii8— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 corner in either of us that she could reveal. It's only that 
 I always have in this house the most awful feeling of 
 insecurity." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "If any one says or does a foolish thing it's always here. 
 All the family breezes have started here. It's a kind of 
 focus for aimed and aimless scandal. You know, when my 
 father and mother had their special quarrel, my aunt was 
 mixed up in it, — I never knew how or how much — but you 
 may be sure she didn't calm things down, unless she found 
 things more entertaining calm." 
 
 "Rickie ! Rickie !" cried the lady from the garden, , 
 "your riding-master's impatient." 
 
 "We really oughtn't to talk of her like this here," 
 whispered Agnes. "It's a horrible habit." , 
 
 "The habit of the country, Agnes. Ugh, this gossip!" 
 Suddenly he flung his arms over her. "Dear — dear — ^let's 
 beware of I don't know what — of nothing at all perhaps." 
 
 "Oh, buck up !" yelled the irritable Stephen. "Which am 
 I to shorten — left stirrup or right?" 
 
 "Left !" shouted Agnes. 
 
 "How many holes?" 
 
 They hurried down. On the way she said : "I'm glad of 
 the warning. Now I'm prepared. Your aunt will get 
 nothing out of me." 
 
 Her betrothed tried to mount with the wrong foot, ac- 
 cording to his invariable custom. She also had to pick up 
 his whip. At last they started, the boy showing off pretty 
 consistently, and siie'was left, alone with her hostess. 
 
 "Dido is quiet as a lamb/^said Mrs. Failing, "and Stephen 
 is a good fielder. What a blessing it is to have cleared out 
 the men. What shalLyouand I do this heaYenJyjnoniing ?" 
 
 "I'm game for anything." 
 
 "Have you quite unpacked?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Any letters to write?" 
 
 —119— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then let's go to my arbour. No, we won't. It gets the 
 morning sun, and it'll be too hot today." Already she re- 
 gretted clearing out the men. On such a morning she 
 would have liked to drive, but her third animal had gone 
 lame, ^e feared, too, that Mjss Pembroke was going to 
 ^^ bore her. However, they did go to the arbour. In languid 
 tones she pointed out the various objects of interest. 
 
 "There's the Cad, which goes into the something, which 
 goes into the Avon. Cadbury Rings opposite, Cadchurch to 
 the extreme left: you can't see it. You were there 
 last night. It is famous for the drunken parson and the 
 railway-station. Then Cad Dauntsey. Then Cad ford, that 
 side of the stream, connected with Cadover, this. Observe 
 the fertility of the Wiltshire mind." 
 "A terrible lot of Cads," said Agnes brightly. 
 Mrs. Failing divided her guests into those who made this 
 joke and those who did not. The latter class was very 
 small. , 
 
 "The vicar of Cadford — not the nice drunkard — declares 
 the name is really 'Chadford,' and he worried on till I put up 
 a window to St. Chad in our church. His wife pronounces 
 it 'Hyadford.' I could smack them both. How do you like 
 Podge? Ah ! you jump ; I meant you to. How do you like 
 Podge Wonham ?" 
 "Very nice," said Agnes, laughing. 
 "Nice ! He is a hero." 
 
 There was a long interval of silence. Each lady looked, 
 without much interest, at the view. MtS;_J!ailing ls attitud e 
 ftipaxds. J;iature_was_ .s_exerly aesthetic— an ^attitude more 
 isterJlOiiaiLJhe, severely, practical She applied the test of 
 \beauty to shadow and odour and sound; they never filled 
 /her with reverence or excitement; she never knew them 
 ,as a resistless trinity that may intoxicate the worshipper 
 Svith joy. If she liked a ploughed field, it was only as a spot 
 
 — 120 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 of colour — not also as a hint of the endless strength of the 
 earth. And today she could approve of one cloud, but 
 object to its fellow. As for Miss Pembroke, she was not 
 approving or objecting at all. "A hero?" she queried, 
 when the interval had passed. Her voice was indifferent, as 
 if she had been thinking of other things. 
 
 "A hero ? Yes. Didn't you notice how heroic ne was ?" 
 
 "I don't think I did." 
 
 "Not at dinner? Ah, Agnes, always look out for 
 heroism at dinner. It is their great time. They live up to 
 the stiffness of their shirt fronts. Do you mean to say that 
 you never noticed how he jet dqwn^ickie?" 
 
 "Oh, that about poetry!" said 'Agnes, laughing. "Rickie 
 would not mind it for a moment. But why do you single 
 out that as heroic?" 
 
 "TcLsrmbjjgople ! to set themjlown! to be rude to them! 
 to make them feel small ! Surely that's the life-work of a 
 hero?" 
 
 "I shouldn't have said that. And as a matter of fact Mr. 
 iVonham was wrong over the jwetry- I made Rickie look 
 it up afterwards." 
 
 "But of course. A hero always is wrong." 
 
 "To me," she persisted, rather gently, "a hero has always 
 been a strong wonderful being, who champions — " 
 
 "Ah, wait till you are the dragon! I haye^een a dragon 
 most of my life,- 1 think. A dragon that wants nothing but 
 a peaceful cave. Then in comes the strong, wonderful, \ 
 delightful being, and gains a princess by piercing my hide, j 
 No, seriously, my dear Agnes, the chief characteristics Qf_a 
 hero are infinite disregard for the feelings oi_ others, plus 
 general inability to understand them." 
 "But surely Mr. Wonham — " 
 
 "Yes; aren't we being unkind to the poor boy. Ought 
 we to go on talkii^?" 
 Agnes waited, remembering the warnings of Rickie, and 
 — 121 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 thinking that anything she said might perhaps be repeated. 
 
 "Though even if he was here he ^^n|t_juiderstand 
 
 what we are saying." ~ 
 
 "Wouldn't understand?" 
 
 Mrs. Failing gave the least flicker of an eye towards hef 
 companion. "Did you take him for clever?" 
 
 "I don't think I took him for anything." She smiled. 
 "I have been thinking of other things, and another boy." 
 
 "But do think for a moment of Stephen. I will describe 
 how he spent yesterday. He rose at eight. From eight to 
 eleven he sang. The song was called, 'Father's boots will 
 soon fit Willie.' He stopped once to say to the footman, 
 'She'll never finish her book. She idles.' 'She' being I. 
 At eleven he went out, and stood in the rain till four, but 
 had the luck to see a child_ run over at the level-crossing. 
 By half-past four he had knocked^ Jthe bottom out of 
 Christianity." ~ "' "^ 
 
 Agnes looked bewildered. 
 
 "Aren't you impressed? I was. I told him that he was 
 on no account to unsettle the vicar. Open that cupboard. 
 One of those sixpenny books tells Podge that he's made of 
 hard little black things, .another that he's made of brown 
 things, larger and squashy. There seems a discrepancy, but 
 anything is better for a thoughtful youth than to be made in 
 the Garden of Eden. Let us eliminate the poetic, at whatever 
 cost to the probable." Then for a moment she spoke more 
 gravely. "Here^^is_at_twerity, with nothing to hold on by. 
 I don't know what's to be done. I suppose it's my fault. 
 But I've never had any bother over the Church of England; 
 have you?" ~ ^ - 
 
 "Of course I go with my Church," said Miss Pembroke, 
 who Jiated this style of conversation. "I don't know, I'm 
 sure.*~ I thmk'ybii should consult a man." 
 
 "Would Rickie help me?" 
 
 "Rickie would do anything he can." And Mrs. Failing 
 noted the half official way in which she vouched foi her 
 • 122 
 
Cambridge 
 
 lover. "But of course Rickie is a little— complicated. I 
 doubt whether Mr. Wonham would understand him. He 
 wants — doesn't he? — some one who's a little more assertive 
 and more accustomed to boys. Some one more like my 
 brother." 
 
 "Agnes!" she seized her by the arm. "Do you suppose 
 that Mi\_JPembroke_ would undertake my Podge?" 
 
 She shook her head. "His time is so filled up. He gets 
 a boarding-house _ next , term. Besides — after all I don't 
 know what Herbert would do." 
 
 "Morality. He would teach him morality. The Thirty- 
 Nine Articles may come of themselves, but jl you_havejtio 
 '^o''.?Js you come to grief. Morality i s all I demand from 
 Mr. Herbert Pembroke. He shall be excused the use of the 
 globes^ You know," of course, that Stephen was expelled 
 from a public school? He stole. " 
 
 The school was not a public one, and the expulsion, or 
 rather request for removal, had taken place when Stephen 
 was fourteen. A violent spasm pj dishonesty — such- as 
 oftg^Jieralds the approach of manhood — iiad overcome 
 him. He stole everything, especially what was difficult to 
 steal, and hid the plunder beneath a loose plank in the 
 passage. He was betrayed by the inclusion of a ham. 
 This was the crisis of his career. His benefactress was 
 just then rather bored with him. He had stopped being a 
 pretty boy, and she rather doubted whether she would see 
 him through. But she was so enraged with the letters of 
 the schoolmaster, and so delighted with those- of the 
 criminal, that she had him back and gave him a prize. 
 
 "No," said Agnes, "I didn't know. I should be happy to 
 speak to Herbert, but, as I said, his time will be very full. 
 But I know he has friends who make a speciality of weakly 
 or — or unusual boys." 
 
 "My dear, I've tried it. Stephen kipked the weakly boys 
 and robbed apples with the unusual ones. He was expelled 
 again." 
 
 —123— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Agnes began to find Mrs. Failing rather tiresome. 
 Wherever you trod on her, she seemed to sHp away from 
 beneath your feet. Agnes liked to know where she was and 
 where other people were as well. She said : ' ^My broth er 
 thinks a great deal of home, life. I daresay he'd tHink 
 that Mr. Wonham is best where he is — withx^"- You have 
 been so kind to him. You" — she paused— "have been to 
 him both father and mother." 
 
 "I'm too hot," was Mrs. Failing's reply. It seemed that 
 Miss Pembroke had at last touched a topic on which she 
 was reticent. She rang the electric bell, — it was only to tell 
 the footman to take the reprints to Mr. Wonham's ropm^ — 
 and then murmuring something about work, proceeded her- 
 self to the house. 
 
 "Mrs. Failing — " said Agnes, who had not expected such 
 a speedy end to their chat. 
 
 "Call me Aunt Emily. My dear?" 
 
 "Aunt Emily, what did you think of that story _Rickie^ 
 sent you?" 
 
 "It is bad," said Mrs. Failing. "But. But. But." 
 Then she escaped, hav ing told the tru th, and yet leaving a 
 pleasurable impression behind her. 
 
 — 124 — 
 
XII 
 
 THE excursion to Salisbury was but a poor business 
 — in fact, Rickie ^never got there. They were not 
 out of the drive before Mr. ^Wonham began 
 doing acrobatics. He showed Rickie how very quickly he 
 could turn round in his saddle and sit with his face to 
 i^neas's tail. "I see," said Rickie coldly, and became 
 almost cross when they arrived in this condition at the gate 
 behind the house, for he had to open it, and was afraid of 
 falling. As usual, he anchored just beyond the fastenings, 
 and then had to turn Dido, who seemed as long as a battle- 
 ship. To his relief a man came forward, and murmuring, 
 "Worst gate in the parish," pushed it wide and held it re- 
 spectfully. "Thank you," cried Rickie; "many thanks." 
 But_ Steph en, who was riding into the world back first, said 
 majestically, "No, no ; it doesn't count. You needn't think 
 it does. You make it worse by touching your hat. Four 
 hours and seven minutes ! You'll see me again." The man 
 answered nothing. 
 
 "Eh, but I'll hurt him," he chanted, as he swung into 
 position. "That was Flea . Eh, but he's forgotten my fists ; 
 eh, but I'll hurt him." 
 
 "Why?" ventured Rickie. Last night, over cigarettes, 
 he had been bored to death by the story of Flea . The boy 
 had a little reminded him of Gerald— the Gerald of history, 
 not the Gerald of romance. He was more genial, but there 
 was the same brutality, the same peevish insistence on the 
 pound of flesh. 
 
 "Hurt him till he learns." 
 
 "Learns what?" 
 
 "Learns, of course," retored Stephen. Neither of them 
 
 —125— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 was very civil. They did not dislike each other, but they 
 each wanted to be somewhere else — exactly the situation 
 that Mrs. Failing had expected. 
 ^ "He behaved badly," said Rickie, "because he is poorer 
 ^than we are, and more ignorant. Less money has be en spent 
 ion teaching him to behave." 
 '"" "Well, I'll teach Him"' for nothing." 
 
 "Perhaps his fists are stronger than yours !" 
 
 "They aren't. I looked." 
 
 After this conversation flagged. Rickie glanced back at 
 Cadover, and thought of the insipid day that lay before him. 
 Generally he was attracted by fresh people, and Stephgn 
 was almost fresh: they had Ijeeja-toJiioi symbols of the un- 
 known, and all that they did was interesting. But now he 
 £ared for-lhej unknown no longer . He knew. 
 ^ Mr. -W-ilbraham passed them in his dog-cart, and lifted 
 ( his hat tQ. his employer's nephew. Stephen he ignore d : he 
 ( could not find him on the map. 
 
 "Good morning," said Rickie. "What a lovely morning !" 
 
 "I say," called the other, "another, child dead !" Mr. 
 Wilbraham, who had seemed inclined to chat, wEipped up 
 his horse and left them. 
 
 "There goes an out and outer," said Stephen; and then, 
 as if introducing an entirely new subject — "Don't you think 
 ^lea-Ihojupson-treated me disgraceful!;^?" 
 
 "I suppose he did. But I'm scarcely the person to sympa- 
 thize." The allusion fell flat, and he had to explain it. "I 
 should have done the same myself, — ^promised to be away 
 two hours, and stopped four." 
 
 "Stopped — oh — oh, I understand. You being_in love, 
 you mean?" 
 
 He smiled and nodded. 
 
 "Oh, I've no objection to Flea loving. He says he can't 
 help it. But as long as my fists are stronger, he's got to 
 keep it in line." 
 
 "In line?" 
 
 — 126 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "A man like that, when he's got a girl, thinks the rest can 
 go to the devil. He goes cutting his work and breaking 
 his word. WjjJasham ought to sack him. I promise you 
 when I've a girl I'll keep her in"line,'"and if she turns nasty, 
 I'll get another." 
 
 Rickie smiled and said no more. But. h&was .sorry that _ 
 any one should start life with such a creed— all the more 
 sorry because the creed caricatured his own. Hg_too_be- 
 lieved that J!iffi~shQuki„he_ia„aJline — a line of enormous 
 length, full of countless interests and countless figures, ,,dl_ 
 wdljbeloved. But woman was not to be "kept" to this line. 
 Rather did she advance it continually, like some tri- 
 umphant general, making each unit still more interesting, 
 still more lovable, than it had been before. He loved A gnes, 
 not only ior herself, but because she was lighting up the i^ 
 hurnan world. But he could -scarcely explain this to an in- 
 experienced animal, nor did he make the attempt. 
 
 For a long time they proceeded in silence. The hill be- 
 hind Cadover was in harvest, and the horses moved regret- 
 fully between the sheaves. Stephen had picked a grass 
 leaf, and was blowing Catcalls upon it. He blew very well, 
 and this morning all his soul went into the wail. For he 
 was ill. He was tortured with the feeling that he could not 
 get away and do — do something, instead of being civil to this 
 anaemic prig. Four hours in the rain was better than this : 
 he had not wanted to fidget in the rain. But now the air 
 was like wine, and the stubble was smelling of wet, and over 
 his head white clouds trundled more slowly and more seldom 
 through broadening tracts of blue. There never had been 
 such a morning, and he shut up his eyes and called to it. 
 And whenever he called, Rickie shut up his eyes and 
 winced. 
 
 At last the blade broke. "We don't go quick, do we ?" he 
 remarked, and looked on the weedy track for another. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't let me keep you. If you were alone 
 you would be galloping or something of that sort." 
 
 — 127 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "I was told I must go your pace," he said mournfully. 
 "And you promised Miss Pembroke not to hurry." 
 
 "Well, I'll disobey." But he could not rise above a 
 gentle trot, and even that nearly jerked him out of the 
 saddle. 
 
 "Sit like this." said Stephen. "Can't you— see like thisf" 
 Rickie lurched forward, and broke his thumb-nail on the 
 horse's neck. It bled a little, and had to be bound up. 
 
 "Thank you — awfully kind — ^no tighter, please — I'm 
 simply spoiling your day." 
 
 "I can't think how a man can help riding You've only to 
 leave it to the horse so! — so! — just as you leave it to water 
 in swimming." 
 
 Rickie left it to^Dida^who stopped immediately. 
 
 "I said leave it."^Tfis voice rose irritably. "I didn't say 
 'die.' Of course she stops if you die,,^ First you sit her as 
 if you're Sandow exercising, and then you sit like a corpse. 
 Can't you tell her you're alive ? That's all she wants." 
 
 In trying to convey the information, Rickie dropped his 
 whip. Stephen picked it up and rammed it into the belt of 
 his own Norfolk jacket. He was Scarcely a fashionable 
 horseman. He was not even graceful. But he rode as a 
 living man, though Rickie was too much bored to notice it. 
 Not a muscle in him was idle, not a muscle working hard. 
 When he returned from a gallop his limbs were still un- 
 satisfied and his manners still irritable. He did not know 
 that he was ill: he knew nothing about himself at all. 
 
 "Like a howdah in the Zoo," he grumbled. "Mother 
 Failing will buy elephants." And he proceeded to criticize 
 his benefactress. Rickie, keenly alive to bad taste, tried to 
 stop him, and gained instead a criticism of religion. 
 Stephen overthrew the Mosaic cosmogony. He pointed ouj 
 tEe diactipanciesjii th^ejGqs^els . " He levelled his wit against 
 the most beautiful spire in the world, now rising against the 
 southern sky. Between whiles he went for a gallop. After 
 a time Rickie stopped listening, and simply went his way. 
 
 —128— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "For Dido was a perfect mount, and as indifferent to the 
 ^motions of ^neas as if she was strolling in the Elysian 
 I fields. He had had a bad night, and the strong air made 
 him sleepy. The wind blew from the Plain. Cadover and 
 its valley had disappeared, and though they had not climbed 
 much and could not see far, there was a sense of infinite 
 space. The fields were enormous, like fields on the Conti- 
 nent, and the brilliant sun showed up their colours well. 
 The green of the turnips, the gold of the harvest, and the 
 brown of the newly turned clods, were each contrasted with 
 morsels of grey down. But the general effect was pale, or 
 rather silvery, for Wiltshire is not a county of heavy tints. 
 Beneath these colours lurked the unconquerable chalk, and 
 wherever the soil was poor it emerged. The grassy track, 
 so gay witliscabious and bedstraw, was snow-white at the 
 bottom of its ruts." A dazzling amphitheatre gleamed in the 
 flank of a distant hill, cut for some Olympian audience. 
 And here and there, whatever the surface crop, the earth 
 broke into little embankments, little ditches, little mounds: 
 there had been no lack of drama to solace the gods. 
 
 In Cadover, th^iperilous hou^, A|^esJ^ad^read^j)arted 
 from Mrs. Failing. His thoughts returned tohen Y{as., 
 ^ghcj the soul of truth, jn safety? Was her ^ purity „v^ed 
 by the lies and seffishness ? Would she elude the caprice 
 which had, he vaguely knew, caused suffering before ? Ah, 
 the frailty of joy! Ah, the myriads of longings that pass 
 without fruition, and the turf grows over them! Better 
 men, women as noble — ^they had died up here and their dust 
 had been mingled, but only their dust. These are morbid 
 thoughts, but who dare contradict them? There is much 
 good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us 
 safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line, 
 and some of us^ have; Rickie's temperament, or his experi- 
 ences, and admit it. "^ ^ " 
 
 So he mused, that anxious little speck, and all the land 
 seemed to comment on.b.i£ fears apd on his love, ' " -' 
 
 —129 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Their path lay upward, over a great bald skull, half grass, 
 half stubble. It seemed each moment there would be a 
 splendid view. The view never came, for none of the in- 
 clines were sharp enough, and they moved over the skull for 
 many minutes, scarcely shifting a landmark or altering the 
 blue fringe of the distance. The spire of Salisbury did 
 alter, but very slightly, rising and falling like the mercury 
 in a thermometer. At the most it would be half hidden ; at 
 the least the tip would show behind the swelling barrier of 
 earth. They passed two elder-trees — a great event. The 
 bare patch, said Stephen, was owing to the gallows ^ Rickie 
 podjeck He had lost all sense of incident. In this great 
 Csolitu^gA-more solitary than any Alpine range — he and 
 Agnes were floating alone and for ever, between the shape- 
 less earth and the shapeless clouds. An immense silence 
 seemed to move towards them. A lark stopped singing, and 
 they were glad of it. They were approaching the Throne 
 of God. The silence touched them ; the earth and all danger 
 dissolved, but ere they quite vanished Rickie heard himself 
 saying, "Is it exactly what we intended ?" 
 
 "Yes," said a man's voice ; "it's the old plan." They were 
 in another valley. Its sides were thick with trees. Down 
 it ran another stream and another road : it, too, sheltered a 
 string of villages. But all was richer, larger, and more 
 beautiful — the valley of the Avon below Amesbury. 
 
 "I've been asleep!" said Rickie, in awestruck tones. 
 
 "Never!" said the other facetiously. "Pleasant dreams?" 
 
 "Perhaps — I'm really tired of apologizing to you. How 
 long have you been holding me on?" 
 
 "All in the day's work." He gave him back the reins. 
 
 "Where's that round hill?" 
 
 "6one where the good niggers go. I want a drink." 
 
 This is Nature's joke in Wiltshire — ^her one joke. You 
 toil on windy slopes, and feel very primeval. You are 
 miles from your fellows, and lo ! a little valley full of elms 
 
 —130— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 and cottages. Before Rickie had waked up to it, they had 
 stopped by a thatched public-'house, and Stephen was yelling 
 like a maniac for beer. 
 
 There was no occasion to yell. He was not very thirsty, 
 and they were quite ready to serve him. Nor need he have 
 drunk in the saddle, with the air of a warrior who carries 
 important dispatches and has not the time to dismount. A 
 real soldier, bound on a similar errand, rode up to the inn, 
 and Stephen feared that he would yell louder, and was 
 hostile. But they made friends and treated each other, and 
 slanged the proprietor and ragged the pretty girls; while 
 Rickie, as each wave of vulgarity burst over him, sunk his 
 head lower and lower, and wished that the earth would 
 swallow him up. He was only used to Cambridge, and to 
 a very small corner of that. He and his friends there be- 
 lieygxL. in ^ree_^ speech. But they spoke freely about gen- 
 eralities. They were scientific and philosophic. They 
 would have shrunk from the empirical freedom that results 
 from a little beer. 
 
 That was what annoyed him as he rode down the new 
 valley with two chattering companions. He w^. more 
 skillgd than the]|[_were in_the principles of human existence, 
 but he was not so indecently familiar with the examples. 
 A sordid vjllage^-seandal — such as Stephen described as a 
 huge joke — sprang frotn_jcertain, defects^ in human nature, 
 with which he was theoretically acquainted! But the ex- 
 ample ! He blushed at it like a maiden lady, in spite of its 
 having a parallel in a beautiful idyll of uDisacritjis. Was 
 experience going to be such a splendid thing after all? 
 Wer e the outside of houses so very beautiful? 
 
 "That's spicy!" the soldier "was~saying. "Got any more 
 like that?" 
 
 "I'se got a pome," said Stephen, and drew a piece of 
 paper from his pocket. The valley had broadened. Old 
 Sarum rose before them, ugly and majestic. 
 
 —131— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Write this yourself ?" he asked, chuckling. 
 "Rather," said Stephen, lowering his head and kissing, 
 ^neas between the ears. 
 
 "But who's t/ld Em'ly ?" Rickie winced and frowned. 
 "Now you're asking. 
 
 '"Old Em'ly she limps. 
 And as ' " 
 
 "I am so tired. " said Rickie. Why should he stand it any 
 longer ? He would go hoEPe to the woman he loved. "Do 
 you mind if I give up Salisbury?" " 
 
 "But we've seen nothing!" cried Stephen. 
 
 "I shouldn't enjoy anything, I am so absurdly tired." 
 
 "Left turn, then — all in the day's work." He bit at his 
 moustache angrily. 
 
 "Good gracious me, man ! — of course I'm going back alone. 
 I'm not going to spoil your day. How could you think it of 
 me?". 
 
 Stephen gave a loud sigh of relief. "If you do want to go 
 home, here's your whip. Don't fall off. Say to her you 
 wanted it, or there might be ructions." 
 
 "Certainly. Thank you for your kind care of me." 
 
 "'Old Em'ly she limps. 
 And as '" 
 
 Soon he was out of earshot. Soon they were lost to view. 
 Soon they were out of his thoughts. He forgot the coarse- 
 ness and the drinking and the ingratitude. A iew months 
 ago he would not have forgotten so quickly, and he might 
 also have detected something else. But..a lover isdogtaatJc 
 To him the world shall be beautiful and pure. When it is 
 not, he ignores it. 
 
 "Hfe's .not tired," said Stephen to the solder; "he wants 
 his-girl." And they winked at eaoK other, and cracked 
 jokes over the, eternal comedy of loye.^ They asked each 
 other if they'd let a girl spoil a morning's ride. They both 
 exhibited a profound cynicism. Stephen, who was quite 
 
 —132— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 without ballast, described the household at Cadover : ^he i' 
 should say that Rickie w(juld-„fijid- Miss^Pe mbroke kissin g | 
 the^foptman. 
 
 "I say the footrnan's kissing old Em'ly." 
 
 "Jolly day," said Stephen. His voice was suddenly con- 
 strained. He was not sure whether he liked the soldier 
 after all, nor whether he had been wise in showing him his 
 compositions. 
 
 " 'Old Em'ly she limps. 
 And as I ' " 
 
 "All right, Thomas. That'll do." 
 
 "'Old Em'ly '" 
 
 "I wish you'd dry up, like a good fellow. This is the 
 lady's horse, you know, hang it, after all." 
 
 "In-deed !" 
 
 "Don't you see — ^when a fellow's on a horse, he cati't let 
 another fellow — ^kind of — don't you know?" 
 
 The man did know. "There's sense in that," he said 
 approvingly. Peace was restored, and they would have 
 reached Salisbury if they had not had some more beer. 
 It unloosed the soldier's fancies, and again he spoke 
 of old Em'ly, and recited the poem, with Aristophanic 
 variations. 
 
 "Jolly day," repeated Stephen, with a straightening of the 
 eyebrows and a quick glance at the other's body. He then 
 warned him against the variations. In consequence he was 
 accused of being a member of the Y. M. C. A. His blood 
 boiled at this. He refuted the charge, and became great 
 friends with the soldier, for the third time. 
 
 "Any objection to 'Sorcy Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton'?" 
 
 "Rather not." 
 
 The soldier sang "Saucy Mr. and Mrs. Tackleton." It is 
 really a work for two voices, most of the sauciness dis- 
 appearing when taken as a solo. Nor is Mrs. Tackleton's 
 name Em'ly. 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "I call it a jolly rotten song," said Stephen crossly. "I 
 won't stand being got at." 
 
 "P'r'aps y'like therold song. Lishen. 
 
 " 'Of all the gulls that arsshraart, 
 There's none like pretty — Em'ly; 
 For she's the darling of merart '" 
 
 "Now, that's wrong." He rode up close to the singer. 
 
 "Shright." 
 
 " 'Tisn't." 
 
 "It's as my mother taught me." 
 
 "I don't care." 
 
 "I'll not alter from mother's way." 
 
 Stephen was baffled. Then he said, "How does your 
 mother make it rhyme?" 
 
 "Wot?" 
 
 "Squat. You're an ass, and I'm not. Poems want 
 rhymes. 'Alley' comes next line." 
 
 He said "alley" was — welcome to come if it liked. 
 
 "It can't. You want Sally. Sally— alley. Em'ly— alley 
 doesn't do." 
 
 "Emily — femily!" cried the soldier, with an inspiration 
 that was not his when sober. "My mother taught me 
 femily. 
 
 " 'For she's the darling of merart, 
 And she lives in my femily.'" 
 
 "Well, you'd best be careful, Thomas, and your mother 
 too." 
 
 "Your mother's no better than she should be," said 
 Thomas vaguely. 
 
 "Do you think I haven't heard that before?" retorted the 
 boy. 
 
 The other concluded he might now say anything. So he 
 might— the name of old Emily excepted. .Stephen cared 
 Uttle about hi s benefactress's hffnnitr but , a gr^ t deallBut 
 shjs, own. "He had made Mrs. Failing into a te^r ~ F6r~t h fe 
 -^ —134— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 moment he would die for her, as a knight would die for a 
 glove. He is not to be distinguished from a hero. 
 
 Old Sarum was passed. They approached the most 
 beautiful spire in the world. "Lord! another of these 
 large churches !" said the soldier. Unfriendly to Gothic, he 
 lifted both hands to his nose, and declared that old Em'ly 
 was buried there. He lay in the mud. His horse trotted 
 back towards Amesbury, Stephen had twisted him out of 
 the saddle. 
 
 "I've done him!" he yelled, though no one was there to 
 heai;. He rose up in his stirrups and shouted with joy. He 
 flung his arms round ^neas's neck. The elderly horse 
 understood, capered, and bolted. It was a centaur that 
 dashed into Salisbury and scattered the people. In the 
 stable he would not dismount. "I've done him !" he yelled 
 to the ostlers — apathetic men. Stretching upwards, he 
 clung to a beam, ^neas moved on and he was left hang- 
 ing. Greatly did he incommode them by his exercises. He 
 y, pulled up, he circled, he kicked the other customers. At 
 last he fell to the earth, deliciously fatigued. His body 
 .worried him no longer. 
 
 He went, like the baby he was, to buy a white linen hat. 
 There were soldiers about, and he thought it would disguise 
 him. Then he had a little lunch to steady the beer. This 
 day had turned out admirably. All the money that should 
 have fed Rickie he could spend on himself. Instead of 
 t"oi)ing"over the Cathedral and seeing" the stuffed peno^uins, 
 he could stop the whole thing in the cattle market. There 
 he met and made some friends. He watched the cheap-jacks, 
 and saw how necessary it was to have a confident manner. 
 He spoke confidently himself about lambs, and people 
 listened. He spoke confidently about pigs, and they roared 
 with laughter. He must learn more about pigs. He wit- 
 nessed a performance — not too namby-pamby — of Punc h 
 and Judy. "Hullo, Podge !" cried a naughty little girl. He 
 tried to catch her, and failed. She was one of the Cadford 
 
 — 135— 
 
 ! 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 children. For Salisbury on market day, though it is not 
 picturesque, is certaintly representative, and you read the 
 names of half the Wiltshire villages upon the carriers' carts. 
 He found, in Penny Farthing Street, the cart from 
 Wintersbridge. It would not start for several hours, but 
 the passengers always used it as a club, and sat in it every 
 now and then during the day. No less than three ladies 
 were there now, staring at the shafts. One of them was 
 glea Thompson's girl. ^He asked her, quite politely, why her 
 lover had broken faith with him in the rain. She was silent. 
 He warned her of approaching vengeance. She was still 
 silent, but another woman hoped that a gentleman would not 
 /Tdc hard on a poor person. Something in this annoyed him ; 
 it wasn't a question of gentility and poverty — ^it was a 
 i question of two men. He determined to go back by Cad- 
 Sbury Rings where the shepherd would now be. 
 
 He did. But this part must be treated lightly. He rode 
 up to the culprit with the air of a Saint George, spoke a few 
 stern words from the saddle, tethered his steed to a hurdle, 
 and took off his coat. "Are you ready?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Flea, and flung him on his back. 
 
 "That's not fair," he protested. 
 
 The other did not reply, but flung him on his head. 
 
 "How on earth did you learn that?" 
 
 "By trying often," said Flea. 
 
 Stephen sat on the ground, picking mud out of his fore- 
 head. "I meant it to be fists," he said gloomily. 
 
 "I know, sir." 
 
 "It's jolly smart though, and — and I beg your pardon all 
 
 round." It cost him a great deal to say this, but he was 
 
 sure that it was the right thing to say. He must ac- 
 
 J^nowledge the better man. Whereas most people, if they 
 
 iprovoke a fight and are flung, say, "You cannot rob me of 
 
 my moral victory." 
 
 L- There was nothing further to be done. He mounted 
 
 —136— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 again, not exactly depressed, but feeling thaL.^}i§.,,delightful 
 world is extraordinarily unreliable. He had never ex- 
 pected to fling the soldier, or to be flung by Flea. "One 
 nips or is nipped," he thought, "and never knows before- 
 hand. I should not be surprised if many people had more 
 in them than I suppose, while others were just the other 
 way round. I haven't seen that sort of thing in Ingersoll, 
 but it's quite important." Then his thoughts turned to a 
 curious incident of long ago, when he had been "nipped" — 
 as a little boy. He was trespassing in those woods, when 
 he met in a narrow glade a flock of sheep. They had 
 neither dog nor shepherd, and advanced towards him 
 silently. He was accustomed to sheep, but had never 
 happened to meet them in a wood before, and disliked it. 
 He retired, slowly at first, then fast; and the flock, in a 
 dense mass, pressed after him. His terror increased. He 
 turned and screamed at their long white faces; and still 
 they came on, all stuck together, like some horrible jelly. 
 If once he got into them! Bellowing and screeching, he 
 rushed into the undergrowth, tore himself all over, and 
 reached home in convulsions. Mr. __Eailiiig.r- his—only" 
 grown-up friend, was sympathetic, Tut quite stupid. "Pan 
 ovium custos," he remarked as he pulled out the thorns. 
 "Why not?" "Pan ovium custos." Stephen learnt the 
 meaning of the phrase at school, "A pan of eggs for cus- 
 tard." He still remembered how the other boys looked as 
 he peeped at, them between his legs, awaiting the descending 
 cane. 
 
 So he returned, full of pleasant disconnected thoughts. 
 He had had a rare good time. He liked every one — even 
 that poor little Elliot — and yet no one mattered. They 
 were all out. OrTtfie landing he saw the housemaid. He 
 felt skittish and irresistible. Should he slip his arm round 
 her waist? Perhaps better not; she might box his ears. 
 And he wanted to smoke on the roof before dinner. So he 
 
 —137— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 only said, "Please will you stop the boy blacking my brown 
 boots," and she with downcast eyes, answered, "Yes, sir; I 
 will indeed." 
 
 His room was in the pediment. Classical architecture, 
 tlike all things in this world that attempt serenity, is bound 
 I to have its lapses into the undignified, and Cadover lapsed 
 I hopelessly when it came to Stephen's room. It gave him 
 \one round window, to see through which he must lie upon 
 his stomach, one trapdoor opening upon the leads, three 
 iron girders, three beams, six buttresses, no circling, unless 
 you count the walls, no walls unless you count the ceiling 
 and in its embarrassment presented him with the gurgly 
 cistern that supplied the bath water. Here he lived, abso- 
 lutely happy, and unaware th at Mrs. Failing had poked hini 
 up ...bfire...jan_ purpose, to prevent^ Eiim "l^om growing^oQ 
 bumpti ous. Here he worked and sang and practised on the 
 ocharoon. Here, in the crannies, he had constructed 
 shelves and cupboards and useless little drawers. He had 
 only one picture — the Demeter of Cnidos — ^and she hung 
 straight from the roof like a joint of meat. Once she was 
 in the drawing-room ; but Mrs. Failing had got tired of her, 
 and decreed her removal and this degradation. Now she 
 faced the sunrise ; and when the moon rose its light also fell 
 on her, and trembled, like light upon the sea. For she was 
 never still, and if the draught increased she would twist on 
 her string, and would sway and tap upon the rafters until 
 Stephen woke up and said what he thought of her. "Want 
 your nose ?" he would murmur. "Don't you wish you may 
 get it." Then he drew the clothes over his ears, while above 
 him, in the wind and the darkness, the goddess continued 
 her motions. 
 
 Today, as he entered, he trod on the pile of sixpennny re- 
 prints. Leighton had brought them up. He looked at the 
 portraits on their covers, and began to think that these 
 people were not everything. What a fate, to look like. 
 Colonel Ingersoll, or to marry Mrs. Julia P. Chunk! The 
 -138- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 Demeter turned towards him as he bathed, and in the cold 
 water he sang — 
 
 "They aren't beautiful, they aren't modest; 
 I'd just as soon follow an old stone goddess," — 
 
 and sprang upward through the skylight on to the roof. 
 
 Years ago, when a nurse was washing him, he had slipped 
 from her soapy hands and got up here. She implored him 
 to remember that he was a little gentleman; but he forgot 
 the fact — if it was a fact — and not even the butler could get 
 him down. Mr. Failing, who was sitting alone in the 
 garden too ill to read, heard a shout, "Am I an acro- 
 terium?" He looked up and saw a naked child poised on 
 the summit of Cadover. "Yes," he replied; "but they are 
 unfashionable. Go in," and the vision had remained with 
 him as something peculiarly gracious. He felt that non- 
 sense and beauty have close connections, — closer connections 
 than Art will allow, — and that both would remain when his 
 own heaviness and his own ugliness had perished. Mrs. 
 Failing found in his remains a sentence that puzzled her. 
 "I see the respectable mansion. I see the smug fortress of 
 culture. The doors are shut. The windows are shut. But 
 I on the roof the children go dancing for ever." 
 
 Stephen was a child no longer. He never stood on the 
 pediment now, except for a bet. He never, or scarcely ever, 
 poured water down the chimneys. When he caught the cat, 
 he seldom dropped her into the housekeeper's bedroom. 
 But still, when the weather was fair, he liked to come up 
 after bathing, and get dry in the sun. Today he brought 
 with him a towel, a pipe of tobacco, and Rickie's story. 
 He must get it done some time, and he was tired of the six- 
 penny reprints. The sloping gable was warm, and he lay 
 back on it with closed eyes, gasping for pleasure. Starlings 
 criticized him, soots fell on his clean body, and over him a 
 little cloud was tinged with the colours of evening. "Good ! 
 
 —139— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 V 
 
 good!" he whispered. "Good, oh good!" and opened the 
 manuscript reluctantly. 
 
 What a production! Who was this girl? Where did 
 she go to? Why so much talk about trees? "I take it he 
 wrote it when feeling bad," he murmured, and let it fall into 
 the gutter. It fell face- downwards, and on the back he saw 
 a neat little resume in Miss Pembroke's handwriting, 
 
 I intended for such as him. "Allegory. Man = modern civil- 
 
 I ization (in bad sense). Girl = getting into touch with 
 
 i Nature." 
 
 ^ In touch with Nature ! The girl was a tree ! He lit his 
 pipe and gazed at the radiant earth. The foreground was 
 hidden, but there was the village with its elms, and the 
 Roman Road, and Cadbury Rings. There, too, were those 
 woods, and little beech copses, crowning a waste of down. 
 Not to mention the air, or the sun, or water. Good, oh 
 good! 
 
 In touch with Nature ! What cant would the books think 
 of next? His eyes closed. He was sleepy. Good, oh 
 good ! Sighing into his pipe, he fell asleep. 
 
 — 140 — 
 
XIII 
 
 GLAD as Agnes was when her lover returned for 
 lunch, she was at the same time rather dismayed: 
 she knew that Mrs. Failing would not like her 
 plans altered. And her dismay was justified. Their 
 hostess was a little stiff, and asked whether Stephen had 
 been obnoxious. 
 
 "Indeed he hasn't. He spent the whole time looking 
 after me." 
 
 "From which I conclude he was more obnoxious than 
 usual." 
 
 Rickie praised him diligently. But hisy^^candid nature^ 
 showed everything through. His aunt soon sawmat~tliey 
 had not got on. She had expected this — almost planned it. 
 Nevertheless she resented it, and her resentment was to 
 fall on him. 
 
 The storm gathered slowly, and many other things went 'J 
 to swell it. Weakly ^eopjg^jf they are not careful, hate one | 
 another, _and" when the^_jjeakne^_js^hereditary the tempta- 
 tion increases. Elliots had never got on among themselves, j 
 They talked of "The Family," but they~always turned out--' 
 wards to the health and beauty that lie so promiscuously 
 ubout the world. !^ickie's father had turned, for a time at 
 Ml events, to_his mother. RicKe himself was turning to 
 4gnes. And Mrs. Failing now was irritable, and unfair to 
 he nephew who was lame like her horrible brother and like 
 herself. She thought him invertebrate and conventional. 
 She was en viousjof h is, hap piflfes^ She did not trouble to 
 understenSTTiis art. Sh ^Jpnged to sha ttfirJurn, but knowing 
 as she did that the human thunderbolt often rebounds and 
 strikes the wielder, she held her hand. 
 
 —141— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 / 
 
 Agnes watched the approaching clouds. Rickie. had 
 warned her f now she began to warn him. As the visit wore 
 away she urged him to be pleasant to his aunt, and so^on- 
 vert jt into a success. 
 
 He replied, "Why need it be a success?" — a reply in the 
 manner of Ansell. 
 
 She laughed. "Oh, that's so Jike. you men — all theory! 
 What about your great theory of hating no oife^ As soon 
 as it comes in useful you drop it." 
 
 "I don't hate Aunt Emily. Honestly. But certainly I 
 
 /don't want to be near her or think about her. Don't you 
 
 Sthink there are two great things in lif ejhat we ought to aim 
 
 at — ^Jruth and kindnessT" Let's have both if we can, but let's 
 
 \be sure of having^ne or the other. My aunt gives up both 
 
 for the sake of being funny." 
 
 "And Stephen Wonham," pursued Agnes. "There's 
 another person you hate — or don't think about, if you prefer 
 it put like that." 
 
 ^-"The truth is, I'm changing. I'm beginning to see that 
 the world^Jhas^many people in it who don't matter. I, had 
 time for them once. Not now." There was only one gate' 
 to the kingdom trTheaven now. 
 
 Agnes surprised him by saying, "But the Wonham boy is 
 evidently a part of your aunt's life. She laughs at him, but 
 she is fond of him." 
 
 What's that to do with it?" 
 
 You ought to be pleasant to him on account of it." 
 
 "Why on earth?" 
 
 She flushed a little. "I'm old-fashioned. One ought to 
 consider one's hostess, and fall in with her life. After we 
 leave it's another thing. But while we take her hospitality 
 I think it's our duty." 
 
 Her good sense triumphed. Henceforth he tried to fall 
 in with Aunt Emily's life. Aunt Emily watched him trying. 
 The storm broke, as storms sometimes do, on Sunday. 
 
 Sunday church was a function at Cadover, though a 
 — 142 — 
 
 1" 
 
Cambridge 
 
 strange one. The pompous landau rolled up to the house 
 at a quarter to eleven. Then Mrs. Failing said, "Why am I 
 being hurried ?" and after an interval descended the steps in 
 her ordinary clothes. She regarded the church as a sort of 
 sitting-room, and refused even to wear a bonnet there. The 
 XJllage was shocked, but at the same time a little proud; it 
 would point out the carriage to strangers and gossip about 
 the pale smiling lady who sat in it, always alone, always late, 
 her hair always draped in an expensive shawl. 
 
 This Sunday, though late as usual, she was not alone. 
 Miss Pembroke, en grande toilette, sat by her side. Rickie, 
 looking plain and devout, perched opposite. And Stephen 
 actually came too, murmuring that it would be the 
 Benedicite, which he had never minded. There was also the 
 Litany, which drove him into the air again, much to Mrs. 
 Failing's delight. She enjoyed this sort of thing. It 
 amused her when her protege left the pew, looking bored, 
 athletic, and dishevelled, and groping most obviously for his 
 pipe. She liked to keep a thorougfali3:£d_pagan_to shock 
 
 people. "He's gone to worship Nature," she whispered. 
 Rickie did not look up. "Don't yout!imk he's charming?" 
 He made no reply. "Charming," whispered Agnes over his 
 head. 
 
 During the sermon she analysed her guests. Miss'l 
 Pembroke — undistinguished, unimaginative, tolerable. Rickie | 
 — intolerable. "And how pedantic!" she mused. "He* 
 smells of the University library. If hg was stupidjn_the 
 right, way. hg-jKQuld be a don." She looked round the 
 tiny church; at the whitewashed pillars, the humble pave- 
 ment, the window full of magenta saints. There was the 
 vicar's wife. And Mrs. Wilbraham's bonnet. Ugh! The 
 rest of the congregation were poor women, with flat, hopeless 
 faces — she saw them Sunday after Sunday, but did not 
 know their names — diversified with a few reluctant plough- 
 boys, and the vile little school children row upon row. 
 "Ugh! what a hole," thought Mrs. Failing, whose Chris- 
 
 —143— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 ^ . 
 
 7 tianity was of the type best described as "cathedral." 
 
 Vj'What a hole for a cultured woman! I don't think it has 
 
 blunted my sensations, though; I still see its squalor as 
 
 clearly as ever. And my nephew pretends he is worship- 
 
 X ping. Pah ! the hypocrite." Above her the vicar spoke of 
 
 I the danger of hurrying from one dissipation to anotljer. 
 
 She treasured his words, and continued: "I cannot stand 
 
 smugness . It is the one, the unpardonable sin. Fresh air! 
 
 The fresh air that has made Stephen Wonham fresh and 
 
 companionable and strong. Even if it kills, I will let in 
 
 the fresh air." 
 
 Thus reasoned Mrs. Failing, in the facile ■^^_a£, 
 '"■^[bsenisnii She imagined herself to be a cold-eyed Scandi- 
 navian heroine. Really she was an English old lady, who 
 did not mind giving other people a chill provided it was not 
 infectious. 
 
 Agnes, on the way back, noted that her hostess was a little 
 
 snappish. But one is so hungry after morning service, and 
 
 either so hot or so cold, that he would be a saint indeed who 
 
 , becomes a saint at once. Mrs. Failing, after asserting yin- 
 
 / dictively that it was imgossiblaJo. make a liKi£fe^a ut7of J it- 
 
 j jerature, was courteously left alone. Roast-beef and moselle 
 
 might yet work miracles, and Agnes still hoped for the 
 
 introductions — ^the introductions to certain editors and 
 
 publishers — on which her whole diplomacy was bent. 
 
 Rickie would -not pu^l^ hims elf. It was hi^ besetting .sinj__ 
 
 ' Well for him that he would have a wife, and a loving wife, 
 
 who knew the value of enterprise. 
 
 ^ Unfortunately lunch was a quarter of an hour late, and 
 during that quarter of an hour the aunt and the nephew 
 quarrelled. She had be en inveighing _against the .morning 
 f'service, and he quietly and deliberately replied, "If organ- 
 i ized religion is anything — and it is something to me^^^TWill" 
 / not be wrecked "By "irfiarmonium and a dull sermon." 
 '' Mrs. Failing frowned. "I envy you. It is a great thing 
 to have no sense of beauty." 
 
 —144— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "I think I have a sense of beauty, which leads me astray 
 if I am not careful." 
 
 "But this is a great relief to me. I thought the present- 
 day young man was an agnostic ! Isn't agnosticism alt the 
 thing at Cambridge?" 
 
 "Nothing is the 'thing' at Cambridge. If a few men are 
 agnostic there, it is for some grave reason, not because 
 they are irritated with the way the parson says his 
 vowels." 
 
 Agnes intervened. "Well, I side with Aunt Emily. I 
 believe in ritual." 
 
 "Don't, my dear, side with me. He will only say yo\i 
 have no sense of religion either." j 
 
 "Excuse me," said Rickie, — perhaps he too was a little 
 hungry, — "I never suggested such a thing. I never would 
 suggest such a thing. Why cannot you understand my 
 position? I almost feel it is that you won't." 
 
 "I try to understand your position night and day, dear — 
 what you mean, what you like, why you came to Cadover, 
 and why you stop here when my presence is so obviously 
 unpleasing to you." 
 
 "Luncheon is served," said Leighton, but he said it too late. 
 They discussed the beef and the moselle in silence. The air 
 was heavy and ominous. Even the Wonham boy was af- 
 fected by it, shivered at times, choked once, and hastened 
 anew into the sun. He could not understand clever peo- 
 ple. 
 
 Agnes, in a brief anxious interview, advised the culprit 
 to take a solitary walk. She would stop near Aunt Emily, 
 and pave the way for an apology. 
 
 "Don't worry too much. It doesn't really matter." 
 
 "I suppose not, dear But it seems a pity, considering 
 we are so near the end of our visit." 
 
 "j^udeness and crossness^ rggiter, and I've;, shown both» 
 and already I'm sorry, and I hope she'll let me apologize. 
 But from the selfish point of view it doesn't matter a 
 
 —145— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 straw. She's no more to us than the Wonham boy or the 
 boot boy." 
 
 "Which way will you walk?" 
 
 "I think to that entrenchment. Look at it." They were 
 sitting on the stepsT He stretched out his hand to Cads- 
 bury Rings, and then let jt rest for a moment on her shoul- 
 der. "You're changing m?," he said gently. "God bless 
 you for it." ^ ' " — - 
 
 He enjoyed his walk. Cadford was a charming village, 
 and for a time he hung over the bridge by the mill. So 
 clear was the stream that it seemed not water at all, but 
 some invisible quintessence in which the happy minnows 
 and the weeds were vibrating. And he paused again at 
 the Roman crossing, and thought for a moment of the un- 
 known child. The line curved suddenly : certainly it was 
 dangerous. Then he lifed his eyes to the down. The en- 
 trenchment showed like the -rim of a saucer, and over its 
 narrow line peeped the summit of the central tree. It 
 looked interesting. He hurried forward, with the wind 
 behind him. 
 
 The Rings were curious rather than impressive. Neither 
 embankment was over twelve feet high, and the grass on 
 them had not the exquisite green of Old Sarum, but was 
 grey and wiry. But Nature (if she arranges anything) had 
 arranged that from them, at all events, there should be a 
 view. The whole system of the country lay spread before 
 Rickie, and he gained an idea of it that he never got in his 
 elaborate ride. He saw how all the water converges at 
 Salisbury; how Salisbury lies in a shallow basin, just at 
 the change of the soil. He saw to the north the Plain, and 
 the stream of the Cad flowing down from it, with a' tribu- 
 tary that broke out suddenly, as the chalk streams do : one 
 village had clustered round the source and clothed itself with 
 trees. He saw Old Sarum, and hints of the Avon valley, 
 and the land above Stone Henge. And behind him he saw 
 the great wood beginning unobtrusively, as if the down too 
 — 146 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 needed shaving; and into it the road to London shpped, 
 covering the bushes w^ith white dust. Chalk made the dust 
 white, chalk made the water clear, chalk made the clean 
 rolling outlines of the land, and favoured the grass and the 
 distant coronals of trees. Here is the heart of our island : 
 the Chilterns, the North Downs, the South Downs radiate 
 hence. The fibres of England unite in Wiltshire, and did 
 we condescend to worship her, here we should erect our 
 national shrine. 
 
 JPeople at that time were trying to^ think Jmgerially. 
 Rickie wondered how they did"it, 'Rr he'"coind.. not ima- 
 gine a place larger than England. And other people talked 
 oiiltaljr, the spiritual fatherland of us all. Perhaps Italy 
 would prove marvellous. But at present he conceived it as 
 something exotic, to be^ admired and reverenced, but not to 
 be loved like these undsteritatious fields. He drew out a 
 book,— it was riatural for him to read when he was happy, 
 and to read out loud, — and for a little time his voice dis- 
 turbed the silence of that glorious afternoon. The book 
 was Shelley, and it opened at a passage that he had cher- 
 ished greatly" two years before, and marked as "very 
 good." 
 
 "I never was attached to that great sect 
 Whose doctrine is that each one should select 
 Out of the world a mistress or a friend, 
 And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend 
 To cold oblivion, — though it is the code 
 Of modern morals, and the beaten road 
 Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread 
 Who travel to their home among the dead 
 By the broad highway of the world, — and so 
 With one sad friend, perhaps a jealous foe. 
 The dreariest and the longest journey go." 
 
 It was "very good" — fine poetry, and, in a sense, true. 
 Yet he was surprised that he had ever selected it so vehe- 
 mently. This afternoon it seemed a little inhuman. Half 
 
 —147— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 a mile off two lovers were keeping company where all the 
 villagers could see them. They cared for no one else; 
 they felt only the pressure of each other, and so progressed, 
 silent and oblivious, across the land. He felt them to 
 be nearer the truth than Shelley. Even if they suffered 
 or quarrelled, they would have been nearer the truth. 
 He wondered whether they were Henry Adams and Jessica 
 Thompson, both of this parish, whose banns had been 
 asked, for the second time, in the church this morning. 
 Why could he not marry on fifteen shillings a- week? And 
 he looked at them with respect, and wished that he was not 
 a cumbersome gentleman. 
 
 Presently he saw something less pleasant — ^his aunt's 
 pony carriage. It had crossed the railway, and was advanc- 
 ing up the Roman road along by the straw sacks. His 
 impulse was to retreat, but someone waved to him. It was 
 Agnes. She waved continually, as much as to say, "Wait 
 "for iis." Mrs. Failing herself raised the whip in a non- 
 chalant way. Stephen Wonham was following on foot, some 
 way behind. He put the Shelley back into his pocket 
 and waited for them. When the carriage stopped by 
 some hurdles he went down from the embankment and 
 helped them to dismount. He felt rather nervous. 
 
 His aunt gave him one of her disquieting smiles, but said 
 pleasantly enough, "Aren't the Rings a little immense? 
 Agnes and I came here because we wanted an antidote to 
 the morning service." 
 
 "Pang!" said the church bell suddenly; "pang! pang!" 
 It sounded petty and ludicrous. They all laughed. Rickie 
 blushed, and Agnes, with a glance that said "apologize," 
 darted away to the entrenchment, as though unable to re- 
 strain her curiosity. 
 
 "The pony won't move," said Mrs. Failing. "Leave him 
 for Stephen to tie up. Will you walk me to the tree in 
 the middle? Booh! I'm tired. Give me your arm — un- 
 less you're tired as well." 
 
 —148— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "No. I came out partly in the hope of helping you." 
 
 "How sweet of you." She contrasted his blatant un- 
 selfishness ..with jthe hardness of Stepheiir" Stephen never 
 came out to help you. But if you got hold of him he was 
 some good. He didn't wobble and bend at the critical 
 moment. Her fancy compared Rickie to the cracked church 
 bell sending forth its message of "Pang! pang!" to the 
 countryside, and Stephen to the young pagans who were 
 said to lie under this field guarding their pagan gold. 
 
 "This place is full of ghosties," she remarked; "have 
 you seen any yet?" 
 
 "I've kept on the outer rim so far." 
 
 "Let's go to the tree in the centre." 
 
 "Here's the path." The bank of grass where he had sat 
 was broken by a gap, through which chariots had entered, 
 and farm carts entered now. The track, following the an- 
 cient track, led straight through turnips to a similar gap in 
 the second circle, and thence continued, through more tur- 
 nips, to the central tree. 
 
 "Pang !" said the bell, as they paused at the entrance. 
 
 "You needn't unharness," shouted Mrs. Failing, for 
 Stephen was approaching the carriage. 
 
 "Yes, I will," he retorted. 
 
 "You will, will you?" she murmured with a smile. "I 
 wish your brother wasn't quite so uppish. Let's get on. 
 Doesn't that church distract you?" ' " 
 
 "It's so faint here," said Rickie. And it sounded fainter 
 inside, though the earthwork was neither thick nor tall; 
 and the view, though not hidden, was greatly diminished. 
 He was reminded for a minute of that chalk pit near Mad- 
 ingley, whose ramparts excluded the familiar world. Agnes 
 was here, as she, had once been there. She stood on the 
 farther barrier, waiting to receive them when they had 
 traversed the heart of the camp. 
 
 "Admire my mangel-wurzels," said Mrs. Failing. "They 
 are said to grow so splendidy on account of the dead sol- 
 
 —149— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 diers. Isn't it a sweet thought? Need I say it is your 
 .brothgE:s?" 
 
 "Wonham's ?" he suggested. It was the second ti|ne 
 
 that she„had made, the little slip. She nodded, and he asked 
 her what kind of ghosties haunted this curious field. 
 
 "The D.," was her prompt reply. "He leans against the 
 tree in the middle, especially on Sunday afternoons, and 
 all the worshippers rise through the turnips and dance 
 round him." 
 
 "Oh, these were decent people," he replied, looking down- 
 wards — "soldiers and shepherds. They haive no ghosts. 
 They worshipped Mars or Pan — Erda perhaps; not the 
 devil." 
 
 "Pang!" went the church, and was silent, for the after- 
 noon service had begun. They entered the second entrench- 
 ment, which was in height, breadth, and composition, sim- 
 ilar to the first, and excluded still more of the view. His 
 aunt continued friendly. Agnes stood watching them. " 
 Soldiers may seem decent m the past, she continued, 
 "but wait till they turn into Tommies from Bulford Camp, 
 who rob the chickens." 
 
 "I don't mind Bulford Camp," said Rickie, looking, 
 though in vain, for signs of its snowy . tents. "The 
 men there are the sons of the men here, and have come 
 back to the old country. War's horrible, yet one loves all 
 continuity. And no one could mind a shepherd." 
 
 "Indeed! What about your brother — a shepherd if evpr 
 Ihere was ? Look how he bores you ! Don't be so senti- 
 mental." 
 
 "But — oh, you mean " 
 
 "Your br^jher Stephen." 
 
 He glancedatTieFneirv^ously. He had never known her 
 so queer before. Perhaps it was some literary allusion 
 that he had not caught; but her face did not at that 
 moment suggest literature. In the differential tones 
 that one uses to an old and infirm person he said, 
 
 —150— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "Stephen Wonham. isn't my brother, Aunt Emily." 
 
 "My dear, you're that precise. One can't say 'half- 
 brother' every time." 
 
 They approached the_central tree. 
 
 "How you do puzzle me," he said, dropping her arm and 
 beginning to laugh. "How could I have a half-brother?" 
 
 She made no answer. 
 
 Then a horror leapt straight at him, and he beat it back 
 and said, "I will not be frightened." The tree in the centre , 
 revolved, the tree disappeared, and he saw a room — the 
 room where his father had lived in town. "Gently," he 
 told himself, "gently." 
 
 Still laughing, he said, "I, with ai brother — ^younger — it's 
 not possible." The hprror leapt again, and he exclaimed, 
 "It's a foul lie!" ""^- --— — 
 
 "My dear, my dear!" 
 
 "It's a foul lie! He wasn't— I won't stand " 
 
 "My dear, before you say several noble things, rememberf 
 that it's worse for him than for you — worse for your' 
 brother, for your half-brother, for your younger brother."? 
 
 But he heard her no longer. He was gazing at the past, 
 which Jie-had. praised so recently, which gaped ever wider, 
 like an ynhallowed grave. Turn where he would, it encir- 
 cled him. It took visible form : it was this double, entrench- 
 ment of the Rings. His mouth went cold, and he knew 
 that he was going to faint among the__^.dead. He started 
 running, missed the exit, stumbled on the inner barrier, fell 
 into darkness 
 
 "Get his head down," said a voice. "Get the blood back 
 into him. That's all he wants. Leave him to me. Elliot !" 
 — the blood was returning — "Elliot, wake up !" 
 
 He woke up. The earth he had dreaded lay close to his 
 eyes, and seemed beautiful. He saw the structure of the 
 clods. A tiny beetle swung on the grass blade. On his 
 own neck a: human hand pressed, guiding the blood back to 
 his brain. 
 
 —151— 
 
The Longest Journey- 
 
 There broke from him a cry, not of horror but of ac- 
 ceptance. For one short moment he understood. "Ste- 
 phen — " he began, and then he heard his own name called : 
 "Rickie! Rickie!" Agnes hurried from her post on the 
 margin, and, as if understanding also, caught him to her 
 breast. 
 
 Stephen offered to help them further, but finding that he 
 made things worse, he stepped aside to let them pass and 
 then sauntered inwards. The whole field, with concentric 
 circles, was visible, and the broad leaves of the turnips 
 rustled in the gathering wind. Miss Pembroke and Elliot 
 were moving towards the Cadover entrance. Mrs. Failing 
 stood watching in her turn on the opposite bank. He was 
 not an inquisitive boy; but as he leant against the tree he 
 wondered what it was all about, and whether he would 
 ever know. 
 
 —152— 
 
XIV 
 
 ON the way back — at that very level-crossing where 
 he had paused on his upward route — Rickie stopped 
 suddenly and told the girl why he had fainted. 
 Hitherto she had asked him in vain. His tone had gone 
 from him, and he told her harshly and brutally, so that she 
 started away with a horrified cry. Then his manner 
 altered, and he exclaimed : "Will you mind ? Are you go- 
 ing to mind?" 
 
 "Of course I mind," she whispered. She turned from 
 him, and saw up on the sky-line two figures that seemed to 
 be of enormous size. 
 
 "They're watching us. They stand on the edge watching 
 us. This country's so open — you — ^you can't — they watch 
 us wherever we go. Of course you mind." 
 
 They heard the rumble of the train, and she pulled her- 
 self together. "Come, dearest, we ,g hall be run oyer next. 
 We're saying things that have no sense." But on the way 
 back he repeated : "They can still see us. They can see 
 every inch of this road. They watch us for ever." And 
 when they arrived at the steps, there, sure enough, were 
 still the two figures gazing from the outer circle of the 
 Rings. 
 
 She made him go to his room at once : he was almost hys- 
 terical. L^ightgn brojight out some tea for her, and she 
 sat drinking it on the little terrace. Of course she minded. 
 
 Again sh^e , was jaenaced ^ by the. abnormal. All had 
 seemed so fair and so simple, so in accordance with her 
 ideas ; and then, UkgTa corpse, this, horror rose up to the sur- 
 face. She saw the two figures descend and pause while 
 one of them harnessed the pony; «he saw them drive 
 
 —153— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 downward, and knew that before long she must face them 
 and the world. She glanced at her engagement ring. 
 
 When the carriage drove up MrsT Failing dismounted, 
 out did not speak. It was Stephen who inquired after 
 Rickie. She, scarcely knowing the sound of her own 
 voice, replied that he was a little tired. 
 
 "Go and put up the pony," said Mrs. Failing rather 
 sharply. "Agnes, give me some tea." 
 
 "It is rather strong," said Agnes as the carriage drove 
 off and left them alone. Then she noticed that Mrs.. Fail- 
 ing herself was agitated. Her lips were trembling, and 
 she saw the boy depart with manifest relief. 
 
 "Do you know," she said hurriedly, as if talking against 
 lime — "do you kno^what^upset Rickie?" 
 "I do indeed know." 
 "Has he told any one else?" 
 "I believe not." 
 
 "Agnes — ^have I been a fool?" 
 
 "You have been very unkind," said the girl, and her 
 eyes filled with tears. 
 
 For a moment Mrs. Failing was annoyed. "Ur.kind? 
 I do not see that at all. I believe in looking facts in the 
 face. Rickie ^ust k now his ghosts__s ome time. Why not 
 this afternoon?" '^ " —.. ~~— 
 
 She rose with quiet dignity, but her tears came faster. 
 "That is not so. You told him to hurt him. I cannot 
 think what you did it for. I suppose because he. wa sjude 
 to you after church. It is^ a^mean, cowardly revenge." 
 
 "What— what if it's a lie?" "" '^ — — 
 
 "Then, MrSj^Failing, Tt is sjgkening of you. There is 
 no other word. STckening. I am sorry — a nobody like 
 myself — to speak like this. How could you, oh, how could 
 
 you demean yourself ? Why, not even a poor person " 
 
 Her indignation was fine and genuine. But her tears fell 
 no longer. "Nothing menaced her if they were not really 
 brothers. 
 
 —154- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 "It is not a lie, my dear; sit down. I will swear 
 so much solemnly. ~ It is not a lie, but " 
 
 Agnes waited. 
 
 " — we can call it a lie if we choose." 
 
 "I am not so childish. You have said it, and we must 
 all suffer. You have had your fun: I conclude you did it 
 for fun. You cannot go back. He " She pointed to- 
 wards the stables, and could not finish her sentence. 
 
 "I have not been a fool twice." 
 
 Agnes did not understand. ,^ 
 
 "My dense lady, can't you follow? I have not told Ste-| 
 phen one single word, neither before nor now." j\ 
 
 There was a long silence. I 
 
 Indeed, Mrs. Failing was in an awkward position. 
 Rickie had irritated her, and, in her desire to shock him, 
 s!ie"had imperilledT^ own peace. She had felt so uncon- 
 ventional upon the hillside, when she loosed the horror 
 against him ; but now it was darting at her as well. Sup- 
 pose the scandal out. Stephen, who was absolutely without 
 delicacy, would tell it to the people as soon as tell them the 
 time. His. paganism jwould_ be too assertivg; it might even 
 be in bad taste. After all, she had a prominent position in 
 the neighbourhood; she was talked about, respected, looked 
 .up to. After all, she was growing old. And therefore, 
 though she had no true regard for Rickie, nor for Agnes, 
 nor for Stephen, nor for Stephen's parents, in whose tragedy 
 she had assisted, yet she did feel that if the scandal re- 
 vived it would disturb the harmony of Cadover, and there- 
 fore tried to retrace her steps. It is easy to say shockingly 
 things: it is so different to be connected with anything jj 
 shocking. Ufe, and death were not, involved, but^omio^ji 
 ahd„ discomfort were. 
 
 The silence was broken by the sound of feet on 
 the gravel. Agnes said hastily, "Is that really true — that 
 he knows nothing?" 
 "You, Rickie, and I are the only people alive that know. 
 
 —155— 
 
The Longest Journey- 
 
 He realizes what he is — with a precision that is sometimes 
 alarming. Who he is, he doesn't know and doesn't care. 
 I suppose he_would know when I'm dead. There are pa- 
 pers."" '"" """" """ ^""~'' --••' 
 
 "Aunt Emily, before he comes, may I say.tq you I'm 
 sorry I was so rude ?" '^ — 
 
 Mrs. Failing had notjdJsliked her courage. "My dear, 
 you may. We're all off our hinges this Sunday. Sit down 
 by me again." 
 
 Agnes obeyed, and they awaited the arrival of Stephen. 
 They were cle yer enou gh to understaod-eacb. other. The 
 thing must be hushed up. The matron must repairJlie. con- 
 sequences of her petulance. The gi rl must hide the stai n 
 in..httJuturg.^husbin(fs| family. Why not? Who was in- 
 jured? What does a grown-up man want with a grown 
 brother? Rickie upstairs, how grateful he would be to 
 them for saving him. 
 
 "Stephen!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm tired of you. Go and bathe in the sea." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 And the whole thing was settled. She liked no fuss, and 
 so did he. He sat down on the step to tighten his boot- 
 laces. Then he would be ready. Mrs. Failing laid two 
 or three sovereigns on the step above him. Agnes tried to 
 make conversation, and said, with averted eyes, that the 
 sea was a long way off. 
 
 "The sea's downhill. That's all I know about it." He 
 swept up the money with a word of pleasure: he was kept 
 like a baby in such things. Then he started off, but .slowly, 
 for he meant to walk till the morning. 
 
 "He will be gone days," said Mrs. Failing. "The com- 
 edy is finished. Let us come in." 
 
 She went to her room. The gjgrm that_shehad raised 
 had shattered her. Yet, because it was stilled for a mo- 
 
 -156- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 ment, she resumed her old emancipated manner, and spoke 
 of it as a comedy. 
 
 As for Miss Pembroke, she pretended to be emancipated 
 no longer. People like "Stephen Wonham" were s ocial 
 ^lunderbolts, to be'lhunned at all costs, or at almost all 
 costs. Her joy was now unfeigned, and she hurried up- 
 stairs to impart it to Rickie. 
 
 "I don't think we are rewarded if we do right, but. we .are 
 punished if we lie. It's the fashion to laugh at poetic jus- 
 tice, but I do believe in half of it. Cast bitter bread upon 
 the waters, and after many days it really will come back to 
 you." These were the_words of Mr. Failing. They were 
 also the opinions of Steward Ansell, another unpractical 
 person. Rickie was trying to "write to him when she 
 entered with the good news. 
 
 "Dear, we're saved! He doesn't know, and he never is 
 to know. I can't tell you how glad I am. All the time we 
 saw them standing together up there, she wasn't telling him 
 at all. She was keeping him out of the way, in case you 
 let it out. Oh, I like her ! ^e may be unwise, but she is 
 nice, really. She said, 'I've beerTa-foo^'but I haven't beeii 
 a fool twice.' You must forgive her, Rickie. I've for- 
 given her, and she me; for at first I was so angry with 
 her. Oh, my darting boy, I am so glad !" 
 
 He was shivering all over, and could not reply. At last 
 he said, "Why hasn't she told him?" ] 
 
 "Because she has come to her senses." ! 
 
 "But she can't behave to people like that. She must telll 
 him." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because he must be told such a real thing." 
 
 "Such a real thing?" the girl echoed, screwing up her 
 forehead. "But — ^but you don't mean you're glad about 
 it?" 
 
 His head bowed over the letter. "My God — no! But 
 —157— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 it's a real thing. She must tell him. I nearly told him 
 myself — up there — when he made me look at the ground, 
 but you happened to prevent me." 
 
 How J!l2Yidence_hadjsvatched- over tbem! 
 
 "She won't tell him. I know that much." 
 
 "Then, Agnes, darling" — he drew her to the table — "we 
 must talk together a little. If she won't, then we ought 
 to." 
 
 "We tell him?" cried the girl, white with horror. "Tell 
 him now, when everything has been comfortably arranged?" 
 
 "You see, darling" — ^he took hold of her hand — "what 
 one must do is to think the thing out and settle what's 
 right. I'm still all trembling and stupid. I see it mixed 
 I up with other things. I want you to help me. I t seems 
 \to me ,that „hei?_J5d there injife we meet w ith a person or 
 I incident that ig symbolical. It's nothing in itsp.lf, vet ffl t 
 ' jthe jnome ntit stands, for -someueteriial-paixciEle. We accept 
 it, at whatever costs, and we have accepted life. But if 
 kve are frightened and reject it, the moment, so to speak, 
 passes; the symbol is never offered again. Is this non- 
 sense? Once before a symbol was offered to me — I shall 
 not tell you how; but I did accept it, and cherished 
 it through much anxiety and repulsion, and in the end I 
 am rewarded. There will be no reward this time. I think, 
 from such a man — ^the son of such a man. But I want to 
 rdo what is right." 
 
 ) "Because doing right is its own reward," said Agnes anx- 
 \ iously. 
 
 "I do not think that. I have seen few examples of it. 
 Doing right is simply doing right." 
 
 "I think that all you say is wonderfully clever ; but since 
 you ask me, it is nonsense, dear Rickie, absolutely." 
 
 "Thank you," he said humbly, and began to stroke her 
 hand. "But all my^jjisgust; my indigjaatioa.j5rith,.my..ia- 
 
 ther, my love for- " He broke oflf; he could not bear 
 
 to mention the name of his mother. "I was trying to say, 
 
 -158- 
 
Cambridge 
 
 I ougbtn/t_to^_folIow these^impulses too much. There are 
 other things. Truth.i Oux^J^^io acknowredge each man 
 accurately, however yile"he^ is. And apart from ideal's" 
 (here she had won the battle)T— "and leaving ideals aside, 
 I couldn't meet him and keep silent. It isn't in me. I 
 should blurt it out." 
 
 "But you won't meet him !" she cried. "It's all been ar- 
 ranged. We've sentjhim to the sea. Isn't it splendid? 
 IJe's gone. My own boy won^t be fantastic, will he?" 
 Then she fought the fantasy on its own ground. "And, by 
 the bye, what you call tha-isjmibplic moment' is over. You 
 had it up by the Rings. You tried to tell him. I inter- 
 rupted you. It's not^bur fault. You did all you could." 
 
 She thouglit_this__j^^IlentJbgic, and was surprised that 
 he looked so gloomy. "So he's gone to the sea. For the 
 present that does settle it. Has Aunt Emily talked about 
 him yet?" 
 
 "No. Ask her tomorrow if you wish to know. Ask 
 her kindly. It would be so dreadful if you did not part 
 friends, and " 
 
 "What's that?" 
 
 It was Stephen c alling up frornjthc- drive. He had come 
 back. Agnes threw out her hand in dispair. 
 
 "Elliot!" the voice called. 
 
 They were facing each other, silent and motionless. 
 Then Rickie advanced to the window. The girl darted in 
 front of him. He thought he had never seen her so beau- 
 tiful. She was stopping his advance quite frankly, with 
 widespread arms. 
 
 "Elliot !" , 
 
 He moved forward — into what? He pretended to him-V 
 self he would rather see his brother before he answered;! 
 that it was easier to acknowledge him thus. But at the) 
 back of his soul he. knejv that the woman had conquered, 
 and that he was moving forward" to acknowledge her. "If 
 
 he calls me again " he thought. 
 
 — 1?9— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Elliot!" 
 
 "Well, if he calls me once again, I will answer him, vile 
 as he is." 
 
 He did not call again. 
 
 Stephen had really come back for some tobacco, but 
 as he passed under the windows he thought of the poor fel- 
 low who had been "nipped" (nothing serious, said Mrs. 
 Failing), and determined to shout good-bye to him. And 
 once or twice, as he followed the river into the darkness, 
 he wondered what it was like to be so weak, — not to ride, 
 not to swim, not to care for anything but books and a girl. 
 ^ They embraced passionately. The ^angeEJia.d_broi^ht 
 / them very near to each other. The]^,,iGtliai£eded. a home 
 I to confront Jhe.-meoacingiJhimultuous world. And what 
 i. weary years of work, of waiting, lay between them and that 
 home ! Still holding her fast, he said, "I was writing to 
 Ansell when you came in." 
 "Do you owe him a letter?" 
 ^ "No." He paused. "I was writing to tell him about 
 ; this. He would help us. He always picks out the ifflpor- 
 /tant point." 
 
 "Darling, I don't like to say anything, and I know that 
 |Mr. Ansell would keep a secret, but haven't we picked out 
 [the important point for ourselves?" 
 
 He released her and tore the letter up. 
 
 — 1 60 — 
 
XV 
 
 THE sense of^purity is a puzzling and at times a 
 fearful thing. It seems so noble, and it starts as 
 one with morality. But it is a dangerous guide, 
 and can lead us away riot only f'-om what is gracious, but 
 also from what is good. Agnes, in this tangle, had followed 
 it blindly, partly because she was a woman, and it meant 
 more to her than it can ever mean to a man; partly be-f 
 cause, though dangerous, it is also obvious, and makes no de- 
 mand upon the intellect. She co|jld_jiQt.leeLjthal_Stephen , 
 had_ fuUJiuman rights. Hejvas illicit, abnormal, worse thah ^ 
 a man diseased. And Rickie remembering whose son he 
 was, gradually adopted her opinion. He, too, came to be 
 glad that his brother had passed from him untried, that the 
 symbolic moment had been rejected. Stephen was the fruit 
 jDf^^n ; therefore he was sinf iiir~He, tbo,''Became a sexual 
 snob. 
 
 And now he must hear the unsavoury details. That 
 evening they sat in the walled garden. Agnes, according to 
 arrangement, left him alone with his aunt. He asked her, 
 and was not answered. 
 
 "You are shocked," she said in a hard, mocking voice. 
 "It is very nice of you to be shocked, and I do not wish to 
 grieve you further. We will not allude to it as^ain. Let 
 us all go on just as we are. The comedy is finished." 
 
 He could not tolerate this. His nerves were shattered, 
 and all that was good in him revolted as well. To the 
 horror of Agnes, who was within earshot, he replied, "You 
 used to puzzle me. Aunt Emily, but I understand you at last. 
 You haye^ forgotten jsrljat other people are like. Cpntin,u,al 
 selfishness Jeads to tijat. I am sure of it. I see now how 
 
 — l6l— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 you look at the world. 'Nice of me to be shocked!' I 
 want to go tomorrow, if I may." 
 
 "Certainly, dear. The morning trains are the best." 
 And so the disastrous visit ended. 
 
 As he waTlte^n^cF to the house he met a certain poor 
 
 woman, whose ^hild Stephen had rescued at the Jevel- 
 
 crossing, and who had decided, after some delay, • that she 
 
 must thank the kind gentleman in person. "H e.haj g ot 
 
 some brute courage," thought^kkie, "and it was decent of 
 
 him not to Soait about it." But he had labelled the boy as 
 
 .'"Bad," and it was convenient to revert to his good qualities 
 
 .as seldom as possible. He preferred to brood over his 
 
 I coarseness, his caddish ingratitude, his irreligion. Out of 
 
 -these he constructed a repulsive figure, forgetting how 
 
 J. slovenly his own perceptions had been during the past week, 
 
 ; liow dogmatic and intolerant his attitude to all that was not 
 
 Love. 
 
 During the packing he was obliged to go up to the attic to 
 find the Dryad manuscript which had never been returned. 
 ' Leighton came too, and for about half an hour they hunted 
 in the flickering light of a candle. It was a strange, ghostly 
 place, and Rickie was quite startled when a picture swung 
 towards him, and he saw the Demeter of Cnidus, 
 shimmering and grey. Leighton suggested the roof: Mr. 
 Stephen sometimes left things on the roof. So they climbed 
 out of the skylight — ^the night was perfectly still — and con- 
 tinued the search among the gables. Enormous stars hung 
 overhead, and the roof was bounded by chasms, impene- 
 trable and black. "It doesn't matter," said Rickie, suddenly 
 convinced of the futility of all that he did. "Oh, let us 
 look properly," said Leighton, a kindly, pliable man, who 
 had tried to shirk coming, but who was genuinely sympa- 
 thetic now that he had come. They were rewarded: the 
 manuscript lay in a gutter, charred and smudged. 
 
 The res Xp/the y ear was spent by R jckie partly in bed, — 
 he had a curious breakdown,!— partly in the attempt to get 
 
 — 162 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 his little stories published. He had written eight or nine, 
 and hoped they would make up a book, and that the book 
 might be called "Pan Pipes." He was very energetic over 
 this; he liked to work, for some inperceptible bloom had 
 passed from the world, and he no longer found such acute 
 pleasure in people. Mrs. Failing's old publishers, to whom 
 the book was submitted, replied that, greatly as they found 
 themselves interested, they did not see their way to making 
 an offer at present. They were very polite, and singled 
 out for special praise "Andante Pastorale," which Rickie 
 had thought too sentimental, but which Agnes had pur- 
 suaded him to include. The stories were sent to another 
 publisher, who considered them for six weeks, and then 
 returned them. A fragment of red cotton, placed by Agnes 
 between the leaves, had not shifted its position. 
 
 "Can't you try something longer, Rickie?" she said; "I 
 believe we're on the wrong track. Try an out-and-out 
 love-story." 
 
 "My notion just now," he replied, "is to leave the passions 
 on the fringe." She nodded, and tapped for the waiter: 
 they had met in a London restaurant. "I can't soar ; I can 
 only indicate. That's where the musicians have the pull, 
 for music has wings, and when she says 'Tristan' and he 
 says 'Isolde,' you are on the heights at once. What do 
 people mean when they call love music artificial?" 
 
 "I know what they mean, though I can't exactly explain. 
 Or couldn't you make your stories more obvious? I don't 
 see any harm in that. Uncle Willie floundered hopelessly. 
 He doesn't read much, and he got muddled. I had to ex- 
 plain, and then he was delighted. Of course, to write down 
 to the public would be quite another thing and horrible. T) 
 You have certain ideas, and you must express them. But 
 couldn't you express them more clearly?" 
 
 "You see — " He got no further than "you see." 
 
 "The sojjjjiidjthebod^. The soul's what matters," said 
 Agnes, and tapped for the waiter again. He looked at her 
 
 —163— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 admiringly, but felt that she was not a perfect critic. 
 .-Perhaps she was too perfect to be a critic. Actual life 
 might seem to her so real that she could not detect the 
 union of shadow and adamant that men call poetry. 
 IJe would even go further and acknowledge that she was 
 not as clever as himself — and he was stupid enough! 
 She did not like discussing anything or reading solid books, 
 and she was a little angry with such women as did. It 
 pleased him to make these concessions, for ^ they touched 
 nothing in her, that he valupd. He looked round the' res- 
 taurant, which was in Soho, and decided that she was in- 
 comparable. 
 
 "At half-past two I call on the editor of the 'Holbom.' 
 He's got a stray story to look at, and he's written about it." 
 
 "Oh, Rickie! Rickie! Why didn't you put on a boiled 
 shirt!" 
 
 He laughed, and teased her. "Th a..sour s whatjmatters. 
 We literary people don't care about dress." 
 
 "Well, you ought to care. And I believe you do. Can't 
 you change?" 
 
 "Too far." He had rooms in South Kensington. "And 
 I've forgot my card-case. There's for you!" 
 
 She shook her head. "Naughty, naughty boy! What- 
 ever will you do ?" 
 
 "Send in my name, or ask for a bit of paper and write 
 it. Hullo! that's TiJliardJ" 
 
 Tilliard blushed, partly on account of the faiur pas he had 
 made last June, partly on account of the restaurant. He 
 explained how he came to be pigging in Soho: it was so 
 frightfully convenient and so frightfully cheap. 
 
 "Just why Rickie brings me," said Miss Pembroke. 
 
 "And I suppose you're here to study life?" said Tilliard, 
 sitting down. *"""" " 
 
 "I don't know," said Rickie, gazing round at the waiters 
 and the guests. 
 
 "Doesn't one want to see a good deal of life for 
 — 164 — 
 
Cambridge 
 
 writing? There's life of a sort in Soho, — Un peu de 
 faisan, s'il vous plait." 
 \ \' Agnes also grabbed at the waiter, and paid. She always 
 ,^ ) did the paying, Rickie muddled so with his purse. 
 V \ "I'm cramming," pursued Tilliard, "and so naturally I 
 come into contact with very little at present. But later on 
 I hope to see things." He blushed a little, for he was 
 talking for Rickie's edification. "It is most frightfully im- 
 portant not to get a narrow or academic outlook, don't you 
 think? A person like Ansell, who goes from Cambridge, 
 home — ^home, Cambridge — it must tell on him in time." 
 
 "But Mr. Ansell is a philosopher." 
 
 "A very kinky one," said Tilliard abruptly. "Not my 
 idea of a philosopher. How goes his dissertation?" 
 
 "He never answers my letters," replied Rickie. "He 
 never would. I've heard nothing since June." 
 
 "It's a pity he sends in this year. There are so many 
 good people in. He'd have a far better chance if he 
 waited." 
 
 "So I said, but he wouldn't wait. He's so keen about this 
 particular subject." 
 
 "What is it ?" asked Agnes. 
 
 "About things being real, wasn't it, Tilliard?" 
 
 "That's near enoueh." 
 
 "Well, good luck to him !" said the girl. "And good luck 
 to you, Mr. Tilliard! Later on, I hope, we'll meet again." 
 
 They parted. Tilliard liked her, though he did not feel 
 that she was qaitQ.'^J^^cpuche sociale. His sister, for, 
 instance, would neverKave been lured into a Soho restau- I 
 rant — except for the experience of the thing. ^Tilliard's \ 
 couche sociak permitted experiences. Provided 'fiTs'heart 
 did not go out to the poor and the unorthodox.^he might !C 
 stare at them as much as he liked, i It was seeing life. j "^^ 
 
 Agnes put her lover safely into an omnibus at Cambridge ' 
 Circus. She shouted after him that his tie was rising over 
 his collar, but he did not hear her. For a moment she felt 
 
 -165- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 depressed, and pictured quite accurately the effect that his 
 appearance would have on the editor. The editor was a tall 
 neat man of forty, slow of speech, slow pi soul, and 
 extraordinarily kind. He and Rickie sat over a fire, with 
 an enormous tahle behind them, whereon stood many books 
 waiting to be reviewed. 
 
 "I'm sorry," he said, and paused. 
 
 Rickie smiled feebly. 
 
 "Your story does not convince." He tapped it. "I have 
 read it — with very great pleasure. It convinces in parts, 
 ' , but it does not convince as a whole ; and stories, don't you 
 think, ought to convince as a whole?" 
 - "They ought indeed," said Rickie, and plunged into self- 
 depreciation. But the editor checked him. 
 
 "No — no. Please don't talk like that. I can't bear to 
 hear any one talk against imagination. There are countless 
 openings for 'imagination, — for the mysterious, for the 
 supernatural, for all the things you are trying to do, and 
 which, I hope, you will succeed in doing. I'm not objecting 
 to imagination; on the contrary, I'd advise you to cultivate 
 it, to accent it. Write a really good ghost story and we'd 
 (take it at once. Or" — ^he suggested it as an alternative to 
 /^ ■; umagination — "or you might get insi<fe^ life. It's worth 
 
 "Life?" echoed Rickie anxiously. He looked round the 
 pleasant room, as if life might be fluttering there like an 
 imprisoned bird. Then fie looked at the editor ; perhaps he 
 was sitting inside life at this very moment. 
 
 "See life, Mr. Elliot, and then send us another story." 
 He held out his hand. "I am sorry I have to say 'No, thank 
 you' ; it's so much nicer to say, 'Yes, please.' " He laid his 
 hand on the young man's sleeve, and added, "Well, the 
 interview's not been so alarming after all, has it?" 
 
 "I don't think that either of us is a very alarming person," 
 was not Rickie's reply. It was what he thought out after- 
 
 — 166— 
 
Cambridge 
 
 wards in the omnibus. His reply was "Ow," delivered 
 with a slight giggle. 
 
 As he rumbled westward, his face was drawn, and his eyes 
 moved quickly to the right and left, as if he would discover 
 something in the squalid fashionable streets — some bird on 
 the wing, some radiant archway, the face of some god be- 
 neath a beaver hat. Qejoved, he, was loved, he had seen 
 death_„and other^ things ; but the heart _ of jill things was 
 hidden. There was a password and he could not learn 'if, 
 nor could the kind editor of the "Holborn" teach him. He 
 sighed, and then sighed more piteously. For had he not 
 known the password once — known it and forgotten it 
 already ? 
 
 But at this point his fortunes become intimately con- 
 nected with those of Mr. Pembroke. 
 
 — 167- 
 
Part II — Sawston 
 
XVI 
 
 IN three years Mr. Pembroke had done much to so- 
 lidify the day-boys at Sawston School. If they were 
 not solid, they were at all events curdling, and his 
 activities might reasonably turn elsewhere. He had served 
 the school for many years, and it was really time he should 
 be entrusted with a boarding-house. The headmaster, an 
 impulsive man who darted about like a minnow and gave 
 his mother a great deal of trouble, agreed with him, and also 
 agreed with Mrs. Jackson when she said that Mr. Jackson 
 had served the school for many years and that it was really 
 time he should be entrusted with a boarding-house. Conse- 
 quently, when Dunwood House fell vacant, the headmaster 
 found himself in rather a difficult position. 
 
 Dunwood House was the largest and most lucrative of 
 the boarding-houses. It stood almost opposite the school 
 buildings. Orginally it had been a villa residence — a red- 
 brick villa, covered with creepers and crowned with terra- 
 cotta dragons. Mr. Annison, founder of its glory, had lived 
 here, and had had one or two boys to live with him. Times 
 changed. The fame of the bishops blazed brighter, the 
 school increased, the one or two boys became a dozen, and 
 an addition was made to Dunwood House that more than 
 doubled its size. A' huge new building, replete with every 
 convenience, was stuck on to its right flank. Dormitories, 
 cubicles, studies, a preparation-room, a dining-room, 
 parquet floors, hot-air pipes — no expense was spared, and 
 the twelve boys roamed over it like princes. Baize doors 
 communicated on every floor with MnAnnison's part, and 
 he, an anxious gentleman, would stroffbackwards and for- 
 wards, a little depressed at the hygienic splendours, and 
 
 —171— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 conscious of some vanished intimacy. Somehow be had 
 known his boys better when they had all muddled together 
 as one family, and algebras lay strewn upon the drawing- 
 room chairs. As the house filled, his interest in it de- 
 creased. When he retired — which he did the same summer 
 that Rickie left Cambridge — it had already passed the 
 summit of excellence and was beginning to decline. Its 
 numbers were still satisfactory, and for a little time it 
 would subsist on its past reputation. But that mysterious 
 asset the tone had lowered, and it was therefore of great im- 
 portance that Mr. Annison's successor should be a first-class 
 man. Mr. Coates, who came next in seniority, was passed 
 over, and rightly. The choice lay between Mr. Pembroke 
 and Mr. Jackson, the one an organizer, the other a 
 humanist. Mr. Jackson was master of the Sixth, and — 
 with the exception of the headmaster, who was too busy to 
 impart knowledge — the only first-class intellect in the school. 
 But he could not or rather would not, keep order. He told 
 his form that if it chose to listen to him it would learn ; if it 
 didn't, it wouldn't. One half listened. The other half 
 made paper frogs, and bored holes in the raised map of Italy 
 with their penknives. When the penknives gritted he pun- 
 ished them with undue severity, and then forgot to make 
 them show the punishments up. Yet out of this chaos two 
 facts emerged. Half the boys got scholarships at the 
 University, and some of thet& — including several of the 
 paper- frog sort — remained friends with him throughout their 
 lives. Moreover, he was rich, and had a competent wife. 
 His claim to Dunwood House was stronger than one would 
 have supposed. 
 
 The qualifications of Mr. Pembroke have already been 
 indicated. They prevailed — but under conditions. If 
 things went wrong, he must promise to resign. 
 
 "In the first place," said the headmaster, "you are doing 
 so splendidly with the day-boys. Your attitude towards 
 the parents is magnificent. I don't know how to replace 
 
 — 172 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 you there. Whereas, of course, the parents of a 
 boarder " 
 
 "Of course," said Mr. Pembroke. 
 
 The parent of a boarder, who only had to remove his son 
 if he was discontented with the school, was naturally in a 
 more independent position than the parent who had brought 
 all his goods and chattels to Sawston, and was renting a 
 house there. 
 
 "Now the parents of boarders — this is my second point 
 — ^practically demand that the house-master should have a 
 wife." 
 
 "A most unreasonable demand," said Mr. Pembroke. 
 
 "To my mind also a bright motherly matron is quite 
 sufficient. But that is what they demand. And that is why 
 — do you see? — we have to regard your appointment as ex- 
 perimental. Possibly Miss Pembroke will be able to help 
 
 you. Or I don't know whether if ever " He left the ^ 
 
 sentence unfinished. Two days later Mr. Pembroke pro- 
 posed to Mrs. Orr. 
 
 He had always intended to marry when he could afford 
 it ; and once he had been in love, violently in love, but had 
 laid the passion aside, and told it to wait till a more con- 
 venient season. This was, of course, the proper thing to 
 do, and prudence should have been rewarded. But when, 
 after the lapse of fifteen years, he went, as it were, to his 
 spiritual larder and took down Love from the top shelf to 
 offer him to Mrs, Orr, he was rather dismayed. Something 
 had happened. Perhaps the god had flown ; perhaps he had 
 been eaten by the rats. At all events, he was not there. 
 
 Mr. Pembroke was^gnspentieas^and romantic, and knew 
 that marriage without love is intolerable. On the other 
 hand, he could not admit that lovehad vanished from him. 
 To admit this, would argue that he had deteriorated. 
 
 Whereas he knew for a fact that he had improved, year 
 by year. Each year he grew more moral, more efficient, 
 more learned, more genial. So how could he fail to be 
 
 —173— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 more loving? He did not speak to himself as follows, be- 
 cause he never spoke to himself; but the following notions 
 moved in the recesses of his mind: "It is not the fire of 
 ^ youth. But I am not sure that I approve of the fire of 
 ( youth. Look at my sister! Once she has suffered, twice 
 she has been most imprudent, and put me to great incon- 
 
 venience besides, for if she was stopping with me she would 
 have done the housekeeping. I rather suspect that it is a 
 ', nobler, "riper emotion that I am laying at the feet of Mrs. 
 'Orr." It never took him long to get muddled, or to re- 
 verse cause and effect. In a short time he believed that 
 he had been pining for years, and only waiting for this 
 good fortune to ask the lady to share it with him. 
 
 Mrs. Orr was quiet, clever, kindly, capable, and amus- 
 ing, and they were old acquaintances. Altogether it was 
 not surprising that he should ask her to be his wife, nor 
 very surprising that she should refuse. But she refused 
 with a violence that alarmed them both. He left her house 
 declaring that he had been insulted, and she, as soon as he 
 left, passed from disgust into tears. 
 
 He was much annoyed. There was a certain Miss Her- 
 riton who, though far inferior to Mrs. Orr, would have 
 done instead of her. But now it was impossible. He 
 could not go offering himself about Sawston. Having en- 
 gaged a matron who had the reputation for being bright 
 and motherly, he moved into Dunwood House and opened 
 the Michaelmas term. Everything went wrong. The cook 
 left; the boys had a disease called roseola; Agnes, who 
 was still drunk with her engagement, was of no assistance, 
 but kept flying up to London to push Rickie's fortunes; 
 and, to crown everything, the matron was too bright and not 
 motherly enough: she neglected the little boys and was 
 over-attentive to the big ones. She left abruptly, and the 
 voice of_Mrs. Jackson arose, prophesying disaster. 
 
 ShoufOie averflt by taking orders? Parents do not de- 
 mand that a house-master should be a clergyman, yet it 
 
 —174— 
 
Sawston 
 
 reassures them when he is. And he would have to take 
 orders some time, if he hoped for a school of his own. His 
 religious convictions were ready to hand, but he spent 
 several uncomfortable days hunting up his religious enthu- 
 siasms. It was not unlike his attempt to marry Mrs. Orr. 
 But his piety was more genuine, and this time he never 
 came to the point. His sense of decency forbade him 
 hurrying into a Church that he reverenced. Moreover, he 
 thought of another solution: Agnes must marry Rickie m 
 the Christmas holidays, and they must come, both of them, 
 to Sawston, she as housekeeper, he as assistant-master. 
 The girl was a good worker when once she was set- 
 tled down; and as for Rickie, he could easily be fitted in 
 somewhere in the school. He was not a good classic, but 
 good enough to take the Lower Fifth. He was no athlete, 
 but boys might profitably note that he was a perfect gentle- 
 man all the same. He had no experience, but he would 
 gain it. He had no decision, but he could simulate it. 
 "Above all," thought Mr. Pembroke, "it will be some- 
 thing regular for him to do." Of course this was 
 not "above all." Dunwood House held that position. But 
 Mr. Pembroke soon came to think that it was, and believed 
 that he was planning for Rickie, just as he had believed 
 he was pining for Mrs. Orr. 
 
 Agnes, when she got back from the lunch in Soho, was 
 told of the plan. She refused to give any opinion until she 
 had seen her lover. A telegram was sent to him, and next 
 morning he arrived. He was very susceptible to the wea- 
 ther, and perhaps it was unfortunate that the morning was 
 foggy. His train had been stopped outside Sawston Sta- 
 tion, and there he had sat for half an hour, listening to the 
 unreal noises that came from the line, and watching the 
 shadowy figures that worked there. The gas was alight 
 in the great drawing-room, and in its depressing rays he 
 and Agnes greeted each other, and discussed the most mo- 
 mentuous question of their lives. They wanted to be mar- 
 
 —175— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 ; 
 
 ried: there was no doubt of that. They wanted it, both of 
 them, dreadfully. But should they marry on these terms? 
 
 "I'd never thought of such a thing, you see. When the 
 scholastic agencies sent me circulars after the Tripos, I 
 tore them up at once." 
 
 "There are the holidays," said Agnes. "You would 
 have three months in the year to yourself, and you could 
 do your writing then." 
 
 "But who'll read what I've written?" and he told her 
 about the editor of the "Holborn." 
 
 She became extremely grave. At the bottom of her 
 heart she had always mistrusted the little stories, and now 
 people who knew agreed with her. How could Rickie, or 
 any one, make a living by pretending that Greek gods were 
 alive, or that young ladies could vanish into trees? A 
 sparkling society tale, full of verve and pathos, would 
 have been another thing, and the editor might have been 
 convinced by it. 
 
 "But what does he mean?" Rickie was saying. "What 
 does he mean by life?" 
 
 "I know what he means, but I can't exactly explain. 
 You ought to see life, Rickie. I think he's right there. 
 And Mr. Tilliard was right when he said one oughtn't jto 
 jbe academic." 
 
 He stood in the twilight that fell from the window, she 
 in the twilight of the gas. "I wonder what Ansell would 
 say," he murmured. 
 
 "Oh, poor Mr. Ansell !" 
 
 He was somewhat surprised. Why was Ansell poor? 
 It^was the first time the epithet had been applied to him. 
 
 "But to change the conversation," said Agnes. "If we 
 did marry, we might get to Italy at Easter and escape this 
 horrible fog." 
 
 "Yes. Perhaps there " Perhaps life would be there. 
 
 He thought of Renan, who declares that on the Acropolis 
 at Athens beauty and wisdom do exist, really exist, as ex- 
 
 — 176 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 ternal powers. He did not aspire to beauty or wisdom, but 
 he prayed to be delivered from -the- shadow oL unreality 
 that had begun to darken, the .world. For it was as 
 if some power had pronounced against him — as if, by some 
 heedless action, he had offended an Olympian god. Like 
 many another, he wondered whether the god might be ap- 
 peased by work — hard uncongenial work. Perhaps he had 
 not worked hard enough, or had enjoyed his work 
 too much, and for that reason the shadow was falling. 
 
 " — ^And above all, a schoolmaster has wonderful oppor- 
 Jjinities for doing good fone mustn't forget that." ^ 
 
 To do good! For what, other reason are we here? ] 
 Let us give up our refined sensations, and our comforts, 
 and our art, if thereby we can make other people happier 
 and better. The woman he loved had urged him to 
 do good! With a vehemence that surprised her, he 
 exclaimed, "I'll do it." 
 
 "Think it over," she cautioned, though she was greatly 
 pleased. 
 
 "No; I think over things too much." 
 
 The room grew brighter. A boy's laughter floated in, 
 and it seemed to him that people were as important and f 
 vivid as they had been six months before. Then he was] 
 at Cambridge, idling in the parsley meadows, and weaving] 
 perishable garlands out of flowers. Now he was at Saw-/ 
 ston, preparing to work a beneficent machine. No man , 
 works for nothing, and Rickie trusted that to him also ben-/ 
 efits might accrue; that his wound might heal as he la-, 
 boured, and his eyes recapture the Holy Grail. i 
 
 —177— 
 
XVII 
 
 IN practical matters Mr. Pembroke was often a gener- 
 ous man. He offered Rickie a good salary, and insis- 
 ted on paying Agnes as well. And as he housed them 
 for nothing, and as Rickie would also have a salary from the 
 school, the money question disappeared — if not for ever, at 
 all events for the present. 
 
 "I can work you in," he said. "Leave all that to me, 
 >.nd in a few days you shall hear from the headmaster. 
 He shall create a vacancy. And once in, we stand or 
 fall together. I am resolved on that." 
 
 Rickie did n ot like the idea of being "wprkecLin^" but he 
 was determined to raise no difficulties. It is so easy to be 
 refined and high-minded when we have nothing to do. But 
 the active, useful man cannot be equally particular. 
 Rickie's programme involved a change in values as well as 
 a change of occupation. 
 
 "Adopt a frankly intellectual attitude," - Mr. Pembroke 
 continued. "I do not advise you at present even to pro- 
 fess 'any interest in athletics or organization. When the 
 headmaster writes, he will probably ask whether you are 
 an all-round man. Boldly say no. A bold 'no' is at times 
 the best. Take your stand upon classics and general cul- 
 ture." 
 
 Classics! A second in the Tripos. General culture! 
 A smattering of English Literature, and less than a smat- 
 tering of French. 
 
 "That is how we begin. Then we get you a little post — 
 say that of librarian. And so on, until you are indispen- 
 sable." 
 
 Rickie laughed ; the headmaster wrote, the reply was sat' 
 isfactory, and in due course the new life began. 
 
 -178- 
 
Sawston 
 
 Sawston was already familiar to him. But he knew it 
 as an amateur, and under an official gaze it grouped itself 
 afresh. The school, a bland Gothic building, now showed 
 as a fortress of learning, whose outworks were the board- 
 ing-houses. Those straggling roads were full of the houses 
 of the parents of the day-boys. These shops were in 
 bounds, those out. How often had he passed Dunwood 
 House! He had once confused it with its rival. Cedar 
 View. Now he was to live there — perhaps for many 
 years. On the left of the entrance a large saffron drawing- 
 room, full of cosy comers and dumpy chairs : here the par- 
 ents would be received. On the right of the entrance a 
 study, which he shared with Herbert : here the boys would 
 be caned — he hoped not often. In the hall a framed cer- 
 tificate praising the drains, the bust of Hermes, and a carved 
 teak monkey holding out a salver. Some of the fur- 
 niture had come from Shelthorpe, some had been bought 
 from Mr. Annison, some of it was new. But throughout 
 he recognized a certain decision of arrangement. Noth- 
 ing in the house was accidental, or there merely for its 
 own sake. He contrasted it with his room at Cambridge, 
 which had been a jumble of things that he loved dearly 
 and of things that he did not love at all. Now these also 
 had come to Dunwood House, and had been distributed 
 where each was seemly — Sir Percival to the drawing-room, 
 the photograph of Stockholm to the passage, his chair, his 
 inkpot, and the portrait of his mother to the study. And 
 then he contrasted it with the Ansells' house, to which their 
 resolute ill-taste had given unity. He was extremely sen- 
 sitive to the inside of a house, holding it an organism that 
 expressed the thoughts, conscious and subconscious, of its 
 inmates. He was equally sensitive to places. He vyQuld 
 compare Xamhridge-jratlL, Sawsipp, and either with a third 
 type of existence, to which, for want of a better name, he 
 gave the name of "Wiltshire." 
 
 It must not be thought that he is going to waste his 
 
 —179— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 time. These contrasts anid comparisons never took him 
 long, and he never indulged in them until the serious busi- 
 ness of the day was over. And, as time passed, he never 
 indulged in them at all. 
 
 The school returned at the end of January, before he had 
 been settled in a week. His health had improved, but not 
 greatly, and he was nervous at the prospect of confronting 
 the assembled house. All day long cabs had been driving 
 up, full of boys in bowler hats too big for them ; and Agnes 
 had been superintending the numbering of the said hats, 
 and the placing of them in cupboards, since they would not 
 be wanted till the end of the term. Each boy had, or should 
 have had, a bag, so that he need not unpack his box till the 
 morrow. One boy had only a brown-paper parcel, tied 
 with hairy string, and Rickie heard the firm pleasant voice 
 say, "But you'll bring a bag next term," and the submissive, 
 "Yes, l^rs. Elliot," of the reply. In the passage he ran 
 against thehead boy, who was alarmingly like an under- 
 graduate. They looked at each other suspiciously, ant? 
 parted. Two minutes later he ran into another boy, and 
 then into another, and began to wonder whether they were 
 doing it on purpose, and if so, whether he ought to mind. 
 As the day wore on, the noises grew louder — ^trampings of 
 feet, breakdowns, jolly little squawks — and the cubicles were 
 assigned, and the bags unpacked, and the bathing ar- 
 rangements posted up, and Herbert kept on saying, "All 
 this is informal — all this is informal. We shall meet the 
 house at eight fifteen." 
 
 [. And so, at eight ten, Rickie put on his cap and gown,— 
 hitherto symbols of pupilage, now to be symbols of dignity, 
 —the very cap and gown that Widdrington had so recently 
 hung upon the college fountain. Herbert, similarly attired, 
 was waiting for him in their private dining-room, where also 
 sat Agnes, ravenously devouring scrambled eggs. "But 
 you'll wear your hoods," she cried. Herbert considered, 
 and then said she was quite right. He fetched his white 
 
 —1 80— 
 
Sawston 
 
 silk, Rickie the fragment of rabbit's wool that marks the 
 degree of B. A. Thus attired, they proceeded through the 
 baize door. They were a little late, and the boys, who were 
 marshalled in the preparation room, were getting up- 
 roarious. One, forgetting how far his voice carried, 
 shouted, "Cave! Here comes the Whelk." And another 
 young devil yelled, "The Whelk's brought a limpet with 
 him!" 
 
 "You mustn't mind," said Herbert kindly. "We masters 
 make a point of never minding nicknames — unless, of 
 course, they are applied openly, in which case a thousand 
 lines is not too much." Rickie assented, and they entered 
 the preparation room just as the prefects had established 
 order. 
 
 Here Herbert took his seat on a high-legged chair, while 
 Rickie, like a queen-consort, sat near him on a chair with 
 (somewhat shorter legs. Each chair had a desk attached to 
 it, and Herbert flung up the lid of his, and then looked 
 round the preparation room with a quick frown, as if the 
 contents had surprised him. So impressed was Rickie that 
 he peeped sideways, but could only see a little blotting-paper 
 in the desk. Then he noticed that the boys were impressed 
 too. Their chatter ceased. They attended. 
 
 The room was almost full. The prefects, instead of 
 lolling disdainfully in the back row, were ranged like 
 councillors beneath the central throne. This was an 
 innovation of Mr. Pembroke's, ^arruthers, ,the head boy, 
 sat in the middle, with his arm round JLJOTd. It was Lloyd 
 who had made the matron too brigfiFTne nearly lost his 
 colours in consequence. These two were grown up. 
 Beside them sat Tewson, a saintly child in spectacles, who 
 had risen to this height by reason of his immense learn- 
 ing. He, like the others, was a school prefect. The house 
 prefects, an inferior brand, were beyond, and behind came 
 the undistinguishable many. The faces all looked alike as 
 yet — except the face of one boy, who was inclined to cry. 
 
 — i8i— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "School," said Mr. Pembroke, slowly closing the lid of 
 the desk, — "school is the world in miniature." Then he 
 paused, as a man well may who has made such a remark. 
 It is not, however, the intention of this work to quote an 
 opening address. Rickie, at all events, refused to be crit- 
 ical: Herbert's experience was far greater than his, and he 
 must take his tone from him. Nor could any one criticize 
 the exhortations to be patriotic, athletic, learned, and reli- 
 gious, that flowed like a four-parLjugliS^j^gm Mr, Pem- 
 broke's mouth. He was a practised speaker — ^that 
 is to say, he held his audience's attention. He told them that 
 this term, the second of his reign, was the term for Dun- 
 wood House ; that it behoved every boy to labour during it 
 for his house's honour, and, through the house, for the 
 
 r honour of the school. Taking a wider range, he spoke of 
 England, or rather of Great Britain, and of her continental 
 foes. Portraits of em2ire:iuild£ts hung on the w all, and he 
 1 pointed to them. He quoted imperial poets. He showed 
 1^ how patriotism has broadened since the days of Shakespeare, 
 who, for all his genius, could only write of his country as — 
 
 "This fortress built by nature for herself 
 Against infection and the hand of war, 
 This happy breed of men, this little world. 
 This precious stone set in the silver sea." 
 
 And it seemed that only a short ladder lay between the 
 preparation room and the Anglo-Saxon hegemony of the 
 globe. Then he paused, and in the silence came "sob, sob, 
 sob," from a little boy, who was regretting a villa ip Guild- 
 ford and his mother's half acre of garden. 
 
 1 he proceedmg termmated with the broader patriotism of 
 the school anthem, recently composed by the organist. 
 Words and tune were still a matter for taste, and it was Mr. 
 Pembroke (and he only because he had the music) who gave 
 the right intonation to 
 
 "Perish each laggard 1 Let it not be said 
 That Sawston such within her walls hath bred." 
 
 ~i82— ■ 
 
Sawston 
 
 "Come, come," he said pleasantly, as they ended with 
 harmonies in the style of Richard Strauss. "This will never 
 do. We must grapple with the anthem this term. You're 
 as tuneful as — as day-boys!" Hearty laughter, and then 
 the whole house filed past them and shook hands. 
 
 "But how did it impress you?" Herbert asked, as soon as 
 they were back in their own part. Agnes had provided 
 them with a tray of food : the meals were still anyhow, and 
 she had to fly at once to see after the boys. 
 
 "I liked the look of them." 
 
 "I meant rather, how did the house impress you as a 
 house ?" 
 
 "I don't think I thought," said Rickie rather nervously. 
 "It is not easy to catch the spirit of a thing at once. I only 
 saw a room full of boys." 
 
 "My dear Rickie, don't be so diffident. You are perfectly 
 right. You only did see a roomful of boys. As yet there's 
 nothing else to see. Tlje house, like the school, lacks tra- 
 ^dition . Look at _ Winchester. Look at the traditional 
 rivalry between Eton and Harrow. T radition is o f incalcu- 
 Jable. Jm.portance,^ if a school is to have any status. Why 
 should Sawston be without?" 
 
 "Yes. Tradition is of incalculable value. And I envy 
 those schools that have a natural connection with the past. 
 Of course Sawston has a past, though not of the kind that 
 you quite want. The sons of poor tradesmen went to it at 
 first. So wouldn't its traditions be more likely to linger in 
 the Commercial School?" he concluded nervously. 
 
 "You have a great deal to learn — a very great deal. 
 Listen to me. Why Jb^s^^awstqn^no traditions?" His 
 round, rather foolish, face assumed the expression' of a con- 
 spirator. Bending over the mutton, he whispered, "I can 
 tell you why. Owing to the day-boys. How can tra- 
 ditions flourish in such soil ? Picture the day-boy's life — at 
 home for meals, at home for preparation, at home for sleep, 
 running home with every fancied wrong. There are day- 
 
 -183- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 boys in your class, and, mark my words, they will give you 
 ten times as much trouble as the boarders, — late, slovenly, 
 stopping away at the slightest pretext. And then the letters 
 from the parents ! 'Why has my boy not been moved this 
 term ?' 'Why has my boy been moved this term ?' 'I am a 
 dissenter, and do not wish my boy to subscribe to the school 
 mission.' 'Can you let my boy off early to water the 
 garden?' Remember that I have been a day-boy house- 
 master, and tried to infuse some esprit de corps into them. 
 It is practically impossible. They come as units, and units 
 they remain. Worse. They infect the boarders. Their 
 pestilential, critical, discontented attitude is spreading over 
 the school. If I had my own way — " 
 
 He stopped somewhat abruptly. 
 
 "Was that why you laughed at their singing?" 
 
 "Not at all. Not at all. It is not my habit to set one 
 section of the school against the other." 
 
 After a little they went the rounds. The boys were in 
 bed now. "Good-night!" called Herbert, standing in the 
 corridor of the cubicles, and from behind each of the green 
 curtains came the sound of a voice replying, "Good-night, 
 sir!" "Good-night," he observed into each dormitory. 
 Then he went to the switch in the passage and plunged the 
 whole house into darkness. Rickie lingered behind him, 
 strangely impressed. In the morning those boys had been 
 scattered over England, leading their own lives. Now, for 
 three months, they must change everything — see new faces, 
 accept new ideals. They, like himself, must enter a benefi- 
 cent machine, and learn the value of esprit de corps. Good 
 luck attend them — good luck and^ir happy release. For his 
 heart would have them not in these cubicles and dormitories, 
 but each in his own dear home, amongst faces and things 
 that he knew. 
 
 Next morning, after chapel, he made the acquaintance of 
 his class. Towards that he felt very differently. Esprit 
 de corps was not expected of it. It was simply two dozen 
 
 —184— 
 
Sawston 
 
 boys who were gathered together for the purpose of learning 
 Latin. His duties and difficulties would not lie here. He 
 was not required to provide it with an atmosphere. The 
 scheme of work was already mapped out, and he started 
 gaily upon familiar words — 
 
 "Pan, ovium custos, tua si tibi Maenala curse 
 Adsis, O Tegsee, favens." 
 
 "Do you think that beautiful?" he asked, and received the 
 honest answer, "No, sir; I don't think I do." He met 
 Herbert in high spirits in the quadrangle during the interval. 
 But Herbert thought his enthusiasm rather amateurish, and 
 cautioned him. 
 
 "You must take care they don't get out of hand. I ap-f 
 prove of a lively teacher, but discipline must be establishedjj 
 first." ' 
 
 "I felt myself a learner, not a teacher. If I'm wrong, 
 over a point, or don't know, I mean to tell them at once." 
 
 Herbert shook his head. 
 
 "It's different if I was really a scholar. But I can't pose 
 as one, can I? I know jnuch^ more than the boys, but I 
 know very little. Surely the jhpnest thing is to b^ myself to 
 them. Let them accept or refuse me as that. That's the 
 only attitude we shall any of us profit by in the end." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke was silent. Then he observed, "There is,] 
 as you say, a higher attitude and a Jpwer attitud_e. Yet here, ] 
 as so often, cannot we find a golden mean between them?"! 
 
 "What's that?" said a dreamy voice. They turned and"^ 
 saw a tall, spectacled man, who greeted the newcomer 
 kindly, and took hold of his arm. "What's that about the 
 golden mean ?" 
 
 "Mr. Jackson— Mr. Elliot: Mr. Elliot— Mr. Jackson," 
 said Herbert, who did not seem quite pleased. "Rickie, 
 have you a moment to spare me ?" 
 
 But the humanist spoke to the young man about the 
 golden mean and the pinchbeck mean, adding, "You know 
 the Greeks aren't broad church clergjntnen. They really 
 
 ,0.- 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 aren't, in spite of much conflicting evidence. Boys will 
 regard Sophocles as a kind of enlightened bishop, and some- 
 thing tells me that they are wrong." 
 ^ "Mr. Jackson is a classical enthusiast," said Herbert. 
 I "He,, makes the jpast live. I want to talk to you about the 
 L-humdrum present."' 
 
 "And I am warning him against the humdrum past. 
 That's another point, Mr. Elliot. Impress on your class 
 that man y Gr eeks and most Romans were frightfully stupid, 
 and if they disbelieve you, read Ctesiphon with them, or 
 Valerius Flaccus. Whatever is that noise?" 
 
 "It comes from your class-room, I think," snapped the 
 other master. 
 
 "So it does. Ah, yes. I expect they are putting your 
 little Tewson into the waste-paper basket." 
 
 "I always lock my class-rpom in the interval — " 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " — ^and carry the key in my pocket." 
 "Ah. But, Mnmiiot, I am a cousin o f Widdpng ton's. 
 He wrote to me about you. I am so glad. Will you, first 
 of all, come to supper next Sunday?" 
 / "I am afraid," put in Herbert, "that we poor house- 
 ^masters must deny ourselves festivities in term time." 
 \ "But mayn't he come once, just once?" 
 ' "May, my dear Jackson! My brother-in-law is not a 
 baby. He decides for himself." 
 
 Rickie naturally refused. As soon as they were out of 
 hearing, Herbert said, "This is a little unfortunate. Who 
 is Mr. Widdrington?" 
 "^^"I knew him at Cambridge." 
 
 "Let me explain how we stand,'' he continued, after a 
 pause. "Jackson is the worst of the reactionaries here, 
 while I— why should I conceal it?— have thrown in my lot 
 with the party of progress. You will see how we suffer 
 from him at the masters' meetings. He has no talent for 
 organization, and yet he is always inflicting his ideas on 
 
 — 186— 
 
Saws ton 
 
 others. It was like his impertinence to dictate to you what 
 authors you should read, and meanwhile the sixth-form 
 room like a bear-garden, and a school prefect being put into 
 the waste-paper basket. My good Rickie, there's nothing 
 to smile at. How is the school to go on with a man like 
 that ? It would be a case of 'quick march,' if it was not for 
 his brilliant intellect. That's why I say it's a little unfor- 
 tunate. You will have very little in common, you and he." 
 
 Rickie did not answer. He was very fond of 
 '^iddringtpn, who was a quaint, sensitive person. And he 
 could not help being attracted by_Mr. Jackspn, whose 
 welcome contrasted pleasantly with the official breeziness of 
 his other colleagues. He wondered, too, whether it is so 
 very reactionary to contemplate the antique. 
 
 "It is true that I vote Conservative," pursured Mr. Pem- 
 broke, apparently confronting some objector. "But why? 
 Because the Conservatives, rather than the Liberals, stand 
 for progress. One musFnot be misled by catch-words." 
 
 "Didn't you want to ask me something?" 
 
 "Ah, yes. You found a boy in your forhi called 
 Yarden?" 
 
 "Varden? Yes; there is." 
 
 "Drop on him heavily. He has broken the statutes of the 
 school. He is attending as a day-boy. The statutes pro- 
 vide that a boy must reside with his parents or guardians. 
 He does neither. It must be stopped. You must tell the 
 headmaster." 
 
 "Where does the boy live?" 
 
 "At a certain Mrs. Qrr's, who has no connection with the 
 school of any kind. It must be stopped. He must either 
 enter a boarding-house or go." 
 
 "But why should I tell?" said Rickie. He remembered 
 the boy, an unattractive person with protruding ears. "It 
 is the business of his house-master." 
 
 "House-master — exactly. Here we come back again. 
 Who is now the day-boys' house-master? Jackson once 
 
 —tRt— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 again— as if anything was Jackson's business ! I handed 
 the house back last term in a most flourishing condition. It 
 has already gone to rack and ruin for the second time. To 
 return to Varden. I have unearthed a put-up job. Mrs. 
 tjackson and Mrs. Orr are friends. Do you see? It all 
 Works round." 
 
 "I see. It does — or might." 
 
 "The headmaster will never sanction it when it's put to 
 him plainly." 
 
 "But why should I put it?" said Rickie, twisting the 
 ribbons of his gown round his fingers. 
 
 "Because you're the boy's form-master." 
 
 "Is that a reason?" 
 
 "Of course it is." 
 
 "I only wondered whether—" He did not like to say 
 that he wondered whether he need do it his first morning. 
 
 "By some means or other you must find out — of course 
 you know already, but you must find out from the boy. I 
 know — I have it! Where's his health certificate?" 
 
 "He had forgotten it." 
 
 "Just like them. Well, when he brings it, it will be signed 
 by Mrs. Orr, and you must look at it and say, 'Orr — Orr 
 — Mrs. Orr?' or something to that effect, and then the whole 
 thing will come naturally out." 
 
 The bell rang, and they went in for the hour of school 
 that concluded the morning. Varden brought his health 
 certificate — a pompous document asserting that he had not 
 suffered from roseola or kindred ailments in the holidays — 
 and for a long time Rickie sat with it before him, spread 
 open upon his desk. He did not quite like the job. It 
 suggested intrigue, and hi j, had c ome to Sawsto.a..not -to in- 
 trigue but to lab our. Doubtless Herbert was right, and Mr. 
 Jackson and Mrs. Orr were wrong. But why could 
 they not have it out among themselves? Then he thought, 
 "I am a coward, and that's why I'm raising these objec- 
 tions," called the boy up to him, and it did all come out 
 
 — 188— 
 
Sawston 
 
 naturally, more or less. Hitherto Varden had lived with* 
 his mother ; but she had left Sawston at Christmas, and now 1 
 he would live with Mrs. Orr. "Mr. Jackson, sir, said iti 
 wou!d be all right." 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Rickie; "quite so." He remembered 
 Herbert's dictum: "Masters must present a united front. 
 If they do not — ^the deluge." He sent the boy back to his 
 seat, and after school took the compromising health cer- 
 tificate to the headmaster. The headmaster was at that 
 time easily excited by a breach of the constitution. 
 "Parents or guardians," he repeated — "parents or guardi- 
 ans," and flew with those words on his lips to Mr. Jackson. 
 To say that Rickie was, a cat's-pav^ is to put it too strongly. 
 Herbert was strictly honourable, and never pushed him into 
 an illegal or really dangerous position ; but there is no doubt 
 that on this and on many other occasions he had to do things 
 that he would not otherwise have done. There was always 
 some diplomatic comer that had to be turned, always some- 
 'I'thing that he had to say or not to say. As the. term wore on^ 
 h e lost. his independence — almost without knowing it. He 
 had much toTe^iTaBout boys, and he Jearnt not by direct 
 observation — for which be believed he was unfitted — ^but by 
 sedulous imitation of the more experienced" masters. Or- 
 iginally he had intended to be friends with his pupils, and 
 Mr. Pembroke commended the intention highly; but you 
 cannot be friends either with boy or man unless you give 
 yourself away in the process, and Mr. Pembroke did not 
 commend this. He, for "personal intercourse," substituted | 
 the safer "personal influence," and gave his junior hints on | 
 the setting of kindly traps, in which the boy does give him- j 
 self away and reveals his shy delicate thoughts, while the 
 master, intact, commends or corrects them. Originally 
 Rickie had meant to help boys in the angagties,^ that they 
 undergo when changing into men: at Cambridge he had 
 numbered this among life's duties. But here is a subject in 
 which we must inevitably speak as one human being to 
 
 — i8g— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 another, not as one who has authority or the shadow of 
 
 authority, and for this reason the elder school-master could 
 
 /* suggest nothing but a few formulae. Formulae. Hke ki ndly 
 
 ; {raps,^jwere_not in Ricloe^s. Jine, so he abandoned these 
 
 1 subjects altogether and, confined him sdf to workin g hard at 
 
 ;Ehat_ was easy^ In the house he did as Herbert dioTand 
 
 referred all doubtful subjects to him. In his form, oddly 
 
 enough, he beca me a martin et. It is so much simpler to be 
 
 severe. He grasped the scKbol regulations, and insisted on 
 
 prompt obedience to them. He adopted the doctrine of 
 
 collective responsibility. When one boy was late, he 
 
 f punished the whole form. "I can't help it," he would say, 
 as if he was a power of nature. As a te acher he was rath er 
 dull. He curbed his own enthusiasms, finding that they dis- 
 fracfed his attention, and that while he throbbed to the 
 music of Virgil the boys in the back row were getting 
 unruly. But on the whole he liked his form work : he knew 
 why he was there, and H^ grher t Jid not overshadow hipi so 
 completely. 
 
 What was amiss w ith Herbert? He had known that 
 something was amiss, and had entered into partnership with 
 open eyes. The man JKasJdnd-and-omselfish ; more than 
 that, he was truly charitable, and it was a real pleasure to 
 him to give pleasure to others. Certainly he might talk too 
 much about it afterwards; but it wa s the doing, not th e 
 , talking , that he^really valued, and benefactors of this sort 
 are not too commonT"" He~was, moreover, diligent and 
 conscientious: hisjiigart.was m his work, and his. adheren ce 
 to ti)e.JJmrch of En^and no~mere~matter of form. He 
 was capable of affection: he was usually courteous and 
 ' tolerant. Then what was amiss ? Why, in spite of all 
 these qualities, should Rickie feel that there was something 
 wrong with him— nay, that he was wrong as a whole, and 
 that if the Spirit of Humanity should ever hold a judg- 
 ment he would assuredly be classed among the goats? 
 The answer at first sight appeared a graceless one— it was 
 
 — 190 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 that Herbert was stupid. Not stupid in the ordinary sense] 
 — he had a business-like brain, and acquired knowledg^ 
 easily — but stupid in the important sense: his whole life was' 
 coloured by a contempt of the intellect. That he had a 
 tolerable intellect of his own was not the point: it is in 
 what we value , not jn what we h ave, that the test of us 
 resides. Now. Rickie's int ellect was' not remarkable. He 
 came to hisjcrorthier^resuits.. rather by imagination and in- 
 stinct than by logic. An argument confused him, and he 
 could with difficulty follow it even on paper. But he saw 
 in this no reason for satisfaction, and tried to make such use 
 of his brain as he could, just as a weak athlete might lovingly 
 exercise his body. Like a weak athlete, too, he loved to 
 watch the exploits, or rather the efforts, of others — their 
 efforts not so much to acquire knowledge as to dispel a 
 little of the darkness by which we and all our acquisitions 
 are surrounded. Cambridge had taught him th^^ and he 
 knew, if for no other reason, that his time there had not 
 been in vain. And Herbert's contempt for such efforts re- 
 volted him. He saw that for all his fin e talk about a spirit '^ 
 ual life he had but one test for things— ^succ^ss_: success for| 
 the body in this life or for the soul in the life to come. 
 And for this reason Homianity, and perhaps such other i 
 tribunals as there may be, would assuredlj[_re;ect him. } 
 
 —191— 
 
/yi iH-v^ c ^''■'^ 
 
 XVIII 
 
 MEANWHILE he was a husband. Eerhaps his 
 union should have been emphasized befor e. The 
 crown of hfe had been attained, the vague yearn- 
 ings, the misread impulses, had found accomplishment at 
 last. Never again must he feel lonely, or as one who stands 
 out of the broad highway of thejwg_rld and fears, like poor 
 Shelley, to undertake tht;4ongest jouFHeJ''.. So he reasoned, 
 and at first took the accomplishment for granted. But as 
 the term passed he knew that behind the yearning there re- 
 mained a yearning, behind the drawn veil a veil that he 
 could not draw. His wedding had been^iiojnightyjandnark : 
 he would often wonder whether such and such a speech or in- 
 cident came after it or before. Since that meeting in the 
 Soho restaurant there had been so much to do — clothes to 
 buy, presents to thank for, a brief visit to a Training College, 
 a honeymoon as brief. In such a bustle, wti at spiritual un ion 
 qouldjtake_£lace ? Surely the dust would settle soon : in ItalyT 
 at Easter, he might perceive the infinities.XLLJove. BjiLioye 
 had shown hini its infinities already. Neither by marriage 
 nor by any other device can men insure themselves a vis- 
 l^on; and Rickie's had been granted him three years before, 
 .'when he had seen his wife and a dead man clasped in each 
 /other's arms. She was never to be so real to him again. 
 
 She ran about the house looking handsomer than ever. 
 Her cheerful voice gave orders to the servants. As he sat 
 in the study correcting compositions, she would dart in 
 
 and give him a kiss. "Dear girl " he would murmur, 
 
 with a glance at the rings on her hand. The tong,.aLlhfi.ir 
 marriage^lif e was soon set. It was to be a frank good-f ellow- 
 
 — 192 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 ghip, an d before long he found it difficult to speak in a 
 deeper key. 
 
 One evening he made the effort. There had been more 
 beauty than was usual at Sawston. The air was pure and 
 quiet. Tomorrow the fog might be here, but today one 
 said, "It is like the country." Arm in arm they strolled 
 in the side-garden, stopping at times to notice the crocuses, 
 or to wonder when the daffodils would flower. Suddenly 
 he tightened his pressure, and said, "Darling, why don't you 
 still wear ear-rings?" 
 
 "Ear-rings?" She laughed. "My taste has improved, 
 perhaps." 
 
 So after all they never me.n ti.nnpd Ge raldls-uame. But , 
 he hoped it was still dear to her. He did not want her to / 
 jorget the greatest mo ment in her Ufe. His_lQy£-.desiredl 
 not j HKnership-but— confidence, and to_a_lox£.,,SQ..EJioeuJt 
 does n ot_se(!m terrible to come second. 
 
 He v qlued emotio n — not for itself, but because it js the [ 
 only final path to intimac y. She, ever robust and practical, i 
 alway s^ discouraged him . She_ was_ jiot^old ; she would 
 willingly embrace him. But she hated being upset, and 
 would laugh or thrust him off when his voice grew seri- 
 ous. In this she reminded him of his mother. But his 
 mother — he had never concealed it from hirflself — had glo- 
 ries to which his wife would never attain: glories that had 
 unfolded against a life of horror — a life even more horri- 
 ble than he had guessed. He thought of her often during 
 these earlier months. Did she bless his union, so different 
 to her own? Did she love his wife? He tried to speak 
 of her to Agnes, but again she was reluctant. And perhaps 
 it was this aversion to acknowledge the dead, whose images 
 alone have immortality, that made her own image somewhat 
 transient, so that when he left her no mystic influence 
 remained, and only by an effort could he realize that God 
 had united them for ever. 
 
 They conversed and differed healthily upon other topics. 
 
 —193— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 A rifle corps was to be formed: she hoped that the boys 
 would have proper uniforms, instead of shooting in their 
 old clothes, as Mr. Jackson had suggested. There was 
 Tewson; could nothing be done about him? He would 
 slink away from the other prefects and go with boys of his 
 own age. There was Lloyd : he would not learn the school 
 anthem, saying that it hurt his throat. And above all there 
 was Varden, who, to Rickie's bewilderment, was now 
 a member of Dunwood House. 
 
 "He had to go somewhere," said Agnes. "Lucky for his 
 mother that we had a vacancy." 
 
 "Yes — ^but when I meet M rs. O rr — ^I can'tJidp-feeling 
 ashamed." 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Orr! Who cares for her? Her teeth are 
 drawn. If she chooses to insinuate that we planned it, let 
 her. Hers was rank dishonesty. She attempted to set up 
 a boarding-house." 
 
 Mrs. Orr, who was quite rich, had attempted no such 
 thing. She had taken the boy out of charity, and without 
 a thought of being unconstitutional. But in had come this 
 officious "Limpet" and upset the headmaster, and she was 
 scolded, and Mrs. Varden was scolded, and Mr. Jackson 
 was scolded, and the boy was scolded and placed with Mr. 
 Pembroke, whom she revered less than any man in the 
 world. Naturally enough, she considered it a further 
 attempt of the authorities to snub the day-boys, for whose 
 advantage the" school had been founded. She and Mrs. 
 Jackson discussed the subject at their tea-parties, and the 
 latter lady was sure that no good, no good of any kind, 
 would come to Dunwood House from such ill-gotten 
 plunder. 
 
 "We say, 'Let them talk,' " persisted Rickie, "but I never 
 did like letting people talk. We are right and they are 
 wrong, but I wish the thing could have been done more 
 quietly. The headmaster does get so excited. He has 
 
 —194— 
 
Sawston 
 
 given a gang of foolish people their opportunity. I don't 
 like being branded as the 'day-boy's foe,' when I think how 
 much I would have given to be a day-boy myself. My 
 father found me a nuisance, and put me through the mill, 
 and I can never forget it — ^particularly the evenings." 
 
 "There's very little bullying here," said Agnes. 
 
 "There was_veryjittle_hul)ying at ray school. T here v ^as 
 si mply the atmosp here. oJL unkijidness, which no discipline 
 can dispel. It's not what peop le dojto you, but what they 
 mean, t hat hurts." ""^ , 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Physical pain doesn't hurt — at least not what I call hurt 
 — if man hits you by accident or play. But ju.st_a_little 
 tap, when y ou know it c omes from tiatred,.j§JtQflt,.ter,rible."^ 
 boys do hate each other: I remember it, and see it again, 
 They can make strong isolated friendships, but of general I 
 good-fellowship they haven't a notion." | 
 
 "All I know 'is there's very little bullying here." 
 
 "You see, the notion of good-fellowship develops late: 
 you can just see its beginning here among the prefects : up 
 at Cambridge it flourishes amazingly. That's why I pity 
 people who don't go up to Cambridge: not because a 
 University is smart, but because those are the magic years, 
 and — with luck — you see up there what you couldn't see be 
 fore and mayn't ever see again." 
 
 "Aren't these the magic years?" the lady demanded. 
 
 He laughed and hit at her. "I'm getting somewhat in- 
 volved. But hear me, O Agnes, for I am practical . I , 
 approve of our public schools. Long' may they flourish. 
 But I do not approve of the boarding-house system. It 
 isn't an inevitable adjunct — " 
 
 "Good gracious me!" she shrieked. "Have you gone 
 mad?" 
 
 "Silence, madam. Eton't betray me to Herbert, or he'll 
 give us the sack. But seriously, what is the good of 
 
 —195— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 throwing boys so much together? Isn't it building their 
 lives on a wrong basis ? They don't understand each other. 
 I wish they did, but they don't They don't reahze that 
 buma n_beings_ are simply jnarvdlmis. When they do, the 
 whole of life changes, and you get the true thing. But 
 don't pretend you've got it before you have. Patriot ism 
 and .esprit de corps are all very well, but masters a little for- 
 get that they must grow from sentiment. They cannot 
 create one. Cannot — cannot — cannot. I never cared a 
 straw for England until I cared for Englishmen, and boys 
 can't love the school when they hate each other. Ladies and 
 gentlemen, I will now conclude my address. And most of 
 it is copied out of Mr. Ansell." 
 
 The truth is, he was suddenly ashamed. He had been car-^ 
 rred_away on the flood of his old emotions. Cambridge~and 
 all that it meant had stood before him passionately clear, and 
 beside it stood his mother and the sweet family life which 
 nurses up a boy until he can salute his equals. He was 
 ashamed, for he remembered his new resolution — to work 
 without criticizing, to throw himself vigorously into the 
 machine, not to mind if he was pinched now and then by the 
 elaborate wheels. 
 
 "Mr. Ansell!" cried his wife, laughing somewhat shrilly. 
 "Aha ! Now I understand. It's just the kind of thing poor 
 Mr. Ansell would say. Well, I'm brutal. I believe it does 
 Varden good to have his ears pulled now and then, and I 
 don't care whether they pull them in play or not. Boys 
 ought to rough it, or they never grow up into men, and your 
 mother would have agreed with me. Oh yes ; and you're all 
 wrong about patriotism. It can, can, can create a senti- 
 ment." 
 
 She was unusually precise, and had followed his thoughts 
 with an attention that was also unusual. He wondered 
 whether she was not right, and regretted that she proceeded 
 to say, "My dear boy, you mustn't talk these heresies inside 
 
 — 196 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 _Punwoo(L-House ! You sound just like one of that re- 
 actionary Jackson set, who want to fling the school back a 
 hundred years and have nothing but day-boys all dressed 
 anyhow." 
 
 "The Jackson set have their points." 
 
 "You'd better join it." 
 
 "The Uunwood House set has its points." For ,Rickie\ 
 suffered from the ^imal Curse, whi£h_ is pot — as._the/ 
 Authorized Version suggests — the knowledge of good andjf 
 evil, but the knowledge of good-and-evir. j 
 
 '''Then stick to the Dunwood House set." 
 
 "I do, and shall." Again he was ashamed. Why -would 
 he see the other side of things? He rebuked his soul, not 
 unsuccessfully, and then they returned to the subject of 
 Varden. 
 
 "I'm certain he sufifers," said he, for she would do 
 nothing but laugh. "Each boy who passes pulls his ears — 
 very funny, no doubt ; but every day they stick out more and 
 get redder, and this afternoon, when he didn't know he was 
 being watched, he was holding his head and moaning. I 
 hate the look about his eyes." 
 
 "I hate the whole boy. Nasty weedy thing." 
 
 "Well, I'm a nasty weedy thing, if it comes to that." 
 
 "No, you aren't," she cried, kissing him. But he led her 
 back to the subject. Could nothing be suggested? He 
 drew up some new rules — alterations in the times of going 
 to bed, and so on — the effect of which would be to provide 
 fewer opportunities for the pulling of Vjarden's ears. The 
 rules were submitted to Herbert, who sympathized with 
 weakliness more than did his sister, and gave them his 
 careful consideration. But unfortunately they collided with 
 other rules, and on a closer examination he found that they 
 also ran contrary to the fundamentals on which the govern- 
 ment of Dunwood House was based. So nothing was done. 
 Agnes was rather pleased, and took to teasing her husband 
 
 —197— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 about Varden. At last he asked her to stop. He felt un- 
 easy about the boy — almost superstitious. His first 
 morning's work had brought sixty pounds a-year to their 
 hotel. 
 
 —198- 
 
XIX 
 
 THEY did not get to Italy at Easter. Herbert had the 
 offer of some private pupils, and needed Rickie's 
 help. It seemed unreasonable to leave England 
 when money was to be made in it, so they went to Ilfra- 
 combe instead. They spent three weeks among the nat- 
 ural advantages and unnatural disadvantages of that re- 
 sort. It was out of the season, and they encamped in a huge 
 hotel, which took them at a reduction. By a disastrous 
 chaiTce the Jacksons were down there too, and a good deal of 
 constrained civility had to pass between the two families. 
 Constrained it was not in Mr. Jackson's case. At all times 
 he was ready to talk, and as long as they kept off the school 
 it was pleasant enough. But he was very indiscreet, and 
 feminine tact had often to intervene. "Go ftway, dear 
 ladies," he would then observe. "You think you see life 
 because you see the chasms in it. Yet all the chasms are 
 full of female skeletons." The ladies smiled anxiously. 
 ■Xo Rickie _he_ was_ jEriendly smd^even intimate. They had 
 long talks on the deserted Capstone, while their wives sat 
 reading in the Winter Garden and Mr. Pembroke kept an 
 eye upon the tutored youths. "Once I had tutored youths," 
 said Mr. Jackson, "but I lost them all by letting them paddle 
 with my nieces. It is so .^possible to remember what is 
 proper." And sooner or later their talk gravitated towards 
 his central passion — ^the Fragments of Sophocles. Some 
 day ("never," said Herbert) he would edit them. At 
 present they were merely in his blood. With the zeal of a 
 scholar and the imagination of a poet he reconstructed lost 
 dramas — Niobe, Phaedra, Philoctetes against Troy, whose 
 names, but for an accident, would have thrilled the world, 
 
 —199— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Is it lyorth it?" he cried. "Had we better be planting 
 potatoes?" And then: "We had; but this is the second 
 best." 
 
 Agnes did not approve of these colloquies. Mr. Jackson 
 was not a buflfoon, but he behaved like one, which is what 
 matters ; and from the Winter Garden she could see people 
 laughing at him, and at her husband, who got excited too. 
 She hinted once or twice, but no notice was taken, and at 
 last she said rather sharply, "Now, you're not to, Rickie. 
 I won't have it." 
 
 "H e's a tYD fi-that-auitsme. He knows people I know, or 
 would like to have known. He was a ffiend~"o f~'Tony 
 Failing's . It is so hard to realize that a man connected 
 with one was great. Uncle Tony seemes to have been. He 
 loved poetry and music and pictures, and everything 
 tempted him to live in a kind of cultured paradise, with the 
 door shut upon squalor. But to have more decent people in 
 the world — he sacrificed everything to that. He would have 
 'smashed the whole beauty-shop' if it would help him. I 
 really couldn't go as far as that. I don't think one need go 
 as far — ^pictures might have to be smashed, but not music or 
 poetry; surely they help — ^and Jackson doesn't think so 
 either." 
 
 "Well, I won't have it, and that's enough." She laughed, 
 for her voice had a little been that of the professional scold. 
 "You see we must hang together. He's in the reactionary 
 camp." 
 
 "He doesn't know it. He doesn't know that he is in any 
 camp at all." 
 O'His wife is, which comes to the same." 
 
 **^till, it's the holidays " Hg^ and .Mr, Jackson had 
 
 dr afted apart i n the term, chiefly owin g to the a|fa irl)f 
 JVarden. "We were to have the holidays to ourselves, you 
 know." And following some line of thought, he continued, 
 "He cheers one up. He does believe in poetry. Smart, 
 sentimental books do seem absolutely absurd to him, and 
 
 — 200 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 gods and fairies far nearer to reality. He .triesjo^ exgress 
 all modern life in the terms of Greek mythology, because 
 the Greeks looked very straight at things, and Demeter or 
 Aphrodite are thinner veils than 'The survival of the fittest,' 
 or 'A marriage has been arranged,' and other draperies of 
 modern journalese." 
 
 "And do you know what that means?" 
 "It means that poetry, not prose, lies at the core." 
 "No. I can tell you what it means — ^balder-dash." 
 His mouth fell. She was sweeping away the cobwets 
 with a vengeance. "I hope you're wrong," he replied, "for 
 those are the lines on which I've been writing, however 
 badly, for the last two years." 
 
 "But you write stories, not poems." 
 He looked at his watch. "Lessons again. One never has 
 a moment's peace." 
 
 "Poor Rickie! You shall have a real holiday in the 
 summer." And she called after him to say, "Remember, 
 dear, about Mr. Jackson. Don't go talking so much to 
 him." 
 
 Rather arb^ary. Her tone bad been a little arbitrarv of 
 Jate., But "what did it matter? Mr. Jackson was not a 
 friend, and he must rifek the chance of offending Wid- 
 drington. After the lesson he wrote to Ansell, whom he had 
 not seen since June, asking him to come down to Ilfra- 
 combe, if only for a day. On reading the letter over, Tts 
 tone displeased him. It was quite pathetic: it sounded like 
 a cry from prison. "I can't send him such nonsense," he 
 thought, and wrote again. But phrase it^s he would, the 
 le tter always suggested that he w as unhappy. "What's 
 wrong?" he wondered. "I could write anything I wanted 
 to him once." So he scrawled "Come!" on a post-card. 
 But even this seemed too serious. The post-card followed 
 the letters, and Agnes found them all in the waste-paper 
 basket. 
 
 Then she said, "I've been thinking — oughtn't you to ask 
 — 20 1 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Mr. Ansell over? A breath of sea air would do the poor 
 thing good." 
 
 There was no difficulty now. He wrote at once, "My 
 dear Stewart, — We both so much wish you could come 
 over." But the invitation was refused. A little uneasy, he 
 wrote again, using the dialect of their past intimacy. The 
 effect of this letter was not pathetic but jaunty, and he felt a 
 keen regret as soon as it slipped into the box. It was a 
 relief to receive no reply. 
 
 He brooded a good deal over this painful yet intangible 
 episode. Was the pain all of his own creating? or had it 
 been produced by something external? And he got the 
 answer that brooding always gives — it was both. H g was 
 morbid, and had been so since his visit to Cadoyer — quicker 
 to register discomfort than joy. But, none the less, Aflgell, 
 wasjdefinitely brutal, and .i\gnesjlefinitely jealous. Brutal- 
 ity he could understand, alien as it was to himself. Jealousy, 
 equally alien, was a harder matter. Let husband and wife 
 be as sun and moon, or as moon and sun. Shall they there- 
 fore not give greeting to the stars ? He was willing to grant 
 that the love that inspired her might be higher than his own. 
 Yet did it not exclude them both from much that is gra- 
 cious? That dream of his when he rode on the Wiltshire 
 expanses — a curious dream: the lark silent, the earth dis- 
 solving. And he awoke from it into a valley full of men. 
 
 She was jealous in many ways — sometimes in an open 
 humorous fashion, sometimes more subtly, never content till 
 "we" had extended our patronage and, if possible, our pity. 
 She began _to p atronize and pity Ansell. and most sincerely 
 trusted tEat he would get his fellowship. Otherwise what 
 was the poor fellow to do? Ridiculous as it may seem, she 
 was even jealous of N ature. One day her husband escape3~ 
 fromllf racombe to"Morthoe, and came back ecstatic over its 
 fangs of slate, piercing an oily sea. "Sounds like an 
 hippopotamus," she said peevishly. And when they re- 
 turned to Sawston through the Virgilian counties, she dis- 
 
 — 202 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 liked him looking out of the windows, for all the world as if 
 Nature was some dangerous woman. 
 
 He resumed his duties with a feeling that he had never 
 left them. Again he confronted the assembled house. 
 This term was again the term; schpql still the^.,world in 
 miniature. The music of the four-part fugue entered into 
 him more deeply, and he began to hum its little phrases. 
 The same routine, the same diplomacies, the same old sense 
 of only half knowing boys or men — ^he returned to it all ; and 
 all that changed was the cloud of unreality, which ever 
 brooded a little more densely than before. He spoke to his 
 wife about this, — he spoke to her about everything, — ^and 
 she was alarmed, and wanted him to see a doctor. But he 
 explained that it was nothing of any practical importance, 
 nothing that interfered with his work or his appetite, 
 nothing more than a feeling that the cow was not really 
 there. She laughed, and "How is the cow today?" soon 
 passed into a domestic joke. 
 
 —203— 
 
A 
 
 XX 
 
 NSELL was in his favourite haunt— the reading- 
 room of the British Museum. In that book- 
 ___ encircled space he always could find peace. He 
 loved to see the volumes rising tier above tier into the misty 
 dome. He loved the chairs that glide so noiselessly, and the 
 radiating desks, and the central area, where the catalogue 
 shelves curve round the superintendent's throne. There he 
 knew that his life was not ignoble. It was worth while to 
 [grow old and dusty seeking for truth though truth is 
 ' unattainable, restating questions that have been stated at the 
 beginning of the world. Failure would await him, but not 
 , disillusionment. It was worth while reading books, and 
 writing a book or two which few would read, and no one, 
 perhaps, endorse. He was not a hero, and he knew it. His 
 father and sister, by their steady goodness, had made this 
 life possible. But, all the same, it was not the life of a 
 spoilt child. 
 
 In the next chair to him sat ^iddrington. engaged in his 
 historical research. His desk was edged with enormous 
 volumes, and every few moments an assistant brought him 
 more. They rose like a wall against Ansell. Towards the 
 end of the morning a gap was made, and through, it they 
 held the following conversation. 
 
 "I've been stopping with my cousin at Sawston." 
 "M'm." 
 
 "It was quite exciting. The air rang with battle. About 
 two-thirds of the masters have lost their heads, and are 
 trying to produce a gimcrack copy of Eton. Last term, you 
 know, with a great deal of puffing and blowing, they fixed 
 the numbers of the school. This term they want to create 
 a new boarding-house." 
 
 — 204 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 "They are very welcome." 
 
 "But the more boarding-houses they create, the less room 
 they leave for day-boys. The local mothers are frantic, and 
 so is my queer cousin. I never knew him so excited over 
 sub-Hellenic things. There was an indignation meeting at 
 his house. He is supposed to look after the day-boys' inter- 
 ests, but no one thought he would — ^least of all the people 
 who gave him the post. The speeches were most eloquent. 
 They argued that the school was founded for day-boys, and 
 that it's intolerable to handicap them. One poor lady cried, 
 'Here's my Harold in the school, and my Toddie coming on. 
 As likely as not I shall be told there is no vacancy for him. 
 Then what am I to do? If I go, what's to become of 
 Harold; and if I stop, what's to become of Toddie?' 1 
 must say I was touched. J^'amily life is more real than 
 gational life — at least I've ordered all these books to prove 
 it is — and I fancy that the bust of Euripides agreed with 
 me, and was sorry for the hot-faced mothers. Jackson 
 will do what he can. He didn't quite like to state the 
 naked truth — which is, that boarding-houses pay. He ex- 
 plained it to me afterwards : they are the only future open 
 to a stupid master. It's easy enough to be a beak when 
 you're young and athletic, and can offer the latest University 
 smattering. The difHculty is to keep your place when you 
 get old and stiff, and younger smatterers are p _using up be- 
 hind you. Crawl into a boarding-house and you're safe. A 
 master's life is frightfully tragic. Jackson's fairly right 
 himself, because he has got a first-class intellect. But I 
 met a poor brute who was hired as an athlete. He has 
 missed his shot at a boarding-house, and there's nothing 
 in the world for him to do but to trundle down the hill." 
 
 Ansell yawned. 
 
 "I saw Rickie too. Once I dined there." 
 
 Another yawn. 
 
 "My cousin thinks Mrs. Elliot one of .the most horribly 
 women he has ever seen. He calls her 'Medusa in Ar- 
 
 — 205 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 cady.' She's so pleasant, too. But certainly it was a very 
 stony meal." 
 
 "What kind of stoniness?" 
 
 "No one stopped talking for a moment." 
 
 "That's the real kind," said Ansell moodily. "The only 
 kind." 
 
 "Well, I," he continued, "am inclined to compare her to 
 an electric light. Qick! she's on. Click! she's off. No 
 waste. No flicker." 
 
 "I wish she'd fuse." 
 
 "She'll never fuse — unless anything was to happen at 
 the main." 
 
 "What do you mean by the main ?" said Ansell, who al- 
 ways pursued a metaphor relentlessly. 
 
 Widdrington did not know what he meant, and suggested 
 that Ansell should visit Sawston to see whether one could 
 know. 
 
 "It is no good me going. I shouldjiot find. Mrs. Elliot: 
 she has no real existence." 
 ' "Rickie has." 
 
 "I very much doubt it. I had two letters from Ilfra- 
 
 combe last April, and I very much doubt tha" the man 
 
 who wrote them can exist." Bending downwards, he be- 
 
 ^an to adorn the manuscript of his dissertation with a 
 
 I square, and inside that a circle, and inside that another 
 
 (^square. It was his second dissertation : the first had failed. 
 
 "I think he exists : he is so unhappy." 
 
 Ansell nodded. "How did you know he was unhappy?" 
 
 "Because he was always talking." After a pause he 
 added, "What clever young men we are !" 
 
 "Aren't we? I expect we shall get asked in marriage 
 soon. I say, Widdrington, shall we ?" 
 
 "Accept ? Of course. It is not young manly to say no." 
 
 "I meant shall we ever do a more tremendous thing, — 
 fuse Mrs. Elliot." 
 
 "No," said Widdrington promptly. "We shall never do 
 — 206— 
 
Sawston 
 
 that in all our lives." He added, "I think you might go 
 down to Sawston, though." 
 
 "I have already refused or ignored three invitations." 
 
 "So I gathered." 
 
 "What's the good of it?" said Ansell through his teeth. , 
 "I will not put up with little things. I would rather be j 
 rude than to listen to twaddle from a man I've known." | 
 
 "You might go down to Sawston, just for a night, to 
 see him." 
 
 "I saw him last month — ^at least, so Tilliard informs me. 
 He says that we all three lunched together, that Rickie 
 paid, and that the conversation was most interesting." 
 
 "Well, I contend that he does exist, and that if you go 
 — oh, I can't be clever any longer. You really must go, 
 man. I'm certain he's miserable and lonely. Dunwood 
 House reeks of commerce and snobbery and all the things 
 he hated most. He doesn't do anything. He doesn't 
 make any friends. He is so odd, too. lQjhisjday:;boy^ row 
 thatJias^just_jtarted,_he^gone for my cousin. Would you 
 believe it ? Quite spitefully. It made quite a difficulty when 
 I wanted to dine. It isn't like him — either the sentiments 
 or the behaviour. I'm sure he's not himself. Pembroke 
 used to look after the day-boys, and so he can't very well 
 take the lead against them, and perhaps Rickie's doing his 
 dirty work — ^and has overdone it, as decent people generally 
 do. He's even altering to talk to. Yet he's not been mar- 
 ried a year. Pembroke and that wife simply run him. I 
 don't see why they should, and no more do you ; and that's 
 why I want you to go to Sawston, if only for one night." 
 
 Ansell shook his head, and looked up at the dome as other 
 men look at the sky. In it the great arc lamps sputtered 
 and flared, for the month was again November. Then he 
 lowered his eyes from the cold violet radiance to the 
 books. 
 
 "No, Widdrington; no. We don't go to see people be- 
 cause they are happy or unhappy. We go when we can 
 
 — 207 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 talk to them. I cannot talk to Rickie, therefore I will not 
 waste my time at Sawston." 
 
 "I think you're right," said Widdrington softly. "But 
 we are bloodless brutes. I wonder whether — if we were 
 
 f different people — something might be done to save him. 
 That is the curse of being a little intellectual. You and our 
 sort have always seen too clearly. We stand aside — and 
 meanwhile he turns into stone. Two philosophic youths re- 
 pining in the British Museum! What have we done? 
 What shall we ever do? Just drift and criticize, while 
 people who know what they want snatch it away from us 
 and laugh." 
 
 "Perhaps you are that sort. I'm not. When the moment 
 comes I shall hit out like any ploughboy. Don't believe 
 those lies about intellectual people. They're only written 
 to soothe the majority. Do you suppose, with the world as 
 it is, that it's an easy matter to keep quiet ? Do you suppose 
 that I didn't want to rescue him from that ghastly woman? 
 Action ! Nothing's easier than action ; as fools tesif y. But 
 I want to act rightly." 
 
 "The superintendent is looking at us. I must get back to 
 my work." 
 
 "You think this all nonsense," said Ansell, detaining him. 
 "Please remember that if I do act, you are bound to help 
 me. 
 
 Widdrington looked a little grave. He was no anarchist. 
 A few plaintive cries against Mrs. Elliot were" all that he 
 prepared to emit. 
 
 "There's no mystery," continued Ansell. "I haven't the 
 shadow of a plan in my head. I know not only Rickie but 
 the whole of his history: you remember the day near 
 Madingley. Nothing in either helps me: I'm just 
 watching." 
 
 "But what for?" 
 
 "For the Spirit of Life." 
 
 ■ —208— 
 
Sawston 
 
 Widdrinton was surprised. It was a phrase unknown to 
 their philosophy. They had trespassed into poetry. 
 
 "You can't fight Medusa with anything else. If you ask 
 me what the Spirit of Life is, or to what it is attached, I 
 can't tell you. I only tell you, watch for it. Myself I've 
 found it in books. Some people find it out of doors or in 
 each other. Never mind. It's the same spirit, and I trust 
 myself to know it anywhere, and to use it rightly." 
 
 But at this point the superintendent sent a message. 
 
 Widdrington then suggested a stroll in the galleries. It 
 was foggy: they needed fresh air. He loved and admired 
 his friend, but today he could not grasp him. Tl^ejvorld 
 as ./^jiseUjaw jt_seemed_such a fantastic^place, governeBTljy 
 brand-new laws. What more could one do than to see Rickie 
 as often as possible, to invite his confidence, to ofTer him 
 spiritual support? And Mrs. Elliot — what power could 
 "fuse" a respectable woman? 
 
 Ansell consented to the stroll, but, as usual, only breathed 
 depression. The comfort of books deserted him among 
 those marble goddesses and gods. The eye of an artist jBnds 
 pleasure in texture and poise, but he could only think of the 
 vanished incense and deserted temples beside an un furrowed 
 sea. 
 
 "Let us go," he said. "I do not Ijke carved stones." 
 
 "You are too particular," said Widdrington. "You are 
 always expecting to meet living people. One never does. I 
 am content with the Parthenon frieze." And he moved 
 along a few yards of it, while Ansell followed, conscious 
 only of its pathos. 
 
 "There's TiHiard," he observed. "Shall we kill him?" 
 
 "Please," said Widdrington, and as he spoke Tilliard 
 joined them. He brought them news. That morning hej 
 had heard from Rickie: Mrs Elliot was expecting a/ 
 child. 
 
 "A child ?" said Ansell, .suddenly bewildered. 
 
 — 209 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Oh, I forgot," interposed Widdrington. "My cousin 
 did tell me." 
 
 "You forgot ! Well, after all, I forgot that it might be. 
 We are indeed young men." He leant against the pedestal 
 of Ilissus and remembered their talk about the Spirit of Life. 
 In his ignorance of what a child means, he wondered 
 whether the opportunity he sought lay here. 
 
 "I am very glad," said Tilliard, not without intention. 
 
 ("A child will draw them even closer together. I like to see 
 young people wrapped up in their child." 
 - "I suppose I must be getting back to my dissertation," 
 said Ansell. He left the Parthenon to pass by the monu- 
 ments of ^ our m ore reticent beliefs — the temple of the 
 Ephesian Artemis, the statue of the Cnidian Demeter. 
 Honest, he knew that here were powers he could not cope 
 with, nor, as yet, understand. 
 
 — 210 — 
 
XXI 
 
 THE mists that had gathered round Rickie seemed to 
 be breaking. He had found light neither in work 
 for which he was unfitted nor in a woman who had 
 ceased to respect him, and whom he was ceasing to love. 
 Though he called himself fickle and took all the blame of 
 their marriage on his own shoulders, there remained in 
 Agnes certain terrible faults of heart and head, and no self- 
 reproach would diminish them. The^glamour of wedlock 
 ^^had faded ; indeed,, he saw now that it had faded even before 
 wedlock, and that during the final months he had shut his 
 eyes and pretended it was still there. But now the mists 
 were breaking. 
 
 That November the supreme event approached. He saw 
 it with Nature's eyes. It dawned on him, as on Ansell, that 
 .personaHoye and marriage only cover one side of the shield, 
 and that on the other ia, graven the epic of birth. In the 
 midst of lessons he would grow dreamy, as one who spies a 
 new symbol for the universe, a fresh circle within the 
 square. Within the square shall be a circle, within the 
 circle another square, until the visual eye is baffled. Here 
 is meaning of a kind. His mother had forgotten herself 
 in him. He would forget himself in his son. 
 
 He was at his duties when the news arrived — taking prep- 
 aration. Boys are marvellous creatures. Perhaps they 
 will sink below the brutes ; perhaps they will attain to a J 
 woman's tenderness. Though they despised Rickie, and 
 had suffered under Agnes's meanness, their one thought this 
 term was to be gentle and to give no trouble. 
 
 "Rickie — one moment " 
 
 His face grew ashen. He followed Herbert into the 
 — 21 r — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 passage, closing the door of the preparation room behind 
 him. "Oh, is she safe?" he whispered. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said Herbert; but there sounded in his an- 
 swer a sombre hostile note. 
 "Our boy?" 
 
 "Girl — a girl, dear Rickie; a little daughter. She — she 
 is in many ways a healthy child. She will live — oh yes." 
 A flash of horror passed over his face. He hurried into the 
 preparation room, lifted the lid of his desk, glanced me- 
 chanically at the boys, and came out again. 
 
 Mrs. ^Lewin appeared through the door that led into 
 their own part of the house. 
 
 "Both going on well !" she cried ; but her voice also was 
 grave, exasperated. 
 
 "What is it?" he gasped. "It's something you daren't 
 tell me." 
 
 "Only this " stuttered Herbert. "You mustn't mind 
 
 when you see — she's lam g," 
 Mrs. Lewin disapprared. 
 "Lame! but not as lame as I am?" 
 "Oh, my dear boy, worse. Don't— oh, be a man in this. 
 Come away from the preparation room. Remember she'll 
 live — in many ways healthy — only just this one defect." 
 
 The horror of that week never passed away from him. 
 To the end of his hfe he remembered the excuses — the con- 
 solations that the child would live; suffered very little, if 
 at all; would walk with crutches; would certainly live. 
 God was more merciful. A window was opened too wide 
 on a draughty day. After a short, painless illness his 
 daughter di ed. But the lesson he had learnt so" glibly aT" 
 Cambridge should be heeded now ; no child should ever be 
 born to him again. 
 
 -212- 
 
XXII 
 
 THAT same term there took place at 5_Dunwogi^ 
 .House anothex. event. With their private tragedy 
 it seemed to have no connection; but in time 
 Rickie perceived it as a bitter comment. Its developments 
 were unforeseen and lasting. It was perhaps the most 
 terrible thing he had to bear. 
 
 Vardgn had now been a boarder for ten months. His 
 health had broken in the previous term, — partly, it is to 
 be feared, as the result of the indifferent food, — and dur- 
 ing the summer holidays he was attacked by a series of 
 agonizing earaches. His mother, a feeble person, wished 
 to keep him at home, but Herbert dissuaded her. Soon 
 after the death of the child there arose at Dunwood House 
 one of those waves of hostility of which no boy knows the 
 origin nor any master can calculate the course. Varden 
 had never been popular — there was no reason why he should 
 be — ^but he had never been seriously bullied hitherto. One 
 evening nearly the whole house set on him. The prefects 
 absented themselves, the bigger boys stood round, and the 
 lesser boys, to whom power was delegated, flung him down, 
 and rubbed his face under the desks, and wrenched at his 
 ears. The noise penetrated the baize doors, and Herbert 
 swept through and punished the whole house, including Var- 
 den, whom it would not do to leave out. The poor man was 
 horrified. He approved of a little healthy roughness, but , 
 this was pure brutality. What had come over his boys? 
 Were they not gentlemen's sons ? He would not admit that 
 if you herd together human beings before they can under- 
 stand each other the great god Pan is angry, and will in the 
 end evade your regulations and drive them mad. That 
 
 —213— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 night the victim was screaming with pain, and the doctor 
 next day spoke of an operation. The suspense lasted a 
 whole week. Comment was made in the local papers, and 
 the reputation not only of the house but of the school was 
 imperilled. "If only I had known," repeated Herbert — 
 "if only I had known I would have arranged it all differently. 
 VHe should have had a cubicle." The boy did not die, but 
 he left Sawslon, never to return. 
 
 '^ The day before his departure Rickie sat with him some 
 time, and tried to talk in a way that was not pedantic. In 
 his own sorrow, which he could share with no one, least 
 of all with his wife, he was still alive to the sorrows of 
 others. He still f Qught against apady. though he was losing 
 the battle. 
 
 "Don't lose heart," he told him. "The world isn't all 
 going to be like this. There are temptations and trials, of 
 course, but nothing at all of the kind you have had here." 
 
 "But ^chool^ is the world in miniature,, is it not, sir?" 
 asked the boy, hoping to please one master by echoing what 
 had been told him by another. He was always on the look- 
 out for sympathy: it was one of the things that had con- 
 tributed to his downfall. 
 r^ "I never noticed that myself.: I was .unhappy at school, 
 
 and in the world people can be very happy." 
 
 [^ Varden sighed and rolled about his eyes. "Are the 
 
 fellows sorry for what they did to me?" he asked in an 
 
 . affected voice. "I am sure I forgive them from the bottom 
 
 of my heart. We ought to forgive our enemies, oughtn't 
 
 'we, sir?" 
 
 "But they aren't your enemies. If you meet in five years' 
 time you may find each other splendid fellows." 
 
 The boy would not admit this. He had been reading 
 some revivalistic literature. "We ought to forgive our 
 enemies," he repeated; "and however wicked they are, we 
 ought not to wish them evil. When I was ill, and death 
 seemed nearest, I had many kind letters on this subject." 
 — 1\A. — 
 
Sawston 
 
 Rickie knew about these "many kind letters." Varden 
 had induced the silly nurse to write to people — people of all 
 sorts, people that he scarcely knew or did not know at all 
 — detailing his misfortune, and asking for spiritual aid and 
 sympathy. 
 
 "I am sorry for them," he pursued. "I would not like 
 to be like them." 
 
 Rickie sighed. He saw that a year at Ehmwood House 
 had produced a sanctimonious prig. "Don't think about 
 them, Varden. Think about anything beautiful — say, music. 
 You like music. Be happy. It's your duty. You can't be 
 good until you've had a little happiness. |Then perhaps you 
 will think less about forgiving people and more about loving 
 them." 
 
 "I love them already, sir." And Rickie, in desperation, 
 asked if he might look at the many kind letters. 
 
 Permission was gladly given. A neat bundle was pro- 
 duced, and for about twenty minutes the master perused it, 
 while the invalid kept watch on his face. Rooks cawed out 
 in the playing-fields, and close under the window there was 
 the sound of delightful, good-tempered laughter. A boy is 
 no devil, whatever boys may be. The letters were chilly 
 productions, somewhat clerical in tone, by whomsoever 
 written. Varden, because he was ill at the time, had been 
 taken seriously. The writers declared that his illness was 
 fulfilling some mysterious purpose: suffering engendered 
 spiritual growth: he was showing signs of this already. 
 They consented to pray for him, some majestically, others 
 shyly. But they all consented with one exception, who 
 worded his refusal as follows : — 
 
 Dear A. C. Varden, — I ought to say that I never remember 
 seeing you. I am sorry that you are ill, and hope you are 
 .wrong about it. Why did you not write before, for I could 
 have helped you then? When they pulled your ear, you ought 
 to have gone like this (here was a rough sketch). I could 
 not undertake praying, but would think of you instead, if that 
 
 —215— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 would do. I am twenty-two in April, built rather heavy, or- 
 dinary broad face, with eyes, &c. I write all this because you 
 have mixed me with some one else, for I am not married, and 
 do not want to be. I cannot think of you always, but will 
 promise a quarter of an hour daily (say 7.00-7.15 a. m.), and 
 might come to see you when you are better — that is, if you are 
 a kid, and you read like one. I have been otter-hunting. — 
 Yours sincerely, Stephen Wonham. 
 
 — 216 — 
 
XXIII 
 
 RICKIE went straight from Varden to his wife, who 
 lay on the sofa in her bedroom. There^wa&JlQjy 
 a wide gulf between them. She. like the world 
 she had created for him, was unreal. 
 
 "Agnes, darling," he began, stroking her hand, "such 
 an awkward little thing has happened." 
 
 "What is it, dear ? Just wait till I've added up this book." 
 
 She had _got over the trage dy: she got over everything. 
 
 When she was at leisure he told her. Hitherto they 
 had seldom mentioned Stephen. He was classed among the 
 unprofitable dead. 
 
 She was more sympathetic than he expected. "Deav 
 Rickie," she murmured with averted eyes. "How tiresome 
 for you." 
 
 "I wish that Varden had stopped with Mrs. Orr." 
 
 "Well, he leaves us for good tomorrow." 
 
 "Yes, yes. And I made him answer the letter and apolo- 
 gize. They had never met. It was some confusion with a 
 man in the Church Army, living at a place called Codford. 
 I asked the nurse. It is all explained." 
 
 "There the matter ends." 
 
 "I suppose so — if matters ever end." 
 
 "If, by ill-luck, the person does call. I will just see him 
 and say that the boy has gone." 
 
 "You, or I. I have got over all nonsense by this time. 
 He's absolutely nothing to me now." He took up the 
 tradesman's book and played vdth it idly. On its crimson 
 cover was stamped a grotesque sheep. How stale and stupid 
 their life had become I 
 
 "Don't talk like that, though," she said uneasily. "ThinK 
 — 217 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 how disastrous it would be if you made a slip in speaking 
 to him." 
 
 "Would it? It would have been disastrous once. But 
 I expect, as a matter of fact, that Aunt Emily has made the 
 slip already." 
 
 His wife was displeased. "You need not talk in that 
 
 cynical way. I credit Aunt Emily with better feeling. 
 
 When I was there she did mention the matter, but only once. 
 
 ~She, and I, and all who have any sense of decency, know 
 
 better than to make slips, or to think of making them." 
 
 Agnes kept up what she called "the family connection." 
 She had been once alone to Cadover, and also corresponded 
 with Mrs. Failing. She had never told Rickie anything about 
 her visit, nor had he ever asked her. But, from this mo- 
 ment, the whole subject was re-opened. 
 
 "Most certainly he knows nothing," she continued. 
 "Why, he does not even realize that Varden lives in our 
 house ! We are perfectly safe — unless Aunt Emily were to 
 die. Perhaps then — but we are perfectly safe for the 
 present." 
 
 "When she did mention the matter, what did she say?" 
 
 "We had a long talk," said Agnes quietly. "She told 
 
 me nothing new — ^nothing new about the past, I mean. But 
 
 we had a long talk about the present. I think" — and her 
 
 voice grew displeased again — "that you have been both 
 
 1 wrong and foolish in refusing to make up your quarrel with 
 
 I Aunt Emily." 
 
 "Wrong and wise, I should say." 
 
 "It isn't to be expected that she — so much older and so 
 sensitive — can make the first step. But I know she'd be 
 glad to see you." 
 
 "As far as I can remember that final scene in the garden, 
 I accused her of 'forgetting what other people were like.' 
 She'll never pardon me for saying that." 
 
 Agnes was silent. To her the phrase was meaningless. 
 — 2l8— 
 
Sawston 
 
 Yet Rickie was correct: Mrs. Failing had resented it more 
 than anything. 
 
 "At all events," she suggested, "you might go and see her." 
 
 "No, dear. Thank you, no." 
 
 "She is, after all — " She was going to say "your father's 
 sister," but the expression was scarcely a happy one, and 
 she turned it into, "She is, after all, growing old and lonely." 
 
 "So are we all !" he cried, with a lapse of tone that was 
 now characteristic in him. 
 
 "She oughtn't to be so isolated from her proper relatives." 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Still playing with the 
 book, he remarked, "You forget, she's got her favourite 
 nephew." 
 
 A bright red flush spread over her cheeks. "What is the 
 matter with you this afternoon ?" she asked. "I should think 
 you'd better go for a walk." 
 
 "Before I go, tell me what is the matter with you." He 
 also flushed. "Why do you want me to make it up with 
 my aunt?" 
 
 "Because it's right and proper." 
 
 "So? Or because she is old?" ^) 
 
 "I don't understand," she retorted. But her eyes dropped. 
 His^suddeii_suspicion was true : §he was legacy-hunting. 
 
 "Agifies, dear Agnes," he began with passing tenderness, 
 "how can you think of such things ? You behave like a poor 
 person. We don't want any money from Aunt Emily, or 
 from any one else. It isn't virtue that makes me say it: 
 we are not tempted in that way : we have as much as we 
 want already." 
 
 "For the present," she answered, still looking aside. 
 
 ".There isn't any future," he cried in a gust of despair. 
 "RickleTwHardo^rotrmean ?" 
 
 What did he mean ? He meant that the relations between 
 them were fixed — ^that there would never be an influx of 
 interest, nor even of passion. iTo the end of life they would 
 
 — 219 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 go on beating time, and this was enough for her. She was 
 content with the daily round, the common task, performed 
 indifferently. But he had dreamt of another helpmate, and 
 of other things. 
 
 "We don't want money — ^why, we don't even spend any 
 
 fon travelling. I've invested all my salary and more. As 
 
 1 far as human foresight goes, we shall never want money." 
 
 v\.nd his thoughts went out to the tiny grave. "You spoke 
 
 of 'right and proper,' but the right and proper thing for 
 
 my aunt to do is to leave every penny she's got to Stephen." 
 
 Her lip quivered, and for one moment he thought that 
 she was going to cry. "What am I to do with you?" she 
 said. "Yoij talk like a person in poetry." 
 
 "I'll put it in prose. He's lived with her for twenty 
 years, and he ought to be paid for it." 
 
 Poor Agnes! Indeed, what was she to do? The first 
 moment she set foot in Cadover she had thought, "Oh, here 
 is money. We must try and get it." Being a lady, she 
 never mentioned the thought to her husband, but she con- 
 cluded that it would occur to him too. And now, though 
 it had occurred to him at last, he would not even write his 
 aunt a little note. 
 
 He was to try her yet further. While they argued this 
 point he flashed out with, "I ought to have told him that day 
 when he called up to our room. There's where I went wrong 
 first." 
 
 "Rickie!" 
 
 "In those days I was sentimental. I minded. For two 
 pins I'd write to him this afternoon. Why shouldn't he 
 know he's my brother? What's all this ridiculous mystery?" 
 
 She became incoherent. 
 
 "But why not? A reason why he shouldn't know." 
 
 "A reason why he should know," she retorted. "I never 
 heard such rubbish! Give me a reason why he should 
 know." 
 
 r "Because the lie we acted has ruined our lives." 
 V — 220 
 
Sawston 
 
 She looked in bewilderment at the well-appointed room. 
 
 "It's been like a poison we won't acknowledge. How 
 many times have you thought of my brother? I've thought! 
 of him every day — not in love; don't misunderstand; only as| 
 a medicine I shirked. Down in what they call the subcon- 
 scious self he has been hurting me." His voice broke. 
 "Oh, my darling, we acted a lie then, and this letter re- 
 minds us of it and gives us one more chance. I have to say 
 'we' lied. I should be lying again if I took quite all the 
 blame. Let us ask God's forgiveness together. Then let us 
 write, as coldly as you please, to Stephen, and tell him he 
 is my father's son." 
 ^ Her reply need not be quoted. It was the last time he 
 (attempted intimacy. And the remainder of their conversa- 
 '-tion, though long and stormy, is also best forgotten. 
 
 Thus the first effect of Varden's letter was to make them 
 quarrel. They had not openly disagreed before. In the 
 evening he kissed her and said, "How absurd* I was to 
 get angry about things that happened last year. I will cer- 
 tainly not write to the person." She returned the kiss. 
 But he knew that they had^ destroyed_the habit^ of rever- 
 ence, and would quarrel again. 
 
 On his rounds he looked in at Varden and asked non- 
 chalantly for the letter. He carried it off to his room. It 
 was unwise of him, for his nerves were already unstrung, and 
 the man he had tried to bury was stirring ominously. In 
 the silence he examined the handwriting till he felt that a 
 living creature was with him, whereas he, because his 
 child had died, was dead. He perceived more clearly the 
 cruelty of Nature, to whom our refinement and piety are 
 but as Bubbles, hurrying downwards on the turbid waters. 
 They break, and the stream continues. His father, as a 
 final insult, had brought into the world a man unlike all 
 the rest of them, — z. man dowered with coarse kindliness 
 and rustic striength, a kind of cynical ploughboy, against 
 whom their own misery and weakness might stand mor-* 
 
 — 221 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 vividly relieved. "Born an Elliot — ^born a gentleman." 
 So the vile phrase ran. But here was an Elliot whose bad- 
 ness was not even gentlemanly. For that Stephen was bad 
 inherently he never doubted for a moment. And he would 
 have children: he, not Rickie, would contribute to the 
 stream; he, through his remote posterity, might be mingled 
 with the unknown sea. 
 
 Thus musing he lay down to sleep, feeling diseased in 
 body^id soul. It was no wonder that the ni^T'was the 
 most terrible he had ever known. He revisited Cambridge, 
 and his name was a grey ghost over the door. Then there 
 recurred the voice of a gentle shaJowy woman, Mrs. Aber- 
 .deen,. "It doesn't seem hardly right." Those had been 
 her words, her only complaint against the mysteries of 
 change and death. She bowed her head and laboured to 
 make her "gentlemen" comfortable. She was labouring 
 still. As he lay in bed he asked God to grant him her wis- 
 dom; that he might keep sorrow within due bounds; that 
 he mi ght abstain jroni^extreme hat red and envy of Stephen . 
 It was seldom Ihat he prayed so definitely, or ventured to 
 obtrude his private wishes. lieJigion was_tn him a service. 
 a mystic communion with good ; not a means of getting 
 what he wanted on the earth. But lonig ht. through suffer- 
 ing, jie_ was humbled, and became like Mrs. Aberdeen. 
 
 Hour after hour he awaited sleep and tried to endure the 
 faces that frothed in the gloom — ^his aunt's, his father's, 
 and, worst of all, the triumphant face of his brother. Once 
 he struck at it, and awoke, having hurt his hand on the 
 wall. Then he prayed hysterically for pardon and rest. 
 
 Yet again did he awake, and from a more mysterious 
 dream. He heard his mother crying. She was crying quite 
 distinctly in the darkened room. He whispered, "Never 
 mind, my darling, never mind," and a voice echoed, "Never 
 mind — come away — let them die out — ^let them die out." 
 He lit a candle, and the room was empty. Then, hurrying 
 
 — 222 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 to the window, he saw above mean houses the frosty glories 
 of Orion. 
 
 Henceforward heJeterioaates. Let those who censure 
 him suggest what he should do. He has lost the work 
 that he loved, his friends, and his child. He remained con- 
 scientious" and decent, but the spiritual part of him pro- 
 ceeded towards ruin. 
 
 -223— 
 
XXIV 
 
 THE coming months, though full of jdegra dation_ 
 andanxietj^ were to bring him nothing so terrible 
 as that night. It was the,_crisis of this agony. 
 He was an^utcast and a failure. But he was not again 
 forced to comtemplate these facts so clearly. Varden left 
 in the morning, carrying the fatal letter with him. The 
 whole house was relieved. The good angel was with the 
 boys again, or else (as Herbert preferred to think) they had 
 learnt a lesson, and were more humane in consequence. 
 At all events, the disastrous term concluded quietly. 
 
 In the Christmas holidays the two masters made an 
 abortive attempt to visit Italy, and at Easter there was talk 
 of a cruise in the .^gean. Herbert actually went, and 
 enjoyed Athens and Delphi. The Elliots paid a few visits 
 together in England. They returned to Sawston about 
 ■ten days before school opened, to find that Widdringtonjyas 
 again stopping with the Jacksons. Intercourse was pain- 
 ful, for the two families were scarcely on speaking terms; 
 nor did the triumphant scaffoldings of the new boarding- 
 house make things easier. (The party of progress had 
 carried the day.) Widdrington was by nature touchy, but 
 on this occasion he refused to take offence, and often 
 dropped in to see them. His manner was friendly but 
 critical. They agreed he was a nuisance. Then Agnes 
 
 lleft, very abruptly, to see Mrs. Failing, and while she was 
 
 I away Rickie had a little stealthy intercourse. 
 
 Her absence, convenient as it was, puzzled him. MrS;. 
 3ilt, half goose, half stormy-petrel, had recently paid a fly- 
 ing visit to Cadover, and thence had flown, without an in- 
 vitation, to Sawston. Generally she was not a welcome 
 guest. On this occasion Agnes had welcomed her, and— so 
 
 — 224 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 Rickie thought — had made her promise not to tell him some- 
 thing that she knew. The ladies had talked mysteriously. 
 "Mr. Silt would be one with you there," said Mrs. Silt. 
 Could there be any connection between the two visits? 
 
 Agnes's letters told him nothing: they never did. She 
 was too clumsy or too cautious to express herself on paper. 
 A drive to Stonehenge; an anthem in the Cathedral; Aunt 
 Emily's love. And when he met her at Waterloo he learnt 
 nothing (if there was anything to learn) from her face. 
 
 "How did you enjoy yourself?" 
 
 "Thoroughly." 
 
 "Were you and she alone?" 
 
 "Sometimes. Sometimes other people." 
 
 "Will Uncle Tony's Essays be published?" 
 
 Here she was more communicative. The book was at last 
 ia proof. Aunt Emily had written a charming introduc- 
 tion; but she was so idle, she never finished things off. 
 
 They got into an omnibus for the Army and Navy Stores : 
 she wanted to do some shopping before going down to 
 Sawston. 
 
 "Did you read any of the Essays?" 
 
 "Every one. Delightful. Couldn't put them down. 
 Now and then he spoilt them by statistics — ^but you should 
 read his descriptions of Nature. He agrees with you: says 
 the hills and trees are alive! Aunt Emily called you his 
 spiritual heir, which I thought nice of her. We both so 
 lamented that you have stopped writing." She quoted frag- 
 ments of the Essays as they went up in the Stores' lift. 
 
 "What else did you talk about?" 
 
 "I've told you all my news. Now for yours. Let's have 
 tea first." 
 
 They sat down in the corridor amid ladies in every stage 
 of fatigue — haggard ladies, scarlet ladies, ladies with parcels 
 ihat twisted from every finger like joints of meat. Gentle- 
 men were scarcer, but all were of the sub-fashionable type, 
 to which Rickie himself now belonged. 
 
 — 225 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "I haven't done anything," he said feebly. "Ate, read, 
 been rude to tradespeople, talked to Widdrington. Herbert 
 arrived this morning. He has brought a most beautiful 
 photograph of the Parthenon." 
 
 "Mr. Widdrington?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did you talk about?" 
 
 She might have heard every word. It was only the feel- 
 ing of pleasure that he wished to conceal. Even when we 
 love people, we desire to keep some corner secret from 
 them, however small : it is a human right : it is personality. 
 She began to cross-question him, but they were interrupted. 
 A young lady at an adjacent table suddenly rose and cried, 
 "Yes, it is you. I thought so from your walk." It was 
 Maud Ansel l. 
 
 "ORTdo come and join us !" he cried. "Let me introduce 
 my wife." 
 
 Maud bowed quite stiffly, but Agnes, taking it for ill- 
 breeding, was not offended. 
 
 "That I will come!" she continued in shrill, pleasant 
 tones, adroitly poising her tea things on either hand, and 
 transferring them to the Elliot's table. "Why haven't you 
 ever come to us, pray?" 
 
 "I think you didn't ask me!" 
 
 "You weren't to be asked." She sprawled forward 
 with a wagging finger. But her eyes had the honesty of her 
 brother's. "Don't you remember the day you left us ? Fa- 
 ther said, 'Now, Mr. Elliot ' Or did he call you 'Elliot'? 
 
 How one does forget. Anyhow, father said you weren't to 
 wait for an invitation, and you said, 'No; I won't.' Ours 
 is a fair-sized house," — she turned somewhat haughtily to 
 Agnes, — "and the second spare room, on account of a 
 harp that hangs on the wall, is always reserved for Stewart's 
 friends." 
 
 "How is Mr. Ansell, your brother?" 
 — 226 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 Maud's face fell. "Hadn't you heard ?" she said in awe- 
 struck tones. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "JJe hasn't ^ot his fellowship. It's the second time he's 
 failed. That means he will never get one. He will never 
 be a don, nor live in Cambridge and that, as we had 
 hoped." 
 
 "Oh, poor, poor fellow !" said Mrs. Elliot with a remorse 
 that was sincere, though her congratulations would not 
 have been. "I am so very sorry." 
 
 But Maud turned to Rickie. "Mr. Elliot, you might 
 know. Tell me. What is, wrong with Stewart's philosophy? 
 What ought he to put in, or to alter, so as to succeed?" ' 
 
 Agnes, who knew better than this, smiled. 
 
 "I don't know," said Rickie sadly. They were none of 
 them so clever, after all. 
 
 "Hegel," she continued vindictively. "They say he's 
 read too much Hegel. But they never tell him what to 
 read instead. Their own stuffy books, I suppose. Look 
 here — no, that's the 'Windsor.' " After a httle groping 
 she produced a copy of "Mind," and handed it round as if 
 it was a geological specimen. "Inside that there's a para- 
 graph written about something Stewart's written about be- 
 fore, and there it says he's read too much Hegel, and it 
 seems now that that's been the trouble all along." Her 
 voice trembled. "I call it most unfair, and the fellowship's 
 gone to a man who has counted the petals on an anemone." 
 
 Rickie had no inclination to smile. ^ 
 
 "I wish Stewart had tried Oxford instead." 
 
 "I don't wish it!" 
 
 "You say that," she continued hotly, "and then you never 
 come to see him, though you knew you were not to wait 
 for an invitation." 
 
 "If it comes to that. Miss Ansell," retorted Rickie, in 
 the laughing tones that one adopts on such occasions, 
 
 — 227 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "'Stewart won't come to me, though he has had an invita- 
 tion." 
 
 "Yes," chimed in Agnes, "we ask Mr. Ansell again and 
 again, and he will have none of us." 
 
 Maud looked at her with a flashing eye. "My brother is 
 a very peculiar person, and we ladies can't understand him. 
 But I know one thing, and that's that he has a reason all 
 round for what he does. Look here, I must be getting on. 
 Waiter ! Wai-ai-aiter ! Bill, please. Separately, of course. 
 Call the Army and Navy cheap ! I know better !" 
 
 "How does the drapery department compare?" said 
 Agnes sweetly. 
 
 The girl gave a sharp choking sound, gathered up her 
 parcels, and left them. Rickie.was too much disgusted 
 T^h hjisjwife to speak. 
 
 "Appalling person 1" she gasped. "It was naughty of me, 
 but I couldn't help it. What, .a dreadful fate for a clever 
 man ! TQ_J^3J.\JnJiie completely, and then, to be thrown 
 back on a family like tTiat !" 
 
 "Maud is a snob and a Philistine. But, in her case, some- 
 thing emerges." 
 
 she glanced at him, but proceeded in her suavest tones, 
 "Do let us make, one great united attempt to get Mr. Ansell 
 to Sawston." 
 
 "No." 
 p "What a changeable friend you are! When we were 
 engaged you were always talking about him." 
 L- "Would you finish your tea, and then we will buy the 
 linoleum for the cubicles." 
 
 But she returned to the subject again, not only on that 
 day but throughout the term. Could nothing be done for 
 poor Mr. Ansell? It seemed that she could not rest until 
 all that he had once held dear was humiliated. In this she 
 strayed outside her nature : she was unpractical. AncLibose. 
 ^h9_stray_ outside their nature invite disaster. Rickie, 
 goaded by her, wrote to his friend again. Theletter was 
 
 —228— 
 
Sawston 
 
 in all ways unlike his old self. Ansell did not answer it. 
 But he did write to Mr. Jackson, with whom he was not 
 acquainted. 
 
 "Dear Mr. Jackson, — I understand from Widdrington that 
 you have a large house. I would like to tell you how con- 
 venient it would be for me to come and stop in it. June suits 
 me best. — Yours truly, Stewart Ansell." 
 
 To which Mr. Jackson replied that not only in June but 
 during the whole year his house was at the disposal of Mr. 
 Ansell and of any one who resembled him. 
 
 But Agnes continued her life, cheerfully beating time., 
 -She, , too, kijew that^her^ marriage was. a„iailujEe, and in 
 her^_sgare^ moments., regretted jt. She \iTshed that her hus- • 
 shaJldjvas„handsomer, more successful, more dictatorial. But 
 she would think, "No, no; one mustn't grumble. It can't 
 be helped." Ansell was wrong in supposing she might 
 ever leave Rickie. Spiritual apathy prevented ^her. Nor 
 would she ever be tempted by a jollier man. Here criti- 
 cism would willingly alter its tone. For Agnes also has her 
 tragedy. She belonged to the type — not necessarily an 
 elevated one — that loves once and once only. Her love for 
 Gerald had notbeen a noble passion: no imagination trans- 
 figured it. But such as it vv^as, it sprang to embrace him, 
 and he carried it away with him when he died. Les amours 
 qui suivrent sont mains involuntaires : by an effort of the 
 will she had warmed herself for Rickie. 
 
 She is not conscious of her tragedy, and therefore only 
 the gods need weep at it. But it is fair to remember that 
 hitherto she moves as one irom \yhom the inner life has 
 been withdrawn. 
 
 — 229 — 
 
XXV 
 
 I AM afraid," said Agnes, unfolding a letter that 
 she had received in the morning, "that things go far 
 from satisfactorily at Cadover." 
 
 The three were alone at supper. It was the June of 
 Rickie's second year at Sawston. 
 
 "Indeed?" said Herbert, who took a friendly interest. 
 "In what way?" 
 
 "Do you remember us talking of Stephen — Stephen Wonr 
 ]iam, who by an odd coincidence " 
 
 "Yes. Who wrote last year to that miserable failure 
 Varden. I do." 
 
 "It is about him." 
 
 "I did not like the tone of his letter." 
 
 Agnes had made her first move. She waited for her hus- 
 band to reply to it. But he, though full of a painful 
 curiosity, would not speak. She moved again. 
 
 "I don't think, Herbert, that Aunt Emily, much as I like 
 her, is the kind of person to bring a young man up. At all 
 events the results have been disastrous this time." 
 
 "What has happened?" 
 
 "A tangle of things." She lowered her voice. "Drink." 
 
 "Dear! Really! Was Mrs. Failing fond of him?" 
 
 "She used to be. She let him live at Cadover ever since 
 he was a little boy. Naturally that cannot continue." 
 
 Rickie never spoke. 
 
 "^nd now he has taken to be violent and rude," she went 
 on. 
 
 "In short, a beggar on horseback. Who is he? Has he 
 no relatives?" 
 
 "She has always been both father and mother to him. 
 Now it must all come to an end. I blame her — and she 
 
 —230— 
 
Sawston 
 
 blames herself — for not being severe enough. He has i 
 j[rjo\in up. 3idthQiit.£Lsed principles. He has always followed 
 his^ inclinations, and one_ knows the result of that." 
 
 Herbert assented. "To me Mrs. Failing's course is per- 
 fectly plain. She has a certain responsibility. She must 
 pay the youth's passage to one of the colonies, start him 
 handsomely in some business, and then break off all com- 
 munications." 
 
 "How funny! It is exactly what she is going to do." 
 
 "I shall then consider that she has behaved in a thoroughly 
 honourable manner." He held out his plate for goose- 
 ''berries. "His letter to Varden was neither helpful nor 
 ' sympathetic, and, if written at all, it ought to have been 
 both. I am not in the least surprised to learn that he has 
 turned out badly. When you write next, would you tell 
 her how sorry I am?" 
 
 "Indeed I will. Two years ago, when she was already 
 a little anxious, she did so wish you could undertake him." 
 
 "I could not alter a grown man." But in his heart he 
 thought he could, and smiled at his sister amiably. "Ter- 
 rible, isn't it?" he remarked to Rickie. Rickie, who was 
 trying not to mind anything, assented. And an onlooker 
 would have supposed them a dispassionate trio, who were 
 sorry both for Mrs. Failing and for the beggar who would 
 bestride her horses' backs no longer. A new topic was 
 introduced by the arrival of the evening post. 
 
 Herbert took up all the letters, as he often did. 
 
 "Jac kson ?" he exclaimed. "What does the fellow want?" 
 He read, and his tone was mollified, " 'Dear Mr. Pembroke, 
 — ^Could you, Mrs. Elliot, and Mr. Elliot come to supper 
 with us on .Saturday next? I should not merely be pleased, 
 I should be grateful. My wife is writing formally to Mrs. 
 Elliot' — (Here, Agnes, take your letter), — 'but I venture 
 to write as well, and to add my more uncouth entreaties.' — 
 An olive-branch. It is time! But (ridiculous person!) 
 does he think that we can leave the House deserted and all 
 
 — 2'^I — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 go out pleasuring in term time? — ^Rickie, a letter for you." 
 
 "Mine's the formal invitation," said Agnes. "How very 
 odd;! Mr. Ansell will be there. .Surely we asked him 
 here! Did you know he knew the Jacksons?" 
 
 "This makes refusal very difficult," said Herbert, who was 
 anxious to accept. "At all events, Kick ie^ ught to go." 
 
 "I do not want to go," said Rickie, slowly opening his 
 own letter. "As Agnes says, Ansell has refused to come to 
 us. I cannot put myself out for him." 
 
 "Who's yours from?" she demanded. 
 
 " Mrs. Silt," replied Herbert, who had seen the hand- 
 writing. 
 
 "I trust she does not want to pay us a visit this term, 
 with the examinations impending and all the machinery at 
 full pressure. Though, Rickie, you will have to accept the 
 Jacksons' invitation." 
 
 "I xannpt possibly go. I have been^^tpo rude ; with Wid- 
 drington we always meet here. I'll stop with the boys — " 
 His voice caught suddenly. He had opened Mrs. Silt's 
 letter. 
 
 "The Silts are not ill, I hope?" 
 
 "No. But, I say,"— he looked at his wife,— "I do think 
 this is going too far. Really, Agnes " 
 
 "What has happened?" 
 
 "It is going too far," he repeated. He was nerving him- 
 self for another battle. "I cannot stand this sort of thing. 
 There are limits." 
 
 He laid the letter down. It was Herbert who picked it 
 up, and read: "Aunt Emily has just written to us. 
 We are so glad that her troubles are over, in spite of the ex- 
 pense. It never does to live apart from one's own relatives 
 so much as she has done up to now. He goes next Satur- 
 day to Canada. What you told her about him just turned 
 the scale. She has asked us " 
 
 "No, it's too much," he interrupted. "What I told her— 
 told her about him — no, I will have it out at last. Agnes !" 
 
 --232— 
 
Sawston 
 
 "Yes?" said his wife, raising her eyes from Mrs. Jack- 
 son's formal invitation. 
 
 "It's you — it's you. I never mentioned him to her. 
 Why, I've never seen her or written to her since, I accuse 
 you." 
 
 Then Herbert overbore him, and he collapsed. He was 
 
 asked what he meant. Why was he so excited? Of what 
 
 did he accuse his wife. Each time he spoke more feebly, 
 
 jaxid before long the brother and sister were laughing at him. 
 
 [He felt bewildered, like a boy who knows that he is right 
 
 ) but cannot put his case correctly. He repeated, "I've never 
 
 Shentioned him to her. It's a libel. Never in my life." 
 
 And they cried, "My dear Rickie, what an absurd fuss!" 
 
 Then his brain cleared. His eye fell on the letter that his 
 
 wife had received from his aunt, and he reopened the battle. 
 
 "Agnes, give me that letter, if you please." 
 
 "Mrs. Jackson's?" 
 
 "My aunt's." 
 
 She put her hand on it, and looked at him doubtfully. 
 She saw that she had failed to bully him. 
 
 "My aunt's letter," he repeated, rising to his feet and 
 bending over the table towards her. 
 
 "Why, dear?" 
 
 "Yes, why indeed?" echoed Herbert. He too had 
 bullied Rickie, but from a purer motive: he had tried to 
 stamp out a dissension between husband and wife. It was 
 not the first time he had intervened. 
 
 "The letter. For this reason : it will show me what you 
 have done. I believe youjhaye ruined Stegben. You have 
 worked at it for two years. You liave^ut words into my 
 mouth to 'turn the scale' against him. He goes to Canada— 
 and all the world thinks it is owing to me. As I said be- 
 fore — I advise you to stop smiling— you have gone a little 
 too far." 
 
 They were all on their feet now, standing round the 
 little table. Agnes said nothing, but the fingers of her deli- 
 
 — 2? •J — 
 
 & 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 cate hand tightened upon the letter. When her husband 
 snatched at it she resisted, and with the effect of a harle- 
 quinade everything went on the floor — lamb, mint sauce, 
 gooseberries, lemonade, whisky. At once they were 
 swamped in domesticities. She rang the bell for the servant, 
 cries arose, dusters were brought, broken crockery (a wed- 
 ding present) picked up from the carpet; while he stood 
 wrathfully at the window, regarding the obscured sun's 
 decline. 
 
 "I must see her letter," he repeated, when the agitation 
 was over. He was too angry to be diverted from his pur- 
 pose. Qnly slight emo tions are t hwar ted by an interlude 
 o£^ farce. ~ ^ 
 
 "I've had enough of this quarrelling," she retorted. 
 "You know that the Silts are inaccurate. I think you 
 might have given me the benefit of the doubt. If you will 
 know — have you forgotten that ride you took with him?" 
 
 "I " he was again bewildered. "The ride where I 
 
 dreamt " 
 
 "The ride where you turned back because you could not 
 listen to a disgraceful poem?" 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Th e_poem w asAunt Emilv. He read it to you and a 
 stray soldier. Afterwards you told me. You said, 'Really 
 it is shocking, his ingratitude. She ought to know about it.' 
 She does know, and I should be glad of an apology." 
 
 He had said something of the sort in a fit of irritation. 
 Mrs. Silt was right — ^he had helped to turn the scale. 
 
 "Whatever I said, you knew what I meant. You knew 
 
 I'd sooner cut my tongue out than have it used against him. 
 
 Even then." He sighed. Had he ruined his brother? A 
 
 curious tenderness came over him, and passed when he 
 
 ^remembered his own dead-child. "We have ruined him, 
 
 ) then. Have you any objection to 'we'? We have disin- 
 
 ( herited him." 
 
 "^ "I decide against you," interposed Herbert. "I have now 
 
 —234— 
 
Sawston 
 
 heard both sides of this deplorable affair. You are talk- 
 ing most criminal nonsense. 'Disinherit!' Sentimental 
 twaddle. It's been clear to me from the first that Mrs. 
 Failing has been imposed upon by the Wonham man, a per- 
 son with no legal claim on her, and any one who exposes 
 him performs a public duty " 
 
 " — ^And gets money." 
 
 "Money?" He was always uneasy at the word. "Who 
 mentioned money?" 
 
 "Just understand me, Herbert, and of what it is that I 
 accuse my wife." Tears came into his eyes. "It is not 
 that I like the Wonham man, or think that he isn't a drunk- 
 ard and worse. He's too awful in every way. But he 
 ought to have my aunt's money, because he's lived all his 
 life with her, and is her nephew as much as I am. You see, 
 my father went wrong." He stopped, amazed at himself. 
 How easy it had been to say! He was withering up: the 
 power to care about this stupid secret had died. fi 
 
 When Herbert understood, his first thought was for\ 
 Dunwood House. "Why have I never been told ?" was his 
 first remark. 
 
 "We settled to tell no one," said Agnes. "Rickie, in his 
 anxiety to prove me a liar, has broken his promise." 
 
 "I ought to have been told," said Herbert, his anger in- 
 creasing. "Had I known, I could have averted this deplor- 
 able scene." 
 
 "Let me conclude it," said Rickie, again collapsing and 
 leaving the dining-room. His impulse was to go straight 
 to Cadover and make a business-like statement of the 
 position to Stephen. Then the man would be armed, -and 
 perhaps fight the two women successfully. But he Resisted 
 theimpulse. Why should he help one power of evil against 
 ano3aerT° Let them go intertwined to destruction. To en- 
 rich his brother would be as bad as enriching himself. If 
 their aunt's money ever did come to him, he would refuse 
 to accept it. That was the psiest and most dignifjejj 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 course. He troubled himself no longer with justice or 
 ] pity, and the next day he asked his wife's pardon for his 
 / behaviour. 
 
 In the dining-room the conversation continued. Agnes, 
 without much difficulty, gained her brother as an ally. She 
 acknowledged that she had been wrong in not telling him, 
 and he then declared that she had been right on every 
 other point. She slurred a little over the incident of her 
 treachery, for Herbert was .sometimes cl earsig hted over 
 details, though ea^ij^ muddled in a general survey. Mrs. 
 Failing had had plenty of direct causes of complaint, and she 
 dwelt on these. She dealt, too, on the very handsome way 
 ^in which the young man, "though he knew nothing, had never 
 asked to know," was being treated by his aunt. 
 
 " 'Handsome' is the word," said Herbert. "I hope not 
 indulgently. He does not deserve indulgence." 
 
 And she knew that he, like herself, could remember 
 money, and that it lent an acknowledged halo to her cause. 
 
 "It is not a savoury subject," he continued, with sudden 
 stiffness. "I understand why Rickie is so hysterical. My 
 impulse" — he laid his hand on her shoulder — "is to abandon 
 it at once. But if I am to be of any use to you, I must 
 hear it all. There are moments when we must look facts 
 in the face." 
 
 She did not shrink from the subject as much as he thought, 
 as much as she herself could have wished. Two years be- 
 fore, it had filled her with a physical loathing. But by now 
 she had accustomed herself to it. 
 
 "I am afraid, Bertie boy, there is nothing else to hear. 
 I have tried to find out again and again, but Aunt Emily 
 will not tell me. I suppose it is natural. She wants to 
 shield the Elliot name. She only told us in a fit of temper; 
 then we all agreed to keep it to ourselves; then Rickie 
 again mismanaged her, and ever since she has refused to let 
 us know any details." 
 
 "A most unsatisfactory position." 
 —236— 
 
Sawston 
 
 "So I feel." She sat down again with a sigh. Mrs. 
 Failing had been a great trial to her orderly mind. "She 
 is an odd woman. She is always laughing. She actually 
 finds it amusing that we know no more." 
 
 "They are an odd family." 
 
 "They are indeed." 
 
 Herbert, with unusual sweetness, bent down and kissed 
 her. 
 
 She thanked him. 
 
 Their tenderness soon passed. They exchanged it with 
 averted eyes. It embarrassed them. There are moments 
 for all of us when we seem obliged to speak in a new un- 
 profitable tongue. One might fancy a seraph, vexed with 
 our normal language, who touches the pious to blasphemy, 
 the blasphemous to piety. The seraph passes, and we pro- 
 ceed unaltered — conscious, however, that we have not been 
 ourselves, and that we may fail in this function yet again. /| 
 So Agnes and Herbert, as they proceeded to discuss the 
 Jackson's supper-party, had an uneasy memory of spiritual 
 deserts, spiritual streams. 
 
 — 2 -27— 
 
p 
 
 XXVI 
 
 OOR Mr. Ansell was actually sitting in the garden 
 of J)ui}wood House. It was Sunday morning. The 
 
 air was full of roasting beef. The sound of a manly 
 
 hymn, taken very fast, floated over the road from the school 
 chapel. He frowned, for he was reading^ a book, the Essays 
 of Anthony Eustace Failing. 
 
 He was here on account of this book — at least so he 
 told himself. It had just been published, and the Jacksons 
 were sure that Mr. Elliot would have a copy. For a book 
 one may go anywhere. It would not have been logical to 
 enter Dunwood House for the purpose of seeing Rickie, 
 when Rickie had not come to supper yesterday to see him. 
 He was at Sawston to assure himself of his frie nd's g iftvf - 
 With quiet eyes he had intended to view the sods, with un- 
 faltering fingers to inscribe the epitaph. Love remained. 
 But in high matters he was practical. He knew that it 
 would be useless to reveal it. 
 
 "Morning!" said a voice behind him. 
 
 He saw no reason to reply to this superfluous statement, 
 and went on with his reading. 
 
 "Morning!" said the voice again. 
 
 As for the Essays, the thought was somewhat old-fash- 
 uoned, and he picked many holes in it ; nor was he anything 
 put bored by the^prpspect of the brotherhood of maji. How- 
 ever, I^. Failing stuck to^ his jguns, such as they were, and 
 fired fironr"HTenrseveraI good remarks. Very notable was 
 his distinction between coarseness and vulgarity (coarseness, 
 revealing something; vulgarity, concealing something), and 
 his avowed preference for coarseness. Vulgarity, to him, 
 ^had been the primal curse, the shoddy 'reticence that pre- 
 
 -238- 
 
 
Sawston 
 
 vents man opening his heart to man, the power that makes 
 against equality. From it sprang all the things that he hated 
 — class shibboleths, ladies, lidies, the game laws, the Con- 
 servative party — ^all the things that acEent.the divergencies 
 rather than the similarities in humaA nature. Whereas 
 
 coarseness But at this point Herbert Pembroke had 
 
 scrawled with a blue pencil: "Childish. One reads no 
 further." 
 
 "Morning!" repeated the voice. 
 
 Ansell read further, for here was the book of a man 
 who had tried, however unsuccessfully, to practice what he 
 greached. Mrs. Failing, in her Introduction, described with 
 delicate irony his difficulties as a landlord; but she did not 
 record the love in which his name was held. Nor could her 
 irony touch him when he cried : "Attain the practical through 
 the unpractical. There is no other road." Ansell was in- 
 clined to think that the unpractical is its own reward, but he 
 respected those who attempted to journey beyond it. We 
 must all of us go over the mountains. There is certainly 
 no other road. 
 
 "Nice morning !" said the voice. 
 
 It was not a nice morning, so Ansell felt bound to speak. 
 He answered : "No. Why ?" A clod of earth immediately 
 struck him on the back. He turned round indignantly, for 
 he hated physical rudeness. A square man of ruddy aspect 
 was pacing the gravel path, his hands deep in his pockets. 
 He was very angry. Then he saw that the clod of earth 
 nourished a blue lobelia, and that a wound of corresponding 
 size appeared on the pie-shaped bed. He was not so angry. 
 "I expect they will mind it," he reflected. Last night, at 
 the Jacksons', Agnes had displayed a brisk pity that made 
 him wish to wring her neck. Maude had not exaggerated. 
 Mr. Pembroke had patronized through a sorrowful voice and 
 large round eyes. Till he met these people he had never 
 been told that his career was a failure. Apparently it was. 
 They would never have been civil to him if it had been a 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 success, if they or theirs had anything to fear from hitn. 
 In many ways, Ans gll w as a concejted man ; but he was 
 never proud of bemg right He hacTfqreseen Rickie's catas- 
 trophe from the first, but derived from this no consafatTon. 
 In many ways he was pedantic; but his pedantry lay close 
 to the vineyards of life — far closer than that fetich Experi- 
 ence of the ihnumerable teacups. He had a great many 
 facts to learn, and before he died he learnt a suitable 
 quantity. But he never forgot that thg_hdi ness of the 
 hurt's imagination can alone classify these facts — can alone 
 decide which is an exception, which an example. "How un- 
 practical it all is !" That was bis comment on Dunwood 
 House. "How unbusiness-like ! rT hev live together without 
 love. They^ wotIc without conviction. They seek money 
 wilffout requiring it. They die, and nothii^will have hap- 
 
 Ipened, either for themselves or for others.^ It is a com- 
 ment that the academic mind will often make when first con- 
 fronted with the world. 
 
 But he was becoming illogical. The clod of earth had 
 disturbed him. Brushing the dirt off his back, he returned 
 ,to the book. What a curious affair was the essay on 
 I "Gaps" ! Solitude, star-crowned, pacing the fields of Eng- 
 land, has a dialogue with Seclusion. He, poor little man, 
 lives in the choicest scenery — among rocks, forests, emerald 
 lawns, azure lakes. To keep people out he has built round 
 his domain a high wall, on which is graven his motto — 
 /'Procul este profani." But he cannot enjoy himself. His 
 only pleasure is in mocking the absent Profane. They are 
 in his mind night and day. Their blemishes and stupidities 
 form the subject of his great poem, "In the Heart ol 
 Nature." Then Solitude tells him that so it always will be 
 until he makes a gap in the wall, and permits his seclusion 
 to be the sport of circumstance. He obeys. The Profane 
 invade him; but for short intervals they wander elsewhere, 
 and during those intervals the heart of Nature is revealed to 
 him. 
 
 — 240 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 This dialogue had really been suggested to Mr. Failing 
 by a talk with his brother-in-law. It also touched Ansell. 
 He looked at the man who had thrown the clod, and was now 
 pacing with obvious youth and impudence upon the lawn. 
 "Shall IjniErgye^my^soul at his expense?" he thought. "I 
 suppose I had better." Ttii friendly tones he remarked, 
 "Were you waiting for Mr. Pembroke?" 
 "No," said the young man. "Why?" 
 Ansell, after a moment's admiration, flung the Essays at 
 him. They hit him in the back. The next moment he lay 
 on his own back in the lobelia pie. 
 
 "But it hurts!" he gasped, in the tones of a puzzled 
 civilization. "What you do hurts!" For the young man 
 was nicking him over the shins with the rim of the book 
 cover. "Little brute — ee — ow!" 
 "Then say Pax !" 
 
 Something revolted in Ansell. Why should he say Pax .'' 
 Freeing his hand, he caught the little brute under the chin, 
 and was again knocked into the lobelias by a blow on the 
 mouth. 
 
 "Say Pax!" he repeated, pressing the philosopher's skull 
 into the mould; and he added, with an anxiety that was 
 somehow not offensive, "I do advise you. You'd really 
 better." 
 
 Ansell swallowed a little blood. He tried to move, and he 
 could not. He looked carefully into the young man's eyes 
 and into the palm of his right hand, which at present swung 
 unclenched, and he said "Pax!" 
 
 "Shake hands!" said the other, helping him up. There 
 was nothing Ansell loathed so much as the heartv Britisher ; 
 but he shook hands, and they stared at each other awkwardly. 
 With civil murmurs they picked the little blue flowers off 
 each other's clothes. Ansell was trying to remember why 
 they had quarrelled, and the young man was wondering why 
 he had not guarded his chin properly. In the distance a 
 h3nmn swung off — 
 
 — 24.1 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Fight the good. Fight with. All thy. Might." 
 
 They would be across from the chapel soon. 
 
 "Your book, sir?" 
 
 "Thank you, sir — ^yes." 
 
 "Why!" cried the young man — "why, it's 'What We 
 Want' ! At least the binding's exactly the same." 
 
 "It's called 'Essays,' " said Ansell. 
 
 "Then that's it. Mrs. Failing, you see, she wouldn't call 
 it that, because three . W^s, you see, in a row, she said, are 
 vulgar, and sound like Tolstoy, if you've heard of him." 
 
 Ansell confessed to an acquaintance, and then said, "Do 
 you think 'What We Want' vulgar?" He was not at all 
 interested, but he desired tcfescape from thejatmosphere__o_f 
 ^ugilistic_c2uitesy, more painful to him than blows them- 
 selves. 
 
 "It is the same book," said the other — "same title, same 
 binding." He weighed it like a brick in his muddy hands. 
 
 "Open it to see if the inside corresponds," said Ansell, 
 swallowing a laugh and a little more blood with it. 
 
 With a liberal allowance of thumb-marks, he turned the 
 
 pages over and read, " ' the rural^ silence that i s not a 
 
 poet's luxury but a practical need for all men.' Yes, it is 
 the same book." Smiling pleasantly over the discovery, he 
 handed it back to the owner. 
 
 "And is it true?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon?" 
 
 "Is it true that rural silence is a practical need?" 
 
 "Don't ask me!" 
 
 "Have you ever tried it ?" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Rural silence." 
 
 "A field with no noise in it, I suppose you mean. I don't 
 understand." 
 
 Ansell smiled, but a slight fire in the man's eye checked 
 him. After all, this was a person who could knock one 
 
 — 242 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 down. Moreover, there was no reason why he should be 
 teased. He had it in him to retort "No. Why ?" He was 
 not stupid in essentials. He was irritable — in Ansell's eyes 
 a frequent sign of grace. Sitting down on the upturned 
 seat, he remarked, "I like the book in many ways. I don't 
 think 'What We Want' would have been a vulgar title. 
 But J„do n't. intend to spoil myself on, the chance of mending 
 ^he world, which is what the creed amounts to. Nor am 
 I keen"on rural silences." 
 
 "Curse !" he said thoughtfully, sucking at an empty pipe. 
 
 "Tobacco?" 
 
 "Please." 
 
 '^ickie^^ invariably filthy." 
 
 "Who says I know Rickie?" 
 
 "Well, you know his aunt. It's a possible link. Be 
 gentle with Rickie. Don't knock him down if he doesn't 
 think it's a nice morning." 
 
 The other was silent. 
 
 "Do you know him well?" 
 
 "Kind of." He was not inclined to talk. The wish to 
 smoke was very violent in him, and Ansell noticed how he 
 gazed at the wreaths that ascended from bowl and stem, 
 and how, when the stem was in his mouth, he bit it. He 
 gave the idea of an animal with just enough soul to con- 
 template its own bliss. United with refinement, such a type 
 was common in Greece. It is not common today, and Ansell 
 was surprised to find it in a friend of Rickie's. Rickie, 
 if he could even "kind of know" such a creature, must be 
 stirring in his grave. 
 
 "Do you know his wife too?" 
 
 "Oh yes. In a way I know Agnes. But thank you for 
 this tobacco. Last night I nearly died. I have no money." 
 
 "Take the whole pouch — do." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation he did. "Fight the good" 
 had scarcely ended, so quickly had their intimacy grown 
 
 "I suppose you're a friend of Rickie's?" 
 
 —243— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Ansell was tempted to reply, "I don't know him at all." 
 But it seemed no moment for the severer truths, so he said, 
 "I knew him well at Cambridge, but I have seen very little 
 of him since." 
 
 "Is it true that his baby was lame ?" 
 
 "I believe so." 
 
 His teeth closed on his pipe. Chapel was over. The 
 organist was prancing through the voluntary, and the first 
 ripple of boys had already reached Dunwood House. In 
 a few minutes the masters would be here too, and Ansell, 
 who was becoming interested, hurried the conversation 
 forward. 
 
 "Have you come far?" 
 
 "From Wiltshire. Do you know Wiltshire?" And for 
 the first time there came into his face thg^jhadow^of a 
 sentimeut, the passing^^ tribute to .some myste^^^TTs'a 
 good country. I live in one of the finest 'valleys out of 
 Salisbury Plain. I mean, I lived." 
 
 "Have you been dismissed from Cadover, without a penny 
 in your pocket?" 
 
 He was alarmed at this. Such knowledge seemed simply 
 diabolical. Ansell explained that if his boots were chalky, 
 if his clothes had obviously been .slept in, if he knew Mrs. 
 Failing, if he knew Wiltshire, and if he could buy no tobacco 
 — then the deduction was possible. "You do just attend," 
 he murmured. 
 
 The house was filling with boys, and Ansell saw, to his 
 regret, the head of Agnes over the thuyia hedge that sep- 
 arated the small front garden from the side lawn where he 
 was sitting. After a few minutes it was followed by the 
 heads of 'Rickie and Mr. Pembroke. All the heads were 
 turned the other way. But they would find his card in the 
 hall, and if the man had left any message they would find 
 that too. "What are you ?" he demanded. "Who are you — 
 your name — I don't care about that. But it interests me to 
 class jpegple, and up to now I have failed with 5^53;"' 
 
 —244— 
 
Sawston 
 
 "I — " He stopped. Ansell reflected that there are worse 
 answers. "I really don't know what I am. Used to think | 
 I was something special, but strikes me now I feel much like 
 other chaps. Used to look down on the labourers. Used 
 to take for granted I was a gentleman, but really I don't 
 know where I do belong." 
 
 "One belongs to the place one sleeps in and to the people 
 one eats with." 
 
 "As often as not I sleep out of doors and eat by myself, 
 so that doesn't get you any further." 
 
 A silence, akin to poetry, invaded Ansell. Was it only 
 a pose to like this man, or was he really wonderful? He 
 was not romantic, for Romance is a figure with outstretched 
 hands, yearning for the unattainable. Certain figures of 
 the Greeks, to whom we continually return, suggested him 
 a little. One expected nothing of him — no purity of phrase 
 nor §wift edged Jjjought. Yet the conviction grew that he 
 had been back somewhere — back to some table of the gods, 
 spread in a field where there is no noise, and that he belonged 
 for ever to the guests with whom he had eaten. 
 
 Meanwhile he was simple and frank, and what he could 
 tell he would tell to any one. He had not the suburban 
 reticence. Ansell asked him, "W jhy. d id M rs. Fai ling 
 turn you out of Cadaver? I should liice to hear that 
 too." 
 
 "Because^he was tired of me. Because, again, I couldn't 
 keep quiet over the farm hands. I ask you, is it right?" 
 He became incoherent. Ansell caught, "And they grow old 
 — they don't play games— it ends they can't play." An illus- 
 tration emerged. "Take a kitten — if you fool about with 
 her, she goes on playing well into a cat." 
 
 "But Mrs. Failing minded no mice being caught." 
 
 "Mice ?" said the young man blankly. "What I was going 
 
 to say is, tha t some one was jealous o f my being..at CadoY£.r. 
 
 I'll mention no names, but I fancy it was ^rs. Silt . I'm 
 
 sorry for her if it was. Anyhow, she set Mrs. Failing 
 
 —245— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 against me. It came on the top of other things — ^and out 
 I went." 
 
 "What did Mrs. Silt, whose name I don't mention, say?" 
 
 He looked guilty. "I don't know. Easy enough to find 
 something to say. The point is that she said something. 
 You know, Mr. — I don't know your name, mine's JA^onham. 
 but I'm more grateful than I can put it over this tobacco. 
 I mean, you ought to know there is another side to this 
 quarrel. It's wrong, but it's there." 
 
 Ansell told him not to be uneasy : he had already guessed 
 that there might be another side. But he could not make 
 out why Mr. Wonham should have come straight from the 
 aunt to the nephew. They were now sitting on the upturned 
 seat. "WhatJWe Want," ja. good dfial-^hattetsd, lay between 
 them. 
 
 "On account of above-mentioned reasons, there was a row. 
 I don't know — ^you can guess the style of thing. She wanted 
 to treat me to the colonies, and had up the parson to talk 
 soft-sawder and make out that a boundless continent was the 
 place for a lad like me. I said, T can't run up to the Rings 
 without getting tired, nor gallop a horse out of this view 
 without tiring it, so what is the point of a boundless con- 
 tinent?' Then I^^aw that she was frightened of me, and 
 bluffed a bit more, and" in tlie" end I was"hippeI'~"SliFcaught 
 me — just like her — when I had nothing on but flannels, and 
 was coming into the house, having licked the Cadchurch 
 team. She stood up in the doorway between those stone 
 pilasters and said, 'No ! Never again 1' and behind her was 
 \ yilbraham , whom I tried to turn out, and the gardener, and 
 poor old Leighton, who hates being hurt. She said, 'There's 
 a hundred pounds for you at the London bank, and as much 
 more in December. Go !' I said, 'Keep your — money, and 
 tell me whose son I a m.' I didn't care really. I only said 
 it on ffiroflraiance of hurting her. Sure enough, she caught 
 on to the door-handle pieing^la me) and said, 'I can't— I 
 promised— I don't really want t67°and Wilbraham did stare. 
 — 246 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 Then — she's very queer — she burst out laughing, and went 
 for the packet after all, and we heard her laugh through 
 the window as she got it. She rolled it at me down the 
 steps, and she says, 'A leaf out of the eternal comedy for 
 you, Stephen,' or something of that sort. I opened it as 
 I walked down the drive, she laughing always and catching 
 on to the handle of the front door. Of course it wasn't 
 comic at all. But down in the village there were both 
 cricket teams, already a little tight, and the mad plumber 
 shouting 'Rights of Man!' They knew I was turned out. 
 We did have a row, and kept it up too. They daren't 
 touch Wilbraham's windows, but there isn't much glass left 
 up at Cadover. When you start, it's worth going oh, but 
 in the end I had to cut. They subscribed a bob here and a 
 bob there, and these are Flea Thompson's Sundays. I sent 
 a line to Leighton not to forward my own things: I don't 
 fancy them. They aren't really mine." He did not men- 
 tion his great symbolic act, performed, it is to be feared, 
 when he was rather drunk and the friendly policeman was 
 looking the other way. He had cast all his flannels into the 
 little millpond, and then waded himself through the dark 
 cold water to the new clothes on the other side. Some one i 
 had flung his pipe and his packet after him. The packet f! 
 had fallen short. For this reason it was wet when he handed [ 
 it to Ansell, and ink that had been dry for twenty-three i 
 years had begun to run again. 
 
 "I wondered if you're right about the hundred pounds," 
 said Ansell gravely. "It is pleasant to be proud, but it is 
 unpleasant to die in the night through not having any 
 tobacco." 
 
 "But I'm not proud. Look how I've taken your pouch! 
 The hundred pounds was — well, can't you see yourself, it 
 was quite different? It was, so to speak, inconvenient for 
 me to take the hundred pounds. Or look again how I took 
 a shilling from a boy who earns nine bob a-week ! Proves 
 pretty conclusively I'm not proud." 
 
 —247— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 __ — ^,^ I 
 
 ( Ansell feaw it was useless to argue. He perceived, beneath 
 the :3gttemlx use . of, words, the man, — buttoned up in them, 
 'just as his body was buttoned up in a shoddy suit, — and he 
 iwondered more than ever that snch a man should know th e 
 ,Elliqts^__He lopked at the face, which was 4£aak^. proud, 
 and"beautiful, j,f Jtruth__is^beauty. Of mercy or tact such 
 a face knew little. It might be coarse^ but it had in it 
 nothing vulear or wantonly cruel. "May I read these 
 papers?" he said. 
 J "Of course. Oh yes; didn't I say? I'm jlickie's ha lf- 
 Ibrother, come here to tell him^j bajafflys. He doesn't know. 
 /There it is, put shortly for you. I was saying, though, 
 that I bolted in the dark, slept in the rifle-butts above 
 Salisbury, — the sheds where they keep the cardboard men, 
 you know, never locked up as they ought to be. I turned 
 the whole place upside down to teach them." 
 
 "Here is your packet again," said Ansell. "Thank you. 
 How interesting!" He rose from the seat and turned 
 towards Dunwood House. He looked at the bow-^windows, 
 the cheap picturesque gables, the terra-cotta dragons clawing 
 a dirty sky. He listened to the clink of plates and to the 
 voice of Mr. Pembroke taking one of his innumerable roll- 
 calls. He looked at the bed of lobelias. How interesting! 
 What else was there to say? 
 
 "One must be the son of some one," remarked Stephen. 
 And that was all he had to say. To him those names on 
 the moistened paper were mere antiquities. He was neither 
 proud of them nor ashamed. A^man must h ave parent s, 
 or,j]ie_rannot enter the delightful worHT' A man, if he has 
 a brother, may THasonaSly visit him, for they may have inter- 
 ests in common. He continued his narrative, — ^how in the 
 night he had heard the clocks, how at daybreak, instead of 
 entering the city, he had struck eastward to save money, 
 — ^while Ansell still looked at the house and found that all 
 his imagination and knowledge could lead him no farther 
 than this : how interesting ! 
 
 —248— 
 
Sawston 
 
 " — And -what do you think of that for a holy horror?" 
 
 "For a what ?" said Ansell, his thoughts far away. 
 
 "This man I am telling you about, who gave me a lift 
 towards Andover, who said I was a blot on God's earth." 
 
 One o'clock struck. It was strange that neither of them 
 had had any summons from the house. 
 
 "He said I ought to be ashamed of myself. He said, 
 'I'll not be the means of bringing shame to an honest gentle- 
 man and lady.' I told him not to be a fool. I said I knew 
 
 what I was about. v5i£!ii^-2^'^"^"'^-SQS^?^I?-£J^P^Jy educated, 
 which leads people to look at things straight, and nof gd 
 screaming about blots. A man like me, with just a little 
 reading at odd hours — I've got so far, and Rickie has beeiJ 
 through Cambridge." 
 
 "And Mrs. Elliot?" 
 
 "Oh, she won't mind, and I told the man so ; but he kept 
 on saying, 7'11 not be the means of bringing shame to an 
 honest gentleman and lady,' until I got out of his rotten 
 cart." His eye watched the man+ a ,Nonconf ormist, jdriving 
 away gy£r_God's. earth. "I caught the train by running. 
 I got to Waterloo at " 
 
 Here the parlour-maid fluttered towards them. Would 
 Mr. Wonham come in? Mrs. Elliot would be glad to see 
 him now. 
 
 "Mrs. Elliot?" cried Ansell. "Not Mr. Elliot?" 
 
 "It's all the same," said Stephen, and moved towards the 
 house. "You see, I only left my name. They don't know 
 why I've come." 
 
 "Perhaps Mr. Elliot sees me meanwhile?" 
 
 The parlour-maid looked blank. Mr. Elliot had not said 
 so. He had been with Mrs. Elliot and Mr. Pembroke in the 
 study. Now the gentlemen had gone upstairs. 
 
 "All right, I can wait." After all, Rickie was treating him I 
 as he had treated Rickie, as one in the grave, to whom it is 
 futile to make any loving motion. Gone upstairs — to brush 
 his hair for dinner ! The irony of the situation appealed to 
 
 —249— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 '^him strongly. It reminded him of the Greek Drama, where 
 
 i the actors know so little and the spectators so much. 
 
 '^ "But, by the bye," he called after Stephen, "I think I 
 
 ought to tell you — don't " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Don't " Then he was silent. He had been tempted 
 
 to explain everything, to tell the fellow how things stood, — 
 
 that he must avoid this if he wanted to attain that; that 
 
 he must break the news to Rickie gently ; that he must have 
 
 at least one battle royal with Agnes. But it was contrary 
 
 to his own spirit to coach people : he-iieldjthe. h uman s oul 
 
 tp be a very deljcate thing, which can receive eternal damage 
 
 ffrom a little patroriage. Stephen must go into the house 
 
 \simply as himself, for thus alone would he remain there. 
 
 \ "I ought to knock my pipe out? Was that it?" 
 
 "By no means. Go in, your pipe and you." 
 
 He hesitated, jorn betw een cropriety and desire . Then 
 
 he followed the paflour-maid into the house smoking. As 
 
 he entered the dinner-bell rang, and there was the sound of 
 
 rushing feet, which died away into shuffling and silence. 
 
 Through the window of the boys' dining-hall came the 
 
 colourless voice of Rickie — 
 
 " 'Benedictus benedicat.' " 
 
 Ansell prepared himself to witness the second act of 
 the drama ; forgetting Jtljai..alLJ-Ws world, and }iot_j[)ajt^of 
 it, is a stage. "~ 
 
 —250— 
 
XXVII 
 
 THE parlour-maid took Mr. Wonham to the study. 
 He had been in the drawing-room before, but had 
 got bored, and so had strolled out into the garden. 
 Now he was in better spirits, as a man ought to be who 
 has knocked down a man. As he passed through the hall 
 he sparred at the teak monkey, and hung his cap on the 
 bust of Hermes. And he greeted Mrs. Elliot with a pleas- 
 ant clap of laughter. "Oh, I've come with the most tre- 
 mendous news !" he cried. 
 
 She bowed, but did not shake hands, which rather sur- 
 prised him. But he^ never troubled over "details." He 
 seldom watched people, and never thought that they were 
 watching him. Nor could he guess how much it meant 
 to her that he should enter her presence smoking. Had 
 she not said once at Cadover, "Oh, please smoke ; I love the 
 smell of a pipe" ? 
 
 "Would you sit down? Exactly there, please." She 
 placed him at a large table, opposite an inkpot and a pad of 
 blotting-paper, "Will you tell your 'tremendous news' to 
 me? My brother and my husband are giving the boys 
 their dinner." 
 
 "Ah !" said Stephen, who had had neither time nor 
 money for breakfast in London. 
 
 "I told them not to wait for me." 
 
 So he came to the point at once. He trusted this han d- 
 sgme Jjconian. His strength and his youth called to hefS, 
 expecting no prudish response. "It's very odd. It is that 
 I'm Rickie's brother. I've just found out. I've come to 
 tell you all." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 —251— 
 
The Longest Journey- 
 
 He felt in his pocket for the papers. "Half-brother I 
 ought to have said." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I'm illegitimate. Legally speaking, that is, I've been 
 turned out of Cadover. I haven't a penny. I " 
 
 "There is no occasion to infli ct the ^pt aih." Her face, 
 which had been an even brown, began to flush slowly 
 in the centre of the cheeks. The colour spread till all that 
 he saw of her was suffused, and she turned away. He 
 thought he had shocked her, and so did she. Neither knew 
 that the body can be insincere and express not the emotions 
 ^,we feel but those that we should like to feel. In reality 
 ■she was quite calm, and her dislike of him had nothing 
 emotional in it as yet. 
 
 "You see " he began. He was determined to tell tlie 
 
 fidgety Story, for the sooner it was over the sooner they 
 would have something to eat. JPelicacy he lacked^ and his 
 sympathies were limited. But such as they were, they rang 
 true: he put no decorous phantom between him and his 
 desires. 
 
 "I do see. I have seen for two years." She sat down 
 at the head of the table, where there was another ink-pot. 
 Into this she dipped a pen. "I have seen everything, Mr. 
 Wonham — who you are, how you have behaved at Cadover, 
 how you must have treated Mrs. Failing yesterday; and 
 now" — her voice became very grave — "I see why you have 
 come here, penniless. Before you speak, we know what 
 you will say." 
 
 His mouth fell open, and he laughed so merrily that it 
 might have given her a warning. But she was thinking 
 how to follow up her first success. "And I thought I was 
 bringing tremendous news!" he cried. "I only twisted it 
 out of Mrs. Failing last night. And Rickie knows too?" 
 
 "We have known for two years." 
 
 "But come, by the bye, if you've known for two years, 
 how is it you didn't " The laugh died out of his eyes. 
 
 — aca — 
 
Sawston 
 
 "You aren't ashamed?" he asked, half rising from his chair. 
 "You aren't lik e the man towards Andover ?" 
 
 "Please, please sit down," said'Agnes, in the even tones 
 she used when speaking to the servants; "let us not discuss 
 side issues. I am a horribly direct person, Mr. Wonham. 
 I go always straight to the point." She opened a cheque- 
 book. "I am afraid I shall shock you. For how much ?" 
 
 He was not attending. 
 
 "There is the paper we suggest you shall sign." She 
 pushed towards him a pseudo-legal document, just com- 
 posed by Herbert. 
 
 " 'In consideration of the sum of , I agree to 
 
 perpetual silence — to restrain from libellous . . . never to 
 molest the said Frederick Elliot by intruding ' " 
 
 His brain was not quick. He read the document over 
 twice, and he could still say, "But what's that cheque for?" 
 
 "It is my husband's. He signed for you as soon as we 
 heard you were here. We guessed you had come to be 
 silenced. Here is his signature. But he has left the filling 
 in for me. For how much? I will cross it, shall I? Y'ou 
 will just have started a banking account, if I understand 
 Mrs. Failing rightly. It is not quite accurate to say you 
 are penniless: I heard from her just before you returned 
 from your cricket. She allows you two hundred a-year, 
 I think. But this additional sum — shall I date the cheque 
 Saturday or for tomorrow?" 
 
 At last he found words. Knocking his pipe out on the 
 table, he said slowly, "Here's a very bad mistake." 
 
 "It is quite possible," retorted Agnes. She was glad 
 she had taken the offensive, instead of waiting t ill, he bc - 
 gan his -blackmailing;^^ as had been the advice of R.ickle. 
 Aunt Emily had said that very spring, "One's only liope 
 with Stephen is to start bullying first." Here he was, 
 quite bewildered, smearing the pipe-ashes with his thumb. 
 He asked to read the document again. "A stamp and all !" 
 he remarked. 
 
 — 2C7 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 They had anticipated that his claim would exceed two 
 pounds. 
 
 "I see. All right. It takes a fool a minute. Never 
 mind. I've made a bad mistake." 
 
 "You refuse?" she exclaimed, for he was standing at 
 the door. "Then do your worst! We defy you!" 
 
 "That's all right, Mrs. Elliot," he said roughly. "I don't 
 want a scene with you, nor yet with your husband. We'll 
 say no more about it. It's all right. I mean no harm." 
 
 "But your signature then ! You must sign — ^you " 
 
 He pushed past her, and said as he reached for his cap, 
 -i'There, that's all right. It's my mistake. I'm sorry." He 
 ) spoke like a farmer who has failed to sell a sheep. His 
 ] manner was utterly prosaic, and up to the last she thought 
 ^he had not understood her. "But it's money we offer 
 you," she informed him., and then darted back to the study, 
 believing for one terrible moment that he had picked up the 
 blank cheque. When she returned to the hall he had gone. 
 He was walking down the road rather quickly. At the 
 corner he cleared his throat, spat into the gutter, and dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 "There's an odd finish," she thought. Sh^jsKas puzzled, 
 and de termined to r ecast Jhe interview a liJfle^,wKeH~She 
 related it to Rickie. She had Hot succeeded, for the paper 
 was still unsigned. But she had so cowed Stephen that he 
 would probably rest content with his two hundred a-year, 
 fa-nd never come troubling them again. Qever management, 
 I for one knew him to be rapacious : she had heard tales of 
 Hiim lending to the poor and exacting repayment to the 
 uttermost farthing. He had also stolen at school. Moder- 
 ately triumphant, she hurried into the side-garden: she 
 had just remembered Ansell: she, not Rickie, had received 
 his card. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ansell!" she exclaimed, awaking him from 
 some day-dream. "Haven't either Rickie or Herbert been 
 out to you ? Now, do come into dinner, to show you aren't 
 
 —254— 
 
Sawston 
 
 offended. You will find all of us assembled in the boys' 
 dining-hall." 
 
 To Jjer_annoyance he accepted. 
 
 "That is, if the' Jacksons are not expecting you." 
 
 The Jacksons did not matter. If he might brush his 
 clothes and bathe his lip, he would like to come. 
 
 "Oh, what has happened to you? And oh, my pretty 
 lobelias !" 
 
 He replied, "J^. momentary .jcontg^t. withj;eality/' and she, 
 who did not look for sense in his remarks, hurried away to 
 the dining-hall to announce him. 
 
 The dining-hall was not unlike the preparation room. 
 There was the same parquet floor, and dado of shiny pitch- 
 pine. On its walls also were imperial portraits, and over 
 the harmonium to which they sang the evening hymns was 
 spread the Union Jack. Sunday dinner, the most pompoui 
 meal of the week, was in progress. Her brother sat at 
 the head of the higli table, her husband at the head of the 
 second. To each she gave a reassuring nod and went to 
 her own seat, which was among the junior boys. The beef 
 was being carried out ; she stopped it. "Mr. Ansell is com- 
 ing," she called. "Herbert, there is more room by yon; 
 sit up straight, boys." The boys sat up straight, and a 
 respectful hush spread over the room. 
 
 "Here he is!" called Rickie cheerfully, taking his cue 
 from his wife. "Oh, this is splendid!" Ansell came in. 
 "I'm so glad you managed this. I couldn't leave these 
 wretches la^t night!" The boys tittered, suitably. The 
 atmosphere seemed normal. Even Herbert, though long- 
 ing to hear what bad happened to the blackmailer, gave 
 adequate greeting to their guest: "Come in, Mr. Ansel!; 
 come here. Take us as you find us!" 
 
 "I understood," said Stewart, "that I should find you 
 all. Mrs. Elliot told me I should. On that understand- 
 ing I came." 
 
 It was at once evident that something had gone wrong. 
 
 —255— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Ansell looked round the room carefully. Then clear- 
 ing his throat and ruffling his hair, he began — 
 
 "I cannot see the man with whom I have talked, in- 
 timately, for an hour, in your garden." 
 
 The worst of it was they were all so far from him and 
 from each other, each at the end of a tableful of inquisitive 
 boys. The two masters looked at Agnes for information, 
 for her reassuring nod had not told them much. She looked 
 hopelessly back. 
 
 "I cannot see this man," repeated Ansell, who remained 
 by the harmonium in the midst of astonished waitresses. 
 "Is he to be given no lunch?" 
 
 Herbert broke the silence by fresh greetings. Ricki e 
 jlcnew th at the cont est- wap bst. and th^. his fnend had 
 sided with,thie>.£nemy: It was the kind of thing he woufd 
 ndo. One must face the catastrophe quietly and with dig- 
 nity. Perhaps Ansell would have turned on his heel, and 
 left behind him only vague suspicions, • if Mrs,. Elliot had 
 not tried to talk him down. "Man," she cried — "what man? 
 Oh, I know — terrible bore!! Did he get hold of you?" — 
 thus committing their first blunder, and causing Ansell to 
 say to Rickie, "Have you seen your brother?" 
 
 "I have not." 
 
 "Have you been told he was here?" 
 
 Rickie's answer was inaudible. 
 
 "Have you been told you have a brother?" 
 
 "Let us continue this conversation later." 
 
 "Continue it ? My dear man, how can we until you know 
 what I'm talking about? You must think me mad; but I 
 tell you solemnly that you have a brother of whom you've 
 never heard, and that he was in this house ten minutes 
 ago." He paused impressively. "Your wife has happened 
 to see him first. Being neither serious nor truth ful, she 
 is^ keeping, you apart, telling Inm some fie andUot telling 
 you a word." 
 There was a murmur of alarm. One of the prefects 
 — 256 — 
 
Sawston 
 
 rose, and Ansell set his back to the wall, quite ready for a 
 battle. For two years he had waited for his opportunity. 
 He would hit out at Mrs. Elliot like any ploughboy now 
 that it had come. Rickie said : "There is a slight misunder- 
 standing. I, like my wife, have known what there is to 
 know for two years" — a digniiied rebuff, bul ^ their secon d 
 blunder. 
 
 "^'^'Exactly," said Agnes. "Now I think Mr. Ansell had 
 better go." 
 
 "Go?" exploded Ansell. "I've everything to say yet. 
 I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elliot, I am concerned with you 
 no longer. This man" — he turned to the avenue of faces — 
 "this^man,who teaches you has a brother. He has known 
 of him two years and .been ashamed. He has — oh — oh — 
 how it fits together ! Rickie, it's you, not j^Ers ^Silt. who 
 must have sent tales of him to your aunt. It's you who've 
 turned him out of Cadover. It's you who've ordered him 
 to be ruined today. Mrs. Elliot, I beg your pardon." 
 
 Now Herbert arose. "Out of my sight, sir ! But have 
 it from me first that Rickie and his aunt have both behaved 
 most generously. No, no, Agnes, I will not be interrupted. 
 Garbled versions must not get about. If the Wonham man 
 is not satisfied now, he must be insatiable. He cannot 
 levy blackmail on us for ever. Sir, I give you two minutes ; 
 then you will be expelled by force." 
 
 "Two minutes!" sang Ansell. "I can say a great deal 
 in that." He put one foot on a chair and held his arms 
 over the quivering room. He teamed jtiansfigured into a 
 Hebrew prophet passionate for satire and the truth . "Oh, 
 keep quiet for two minutes," he cried, "and I'll tell you 
 something you'll be glad to hear. You'r g a little afra id 
 Stephen may come back. Don't be afraid. I bring good 
 news. You'll never see him nor any one like him again. 
 I must speak very plainly, for .you are all three^iflpls. I 
 don't want you to say afterwards, 'Poor Mr. Ansell tried to 
 be clever.' Generally I don't mind, but I should mind 
 
 —257— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 l^today. Please listen. Stepjie n is a bully ; he_ drinks; he 
 \ kpocks one (Jpwn ; but h^.jKOuld sooner_die than take 
 /money from peogle he^i^not love. Perhaps he will13iel[ 
 /for he has nothing but a few pence that the poor gave 
 him and some tobacco which, to my eternal glory, he ac- 
 cepted from me. Please listen again. Why did he come 
 here ? Because he thought y6u-JK9UM_l2i£ -^^It ^"^ was 
 ready to love you. But I tell you, don't be afraid. He 
 would sobiier die liow than say you were his brother. Per- 
 haps he wil Ldie. for he has nothing but a few pence that 
 the poor gave him and some tobacco which, to my eternal 
 
 glory, he accepted from me. Please listen again " 
 
 "Now, Stewart, don't go on like that," said Rickie bitterly. 
 "It's easy e nough to preach when you a£e_acL outsider. 
 You would be more charitable if such a thing had happened 
 to yourself. Easy enough to be unconventional when you 
 haven't suffered and know nothing of the facts. You love 
 anything out o f the way, anything queer, that doesn't often 
 happen, and so you get excited over this. It's useless, my 
 dear man ; you have hurt me, but you will never upset m e. 
 As soon as you stop this* ridiculous scene we will finish 
 our dinner. Spread this scandal; add to it. I'm too old 
 to mind such nonsense. I cannot help my father's dis- 
 grace, on the one hand; nor, on the other, will I have 
 anything to do with his blackguard of a son." 
 " So the secret was given to the world. Agnes might 
 colour at his speech; Herbert might calculate the effect 
 of it on the entries for Dunwood House ; but he cared for 
 none of these things. Thank God! he was withered up at 
 last. 
 
 "Please listen again," resumed Ansell. "Please correct 
 -two slight mistakes: firstly, Stephen is o ne of the great est 
 people I have ever rnet; secondly, h e's iiot your iaffiSrs 
 son. H?s the aon of your mother." 
 
 It was Rickie, not Ansell, who was carried from the hall- 
 and it was Herbert who pronounced the blessing — 
 
 —258— 
 
Sawston 
 
 "Benedicto benedicatur." 
 
 A profound stillness succeeded the storm, and the boys, 
 slipping away from their meal," told the news to the rest 
 of the school, or put it in the letters they were writing home. 
 
 —259— 
 
XXVIII 
 
 THE _soul has her own currency. She mints her 
 spiritual coinage and stamps it with the image 
 of some beloved face. With it she pays her 
 debts, with it she reckons, saying, "This man has worth, 
 this man is worthless." And in time she forgets its origin; 
 it seems to her to be a thing unalterable, divine. But the 
 soul can also have her bankruptcies. 
 
 Perhaps she will be the richer in the end. In her agony 
 she learns to reckon clearly. Fair as the coin may have 
 been, it was not accurate; and though she knew it not, 
 there were treasures that it could not buy. The face, 
 however beloved, was mortal, and as liable as the soul her- 
 self to err. We do but shift responsibility by making a 
 standard of the dead. 
 
 There is, indeed, another coinage that bears on it not 
 man's image but God's. It is incorruptible, and the soul 
 may trust it safely; it will serve her beyond the stars. 
 But it cannot give us friends, or the embrace of a lover, or 
 the touch of children, for with our fellow-mortals it has no 
 concern. It cannot even give the joys we call trivial — fine 
 weather, the pleasures of meat and drink, bathing and the 
 hot sand afterwards, running, dreamless sleep. Have we 
 Jeamt the true discipline of a bankruptcy if we turn to 
 such coinage as this? W^^it reallyprofit usso ^much H 
 we^save our souls and Jose tlie~ wh6Ie~ wori3T^ 
 
 —260^ 
 
Part III— Wiltshire 
 
XXIX 
 
 ROBERT — ^there is no occasion to mention his sur- 
 name : he was a young farmer of some education 
 who tried to coax the aged soil of Wiltshire 
 scientitically — came to Cadover on business and fell in love 
 wiUi„M^, Elliot. She was there on her bridal visit, and 
 he, an obscure nobody, was received by Mrs. Failing into 
 the house and treated as her social equal. He was good- 
 looking in a bucolic way, and people sometimes mistook 
 him for a gentleman until they saw his hands. He discov- 
 ered this, and one of the slow, gentle jokes he played on 
 society wa? to talk upon some cultured subject with his 
 hands behind his back and then suddenly reveal them. "Do 
 you go in for boating?" the lady would ask; and then he 
 explained that those particular weals are made by the handles 
 of the plough. Upon which she became extremely inter- 
 ested, but found an early opportunity of talking to some 
 one else. 
 
 He played this joke on Mrs. Elliot the first evening, not 
 knowing that she observed him as he entered the room. 
 He walked heavily, lifting his feet as if the carpet was fur- 
 rowed, and he had no evening clothes. Every one tried 
 to put him at his ease, but she rather suspected that he was 
 there already, and envied him. They were introduced, and 
 spoke of Byron, who was still fashionable. Out came his 
 hands — the only rough hands in the drawing-room, the only 
 hands that had ever worked. She was filled with some 
 sfi-ange approval, and liked him. 
 
 After dinner they met again, to speak not of Byron but 
 of manure. The other people were so clever and so amus- 
 ing that it relieved her to listen to a man who told her three 
 
 —263— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 times not to buy artificial manure ready made, but, if she 
 would use it, to make it herself at the last moment. Be- 
 cause the ammonia evaporated. Here were two packets of 
 powder. Did they smell? No. Mix them together and 
 pour some coffee — An appalling smell at once burst forth, 
 and every one began to cough and cry. This was good for 
 the earth when she felt sour, for he knew when the earth 
 was ill. He knew, too, when she was hungry: he spoke of 
 her tantrums — the strange unscientific element in her that 
 will baffle the scientist to the end of time. "Study away, 
 Mrs. Elliot," he told her; "read all the books you can get 
 hold of; but when it comes to the point, stroll out with a 
 pipe in youi' mouth and do a bit of guessing." As he 
 talked, the earth became a living being — or rather a being 
 with a living skin, — and mamrreno longer dirty stuff, but 
 a symbol of regeneration and of~flie birth of life from life. 
 "So it goes on for ever !" she cried excitedly. He'rHplieS': 
 "Not for ever. In time the fire at the centre will cool, and 
 nothing can go on then." 
 
 He advanced into love with open eyes, slowly, heavily, 
 just as he had advanced across the drawing-room carpet. 
 But this time the bride did not observe his tread. She was 
 
 f listening to her husband, and trying not to be so stupid, 
 hen he was close to her — so close that it was difficult not 
 take her in his arms — he spoke to Mr. Failing, and was 
 once turned out of Cadover. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Mr. Failing, as he walked down the 
 drive with his hand on his guest's shoulder. "I had no 
 notion you were that sort. Any one who behaves like that 
 has to stop at the farm." 
 "Any one?" 
 
 "Any one." He sighed heavily, not for any personal 
 grievance, but because he saw how unruly, how barbaric, 
 is^t^jmd of jnan. After all, this man was more civilized 
 than most. 
 
 "Are you angry with me, sir?" He called him "sir," 
 — 264 — 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 not because he was richer or cleverer or smarter, not be- 
 cause he had helped to educate him and had lent him money, 
 but for a reason more profound — for the reason that there 
 are gradations in heaven. 
 
 "I did think you — that a man like you wouldn't risk 
 making people unhappy. My sister-in-law — I don't say this 
 to stop you loving her; something else must do tfiat — my 
 sister-in-law, as far as I know, doesn't care for you one 
 little bit. If you had said anything, if she had guessed 
 that a chance person was in this fearful state, you would 
 simply have opened hell. A woman of her sort would 
 have lost all " 
 
 "I knew that." 
 
 Mr. Failing removed his hand. He was displeased. 
 
 "But something here," said Robert incoherently. "This 
 here." He struck himself heavily on the heart. "This 
 here, doing something so unusual, makes it not matter 
 
 what she loses — I " After a silence he asked, "Have 
 
 I quite followed you, sir, in that bugijness of the brotherhood 
 of man?" 
 
 "How do you mean?" 
 
 "I Jjiought love was to bring[_it about." 
 
 "Love of another man 's wife ? Sensual love? You have 
 understood nothing — nothing." Then he was ashamed, and 
 cried, "I understand nothing myself." For he remembered 
 thatjensual and spiritual are not easy words to "use; "that 
 there are, perhaps, not two Aphrodites, but "one Aphrodite 
 with a Janus face. "I only understand that you must try to 
 forget her." 
 
 "I will not try." 
 
 "Promise me just this, then — not to do anything crooked." 
 
 "I'm straight. No boasting, but I couldn't do a crooked 
 thing — no, not if I tried." 
 
 And so appallingly straight was he in after years, that 
 Mr. Failing wished that he had phrased the promise difiFer- 
 ently. 
 
 —265— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 Robert simply waited. He told himself that it was hope- 
 less; but something deeper than himself declared that there 
 was hope. He gave up drink, and kept himself in all ways 
 clean, for he wanted to be worthy of her when the time 
 came. Women seemed fond ^ him, and caused him to re- 
 flect witir pleasure, "They do run after me. There must 
 be something in me. Good. I'd be done for if there 
 wasn't." For six years he turned up the earth of Wilt- 
 shire, and read books for the sake of his mind, and talked 
 to gentlemen for the sake of their piitois , and each year 
 he rode to Cadover to take off his hat to~Mrs. Elliot, and, 
 perhaps, to speak to her about the crops. Mr. Failing 
 was generally present, and it struck neither man that those 
 dull little visits were so many words out of which a lone!}' 
 woman might build sentences. Then Robert went to I,on- 
 don on business. He chanced to see Mr. Elliot with a 
 strange lady. The time had come. ''"" ~~ 
 
 "He became diplomatic, and called at Mr. Elliot's rooms 
 to find things out. For if Mrs. Elliot was happier than 
 he could ever make her, he would withdraw, and love her 
 in renunciation. But if he could make her happier, ha 
 would love her in fulfilment. Mr. Elliot admitted him as 
 a friend of his brother-in-law's, and felt very broad-minded 
 as he did so. Robert, however, was a success. The young- 
 ish men there found him interesting, and liked to shock 
 him with tales of naughty London and naughtier Paris. 
 They spoke of "experience" and "sensations" and "seeing 
 life," and when a smile ploughed over his face, concluded 
 :hat his prudery was vanquished. He saw that they were 
 nuch less vicious than they supposed : one boy had obviously 
 Jread his sensations in a book. But he could pardon 
 itiss, What he_ could not pardon was triviaHty, anS He hopSfl 
 ithat no decent woman could pardon it either. There grew 
 [up in him a cold, steady anger against these silly people 
 who thought it advanced to be shocking, and who described, 
 as something particularly choice and educational, things that 
 
 —266— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 he had understood and fought against for years. He in- 
 quired after Mrs. Elliot, and a boy tittered. It seemed 
 that she "did not know," that she lived in a remote suburb, 
 taking care of a skinny baby. "I shall call some time 
 or other," said Robert. "Do," said Mr. Elliot, smiling. 
 And next time he saw his wife he^congratulated her orLher 
 rustic admirer. 
 
 She had suffered terribly. She had asked for bread, 
 and had been given not even a stone. People talk of hunger- 
 ing for the ideal, but there is another hunger, quite as 
 divine, for facts. She had asked for facts and had been 
 given "views," "emotional standpoints," "attitudes towards 
 Ufe." To a woman who believed that facts are beautiful, 
 that the living world is beautiful beyond the laws of beauty, 
 that manure is neither gross nor ludicrous, that a fire, not 
 eternal, glows at the heart of the earth, it was intolerable to 
 be put off with what the Elliots called "philosophy," and, if 
 she refused, to be told that she had no sense of humour. 
 "Marrying into the Elliot family." It had sounded no 
 splendid, for she was a penniless child with nothing to otTer, 
 and the Elliots held their heads high. For what reason? 
 What had they ever done, except say sarcastic things, and 
 limp, and be refined? Mr. Failing suffered too, but she 
 suffered more, inasmuch as Frederick was more impossible 
 than Emily. „He djd not likeJier, hej)ractically, lived jipart, 
 ^he jwas not even faithful or polite. These were grave 
 faults, but they were human on^iTshe could even imagine 
 them in a man she loved. What shg..CQjjld never love was 
 a dilettante. 
 
 Robert brought her an armful of sweet-peas. He laid 
 it on the table, put his hands behind his back, and kept them 
 there till the end of the visit. She knew quite well why 
 he had come, and though she also knew that he would fail, 
 ,shfi loved hjacutaQ. much to snub him or to stare in virtuous 
 indignation. "Why have "you come?" she asked gravely, 
 "and why have you brought me so many flowers ?" 
 
 — 267 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "My garden is full of them," he answered. "Sweet-peas 
 need picking down. And, generally speaking, flowers are 
 plentiful in July." 
 
 She broke his present into 'bunches — so much for tiie 
 drawing-room, so much for the nursery, so much for the 
 kitchen and her husband's room : he would be down for the 
 night. The most beautiful she would keep for herself. 
 Presently he said, "Your husband is no gpod. I've watched 
 him for a week. I'm thirty, and not what you call hasty, 
 as I used to be, or thinking that nothing matters like the 
 French. No. I'm a plain Britisher, yet — I I've be- 
 gun wrong end, Mrs. Elliot; I should have said that I've 
 thought chiefly of you for six years, and that though I 
 talk here so respectfully, if I once unhooked my hands " 
 
 There was a pause. Then she said with great sweetness, 
 " Thank vqu ; I gm. glad .you Jo^e, me," and rang the bell. 
 
 "What have you done that for?" he cried. 
 
 "Because you must now leave the house, and never enter 
 it again." 
 
 "I don't go alone," and he began to get furious. 
 
 Her voice was still sweet, but strength lay in it too, as 
 she said, "You either go now with my thanks and bless- 
 ing, or else you go with the police. I am Mrs. Elliot. We 
 need not discuss Mr. Elliot. I am Mrs. Elliot, and if you 
 make one step towards me I give you in charge." 
 
 But the maid answered the bell not of the drawing-room, 
 but of the front door. They were joined by Mr. Elliot, who 
 held out his hand with much urbanity. It was not taken. 
 He looked quickly at his wife, and said, "Am I de tropf" 
 There was a long silence. At last she said, "Frederick, 
 turn this man out." 
 
 "My love, why?" 
 
 Robert said that he loved her. 
 
 "Then I am detro^," said Mr. Elliot, smoothing out his 
 gloves. He wouldTgive these sodden barbarians a lesson. 
 "My hansom is waiting at the door. Pray make use of it." 
 
 —268— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 "Don't!" she cried, almost affectionately. "Dear Fred- 
 erick, it isn't a play. Just tell this man to go, or send 
 for the police." 
 
 "On the contrary; it is French comedy of the best type. 
 Don't you agree, sir, that the police would be an inartistic 
 error?" He was perfectly calm and collected, whereas 
 they were in a pitiable state. 
 
 "Turn him out at once!" she cried. "He has insulted 
 your wife. Save me, save me!" She clung to her hus- 
 band and wept. "He was going — I had managed him — ^he 
 would never have known " Mi;^^ Elliot repulsed her. 
 
 "If you don't feel inclined to start at once*"" he said with 
 easy civility, "let us have a little tea. My dear sir, do for- 
 give me for not shooting you. Nous cuvons change tout 
 cela. Please don't look so nervous. Please do unclasp 
 your hands " 
 
 He was alone. 
 
 "That's all right," he exclaimed, and strolled to the door. 
 The hansom was disappearing round the corner. "That's 
 all right," he repeated in more quavering tones as he re- 
 turned to the drawing-room and saw that it was littered 
 with sweet-peas. Their colour got on his nerves — magenta, 
 crimson; magenta, crimson. He tried to pick them up, 
 and they escaped. He trod them underfoot, and they 
 multiplied and danced in the triumph of summer like a 
 thousand butterflies. The train had left when he got to 
 the station. He followed on to London, and there he 
 lost all traces. At midnight he began^to realize that his 
 ^Sjife could never belong to him again. 
 
 ]Vfi\~Failing had a letter from Stockholm. It was never 
 known what impulse sent them there. "I am sorry about 
 it all, but it was the only way." The letter censured the ■ 
 law of England, "which obliges us to behave like this, or I 
 else we should never get married. I shall come back toj 
 face things: she will not come back till she is my wife.! 
 He must bring an action .soon, or else we shall try one 
 
 — 269 — ' 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 against him. It seems all very unconventional, but it is 
 not really. It is only a difficult start. We are not like 
 you or your wife: we want to be just ordinary people, and 
 make the farm pay, and not be noticed all our lives." 
 
 And they were capable of living as they wanted. The 
 j;lass difference , which sgjnt rigued Mrs. Failing, meant 
 very little to them. It was there, but so were other things. 
 
 They both cared for work and living in the open, and for 
 not speaking unless they had got something to say. Their 
 love of beauty, like their love for each other, was not de- 
 pendent on detail: it grew not from the nerves but from 
 tlje soul. 
 
 "I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of 
 
 the stars. 
 And the pismire is equally perfect, and a g^ain of sand, and 
 
 the egg of the wren. 
 And the tree toad is a chef-d'cEuvre for the highest. 
 And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of 
 
 heaven." 
 
 They had never read these lines, and would have thought 
 them nonsense if they had. They did not dissect — indeed 
 they could not. But she, at all events, divined that more 
 than perfect health and perfect weather, more than personal 
 love, had gone to the making of those seventeen days. 
 
 "Ordinary people!" cried Mrs. Failing on hearing the 
 letter. At that time she was young and daring. "Why, 
 they're divine! They're forces of Nature! They're as 
 ordinary as volcanoes. We all knew my brother was dis- 
 gusting, and wanted him to be blown to pieces, butVe nevSr 
 thought it would happen. Do look at the thing bravely, and 
 say, as I do, that^they ar g guiltless in the sight o f God." 
 ^ "I think they are," repUed her "Eusbanl "TiuFthey are 
 noTguiltless in the sight of man." 
 
 "You conventional !" she exclaimed in disgust. 
 — 270 — 
 
 t' 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 "What they have done means misery not only for them* / 
 selves but for others. For your brother, though you 
 will not think of him. For the little boy — did you think 
 of him? And perhaps for another child, who will have the 
 whole world against him if it knows. .They have sinned 
 ^ainst_ society, and you dp no_t_ d]mmish_jthe misery byl 
 proving that society is bad or foolish. It is the saddest 
 truth I have yet perceived that the Beloved Republic" — here 
 she took up a book — "of which Swinburne speaks" — she 
 put the book down — "will not be brought about by love 
 alone. It will approach with no flourish of trumpets, and 
 have no declaration of independence. Self-sacrifice and — 
 worse still — self-mutilation are the things that sometimes 
 help it most, and that is why we should start for Stockholm 
 this evening." He waited for her indignation to subside, 
 and then continued. "I don't know whether it can be 
 hushed up. I don't yet know whether it ought to be hushed 
 up. But we ought to provide the opportunity. There is 
 no scandal yet. If we go, it is just possible there never 
 will be any. We must talk over the whole thing and " 
 
 " — And lie!" interrupted Mrs. Failing, who hated travel. 
 
 " — And see how to avoid the greatest unhappiness." 
 
 There was to be_ no scandal. By the time " they arrived 
 |lobert had been drowned, Mrs. Elliot described how they 
 had gone swimming, and how, "since he always lived in- 
 land," the great waves had tired him. They had raced for 
 the open sea. 
 
 "What are your plans?" he asked. "I bring you a mes- 
 sage from Frederick." 
 
 "I heard him call," she continued, "but I thought he 
 was laughing. When I turned, it was too late. He put 
 his hands behind his back and sank. For he would onlyj 
 have drowned me with him. I should have done the same.' 
 
 Mrs. Failing was thrilled, and kissed her. But Mr. Fail-y 
 ing knew that life does not continue heroic for long, and 
 
 — 271 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 he gave her the message from her husband : Would she 
 .come back to him? 
 
 To his intense astonishment — at first to his regret — she 
 rephed, "I will think about it. If I loved him the very 
 least bit I should say no. If I had anything to do with 
 tny life I should say no. But it is simply a question of 
 beating time till I die. Nothing that is coming matters. I 
 may as well sit in his drawing-room and dust his furniture, 
 since he has suggested it." 
 
 And Mr. Elliot, though he made certain stipulations, was 
 positively glad to see her. People had begun to laugh at 
 him, and to say that his wife had run away. She had not. 
 Sfce, Ij^d beeu. with hisL sister in Sweden. In a half mirac- 
 ulous way the matter was hushed up. Even the SiJts_iiJ2ly 
 scented "something strange." When Stephen was born, it 
 was abroad. When he came to England, it was as the child 
 of a friend of Mr. Failing's. Mrs. Elliot returned unsus- 
 pected to her husband. 
 
 But though things can_be hushed up, there is^no_jU£l} 
 thing as_ beating time ; and as the years passed she realized 
 her terrible mistake. When„her lover sank, eluding her last 
 ■embrace, she thought, as Agnes" was to think after her, that 
 her soul^hacl sunk with him, and that never again should she 
 be capable of earthly love. Nothing mattered. She might 
 as well go and be useful to her husband and to the little 
 hoy who looked exactly like him, and who, she thought, 
 was exactly like him in disposition. Then Stephen was born, 
 and altered her life. Shexpuld still love people passionately ; 
 khe still drew strength from the heroic past. Yet, to keep 
 jto her bond, she "must see this son only as a stranger. ^Sii^ 
 kvas protected by the conventions, and must pay them their 
 jfee^. ' And 'a curious fEmg happened. Her second chM 
 crew her towards her first. She began to love Rickie also, 
 and to be more than useful to him. And as her love re- 
 /vived, so did her capacity for suffering. Life, more impor- 
 tant, grew more bitter. She minded her husband more, not 
 
 — 272 — , 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 less; and when at last he died, and she saw a glorious 
 autumn, beautiful with the voices of boys who should call 
 her mother, the end came for her as well, before she could 
 remember the grave in the alien north and the dust that 
 would never return to the dear fields that had given it. 
 
 . — 27-2 — 
 
s 
 
 XXX 
 
 I TEPHEN, the son of these people, had one ipstinct 
 that troubled him. At night — especially out of doors 
 — it seemed rather strange that he was alive. The 
 dry grass pricked his cheek, the fields were invisible and 
 mute, and here was he, throwing stones at the darkness or 
 smoking a pipe. The stones vanished, the pipe would burn 
 out. But he would be here in the morning when the sun 
 rose, and he would bathe, and run in the mist. He was 
 proud of his good circulation, and in the morning it seemed 
 quite natural. But at night, why should there be this dif- 
 ference between him and the acres of land that cooled all 
 round him until the sun returned ? What lucky chance had 
 heated him up, and sent him, warm and lovable, into a 
 passive world? He had other instincts, but these gave him 
 no trouble. He simply gratified each as it occurred, pro- 
 vided he could do so without grave injury to his fellows. 
 But the instinct to wonder at the night was not to be thus 
 appeased. 
 
 At first he had lived under the care of Mr. Failing — the 
 only person to whom his mother spoke freely, the only person 
 who had treated her neither as a criminal nor as a pioneer. 
 In their rare but intimate conversations she had asked him to 
 educate her son. "I will teach him Latin," he answered, 
 "The rest such a boy must remember." Latin, at all events, 
 was a failure: who could attend to Virgil when the sound 
 of the thresher arose, and you knew that the stack was 
 decreasing and that rats rushed more plentifully each mo- 
 ment to their doom? But he was fond of Mr. Failing, and 
 cried when he died. Mrs. Elliot, a pleasant woman, died 
 soon after. 
 
 —274— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 There was something, fatal in the order., of these deaths. 
 Mi;. Failing had made no provision for the boy in his will: 
 his wife had promised to see to this. Then came Mr. 
 Elliot's death, and, before the new home was created, the 
 sudden death of Mrs. Elliot. She also left Stephen no 
 money : she had none to leave. Chance threw him into the 
 power of Mrs. Failing. "Let things go on as they are," she 
 thought. "I will take care of this pretty little boy, and the 
 ugly little boy can live with the 5ilt§. After my death — 
 well, the papers will be found after my death, and they 
 can meet then. I like the idea of their mutual, ignorance. 
 It is amusing." 
 
 He was then twelve. With a few brief intervals of 
 school, he lived in Wiltshire until he was driven out. Life 
 had two distinct sides — ^the drawing-room and .the other. 
 In the drawing-room people talked a good deal, laughing as 
 they talked. Being clever, they did not care for animals: 
 one man had never seen a hedgehog. In the other life 
 people talked and laughed separately, or even did neither. 
 On the whole, in spite of the wet and gamekeepers, this 
 life_wa^preferab]e. He knew where he was. "He' glanced 
 attheb^F7~oFTater at the man, and behaved accordingly. 
 There was no law — the policeman was negligible. Nothing 
 bound him but his own word, and he gave that sparingly. 
 
 It is impossible to be romantic when you have your heart's 
 desire, and such a boy disappointed Mrs. Failing greatly. 
 His parents had met for one brief embrace, had found one 
 little interval between the power of the rulers of this world 
 and the power of death. He was the child of poetry and 
 of rebellion, and poetry should run in his veins. But he 
 lived too near the things he loved to seem poetical. Parted 
 from them, he might yet satisfy her, and stretch out his 
 hands with a pagan's yearning. As it was, he only rode her 
 horses, and trespassed, and bathed, and worked, for no ob- 
 vious reason, upon her fields. Affertinn ahe. did not beHevf 
 in, and made no attempt to mould him; and he, for his part. 
 
 —275— 
 
 I 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 was very content to harden untouched into a man. His 
 parents had given him excellent gifts — health, sturdy; limbs, 
 and a face not ugly, — gifts that his habits confirmed. They 
 had also given him a cloudless spirit — the spirit of the 
 seventeen days in which he was created. But they had not 
 given him the spirit of their six years of waiting, and love 
 for one person was never to be the greatest thing he knew. 
 "Philosophy" had postponed the quarrel between them. 
 Incurious about his personal origin, he Jiad a certain interest 
 in . ou r eternal problems. The interest never became a pas- 
 sion: it sprang out of his physical growth, and was soon 
 merged in it again. Or, as he put it himself, "I must get 
 fixed up before starting." He was soon fixed up as a 
 materialist. Then he tore up the sixpenny reprints, and 
 never amused Mrs. Failing so much again. 
 
 About the time. lie fixed hirnself up, he t yok to drink. 
 He knew of no reason against it. The instinct was in him, 
 and it hurt nobody. Here, as elsewhere, his motions were 
 decided, and he passed at once from roaring jollity to silence. 
 For those who live on the fuddled borderland, who crawl 
 home by the railings and maunder repentance in the morn- 
 ing, he had a biting contempt. A man must take his tumble 
 and his headache. He was, in fact, as little disgusting as 
 is conceivable; and hitherto he had not strained his con- 
 stitution or his will. Nor did he get drunk as often as 
 Agnes suggested. The real quarrel gathered elsewhere. 
 r Presentable people have run wild in their youth. But 
 \ the hour comes when they turn from their boorish company 
 I to higher things. This hour never came • for Stephen. 
 \Somewhat a bully by nature, he kept where his powers would 
 tell, and continued to quarrel and play with the men he had 
 known as boys. He prolonged their youth unduly. "They 
 won't settle down," said Mr. Wilbraham to his wife. 
 "They're wanting things. It's the germ of a Trades Union. 
 I shall get rid of a few of the worst." Then Stephen 
 rushed up to Mrs. Failing and worried her. "It wasn't 
 — 276 — 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 fair. So-and-so was a good sort. He did his work. Keen 
 about it? No. Why should he be? Why should he be 
 keen about somebody else's land? But keen enough. And 
 very keen on football." She laughed, and said a word about 
 So-and-so to Mr. Wilbraham. Mr. Wilbraham blazed up. 
 "How could the farm go on without discipline? How 
 could there be discipline if Mr. Stephen interfered? Mr. 
 Stephen liked power. He spoke to the men like one of 
 themselves, and pretended it was all equality, but he took 
 care to come out top. Natural, of course, that, being a 
 gentleman, he should. But not natural for a gentleman to 
 loiter all day with poor people and learn their work, and 
 put wrong notions into their heads, and carry their new- 
 fangled grievances to Mrs. Failing. Which partly accounted 
 for the deficit on the past year." She rebuked Stephen. 
 Then he lost his temper, was rude to her, and insulted Mr. 
 Wilbraham. 
 
 The worst days of Mr. Failing's rule seemed to be re- 
 turning. And Stephen had a practical experience, and also 
 a taste for battle, that her husband had never possessed. 
 He drew up a list of grievances, some absurd, others fun- 
 damental. No newspapers in the reading-room, you could 
 put a plate under the Thompsons' door, no level cricket- 
 pitch, no allotments and no time to work in them, Mrs. 
 Wilbraham's knife-boy underpaid. "Aren't you a little un- 
 wise?" she asked coldly. "I am more bored than you think 
 over the farm." She was wanting to correct the proofs of 
 the book and re-write the prefatory memoir. In her ir- 
 ritation she wrote to Agnes. Agnes replied sympathetically, 
 and Mrs. Failing, clever as she was, fell into the power of the 
 younger woman. They discussed him at first as a wretch 
 of a boy; then he got drunk and somehow it seemed more 
 criminal. All that she needed now was a personal griev- 
 ance, which Agnes casually supplied. Though vindictive, 
 she was determined to treat him well, and thought with 
 satisfaction of our distant colonies. But he burst into an 
 
 —277— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 odd passion: he would sooner starve than leave England. 
 "Why?" she asked. "Are you in love?" He picked up a 
 lump of the chalk — ^they were by the arbour — and made no 
 answer. The vicar murmured, "It is not like going abroad 
 
 — Greater Britain — ^blood is thicker than water " A 
 
 lump of chalk broke her drawing-room window on the 
 Saturday. 
 
 Thus Stephen Ijgft Wilt shire, half^^blackguard, iialf;^nart^. 
 
 ^Do^not ^raod, him ..as. a socialist. He^^ad no quarrel jvith 
 
 ' society, nor any particular belief in people because they are 
 
 poor. He only held the creed of "here am I and there are 
 
 \you," and therefore class__d,istinctions were trivial things 
 
 to hjm, and life no decorous scheme, but a personal combat 
 
 or a personal truce. For the same reason ancestry also 
 
 was trival, and a man not the dearer because the same 
 
 woman was mother to them both. Yet it seemed worth 
 
 while to go to Sawston with the news. Perhaps nothing 
 
 would come of it ; perhaps friendly intercourse, and a home 
 
 while he looked around. 
 
 ^yhen they wronged him he walked quietly away. He 
 never' thougfff of allotting the blame, nor of appealing to 
 Ansell, who still sat brooding in the side-garden. He^gnly 
 knfiw that g^fljiytcH ppnpip coyy, be horrible, and that a clean 
 liver must never enter Dunwood House "again. The air 
 seemed stuffy. He spat in the gutter. Was it yesterday 
 he had lain in the rifle-butts over Salisbury? Slightly 
 aggrieved, he wondered why he was not back there now. "I 
 ought to have written first," he reflected. "Here is my 
 money gone., I cannot move. The Elliots have, as it were, 
 practically robbed me." That was the only grudge he re- 
 tained against them. Their suspicions and insults were to 
 him as the curses of a tramp whom he passed by the way- 
 side. They v/ere dirty people, not his sort. He summed up 
 the complicated tragedy as a "take in." 
 
 While Rickie was being carried upstairs, and while Ansell 
 (had he known it) was dashing about the streets for him, 
 —278— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 he lay under a railway arch trying to settle his plans. He 
 must pay back the friends who had given him shillings and 
 clothes. He thought of Flea, whose Sundays he was spoiling 
 — ^poor Flea, who ought to be in them now, shining before 
 his girl. "I daresay he'll be ashamed and not go to see 
 her, and then she'll take the other man." He was also very 
 hungry. That worm Mrs. Elliot would be through her 
 lunch by now. Tying his braces round him, and tearing up 
 those old wet documents, he stepped forth to make money. 
 A villainous young brute he looked : his clothes were dirty, 
 and he had lost the spring of the morning. Touching the 
 walls, frowning, talking to himself at times, he slouched 
 disconsolately northwards; no wonder that some tawdry 
 girls screamed at him, or that matrons averted their eyes 
 as they hurried to afternoon church. He wandered from 
 one suburb to another, till he was among people more villain- 
 ous than himself, who bought his tobacco from him and sold 
 him food. Again the neighbourhood "went up," and 
 families, instead of sitting on their doorsteps, would sit 
 behind thick muslin curtains. Again it would "go down" 
 into a more avowed despair. Far into the night he wan- 
 dered, until he came to a solemn river majestic as a stream 
 in hell. Therein were gathered the waters of Central Eng- 
 land — those that flow off Hindhead, off the Chilterns, off 
 Wiltshire north of the Plain. Therein they were made in- 
 tolerable ere they reached the sea. But the waters he had 
 known escaped. Their course lay southward into the Avon 
 by forests and beautiful fields, even swift, even pure, until 
 they mirrored the tower of , Christchurch and greeted the 
 ramparts of the Isle of Wight. Of TRese he thought for 
 a moment as he crossed the black river and entered the heart 
 of the modern world. 
 
 Here he found employment. He was _not hampered by 
 genteel traditions, and, as it was near quarter-dayTiHaiiag'ed 
 to geTfaKen oil at a furniture warehouse. He moved people 
 from the suburbs to London, from London to the suburbs, 
 
 —279— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 from one suburb to another. His companions were hurried 
 and querulous. In particular, he loathed the foreman, a 
 pious humbug who allowed no swearing, but indulged in 
 something far more degraded — ^the Cockney repartee. The^ 
 London intellect, so peft and shallow, like a stream that 
 Lcnes tn 
 
 never reach'esthe ocean, disgusted him almost as mucFTar 
 |the™London physique, which for all its dexteri'ty is not 
 permanent, and seldom continues into the third generation. 
 His father, had he known it, had felt the same ; for h^ween 
 Mr. Elliot and the for«nan the gulf was social , ngt spiritua l : 
 -SofE spent their lives in trying to be clever. And 'ronjT 
 Failing had once put the thing into words: "There's no 
 such thing as a Londoner. He's only a country man on the 
 road to sterility." 
 
 At the end of ten days he had saved scarcely an)rthing. 
 Once he passed the bank where a hundred pounds lay ready 
 for him, but it was still inconvenient for him to take them. 
 iThen duty sent him to a suburb not very far from Sawston. 
 In the evening a man who was driving a trap asked him to 
 hold it, and by mistake tipped him a sovereign. Stephen 
 called after him; but the man had a woman with him and 
 wanted to show off, and though he had meant to tip a 
 shilling, and could not afford that, he shouted back that his 
 sovereign was as good as any one's, and that if Stephen did 
 not think so he could do various things and go to various 
 olaces. On the action of this man much depends. Stephen 
 changed the sovereign into a postal order, and sent it off to 
 the people at Cadford. It did not pay them back, but it 
 paid them something, and h e felt.t hat his soul' was fr^ e. 
 
 A few shillings remained in his pocket. They would 
 have paid his fare towards Wiltshire, a good county; but 
 what should he do there? Who would employ him? To- 
 day the journey did not seem worth while. "To-morrow, 
 perhaps," he thought, and determined to spend the money 
 on pleasure of another kind. Twopence went for a ride on 
 an electric tram. From the top he saw the sun descend — a 
 —28c 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 disc with a dark red edge. The same sun was descending 
 over Salisbury intolerably bright. Out of the golden haze 
 the spire would be piercing, like a purple needle ; then mists 
 arose from the Avon and the other streams. Lamps 
 flickered, but in the outer purity the villages were already 
 slumbering. Salisbury is only a Gothic upstart beside these. 
 For generations they have come down to her to buy or to 
 worship, and have found in her the reasonable crisis of their 
 lives ; but generations before she was built they were clinging /■ 
 to the soil, and renewing it with sheep and dogs and men, 
 who found the crisis of their lives upon Stonehenge. The 
 blood of these men ran in Stephen ; the vigour they had won 
 for him was as yet untarnished ; out on those downs they , 
 had- united with rough women to make the thing he spoke 
 of as "himself"; the last of them had rescued a woman of 
 a different kind from streets and houses such as these. As 
 the sun descended he got off the tram with a smile of ex- 
 pectation. A public-house lay opposite, and a boy in a 
 dirty uniform was already lighting its enormous lamp. His 
 lips parted, and he went in. 
 
 Two hours later, when Rickie and Herbert were going 
 the rounds, a Drick came crashing at the study window. 
 Herbert peered into the garden, and a hooligan slipped by 
 him into the house, wrecked the hall, lurched up the stairs, 
 fell against the banisters, balanced for a moment on his 
 spine, and slid over. Herbert called for the police. ..Rickie, 
 who was upon the landing, caught the man by the knees and 
 saved his Iffe '--■'- — — » , 
 
 "What is it ?" cried Agnes, emerging. v< 
 
 "It's Stephen come back," was the answer. "Hullo, | 
 Stephen!" { 
 
 —281- 
 
XXXI 
 
 HITHER had Rickie moved in ten days — from 
 disgust to penitence, from penitence to longing 
 from a life of horror to a new life, in which he 
 still surprised himself by unexpected words. Hullo, Ste- 
 phen ! For the son ^f his mother had come back, to forgive 
 him, as she would have done, to live with him, as she had 
 planned. 
 
 "He's drunk this time," said Agnes wearily. She too 
 had altered: the scandal was ageing her, and Ansell came 
 to the house daily. 
 
 "Hullo, Stephen!" 
 
 But Stephen was now insensible. 
 
 "Stephen, you live here " 
 
 "Good gracious me!" interposed Herbert. "My advice 
 IS, that we all go to bed. The less said the better while our 
 nerves are in this state. Very well, Rickie. Of course, 
 Wonham sleeps the night if you wish." They carried the 
 sdrunken mass into the spare room. A mass of scandal it 
 i seemed to one of them, a ^symbol of redemption to the other. 
 i Neither acknowledged it a man, who would answer thetn 
 Vback after a few hours' rest. 
 
 "^seU thought he would never forgive me," said Rickie. 
 *'For once he's wrong." 
 
 "Come to bed now, I think." And as Rickie laid his 
 hand on the sleeper's hair, he added, "You won't do any- 
 thing foolish, will you? You are still in a morbid state. 
 
 _Your poor mother Pardon me, dear boy; it is my turn 
 
 ^to speak out. You thought it was your father, and minded. 
 'lit is your mother. Surely you ought to mind more?" 
 - "I have been too far back," said Rickie gently. "Ansell 
 ,. ■ .' . —282— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 took me a journey that was even new to him. We got be- 
 ^ hind right and wrong, to a place where only one thing matters 
 ) — that the Beloved should rise from the dead." 
 ~ "But you won't do anything rash?" 
 
 "Why should I?" 
 
 "Remember poor Agnes," he stammered. "I — I am, the 
 first to acknowledge that we might have pursued a different 
 policy. But we are committed to it now. It wakes no 
 difference whose son he is. I mean, he is the same person. 
 You and I and my sister stand or fall together. It was 
 our agreement from the first. I hope — No more of these 
 distressing scenes with her, there's a dear fellow. I assure 
 you they make my heart bleed." 
 
 "Things will quiet down now," 
 
 "To bed now; I insist upon that much." 
 
 "Very well," said Rickie, and when they were in the 
 passage, locked the door from the outside. "We want no 
 more muddles," he explained. 
 
 Mr. Pembroke was left examining the hall. The bust 
 of ,^ermes was broken. So was the pot of the palm. He 
 coul3"riot go to bed without once more sounding Rickie. 
 "You'll do nothing rash," he called. ' "The notion of him 
 living here was, of course, a passing impulse. We three 
 have adopted a common policy." 
 
 "Now, you go away!" called a voice that was almost 
 flippant. "I never did belong to that great sect whose 
 doctrine is. that each one should select — at least, I'm not 
 going to belong to it any longer. Go away to bed." 
 
 "A good night's rest is what you need," threatened Her- 
 bert, and retired, not to find one for himself. 
 
 But Rickie slept. The guilt of months and the remorse 
 of the last ten days had alike departed. He had thought 
 that his life was,^£oisoned, and lo ! ij was purified. He had 
 cursed his mother, and Ansell had replied, "You may be 
 right, but you stand too near to settle. Step backwards. 
 Pretend that it happened to me. Do you want me to curse 
 
 —283— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 my mother? Now, step forward and see whether anything 
 has changed." Something had chlanged. He h ad journe yed 
 — as on rare occasions a man must — till he sioocLbeEind 
 ri £ht and wron^. Qn the ba nkg_Qf the grey^orrent of life, 
 love is the only flow er. A little way up the stream and a 
 little way down had Rickie glanced, and he knew that she 
 whom he loved had risen from the dead, and might rise 
 again. "Come away — ^let them die out — let them , die out." 
 Surely that dream was a vision! To-night also he hurried 
 to the window — to remember, with a smile, that Orion is 
 not among the stars of June. 
 
 "Let me die out. She will continue," he murmured, and 
 in making plans for S tepben!s-hao,i)iness. fdtaeleep. 
 
 Next morning after breakfast he announced that his 
 brother must live at Dunwood House. They were awed 
 by the very moderation of his tone. "There's nothing else 
 to be done. Cadover's hopeless, and a boy of those tenden- 
 cies can't go drifting. There is also the question of a pro- 
 fession for hifti, and his allowance." 
 
 ' "^!*^ JlS.Y£JtelJ^!SSfe J^l_A???li. ^°r t'^s," was all that 
 4gaSs_22JiM,,s|2i; and "LJor^ge._disaiiber7' was the con- 
 tribution of Herbert. 
 
 "There's plenty of money about," Rickie continued. 
 "Quite a man's-worth too much. It has been one of our 
 absurdities. Don't look so sad, Herbert. I'm sorry for 
 you people, but he's sure to let us down easy." For his ex- 
 perience of drunkards and of Stephen was small. He sup- 
 posed that he had come without malice to renew the offer 
 of ten days ago. 
 
 "It is the end of Dunwood House." 
 
 Rickie nodded, and hoped not. Agnes, who was not look- 
 ing well, began to cry. "Oh, it is too bad," she complained, 
 "when I've saved you from him all these years." But he 
 could not pity her, nor even sympathize with her wounded 
 delicacy. The time for such nonsense was over. He would 
 take his share of the blame : it was .cant to assume it all. 
 —284— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 Perhaps he was over-hard. He did not realize how large 
 his share was, noiUiow his very virtues w ere. .to blame Jor 
 Ijer deterioration. "If I had a girl, I'd keep her in line," | 
 is not the remark of a fool nor of a cad. Rickie had no t 
 kept his wife in line . He had shown her all the workings I 
 of his soul, mistaking this for love ; and in consequence she I 
 was the worse woman after two y^ars of marriage, and 
 he, on this morning of freedom, was harder upon her than I 
 he need have been. 
 
 The spare room bell rang. Herbert had a painful struggle 
 between curiosity and duty, for the bell for chapel was ring- 
 ing also, and he must go through the drizzle to school. He 
 promised to come up in the interval. Rickie, who had 
 rapped his head that Sunday on the edge of the table, was 
 still forbidden to work. Before him a quiet morning lay. 
 ^SfiiCH&AfJjii„H^JKIi.he t pok the portrait of the ir mother 
 in his hand and walked leisurely upstairs. TEeTieincon- 
 tinued to ring, 
 
 "See about his breakfast," he called to Agnes, who re- 
 plied, "Very well." The handle of the spare room door 
 was moving slowly. "I'm coming," he cried. The handle 
 was still. He unlocked and entered, his heart full of charity. 
 
 But withuj^ood a . man ^adlQ. probably , ow Q£d„Jthe.. w orid- 
 
 Rickie scarcely knew him; last night he had seemea so 
 colourless, so negligible. In a few hours he had recaptured, 
 motion and passion and the imprint of the sunlight and the 
 wind. He stood, not consciously heroic, with arms that 
 dangled from broad stooping shoulders, and feet that played 
 with a hassock on the carpet. But his hair was beautiful 
 against the grey sky, and his eyes, recalling the sky un- 
 clouded, shot past the intruder as if to some worthier vision. 
 So intent was their gaze that Rickie himself glanced back- 
 wards, only to see the neat passage and the banisters at 
 the top of the stairs. Then the lips beat together twice, and 
 out burst a torrent of amazing words. 
 
 "Add it all up, and let me know how much. I'd sooner 
 —285— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 have died. It never took me that way before. I must have 
 broken pounds' worth. If you'll not tell the police, I promise 
 you shan't lose, Mr. Elliot, I swear. But it may be months 
 before I send it. Everything is to be new. You've not to 
 be a penny out of pocket, do you see? Do let me go, this 
 once again." 
 
 "What's the trouble?" asked Rickie, as if they had been 
 friends for years. "My dear man, we've other things to talk 
 about. Gracious me, what a fuss! If you'd smashed the 
 whole house I wouldn't mind, so long as you came back." 
 
 'Td soon er have died," gulped Stephen. 
 
 "You did nearly ! It was I who caught you. Never mind 
 yesterday's rag. What can you manage for breakfast?" 
 
 The face grew more angry and more puzzled. "Yesterday 
 wasn't a rag," he said without focusing his eyes. "I was 
 drunk, but naturally meant it." 
 
 "Meant what?" 
 
 "^o smash you. Bad liquor did what Mrs. Elliot couldn't. 
 I've piit myself 1h the wrong. You've got me." 
 
 It was a poor beginning. 
 
 "As I have got you," said Rickie, controlling himself, "I 
 want to have a talk with you. There has been a ghastly 
 mistake." 
 
 But Stephen, with a countryman's persistency, continued 
 on his own line. He meant to be civil, but Rickie went cold 
 round the mouth. For he had not even been angry with 
 them. Until he was drunk, they had been dirty people — 
 not his sort. Then the trivial injury recurred, and he had 
 reeled to smash them as he passed. "And I will pay for 
 everything," was his refrain, with which the sighing of 
 raindrops mingled. "You shan't lose a penny, if only you 
 let me free." 
 
 "You'll pay for my coffin if you talk like that any longer! 
 'Will ^you, one, forgive my frightful behaviour; two, 
 Jive with me?"* For his only KbpTwas in a cheerlul pre- 
 cision. 
 
 —286— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 Stephen grew more agitated. He thought it was some 
 trick. 
 
 "I was saying I made an unspeakable mistake. Ansell 
 put me right, but it was too late to find you. Don't think 
 I got off easily. Ansell doesn't spare one. And jou've 
 got_ tg^ f orgiye me, to §hare my life, to .share my money. — 
 I've brought you this photograph — I want it to be the first 
 thing you accept from me — ^you have the greater right — I 
 know all the story now. You know who it is?" 
 
 "Oh yes ; but I don't want to drag all that in." 
 
 "It is only her wish if we live together. She was planning 
 it when she died." 
 
 "I can't follow — because — ^to share your life? Did yotl 
 know I called here last Sunday week?" 
 
 "Yes. But then I only knew half. JL thought you were 
 Ciy father^s son." 
 
 Stephen's anger and bewilderment were increasing. He 
 stuttered. "What — what's the odds if you did?" 
 
 "I hated my father," said Rickie. '1 loved my mother." 
 And never had the phrases seemed so destitute of meaning. 
 
 "Last Sunday week," interrupted Stephen, his voice sud- 
 denly rising, "I came to call on you. Not as this or that's 
 son. Not to fall on your neck. Nor to live here. Nor 
 — damn your dirty little mind ! I meant to say I didn't come 
 for money. Sorry. Sorry. I simply came as I_was, and 
 L. haven't altered since." 
 
 "Yes — ^yet our mother — for me she has risen from the 
 dead since then — I know I was wrong " 
 
 "And where do I come in?" He kicked the hassock. 
 "/ haven't risen from the dead. / haven't altered since 
 
 last Sunday week. I'm " He stuttered again. He 
 
 could not quite explain what he was. "The man towards 
 Andover — after all, he was having principles. But 
 
 you've " His voice broke. "I mind it — I'm — I don't 
 
 alter — blackguard one week — ^live here the next — I keep to 
 
 —287— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 one or the other — ^you've hurt something most badly in me 
 that I didn't know was there." 
 
 "Don't let us talk," said Rickie. "It gets worse every 
 r~minute. Simply say you forgive me; shake hands, and have 
 ] done with it." 
 
 ^ "That I won't. That I couldn't. In fact, I don't know 
 what you mean." 
 
 Then Rickie began a new appeal — not to pity, for now he 
 was in no mood to whimper. For all its path os, there was 
 something heroic in this meeting. 1 warn you to stop here 
 with me, Stephen. No one^lse in the world will look after 
 you. As far as I know, you have never been really unhappy 
 yet or suffered, as you should do, from your faults. Last 
 night you nearly killed yourself with drink. Never mind 
 why I'm willing to cure you. I am willing, and I virarn you 
 to give me the chance. Forgive me or not, as you choose. 
 I care for other things more." 
 
 Stephen looked at him at last, faintly approving. The 
 offer was ridiculous, but it did treat him as a man. 
 
 "Let me tell you o f a fault of mine, and how I was 
 punished for it," continued Rickie. "Two years ago I be- 
 haved badly to you, up at the Rings. No, even a few days 
 before that. We went for a ride, and I thought too much 
 of other matters, and did not try to understand you. Then 
 came the Rings, and in the evening, when you called up to 
 me most kindly, I never answered. But the ride was the 
 beginning. Ever since then I have taken the world at 
 second-hand. I have bothered less and less to look it in 
 the face — until not only you, but every OQ g. else has t urned 
 unreal. Never Ansell: he kept away, and somehow saved 
 himself. But every one else. Do you remember in one 
 of Tony Failing's books, 'Cast bitter bread upon the waters, 
 and after many days it really does come back to you' ? This 
 has been true of my life; it will be equally true of a 
 drunkard's, and I warn you to stop with me." 
 
 "I can't stop after that cheque," said Stephen more gently. 
 —288— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 "But I do remember the ride. I was a bit bored myself." 
 
 Agnes, who had not been seeing to the breakfast, chose 
 this moment to call from the passage. "Of course he can't 
 stop," she exclaimed. "For better or worse, it's settled. 
 We've none of us altered since last Sunday week." 
 
 "There you're right, Mrs. Elliot 1" he shouted, starting out 
 of the temperatfe^ past. "We haven't altered." With a rare 
 flash of insight he turned on Rickie. "I see your game. 
 You don't care about me drinking, or to shake my hand. If s 
 some one else you want to cure — as it were, that old photo- 
 graph. You talk to me, but all the time you look at the 
 photograph." He snatched it up. "I've my own ideas of 
 good manners, and to look friends between the eyes is one of 
 them ; and this" — he tore the photograph across — "and this" 
 
 ^he tore it again — "and these " He flung the pieces 
 
 at the man, who had sunk into a chair. "For my part, 
 I'm off." 
 
 Then-JBicki&JKas. heroic jiQ,J[2Qger. Turning round in his 
 chair, he covered his face. The man was right. He did not 
 lovejhiim, events hejgd^neve£ hated him. In either passion 
 he had degraded him to b e a sym bol ^rjthe vanished pist. 
 The man was right, and would have beetTTovaBle. He 
 longed to be back riding over those windy fields, to be back 
 in those mystic circles, beneath pure sky. Then they could 
 have watched arid helped and taught each other,, until the 
 word was a reality, and the past not a torn photograph, but 
 Demeter the goddess rejoicing in the spring. Ah, if he bad- 
 seized those high opportunities ! For they led to the highest^ 
 of all, ±he«.sxmbolic moment, which, if^ a man accepts, hi 
 has accepted life. 
 
 The voice of Agnes, which had lured him then ("Fo 
 my sake," she had whispered), pealed over him now in 
 triumph. .Abruptly it broke into sobs that had the effect of 
 rain. He started up. Th^^nger had died oujt^ of Stephen's 
 face, not for a subtle reason buFBeciuseTiefe wa¥a woman" 
 near him, and unhappy. 
 
 —289— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 She tried to apologize, and brought on a fresh burst of 
 tears. Something had upset her. They heard her locking 
 the door of her room. From that moment their intercourse 
 was changed. 
 
 "Why does she keep crying today?" mused Rickie, as if 
 he spoke to some mutual friend. 
 
 "I can make a guess," said Stephen, and his heavy face 
 flushed. 
 
 "2id you insult her?" he asked feebly. 
 
 "But who's Gerald?" 
 
 Rickie raised his hand to his mouth. 
 
 "She looked at me as if she knew me, and then gasps 
 'Gerald,' and started crying." 
 
 "Gerald is the name of some one she once knew." 
 
 "So I thought." There was a long silence, in which they 
 could hear a piteous gulping cough. "Where is he now?" 
 asked Stephen. 
 
 "Dead." 
 
 "And then you ?" 
 
 Rickie nodded. 
 
 "Bad, this sort of thing." 
 
 "I didn't know of this particular thing. She acted as if 
 she had forgotten him. Perhaps she had, and you woke 
 him up. There are queer tricks in the world. She is over- 
 strained. She has probably been plotting ever since you 
 burst in last night." 
 
 "Against me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Stephen stood irresolute. "I suppose you and she pulled 
 together?" he said at last. 
 
 "Get away from us, man! I mind losing you. Yet it's 
 as well you don't stop." 
 
 "Oh, that's out of the question," said Stephen, brushing 
 .bis cap. 
 
 "If you've guessed anything, I'd be obliged if you didn't 
 — 290 — 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 mention it. I've no right to ask, but I'd be obliged." 
 
 He nodded, and walked slowly along the landing and down 
 the stairs. Rickie accompanied him, and even opened the 
 front door. It was as if Agnes had absorbed the passion 
 out of both of them. The suburb was now wrapped in a 
 cloud, not of its own making. Sigh after sigh passed along 
 its streets to break against dripping walls. The school, the 
 houses were hidden, and all civilization seemed in abeyance. 
 Only the simplest sounds, the simplest desires emerged. 
 They agreed that this weather was strange after such a 
 sunset. 
 
 "That's a collie," said Stephen, listening. 
 
 "I wish you'd have some breakfast before starting." 
 
 "No food, thanks. But you know " He' paused. 
 
 "It's all been a muddle, and I've no objection to your coming 
 along Tjvith me. ' 
 
 The cloud descended lower. 
 
 "Come with me as a man," said Stephen, already out in 
 the mist. "Not as a brother; who cares what people did 
 years back? We're .alive, together^ ai}i.the,jce5t_,is cant 
 Here am I, Rickie, and there are you, a fair wreck. They've 
 no use for you here, — -never had a.ny, if the truth was 
 known, — and they've only made you beastly. This house, 
 so to speak, has the rot. It's common-sense that you should 
 come." 
 
 "Stephen, wait a minute. What do you mean?" 
 
 "Wait's what we won't do," said Stephen at the gate. 
 
 "I must ask " 
 
 He did wait for a minute, and sobs were heard, faint, 
 hopeless, vindictive. Then he trudged away, and Rickie 
 soon lost his colour and his fom;. But a voice persisted, ij 
 saying, "Come, I do mean it. Come; I will take care of'/ 
 you, I can manage you." 
 
 The words were kind ; yet it was not for their .sake that 
 Rickie plunged into the impalpable cloud In the voice 
 
 — 291 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 he had found a surer guarantee. Habits and sex may 
 change with the new generation, f utures ■ ni ajr_ alter 
 with the play of a_ private passion, but a voice is apart 
 from these. It Jies t iearer to the rac ial essence and perils 
 tg^tfie divine; it can, at all events, overleap one grave. 
 
 — 292 — 
 
XXXII 
 
 MR. PEMBROKE did not receive a clear account 
 of what had happened when he returned for the 
 interval. His sister — he told her frankly-^was 
 concealing something from him. She could mak^ no reply. 
 Had she gone mad, she wondered. Hitherto she h ad pre - 
 tended to loye._her husband. Why choose such a moment 
 for the'fruth ?""""" 
 
 "But I understand Rickie's position," he told her. "It is 
 an unbalanced position, yet I understand it; I noted its ap- 
 proach while he was ill. He imagines .himself his brother's 
 keeper. Therefore we must make concessions. We must 
 negotiate." The negotiations were stiu progressing in 
 November, the moiith during which_ this story d raws to its [ 
 close. 
 
 ~" "I understand his position," he then told her. "It is 
 both weak and defiant. He is still with those Ansells. Read 
 this letter, which thanks me for his little stories. We sent 
 them last month, you remember — such of them as we could 
 find. It seems that he fills up his time by writing: he has 
 already written a book." 
 
 She only gave him half her attention, for a beautiful 
 wreath had just arrived from the florist's. She was tak- 
 ing it up to the cemetery : toda y her child ha d been dead 
 a year. ' 
 
 "On the other hand, he has altere d his will. Fortu- 
 nately, he cannot alter much. But I fear that wHat is not 
 settled on you, will go. Should I read what I wrote' on 
 this point, and also my minutes of the interview with old 
 Mr. Ansell, and the copy of my correspondence with 
 Stephen Wonham?" 
 
 —293— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 But her fly was announced. While he put the wreath in 
 for her, she ran for a moment upstairs. A few tears had 
 come to her eyes. A scandalous divorce^ould have been 
 more bearable than this withdrawal People asked, "Why 
 did her husband leave her?" and the answer came, "Oh, 
 nothing particular; he only couldn't stand her ;jhe lied and 
 taught himjto He;_^he_^ kept him from the work that suited 
 him, from his friends, from his brother, — in a word,.4|ie 
 tried to run him, which a man won't pardon." A few 
 tears; not many. To her, life never showed itself as a 
 classic drama, in which, by trying to advance our fortunes, 
 : we shatter them. She had turned Stephen out of Wilt- 
 I, shire, and he fell like a thunderbolt on Sawston and on 
 [herself. In trying to gain Mrs. Failing's money she had 
 probably lost nioney which would have been her own. But 
 irony is a subtle teacher, and she was not the woman to 
 learn from such lessons as these. Her suffering was more 
 direct. Three men had wronged her; therefore she hated 
 them, and, if she could, would do them harm. 
 
 "These negotiations are quite useless," she told Herbert 
 when she came downstairs. "We had much better bide our 
 time. Tell me just about Stephen Wonham, though." 
 
 He drew her into the study again. "Wonham is or was 
 in Scotland, learning to farm with connections of the An- 
 sells: I believe the money is to go towards setting him up. 
 Apparently he is a hard worker. He also drinks!" 
 
 She nodded and smiled. "More than he did?" 
 
 "My informant, Mr. TiUiard — oh, I ought not to have 
 mentioned his name. He is one of thei better sort of 
 Rickie's Cambridge friends, and has been dreadfully grieved 
 at the collapse, but he does not want to be mixed up in it. 
 This autumn he was up in the Lowlands, close by, and very 
 kindly made a few unobtrusive inquiries for me. The man 
 is becoming an habitual drunkard." 
 
 She smiled again. Stephen had evoked her secret, ^nd 
 she hated him more for that than for anything else that 
 —294— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 he had done. The poise of his shoulders that morning — it 
 was no more — had recalled Gerald. If only she had not 
 been so tired! He had reminded her of the greatest thing 
 she had known, and to her cloudy mind this se«ned deg- 
 radation. She had turned to him as to her lover; with a 
 look, which a man of his type understood, she had asked for 
 his pity; for one terrible moment she had desired to be 
 held in his arms. Even Herbert was surprised when she jj 
 said, "I'm glad he drinks. I hope he'll kill himself. A [ 
 man like that ought never to have been born." 'i 
 
 "Perhaps the sins of the parents, are visited on the chil- 
 dren," said Herbert, taking her to the carriage. "Yet if is 
 not for us to decide." 
 
 "I feel sure he will be punished. What right has he " 
 
 She broke off. What right had he to our common human- 
 ...ity ? It was a hard lesson for any one to learn. For Agnes 
 it was impossible. Stephen was illicit, abnormal, worse 
 than a man diseased. Yet she had turned to him: he had 
 drawri out the truth. ~~"~ 
 
 "My dear, don't cry," said her brother, drawing up the 
 windows. "I have great hopes of Mr. Tilliard — ^the Silts 
 have written — Mrs. Failing will do what she can " 
 
 As she drove to the cemetery, her bitterness turned \ 
 against Ansell, who had kept her husband alive in the days j 
 after Stephen's expulsion. If he had not been there, Rickie 
 would have renounced his mother and his brother and all 
 the outer world, troubling no one. The mystic, inher-j 
 ent in him, would have prevailed. So Ansell himself had] 
 told her. And Ansell, too, had sheltered the fugitives and 
 given them money, and saved them from the ludicrous 
 checks that so often stop young men. But when she reached 
 the cemetery, and stood beside the tiny grave, all her b itter- 
 pess, all her hatred were turned against Rickie. 
 
 "But he'll come back in the end," she thought. "A wife 
 has only to wait. What are his friends beside me? They 
 too will marry. I have only to wait. His book, like all 
 
 — 20 c — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 that he has done, will fail. His brother is drinking him- 
 self away. Poor aimless Rickie! I have only to keep 
 civil. He will come back in the end." 
 
 She had moved, and found herself close to the grave of 
 Gerald. The flowers she had planted after his death were 
 dead, and she had not liked to renew them. There lay the 
 athlete, and his dust was as the little child's whom she had 
 brought into the world with ^uch hope, with such j^in. 
 
 — 296 — 
 
XXXIII 
 
 THAT same day Rickie, feeling neither poor nor 
 aimless, left the Ansell's for a night's visit to 
 Cadover. His aunt had invited him — why, he 
 could not think, nor could he think why he should refuse 
 the invitation. She could not annoy him now, and he 
 was not vindictive. In the dell near Madingley he had 
 cried, "I hate no one," in his ignorance. Now, with full ' 
 knowledge, he hated no one again. The weather was 
 pleasant, the country attractive, and he was ready for a 
 little change. 
 
 Maud and Stewart saw him off. Stephen, who was 
 down for a holiday, had been left with his chin on the 
 luncheon-table. He had wanted to come to Cadover also. 
 Rickie pointed out that you cannot visit where you have 
 broken the windows. There was an argument — ^there 
 generally was — and now the young man had turned sulky. 
 
 "Let him do what he likes," said Ansell. "He knows 
 more than we do. He knows everything." 
 
 "Is he to get drunk?" Rickie asked. 
 
 "Most certainly." 
 
 "And to go where he isn't asked?" 
 
 Maud, though liking a little spirit in a man, declared 
 this to be impossible. 
 
 "Well, I wish you joy !" Rickie called, as the train moved 
 away. "He means mischief this evening. He told me 
 piously that he felt it beating up. Good-bye!" 
 
 "But we'll wait for you to pass," they cried. For the 
 Salisbury train always backed out of the station and then 
 returned, and the Ansell family, including Stewart, took 
 an incredible pleasure in seeing it do this. 
 
 —297— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 The carriage was empty. Rickie settled himself down 
 for his little journey. First he looked at the coloured 
 photographs. Then he read the directions for obtaining 
 luncheon-baskets, and felt the texture of the cushions. 
 Through the windows a signal-box interested him. Then 
 he saw the ugly little town that was now his home, and up 
 its chief street the Ansells' memorable fagade. The spirit 
 of a genial comedy dwelt there. It was so absurd, so 
 ^ kindly. The house was divided against itself and yet stood. 
 ] Metaphysics, commerce, social aspirations — ^all lived to- 
 gether in harmony. Mr. Ansell had done much, but one 
 was tempted to believe in a more capricious power — the 
 power that abstains from "nipping." "One nips or is 
 nipped, and never knows beforehand," quoted Rickie, and 
 opened the poems of Shelley, a man less foolish than you 
 supposed. How pleasant it was to read ! If business wor- 
 ried him, if Stephen was noisy or Ansell perverse, there 
 still remained this paradise of books. It seemed as if he 
 had read nothing for two years. 
 
 Then the train stopped for the shunting, and he heard pro- 
 tests from minor officials who were working on the line. 
 They complained that some one who didn't ought to, had 
 mounted on the footboard of the carriage. Stephen's face 
 appeared, convulsed with laughter. With the action of a 
 swimmer he dived in through the open window, and fell 
 comfortably on Rickie's luggage and Rickie. He declared it 
 was the finest joke ever known. Rickie was not so sure. 
 "You'll be run over next," he said. "What did you do 
 that for?" 
 
 "I'm coming with you," he giggled, rolling all that he 
 could on to 'the dusty floor. 
 
 "Now, Stephen, this is too bad. Get up. We went into 
 the whole question yesterday." 
 
 "I know ; and I settled we wouldn't go into it again, spoil' 
 ing my holiday." 
 
 "Well, it's execrable taste." 
 
 —298— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 Now he was waving to the Ansells, and showing them a 
 piece of soap : it was all his luggage, and even that he aban- 
 doned, for he flung it at Stewart's lofty brow. 
 
 "I can't think what you've done it for. You know how 
 strongly I felt." 
 
 Stephen replied that he should stop in the village; meet 
 Rickie at the lodge gates; that kind of thing. 
 
 "It's execrable taste," he repeated, trying to keep grave. 
 
 "Well, you did all you could," he exclaimed with' sud- 
 den sympathy. "Leaving me talking to old Ansell, you 
 might have thought you'd got your way. I've as much 
 taste as most chaps, but, hang it!! your aunt isn't the Ger- 
 man Emperor. She doesn't own Wiltshire." 
 
 "You ass!" sputtered Rickie, who had taken to laugh 
 at nonsense again. 
 
 "No, she isn't," he repeated, blowing a kiss out of the 
 window to maidens. "Why, we started for Wiltshire on the 
 wet morning!" 
 
 "When Stewart found us at Sawston railway station?" 
 He smiled happily. "I never thought we should pull 
 through." 
 
 "Well, we didn't. We never did what we meant. It's 
 nonsense that I couldn't have managed you alone. I've a 
 notion. Slip out after your dinner this evening, and we'll 
 get thundering tight together." 
 
 "I've a notion I won't." 
 
 "It'd do you no end of good. You'll get to know people 
 — shepherds, carters " He waved his arms vaguely, in- 
 dicating democracy. "Then you'll sing." 
 
 "And then?" 
 
 "Plop." 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "But I'll catch you," promised Stephen. "We shall carry 
 you up the hill to bed. In the morning you wake, have 
 your row with old Em'ly, she kicks you out, we meet — ^we'U 
 meet at the Rings!" He danced up and down the car- 
 
 —299— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 riage. Some one in the next carriage punched at the par- 
 tition, and when this happens, all lads with mettle know that 
 they must punch the partition back. 
 
 "Thank you. I've a notion I won't," said Rickie when the 
 noise had subsided — ^^subsided for a moment only, for the 
 following conversation took place to an accompaniment of 
 dust and bangs. "Except as r^ards the Rings, We will 
 meet there." 
 
 "Then I'll get tight by myself." 
 
 "No, you won't." 
 
 "Yes, I will. I swore to do somethii^ special this eve- 
 ning. I feel like it." 
 
 "In that case, I get out at the next station." He was 
 laughing, but quite determined. Stephen had grown too 
 dictatorial of late. The Ansells spoilt him. "It's bad 
 enough hkving you there at all. Having yoii there drunk is 
 impossible. I'd sooner not visit my aunt than think, when I 
 sat with her, that you're down in the village teaching her 
 labourers to be as beastly as yourself. Go if you will. 
 But not with me." 
 
 "Why shouldn't I have a good time while I'm young, if 
 I don't harm any one?" said Stephen defiantly. 
 
 "Need we discuss it again ? Because you harm yojixrself ." 
 
 "Oh, I can stop myself any minute I choose. I just say 
 'I won't' to you or any other fool, and I don't." 
 
 Rickie knew that the boast was true. He continued, 
 "There is also a thing called Morality. You may learn in 
 the Bible, and also from the Greeks, that your body is a 
 temple." 
 
 "So you said in your longest letter." 
 
 "Probably I wrote like a prig, for the reason that I have 
 never been tempted in this way ; but surely it is wrong that 
 your body should escape you." 
 
 "I don't follow," he retorted, punching. 
 
 "It isn't right, even for a little time, to forget that you 
 exist." 
 
 -300— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 "I suppose you've never been tempted to go to sleep?" 
 Just then th» train passed through a coppice in which 
 the grey undergrowth looked no more alive than firewood. 
 Yet every twig in it was waiting for the spring. Rickie 
 knew that the analogy was false, but argument confused 
 him, and he gave up this line of attack also. 
 
 "Do be more careful over life. If your body escapes you 
 in one thing, why not in more? A man will have other 
 temptations." 
 
 "You mean women," said Stephen quietly, pausing for a 
 moment in his game. "But that's absolutely different. 
 That would be harming some one else." 
 
 "Is that the only thing that keeps you straight?" 
 "What else should?" And he looked not into Rickie, 
 but past him, with the wondering eyes of a child. Rickie 
 nodded, and referred himself to the window. 
 
 He observed that the country was smoother and more 
 plastic. The woods had gone, and under a pale-blue sky 
 long contours of earth were flowing, and merging, rising a 
 little to bear some coronal of beeches, parting a little to dis- 
 close some green valley, where cottages stood under elms or 
 beside translucent waters. It was Wiltshire at last. The 
 train had entered the chalk. At last it slackened at a way- 
 side platform. Without speaking he opened the door. 
 "What's that for?" 
 "To go back." 
 
 Stephen had forgotten the threat. He said that this 
 was not playing the game. 
 "Surely!" 
 
 "I can't have you going back." 
 "Promise to behave decently then." 
 He was seized and pulled away from the door. 
 "We change at Salisbury," he remarked. "There is an 
 hour to wait. You will find me troublesome." 
 
 "It isn't fair," exploded Stephen. "It's a lowdown trick. 
 How can I let you go back?" 
 
 —301— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Promise, then." 
 
 "Oh, yes, yes, yes. Y. M. C. A. But for this occasion 
 only." 
 
 "No, no. For the rest of your holiday." 
 "Yes, yes. Very well. I promise." 
 "For the rest of your life?" 
 
 Somehow it pleased him that Stephen should bang him 
 crossly with his elbow and say, "No. Get out. You've 
 gone too far." So had the train. The porter at the end 
 of the wayside platform slammed the door, and they pro- 
 ceeded towards Salisbury through the slowly modulating 
 downs. Rickie pretended to read. Over the book he 
 watched his brother's face, and wondered how bad temper 
 h^could be consistent with a mind so radiant. In spite of his 
 { obstinacy and conceit Stephen was an easy person to live 
 ! with. He never fidgeted or nursed, hidden grievances, or 
 jjhdulged in a shoddy pride. Though he spent Rickie's 
 money as slowly as he could, he asked for it without apology: 
 "You must put it down against me," he would say. In time 
 — it was still very vague — ^he would rent or purchase a farm. 
 There is no formula in which we may sum up decent people. 
 So Ansell had preached, and had of course proceeded to 
 offer a formula: "They must be serioiis, they must be 
 truthful." Serious not in the sense of glum; but they 
 must be convinced that our life is a state of some impor- 
 tance, and our earth not a place to beat time on. Of so 
 much Stephen was convinced: he showed it in his work, 
 in his play, in his self-respect, and above all — ^though the 
 fact is hard to face — in his sacred passion for alcohol. 
 Drink, today, is an unlovely thing. Between us and the 
 heights of Cithseron the river of sin now flows. Yet the 
 cries still call from the mountain, and granted a man has 
 responded to them, it is better he respond with the candour 
 of the Greek. 
 
 "I shall stop at the Thompsons' now," said the disappointed 
 reveller. "Prayers." 
 
 —302— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 p.ickie die*: not press his triumph, (but it was a happy mo- 
 ment, partlj because of the triuniph, partly because he was 
 sure that has brother must care for him. §tephen was too 
 selfish to ^'ive up any pleasure without grave reasons^ He 
 was Certaia that he had been right to disentangle himself 
 from Sawston, and to ignore the threats and tears that still 
 tempted h-.m to return. Here there was real work for him 
 to do. Moreover, though he sought no reward, it had come. 
 His healtji was better, his brain sound, his life washed 
 clean, not by the waters of sentiment, but by^the efforts oLa 
 fellow-man. Stephen was man first, brother afterwards. J 
 Herein lay his brutality and also his virtue. "Look me in 
 the face, j Don't hang on me clothes that don't belong — as ; 
 you did On your wife, giving her saint's robes, whereas j 
 she was simply a woman of her own sort, who needed care- ' 
 ful watchihg. Tear up the photographs. Here am I, and 
 there are you. The rest is cant." The rest was not cant, 
 and perhaps Stephen would confess as much in time. But 
 Ricklfc needed a tonic, and a man, not a brother, must hold 
 it to his lijps. 
 
 "I see tjie old spire," he called, and then added, "I don't 
 mind seeing it again." 
 
 "No one does, as far as I know. . People have come from 
 the other side of the world to see it again." 
 
 "Pious people. But I don't hold with bishops." He was 
 young enough to be uneasy. The cathedral, a fount of 
 sugCTstition, must find no place in _his^life. At fhe^ age of 
 twentylie had settlea"things. "I've got my own philosophy," 
 he once told Ansell, "and I don't care a straw about yours." 
 Ansell's mirth had annoyed him not a little. And it was 
 strange that one so settled should feel his heart leap up at 
 the sight of an old spire. "I regard it as a public build- 
 ing," he told Rickie, who agreed. "It's useful, too, as a 
 landmark." His attitude today was defensive. It was part 
 of a subtle change that Rickie had noted in him since his 
 return from Scotland. His face gave hints of a new 
 
 —303— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 I maturity. "You can see the old spire from thi\'. Ridgeway," 
 "he said, suddenly laying a hand on Rickie's k^-jnee, "before 
 rain as clearly as any telegraph post." 
 
 "How far is the Ridgeway?" 
 
 "Seventeen miles." 
 
 "Which direction?" , 
 
 m see De- 
 Also to- 
 ought to 
 
 nes of vil- 
 
 "North, naturally. North again from that yc 
 vizes, the vale of Pewsey, and the other downs, 
 wards Bath. It is something of a view. You 
 get on the Ridgeway." 
 
 " I shouldn't have time for that." 
 
 "Or Beacon Hill. Or let's do Stonehenge." 
 
 "If it's fine, I suggest the Rings. 
 
 "It will be fine." Then he murmured the nai 
 lages. 
 
 "I wish you could live here," said Rickie kindly- "I be- 
 lieve you love these particular acres more thanJthe whole 
 world." 
 
 Stephen replied that this was not the case: he was only 
 used to them. He wished they were driving out, instead 
 of waiting for the Cadchurch train. \ 
 
 They had advanced into Salisbury, and the cathedral, a 
 public building, was grey against a tender sky. Rickie 
 suggested that, while waiting for the train, they should 
 visit it. He spoke of the incomparable north porch. 
 
 "I've never been inside it, and I never will. Sorry to 
 shock you, Rickie, but I must tell you plainly. J'm an 
 atheist. I do n't believe in anvthin g." 
 
 "I do," said Rickie. 
 . "WllSajananjdieg, it's ss if he's never been." he asserted. 
 ^*^/he .train drew up in Salisbury station. ,Here a little in- 
 cident took place which caused them to alter their plans. 
 
 They found outside the station a trap driven by a small 
 boy, who had come in from Cadford to fetch some wire- 
 netting. "That'll do us," said Stephen, and called to the 
 boy, "If I pay your railway-ticket back, and if I give yott 
 —304— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 sixpence as well, will you let us drive back in the trap?" 
 The boy said no. "It will be all right," said Rickie. "I am 
 Mrs. Failing's nephew." The boy shook his head. "And 
 you know ]^r;^_Wi^ham ?" The boy couldn't say he didn't. 
 "Then what's your objection? Why? What is it? Why 
 not?" But Stephen leant against the time-tables and spoke 
 of other matters. 
 
 Presently the boy said, "Did you say you'd pay my rail* 
 way-ticket back, Mr. Wonham?" 
 
 "Yes," said a bystander. "Didn't you hear him?" 
 
 "I heard him right enough." 
 
 Now Stephen laid his hand on the splash-board, saying, 
 "What I want, though, is this trap here of yours, see, to 
 drive in back myself;" and as he spoke the bystander 
 followed him in canon, "What he wants, though, is that 
 there trap of yours, see, to drive hisself back in." 
 
 "I've no objection," said the boy, as if deeply offended. 
 For a time he sat motionless, and then got down, remark- 
 ing, "I won't rob you of your sixpence." 
 
 "Silly little fool," snapped Rickie, as they drove through 
 the town. 
 
 Stephen looked surprised. "What's wrong with the boy ? 
 He had to think it over. No one had asked him to do 
 such a thing before. Next time he'd let us have the trap 
 quick enough." 
 
 "Not if he had driven in for a cabbage instead of wire- 
 netting." 
 
 "He never would drive in for a cabbage." 
 
 Rickie shuffled his feet. But his irritation passed. He 
 saw that the little incident had been a quiet challenge to 
 the civilization that he had known. "Organize." 
 "Systematize." "Fill up every moment," "Induce esprit de 
 corps." He revie wjed thg jyatchwords of the last two years, 
 and found that the y^ ^ored^personaJ .contest, personal 
 truces, personal lover~By*^foIIowing them Sawston School, 
 TJaSniost its~qmeF~usefulness and become a frothy sea, 
 
 —305— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 wherein plunged Dunwood House, that unnecessary ship. 
 Humbled, he turned to Stephen and said, "No, you're right. 
 Nothing is wrong with the boy. He was honestly think- 
 ing it out." But Stephen had forgotten the incident, or 
 else he was not inclined to talk about it. His assertive 
 fit was over. 
 
 The direct road from Salisbury to Cadover is extremely 
 dull. The city — which God intended to keep by the river; 
 did she not move there, being thirsty, in the reign of William 
 Rufus? — ^the city has strayed out of her own plain, climbed 
 up her slopes, and tumbled over them in ugly cataracts 
 of brick. The cataracts are .still short, and doubtless they 
 meet or create some commercial need. But instead of look- 
 ing towards the cathedral, as all the city should, they look 
 outwards at a pagan entrenchment, as the city should not. 
 They neglect the poise of the earth, and the sentiments she 
 has decreed. They are the modern spirit. 
 
 Through them the road descends into" an unobtrusive 
 country where, nevetheless, the power of the earth grows 
 jStronger. Streams do divide. Distances do still exist. It 
 lis easier to know the men in your valley than those who 
 jlive in the next, across a waste of dov\m. It ^ ea'sier^to 
 iknow men well. The country js^ not paradise, and can show 
 I the vices that grieve a good man every wKere. But there is 
 room in it, and leisure. 
 
 "I suppose," said Rickie as the twilight fell, "this kind 
 of thing is going on all over England." Perhaps he meant 
 that towns are after all excrescences, grey fluxions, where 
 men, hurrying to find one another, have lost themselves. 
 But he got no response, and expected none. Turning round 
 in his seat, he watched the winter sun slide out of a quiet 
 sky. The horizon was primrose, and the earth against it 
 gave momentary hints of purple. All faded: no pageant 
 would conclude the gracious day, and when he turned east- 
 ward the night was already established. 
 —306— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 "Those verlands " said Stephen, scarcely above his 
 
 breath. 
 
 "What are verlands?" 
 
 He pointed at the dusk, and said, "Our name for a kind 
 of field." Then he drove his whip into its socket, and 
 seemed to swallow something. Rickie, straining his eyes 
 for verlands, could only see a tumbling wilderness of brown. 
 
 "Are there many local words?" 
 
 "There have been." 
 
 "I suppose they die out." 
 
 ,The conversation turned curiously. In the tone of one 
 who replies, he said, "I expect that some time or other 1 1 
 shall marry." 
 
 "I expect you will," said Rickie, and wondered a little 
 why the reply seemed not abrupt. "Would we see the 
 Rings in the daytime from here?" 
 
 "(We do see them.) But Mrs. Failing once said no 
 decent woman would have me." 
 
 "Did you agree to that?" 
 
 "Drive a little, will you?" 
 
 The horse went slowly forward into the wilderness, that 
 turned from brown to black. Then a luminous glimmer 
 surrounded them, and the air grew cooler: the road was 
 descending between parapets of chalk. 
 
 "But, Rickie, mightn't I find a girl — naturally not re- 
 fined — and be happy with her in my own_yray? I would 
 tell her straighl:„I was nothing jmjcl^f aithful, of course, 
 but that she should .pever have allmy thoughts. Out of;f 
 no disrespect to her, but because all one's thoughts can't 
 belong to any single person." 
 
 While he spoke even the road vanished, and invisible 
 water came gurgling through the wheel-spolces. T ^e horse [. 
 had chosen the ford. ' 
 
 "You can't own people. At^least a fellow can't. It may 
 be diflferent for a poet. (Let the horse drink.) And I want 
 
 —307— 
 
The Longest Journey , 
 
 to marry some one, and don't yet know who she is, which 
 a poet again will tell you is disgusting. Does it disgust 
 you? Being nothing much, surely I'd better go gently. 
 For it's something rather outsidejhat ma kes one .j narry, if 
 you follflF me: not._gxact]x„xm£§d[f. (Don't hurry the 
 horse.) We vvrant to marry, and yet — I can't explain. I 
 fancy I'll go wading : this is our stream." 
 
 Romantic love is greater than this. There are men and 
 women— we know it from history — who have been born into 
 the world for each other, and for no one else, who have 
 acconiplished the longest journey slocked in each other's 
 arms. But ipij!ajn.ric Jove js. also tfie code^of modem mqrah, 
 /and, for this reason, popular. Eternal union, eternal owner- 
 jship — these are tempting baits for the average man. He 
 I swallows them, will not confess his mistake, and — ^perhaps 
 j to cover it — cries "dirty cynic" at such a man as Stephen. 
 Rickie watched the uhlask^ earth uuite to the _black sky. 
 But the sky overhead grew clearer^ and in it twinkled the 
 Plough and the central stars. He t hought of his HrrifjiPria. 
 future .and of his own past, and of how much truth might 
 Tie in that antithesis of Ansell's : "A man wants to love man- 
 ([kind, a woman wants to love one man." At all events, he 
 land his wife had illustrated it, and perhaps the conflict, 
 \ so tragic in their own case, was elsewhere the salt of the 
 world. Meanwhile Stephen called from the water for 
 matches: there was some trick with paper which Mr. Fail- 
 ing had showed him, and which he would show Rickie now, 
 instead of talking nonsense. Bending down, he illuminated 
 the dimpled surface of the ford. "Quite a current," he 
 said, and his face flickered out in the darkness. "Yes, 
 give me the loose paper, quick 1 Crumple it into a ball." 
 
 Rickie obeyed, though intent on the transfiguredf ace. Jle 
 
 telievedjhat a new spirit dwelt Jhere, expelling tlie"crudities 
 
 of youth. iJFsaw "sTeadier eyes, and the sign of manhood 
 
 set like a bar of gold upon steadier lips. Some faces are 
 
 —308— 
 
 (] 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 knit by beauty, or by intellect, or by a great passion: had 
 Stephen's waited for the touch of the years? 
 
 But they played as boys who continued the nonsense of 
 the railway carriage. The paper caught fire from the match, 
 and spread into a rose of flame. "Now gently with me," 
 said Stephen, and they laid it flower-like on the stream. 
 Gravel and tremulous weeds leapt into sight, and then the 
 flower sailed into deep water, and up leapt the two arches 
 of a bridge. "It'll strike!" they cried; "no, it won't; it's,, 
 chosen the left," and one arch became a fairy tunnel, drop- 
 ping diamonds. TIjen it yanishedforSickie ; but Stephen, 
 who knelt in the water, declared tKatit was still afloat, far 
 through the arch, burning as if it would burn forever. 
 
 —309— 
 
XXXIV 
 
 THE carriage that Mrs. Failing had sent to meet 
 her nephew returned from Cadchurch station 
 empty. She was preparing for a solitary dinner 
 when he somehow arrived, full of apologies, but morp sedate 
 than she had expected. She cut his explanationr short. 
 "Never mind hbw you got here. You are here, and I am 
 quite pleased to see you." He changed his clothes and they 
 proceeded to the dining-room. 
 
 There was a bright fire, but the curtains were not drawn. 
 Mr. Failing had believed that windows with the night behind 
 are more beautiful than any pictures, and his widow had 
 kept to the custom. It was brave of her to persevere, 
 lumps of chalk having come out of the night last June. 
 For some obscure reason — not so obscure to Rickie — she 
 had preserved them as mementoes of an episode. Seeing 
 ^'them in a row on the mantelpiece, he expected that their 
 first topic would be Stephen. But they never mentioned 
 vihim, though he was latent in all that they said. 
 
 It was of Mr. Failing that they spoke. The Essays had 
 been a success. She was really pleased. The book was 
 brought in at her request, and between the courses she read 
 it aloud to her nephew, in her soft yet unsympathetic voice. 
 Then she sent for the press notices — after all no one de- 
 spises them — ^and read their comments on her introduction. 
 iShe wielded a graceful pen, was apt, adequate, suggestive, 
 (indispensable, unnecessary. So the meal passed pleasantly 
 (away, for no one could so well combine the formal with the 
 unconventional, and it only seemed charming when papers 
 littered her stately table. 
 "My man wrote very nicely," she observed. "Now, you 
 —310— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 read me something out of him that you like. Read "The 
 True Patriot.'" 
 
 He took the book and found: "Let us love one another. 
 Let our children, physical and spiritual, love^ one another. 
 It is all that we can do. ^Perhaps the earth will neglect' 
 our love. Perhaps she will confirm it, and sui9fer some 
 rallying-point, spire, mound, for the new generations to 
 cherish." 
 
 "He wrote that when he was young. Later on he doubted 
 whether we had better love one another, or whether 
 the earth will confirm anything. He died a most unhappy' 
 man." i 
 
 He could not help saying, "Not knowing that the earth 
 had confirmed him." 
 
 "Has she? It is quite possible. We meet so seldom in 
 these days, she and I. Do you see much of the earth ?" 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "Do you expect that she will confirm you?" 
 
 "It is quite possible." 
 
 "Beware of her, Rickie, I think." 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 "Beware of her, surely. Going back to her really is 
 going back — throwing away the artificiality which (though 
 you young people won't confess it) is the only good thing 
 in life, Don't pretend you are simple. Once I pretended." 
 Don't pretend that you care for anything but for clever talk 
 such as this, and for books." 
 
 "The talk," said .Leighton afterwards, "certainly was 
 clever. But it meant something, all the same." He heard 
 no more, for his mistress told him to retire. 
 
 "And my nephew, this being so, jn^e.,up your quar,ceL 
 with your wife/' She stretched out her hand to him with 
 real feeling. "It is easier now than it will be later. Poor, 
 lady, she has written to me foolishly and often, but, on the f 
 whole, I side with her against you. She would grant you] 
 all that you fought for — ^all the people, all the theories, 
 
 —311— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 I have it, in her writing, that she will ngy^iuintad ere wit h 
 your life again." 
 
 "She cannot help interfering," said Rickie, with his eyes 
 on the black windows. ' |She despises me. Besides, I do 
 not love„her." 
 
 ^~ "I know, my dear. Nor she jou. I am not being senti- 
 mental. I say once more, beware of. the earth. W^ aje 
 eonyentional people, and conventions — if you will but see 
 
 At — are majestic in their way, and will claim us in the end. 
 We do not live for great passions or for great memories, 
 or for anything great." 
 
 ^ He threw up his head. "We do." 
 
 "Now listen to me. I am serious and friendly tonight', 
 as you must have observed. I have asked you here partly 
 to amuse myself — ^you belong to my March Past — ^but also 
 to give you good advice. There has been a volcano — a 
 phenomenon "which I too once greatly admired. The erup- 
 tion is over. Let the conventions dg_t heir work n ow, and 
 
 I clear the rubbish away. My age_^is fifty-nine, and I tell 
 you solemnly that the important things in 11^5"^ ''**^^.^S§^' 
 
 1 and Jjfcit people are not important at all. Go. back to_your 
 
 Kmie"^^ "' ' ■""■" "~~-~ 
 
 He looked at her, and was filled with pity. He knew that 
 he would never be frightened of her again. Only because 
 she was serious and friendly did he trouble himself to re- 
 ply. "There is one little fact I should like to tell you, as 
 confuting your theory. The jdea of a .story — a. long story- 
 had been in my head for a year. As a dream to amuse my- 
 self — the kind of amusement you would recommend for the 
 future. I should have had time to write it, but the people 
 
 round me coloured my life, and so it never seemed worth 
 while. For the story is not likely to pay. Then came the 
 volcano. A few days after it was over I lay in bed looking 
 out upon a world of rubbish. Two_men I know — o ne intel- 
 IcctualjL the other very much the_j;everse— Btirst into the 
 room. They said, 'What happened to your short stories? 
 
 —312— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 They weren't good, but where are they? Why have you 
 stopped writing? Why haven't you been to Italy? You 
 must write. You must go. Because to write, to go, is you." 
 Well, I have written, and yesterday we sent the long story 
 out on its rounds. The men do not like it, for different 
 reasons. But it mattered very much to them that I should 
 write it, and so it got written. As I told you, this is only 
 one fact; other facts, I trust, have h appened in the last five^ 
 mpnths.. But I-.gifiQtio.n it to prove !t!mtpeople^e imp^ , 
 tant, and therefore, however jnuchjit inconveniences myj 
 wife, i will not go back to her." »* 
 
 "And Italy?" asked Mrs. Failing. 
 
 This question he avoided. Italy must wait. Now that 
 he had the lime, he had not the money. ^ 
 
 "Or what is the long story about, then?" 
 
 "About a man^and a woman who^meet and are hagpy." 
 
 "Somewhat of a tour~^e forceTl conclude." "~" 
 
 He frowned. "In literature we iieedn't intrude our own 
 limitations. I'm not so silly as to think that all marriages 
 turn out like mine. M y c haracter is to blame f or_our_catas- 
 trop he, not marriage." '" " 
 
 "My dear, I too have married ; l aarriag e is to blameT" 
 
 But here again he seemed to know better. 
 
 "Well," she said, leaving the table and moving with her 
 dessert to the mantelpiece, "so \QiLa re abandoning marria ge 
 aiid taking_to literature. And are happy." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because, as we used to say at Cambridge, ttip, cow js 
 there. The world is real again. This is a room, that a 
 window, outside is the night '' 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 He pointed to the floor. "The day is straight below, 
 shining through other windows into other rooms." 
 
 "You are very odd," she said after a pause, "and I do 
 not like you at all. There you sit, eating my biscuits, and 
 
 —313— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 all the time you know that the earth is round. Who taught 
 you ? I am going to bed now, and all the night, you tell me, 
 you and I and the biscuits go plunging eastwards, until 
 we reach the sun. But breakfast will be at nine as usual. 
 Good-night." 
 
 She rang the bell twice, and her maid came with her candle 
 
 and her walking-stick: it was her habit of late to go to her 
 
 room as soon as dinner was over, for she had no one to 
 
 , sit up with. i g.ickie was impressed by her loneliness, and 
 
 ,also by the mixture in her of in sigh t and obtuseness. She 
 
 was so quick, so clear-headed, so imaginativeeven. But all 
 
 j the same, she had forgotten wh^ people were, like. Fiiwlng" 
 
 [life dull, she had dropped lies into it, as a chemist drops 
 
 a new element into a solution, hoping that life would thereby 
 
 sparkle or turn some beautiful colour. She loved^to mis- 
 
 lra.d others, and in the end her private view of false and 
 
 true was obscured, and she misled herself. How she must 
 
 have enjoyed their errors j ateg- Stephen ! But her OTOCLerror 
 
 had been greater, inasmuch as it wass piritual_e ntirelv. 
 
 Leighton came in with some coffeeT^ Feeling it unneces- 
 sary to light the drawing-room lamp for one small young 
 man, he persuaded Rickie to say he preferred the dining-' 
 room. So Rickie sat down by the fire playing with one 
 of the lumps of chalk. His thoughts went back to the ford, 
 from which they had scarcely wandered. Still he heard 
 the horse in the dark drinking, still he saw the mystic rose, 
 and the tunnel dropping diamonds. He had driven awa y 
 alone, believing the earth had confirmed him. He stood be- 
 
 hind things at Jiast, and knew ~that c onventions ar e not 
 majestic, and that they will not claim us in the end. " 
 
 '"' As^ mused, the chalk slipped from his fingers, and fell 
 on the coffee-cup, which broke. The china, said Leighton, 
 was expensive. He believed it was impossible to match it 
 
 I now. Each cup was different. It was a harlequin set. 
 The saucer, without the cup, was therefore useless. Would 
 
 ^Mr. Elliot please explain to Mrs. Failing how it happened. 
 
 ^v,^)..^-^ —314— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 Rickie promised he would explain. 
 
 He had left Stephen preparing to bathe^ and hadL,heard 
 him .working up-stream likg an animal, splashing in the shal- 
 lows, breathing heavily as he swam the pools ; at times reeds 
 snapped, or clods of earth were pulled in. By the fire he 
 remembered it was again November. "Should you like a 
 walk?" he asked Leighton, and told him who stopped in 
 the village tonight. Leighton was pleased. At nine o'clock 
 the two young men left the house, under a sky that was 
 still only bright in the zenith. "It will rain tomorrow," 
 Leighton said. 
 
 "My brother says, .fine_,tomoi:row." 
 
 "Fine tomorrow," Leighton echoed. 
 
 "Now which do you mean?" asked Rickie, laughing. 
 
 Since the plumes of the fir-trees touched over the drive, 
 only a very little light penetrated; It was clearer outside 
 the lodge gate, and bubbles of air, which seemed to have 
 travelled from an immense distance, broke gently and sepa- 
 rately on his face. They paused on the bridge. He asked 
 whether the little fish and the bright green weeds were here 
 now as well as in the summer. The footman had not noticed. 
 Over the bridge they came to the cross-roads, of which 
 one led to Salisbury and the other up through the string of 
 villages to the railway station. The road in front was only 
 the Roman road, the one that went on to the downs. Turn- 
 ing to the left, they were in Cadford. 
 
 "He will be with th a Thompsons ," said Rickie, looking 
 up at dark eaves. "Perhaps he's m bed already." 
 
 "Pel haps he will be at The Antelope." 
 
 "No. Tonight he is with the Thompsons." 
 
 "With the Thompsons." After a dozen paces he said, 
 "The Thompsons have gone away." 
 
 "Where? Why?" . 
 
 "They were turned out by Mr. Wilbraham on account of \ 
 our broken windows." J 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 —315— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Five families were turned out." 
 
 "That's bad for Stephen," said Rickie, after a pause. 
 "He was looking forward — oh, it'sjaosM£Qii&, in any case !" 
 
 "But the Thompsons have gone to London," said Leigh- 
 ton. "Why, that family — ^they say it's been in the valley 
 hundreds of years, and never got beyond shepherding. To 
 various parts of London." 
 
 "Let us try The Antelope, then." 
 
 "Let us try The Antelope." 
 
 The inn lay up in the village. Rickie hastened his pace. 
 
 ThiiJjaajQja^LjiKaS-JaflllStipus. Some men of the age of 
 
 undergraduates had broken windows, and therefore they and 
 
 their families were to be ruined. The fools who g overn 
 
 rms find it easier to be severe. It saves them trouble to say, 
 
 I "TKeTnnocent must "suffer with the guilty." It even gives 
 
 ^hem a thrill of pride. Against all this wicked nonsense, 
 
 against the Wilbrahams and Pembrokes who try to riaTfour 
 
 ^orld^ Stephen wpuld fight till he die d. Stephen was "a 
 
 'hero. He was a law to himself, and rightly. He wasgreat 
 
 enough to despise our small moralities. He \^s attaining 
 
 jove. THisl'^ehing RicKiF caught Ansell's enthusiasm, and 
 
 felt it worth whil£_tQ_ sacrifice everything for such a man. 
 
 "The Antelope," said Leighton. "Those lights under the 
 greatest elm." 
 
 "Would you please ask if he's there, and if he'd come for 
 a turn with me. I don't think I'll go in." 
 
 Leighton opened the door. They saw a little room, blue 
 with tobacco-smoke. Flanking the fire were deep settles 
 hiding all but the legs of the men who lounged in them. Be- 
 tween the settles stood a table, covered with mugs and 
 glasses. The scene was picturesque — fairer than the cut- 
 glass palaces of the town. 
 
 f "Oh yes, he's there," he called, and after a moment's 
 ] hesitation came out. 
 •- "Would he come?" 
 
 "No. I shouldn't say so," replied Leighton, with a furtive 
 —316— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 glance. He knew that Rifilds, "^^^ ^ milksop. "First night, 
 you know, sir, among old friends." 
 
 "Yes, I know," said Rickie. "But he might like a turn 
 down the village. It looks stufify inside there, and poor fun 
 probably to watch others drinking." 
 
 Leighton shut the door. 
 
 "What was that he called after you ?" 
 
 "Oh, nothing. A man when he's drunk — he says the 
 worst he's ever heard. At least, so they say." 
 
 "A man when he's drunk ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "But Stephen isn't drinking ?" 
 
 "No, no." 
 
 "He couldn't be. If hev .brokeja p romise — I don't preten d 
 h^s,j^_s_aint. I don't want him one. But it isn't in him to 
 break a promise." 
 
 "Yes, sir; I understand." 
 
 "In the. train he promised, me not to drink — nothing the- 
 atrical : just a promise for these few days." 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "'No, sir,'" stamped Rickie. "'Yes! no! yes!' Can't 
 you speak out ? Is he drunk or isn't he ?" 
 
 Leighton, justly exasperated, cried, "He can't stand, and 
 I've told you so again and again." 
 
 "Stephen!" shouted Rickie, darting up the steps. Heat 
 and the smell of beer awaited him, and he spoke more 
 furiously than he had intended. "Is there any one here 
 who's sober?" he cried. The landlord looked over the bar 
 angrily, and asked him what he meant. He pointed to the 
 deep settles. "Inside there he's drunk. Tell him he's 
 broken his word, and I will not go with him to the Rings." 
 
 "Very well. You won't go with him to the Rings," said 
 the landlord, stepping forward and slamming the door in 
 his face. 
 
 In the room he was only angry, but out in the cool air 
 he remembered that Stephen was a .Iaw_^to himself. He 
 
 —317— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 •'had chosen to break his word, and would break it agai n. 
 
 Nothing else bound him. To yield . to tempt ation i s not 
 
 fatal for most ofjis. But it was the end of everything for 
 
 a hero. 
 
 ^ "He's suddenly ruined!" he cried, not yet remembering 
 
 himself. For a little he stood by the elm-tree, clutching 
 
 the ridges of its bark. Even so would he wrestle tomorrow, 
 
 and Stephen, imperturbable, reply, "My body is my own." 
 
 Or worse still, he might wrestle with a pliant Stephen who 
 
 j promised him glibly again. While lie_Erayed for a mirac le 
 
 to convert his brothgr, it struck him that he must "pray for 
 
 I himself . For hg, too, was ruined^ 
 
 "Why, what's the matter?" asked Leighton. "Stephen's 
 only being with friends. Mr. Elliot, sir, don't break down. 
 Nothing's happened bad. No one's died yet, or even hurt 
 themselves." Ever kind, he took hold of Rickie's arm, 
 and, pitying such a nervous fellow, set out with him for 
 home. The shoulders of Orion rose behind them over the 
 topmost boughs of the elm. From the bridge the whole 
 constellation was visible, and Rickie said, " Mav God receiv e 
 ™S-^E^_BH^^ ™^ f or trus ting the earth." 
 
 "But, Mr. Elliot, what have you done that's wrong?" 
 
 "Gone bankrupt, Leighton, for the second time. Pre; 
 tjendeT again that people were real. May God 'Have mercy 
 on me!" 
 
 Leighton dropped his arm. Though he did not understand, 
 a chill of disgust passed over him, and he said, "I will go 
 back to The Antelope. I will help them put Stephen to 
 bed." 
 
 "Do. I will wait for you here." ,Then he leant against 
 the parapet and prayed passionately, for h e knew that the 
 ^onvention|i would claim him soon. God was beyond them , 
 Bnr~alirTiow far beyond, and to be reached after what 
 degradation! At the end of thia_£hildish„,.detour hig,wiie„ 
 awaited-him . not less surely because she was only Ins wife 
 in name. He was t oo weak . Books and fri ends were not 
 
 --—1=3 1 8^r- " ^ 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 enough. Little by little she would claim him and corrupt 
 him and make him what he had been; and the woman he 
 loved would die out, in drunkenness, in debauchery, and 
 her strength would be dissipated by a man, her beauty 
 defiled in a man. She would not continue. That mystic 
 rose and the face it illumined meant nothing. The stream 
 — he was above it now — ^meant nothing, though it burst 
 from the pure turf and ran for ever to the sea. The bather, 
 the shoulders of Orion — ^they all meant nothing, and were 
 going nowhere. The whole affair was a ridiculous dream. 
 
 Leighton returned, saying, "Haven't you seen Stephen? 
 They say he followed us: he can still walk: I told you he 
 wasn't so bad." 
 
 "I don't think he passed me. Ought one to look?" He 
 wandered a little along the Roman road. Again nothing 
 mattered. At the level-crossing he leant on the gate to watch 
 a slow goods train pass. In the glare of the engine he saw 
 that his brother had come this way, perhaps through some 
 sodden memory of the Rings, and no w lay drunk over the 
 rails. V^earily he did a man's duty. There was time to 
 raise him up arjd^push him into safety. It is _also a man's 
 dtjtyto save his own life, and therefore he tried. The train 
 went oyer his knees. ' He died up in Cadover, whispering, ^ 
 "^^bu have been right," to Mrs. Failing. 
 
 She wrote of him to Mrs. Lewin afterwards as "one who 
 has_f ailed in all he undertook ; one of the thousand swHose 
 dust returns to the dust, accomplishing nothing in the. inter- 
 val. Agnes and I buried him to the sound of our cracked 
 bell, and pretended that_he had once been alive. The other, 
 who was always honest, kept away." 
 
 -319— 
 
XXXV 
 
 FROM the window they looked over a sober valley, 
 whose sides were not too sloping to be ploughed, and 
 whose trend was followed by a grass-grown track. 
 It was late on Sunday afternoon, and the valley was deserted 
 except for onajabourer, who was coasting slowly down- 
 ward on a rusty bicycle. The air was very quiet. A jay 
 screamed up in the woods behind, but the ring-doves, who 
 roost early, were already silent. Since the window opened 
 westward, the room was flooded with light, and ^teBhen,. 
 finding it hot, was working in his shirt-sleeves. 
 
 "You guarantee they'll sell ?" he asked, with a pen between 
 his teeth. He was tidying up a pile of manuscripts. 
 
 "I guarantee that the world will be the gainer," sai d Mr. 
 .Pemb roke, now a clergyman, who sat beside him at the" 
 table with an expression of refined disapproval on his face. 
 
 "I'd got the idea that the long story had its points, but 
 that these shorter things didn't — what's the word?" 
 
 " 'Convince ' is probably the word you want. But that 
 type of criticism is quite a thing of the past. Have you 
 seen the illustrated American edition?" 
 
 "I don't remember." 
 
 "Might I send you a copy? I think you ought to possess 
 one." 
 
 "Thank you." His eye wandered. The bicycle had dis- 
 appeared into some trees, and thither, through a cloudless 
 sky, the sun was also descending. 
 
 "Is all quite plain?" said Mr. Pembroke. "Submit these 
 ten stories to the magazines, and make your own terms with 
 the editors. Then — I have your word for it — ^you will join 
 —320— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 forces with me; and the four stories in my possession, to- 
 gether with yours, should make up a volume, which we | 
 might well call Tan Pipes.'" 
 
 "Are you sure 'Pan Pipes' haven't been used up already?" 
 
 Mr. Pembroke clenched his teeth. He had been bearing 
 with this sort of thing for nearly an hour. "If that is 
 the case, we can select another. A title is easy to come by. 
 But that is the idea it must suggest. The stories, as I have 
 twice explained to you, all centre round a Nature theme. 
 Pan, being the god of " 
 
 "I know that," said Stephen impatiently. 
 
 " — Being the god of " 
 
 "All right. Let's get furrard. I've learnt that." 
 
 It was years since the schoolmaster had been interrupted, 
 and he could not stand it. "Very well," he said. "I bow to 
 your superior knowledge of the classics. Let us proceed." 
 
 "Oh yes — the introduction. There must be one. It was I 
 the introduction with all those wrong details that sold the \ 
 other book." 
 
 "You overwhelm me. I never penned the memoir with 
 that intention." 
 
 "If you won't do one, Mrs._ Keynes must!" 
 
 "My sister leads a busy life. I could not ask her, I 
 will do it myself since you insist." 
 
 "And the binding?" 
 
 "The binding," said Mr. Pembroke coldly, "must really 
 be left to the discretion of the publisher. We cannot be 
 concerned with such details. Our task is purely literary." 
 His attention wandered. He began to fidget, and finally 
 bent down and looked under the table. "What have we 
 here?" he asked. 
 
 Stephen looked also, and for a moment they smiled at 
 each other over the prostrate figure of a child, who was 
 cuddling Mr. Pembroke's boots'. "She's after the blacking," 
 he explained. "If we left her there, she'd lick them brown." 
 
 "Indeed. Is that so very safe?" 
 —321 — 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "It never did me any harm. Come up! Your tongue's 
 dirty." 
 
 "Can I " She was understood to ask whether she 
 
 could clean her tongue on a loUie. 
 
 "No, no!" said Mr. Pembroke. "Lollipops don't clean 
 little girls' tongues." 
 
 "Yes, they do," he retorted. "But she won't get one." 
 He lifted her on his knee, and rasped her tongue with his 
 handkerchief. 
 
 "Dear little thing," said the visitor perfunctorily. The 
 child began to squall, and kicked her father in the stomach. 
 Stephen regarded her quietly. "You tried to hurt me," 
 he said. "Hurting doesn't count. Trying to hurt coun ts. 
 Go and clean your tongue yourself. Get off my knee." 
 Tears of another sort came into her eyes, but she obeyed 
 him. "How's the great Bertie?" he asked. 
 
 "Thank you. My nephew is perfectly, well. How came 
 you to hear of his existence?" 
 
 "Through the Silts, of course. It isnt five miles to 
 Cadover." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke raised his eyes mournfully. "I cannot 
 conceive how the poor Silts go on in that great house. 
 Whatever she intended, it could not have been that. The 
 house, the farm, the money, — everything down to the per- 
 sonal articles that belongs to .Mr. Failing, and should have 
 rei^siled. to his jfamily !" 
 
 "It's legal. Intestate succession." 
 
 "I do not dispute it. But it is a lesson to one to mak e 
 a^will. Mrs. Keynes and myself were electrified." 
 Tfiey'U do there. They offered me the agency, but- 
 
 He looked down the cultivated slopes. His manners were 
 growing rough, for he saw few gentlemen now, and he was 
 either incoherent or else alarmingly direct. "However, 
 if Lawrie Silt's a Cockney like his father, and if my next 
 
 is a boy and like me " A shy beautiful look came into 
 
 his eyes, and passed unnoticed. "They'll do," he repeated. 
 
 —322— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 "They turned out Wilbraham and built new cottages, and 
 bridged the railway, and made other necessary alterations." 
 There was a moment's silence. 
 
 Mr. Pembroke took out his watch. "I wonder if I 
 might have the trap ? I mustn't miss my train, must I ? It 
 is good of you to have granted me an interview. It is all 
 quite plain?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "A case of half and half — division of profits." 
 
 "Half and half ?" said the young farmer slowly. "What 
 do you take me for? Half and half, when I provide ten 
 of the stories and you only four?" 
 
 "I — I " stammered Mr. Pembroke. 
 
 "I consider you did me over the long story, and I'm 
 damned if you do me over the short ones !" 
 
 "Hush ! if you please, hush ! — if only for your little girl's 
 sake." He lifted a clerical palm. 
 
 ^ "You did me," his voice drove, "and all the thirty-nine 
 iA.rticIes won't stop me saying so. That long story was 
 .^neant to be mine. I got it written. You've done me out 
 of every penny it fetched. It's dedicated to me — ^flat out — 
 and you even crossed out the dedication and tidied me out 
 of the introduction. Listen to me, Pembroke. You've done 
 people.all your life — I think without knowing it, but that 
 won't comfort us. A wretched devil at your school once 
 wrote to me, and he'd been done. Sham food, sham religion, 
 sham straight talks — and when he broke down, you said it 
 was the world in m iniature. " He snatched at him roughly. 
 "But I'll show youlRe world." He twisted him round like 
 a baby, and through the open door they saw only the quiet 
 valley, but in it a rivulet that would in time bring its waters 
 to the sea. "Look even at that — and up behind where 
 the Plain begins and you get on the solid chalk — think of 
 us riding some night when you're ordering your hot bottle — 
 that's, the world, and there's no miniature world. There's 
 one world, Pembroke, and .you can't tidy men out of 
 
 —323— '"^ 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 it. They answer you back — do you hear? — they answer 
 j back if you do them. If you tell a man this way that four 
 £^sheep equal ten, he answers back you're a liar." 
 
 Mr. Pembroke was speechless, and — suc h is humai| nature 
 — ^he chiefly resented the allusion to the hot bottle; an un- 
 manly luxury in which he never indulged; contenting him- 
 self with nightsocks. "Enough — there is no witness present 
 — as you have doubtless observed." But there was. For a 
 little voice cried, "Oh, mummy, they're fighting-^such 
 
 fun " and feet went pattering up the stairs. "Enough. 
 
 rVou talk of 'doing,' but what about the money out of which 
 jfvou 'did' my sister? What about this picture" — he pointed 
 Ko a faded photograph of Stockholm — "which you caused 
 to be filched from the walls of my house? What about — 
 enough! Let us conclude this disheartening, scene. You 
 lobject to my terms. Name yours. I shall accept them, 
 jit is futile to reason with one who is the worse for drink." 
 Stephen was quiet at once. "Steady on!" he said gently. 
 "Steady on in that direction. Take one-third for your four 
 stories and the introduction, and I will keep two-thirds for 
 myself." Then he went to harness the horse, while Mr. 
 n Pembroke, watching his broad back, desired to bury a knife 
 I in it. The desire passed, partly because it w as unclerica l. 
 partly because he had no knife, and partly because he soon 
 I blurred over what had happened. To him ^ILyjliasausaa 
 [ /"rudeness " : he never heeded it, for he ?ie3j£r. needed, it: he 
 w^s never wrong. All his_ life he had ordered little human 
 beings about, and now he was equally magisterial to big 
 /ones : Stephen was a fifth-form lout whom, owing to some 
 flaw in the regulations, he could not send up to the head- 
 master to be caned. 
 
 ' This attitude makes for tranquillity. Before long he felt 
 merely an injured martyr. His brain cleared. He stood 
 deep in thought before the only other picture that the bare 
 room boasted— the Demeter of Cnidus. Outside the sun 
 was sinking, and its last rays f eirupon the immortal features 
 
 —324— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 and the shattered knees. Sweet-peas offered their fragrance, 
 and with it there entered those more mysterious scents that 
 come from no one flower or clod of earth, but from the 
 whole bosom of evening. He tried not to be j^rnical. But 
 in his heart he could not regret that tragedy, alrSay half-> 
 forgotten, conventionalized, indistinct. Of coursQ^death ij 
 ja,.terrible thing. Yet death is m ercilul .when it weeds ptjt i 
 a failure. If we look deep enough, it is all for the best. 
 He stared at the picture and nodded. 
 
 Stephen, who had met his visitor at the station, had in- 
 tended to drive him back there. But after their spurt of 
 temper he sent him with the boy. He remained in the 
 doorway, glad that he was going to make money, glad that 
 he had been angry; while the glow of the clear sky deep- 
 ened, and the silence was perfected, and the scents of the 
 night grew stronger. Old vagrancies awoke, and he re- | 
 solved that, dearly as he loved his house, he would not 
 enter it again till dawn. "Good-night!" he called, and then 
 the child came miming, and he whispered, "Quick, then! 
 Bring me a rug." "Good-night," he repeated, and a pleasant 
 voice called through an upper window, "Why good-night?" 
 He did not answer until the child was wrapped up in his 
 arms. 
 
 "It is time that she learnt to sleep out," he cried. "If 
 you want me, we're out on the hillside, where I used to be." 
 
 The voice protested, saying this and that. 
 
 "Stewart's in the house," said the man, "and it cannot 
 matter, and I am going anyway." 
 
 "Stephen, I wish you wouldn't. I wish you wouldn't 
 take her. Promise you won't say foolish things to her. 
 Don't — I wish you'd come up for a minute " 
 
 The child, whose face was laid against his, felt the mus- 
 cles in it harden. 
 
 "Don't tell her foolish things about yourself — things that 
 aren't any longer true. Don't worry her with old dead 
 dreadfulness. To please me — don't." 
 
 —325— 
 
The Longest Journey 
 
 "Just tonight I won't, then." 
 
 "Stevie, dear, please me more — don't take her with you." : 
 
 At this he laughed impertinently. "I suppose I'm being ^ 
 kept in line," she called, and, though he could not see her, ' 
 she stretched her arms towards him. For a time he stood 
 motionless, under her window, musing on his happy tan- 
 jfible _life. Then his breath quickened, and he wondered 
 why he was here, and why he should hold a warm child in 
 his arms. "It's time we were starting," he whispered, and 
 showed the sky, whose orange was already fading into 
 green. "Wish everything good-night." 
 
 "Good-night, dear mummy," she said sleepily. "Good- 
 night, dear house. Good-night, you pictures — ^long picture 
 — stone lady. I see you through the window — ^your faces 
 are pink." 
 
 The twilight descended. He rested his lips on her hair, 
 and carried her, without speaking, until he reached the open 
 down. He had often slept here himself, alone, and on his 
 wedding-ni^:, and he knew that the turf was dry, and 
 that if you la^d your face to it you would smell the thyme. 
 For a moment the earth aroused her, and she began to 
 
 chatter. "My prayers " she said anxiously. He gave 
 
 her one hand, and she was asleep before her fingers had 
 nestled in its palm. Their touch made him pensive, and 
 again he marvelled why he, the accident, was here. He was 
 aljve and had created life. By whose authority? Though 
 he could not phrase it, he believ.ed _ that^he Jgy' ded_thefuture 
 of our race, and that, century after century, his' thoughts 
 and his passTons would triumph in England. The dead who 
 had evoked him, the unborn whom' he would evoke — ^he 
 governed the paths between them. By whose authority? 
 
 Out in the west lay Cadp^er and the fields of his earlier 
 youth, and over them descended the crescent moon. His 
 eyes followed her decline, and against her final radiance he 
 saw, or thought he saw, the outline of the Rings. He had 
 always been grateful, as people who understood him knew. 
 —326— 
 
Wiltshire 
 
 But this evening his gratitude seemed a gift of small account. 
 The ear was deaf, and what thanks of his could reach it? 
 The body was dust, and in what ecstasy of his could it 
 share? The spirit had fled, in agony and loneliness, never 
 to know that it bequeathed him salvation. 
 
 He filled his pipe, and then sat pressing the unlit tobacco 
 with his thumb. "What am I to do?" he thought. "Can 
 he notice the things he gave me? A parson would know. 
 But what's a man like me to do, who works all his life out 
 of doors?" As he wondered, the silence of the night was 
 broken. The whistle of Mr. Pembroke's train came faintly, 
 and a lurid spot passed over the land — passed, and the si- 
 lence returned. One thing remained that a man of his sort 
 might do. He bent down reverently and saluted the child; 
 to whom he had given the name of their mother. 
 
 END 
 
 —327- 
 

 
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