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 house at night. All the others, broken at last by the day's long war of attrition, lost in their silence; himself the sole survivor, gleaning stupidly over the battlefield. Matching his lonely wit against destiny, aware of a shuddering compassion for these unruly lives under his charge. What was it that kept them all going? Only his dreams, his poor busy ideas. For the moment he could feel the whole fabric transfigured with truth and tenderness; with love that was furious and clean, with work that was sane and absorbing. What did he really care whether thousands of people did or did not spend their summer on the Great Scenic Route of the Eastern Railroad? Or whether they bedded on the Morrison Mattress, that Makes Sleep a Career?

He slipped to his knees beside the sofa, but he could not even pray. He was aware of the door behind him, and of Phyllis in the room overhead. How terrible if any one should find him on his knees. Praying is only respectable if done in congregations. He remembered those cold evenings long ago, when he and Phyllis couldn't sleep unless she were pressed close behind him, her arm across his chest. And now he was living among strangers. I'll do whatever you tell me, I'll do whatever you tell me. But by heaven he had glimpsed it: he


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 had seen beauty within breath and grasp: too close to mar it by selfishness. No, said his demon, you shan't even have the consolation of fine words. You shall have all the mockery and none of the bliss.

I suppose biology's pulling my leg, he reflected. . ..

He must have been kneeling there a long time. His forehead was numb from pressing on the ridged tapestry of the couch. At least you don't need the light on when you're trying to pray. The bills are big enough as it is. He rose stiffly and snicked off the current.

At the foot of the stair he paused. If Joyce were awake he might hear her stir. His hand gripped the carved newel, then slid onto the smooth ascent of the banister rail. He stood a moment, and turned away.

The bedroom was dim. The blinds were not all the way down, dregs of that sparkling moonlight flowed underneath. Phyllis was asleep, he could see her head against the white linen. She lay as she always did, at the far side of the bed, turned away from the door, her arms crossed, one hand perching on her shoulder, the other tucked under

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 the pillow. He went softly round the foot of the bed, stepping aside to avoid her slippers. He knew by instinct exactly where they would be.

Crouched at the bedside, he slid one arm under the pillow to find her hand. His fingers met a small damp handkerchief.

He gathered her into his arms. Out of some far-off vacancy she moved drowsily and welcomed him home. They knew every curve of their old embrace. Here was no fear and no doubting. Here was his consolation. Who was ever more beautiful? The tiny flattened handkerchief, was it not a pathetic symbol of the bruised mercies of love? Ah, be slow to mock the plain, simplest things: good-byes, angers, fidelities, renunciations.

He held her close and more close. Then, with a gruesome pang, he checked the name that was on his lips. In the poor comedy of his heart there was room for but one thought: gratitude to Joyce; Joyce who in the unstained bravery of her spirit had taught him anew the worth and miracle of love and whose only reward had been suffering. Her name, so long echoed in his unuttered voice, now filled his mind and terrified him. Here, with Phyllis in his arms, he was thinking of her; this frail ghost of passion came between them. In


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 physical sickness his embrace grew faint. It could not be: the last scruple of his manhood revolted against this consummate deceit.

Still half in dream, Phyllis divined him laggard. She crept closer. "Oh, Martin, Martin," she whispered. "I knew you'd come."

Now he knew where the dark current of the hours had been bearing him. Nothing else was possible. Quietly, without anger or surprise, in the relief of one free to face his destiny, he left the room and went down the stair. His hand was out to turn the knob when he saw that Joyce's door was opening toward him.


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OYCE lay in a trance of weariness. A nervous tremolo shivered up and down from her knees to her stomach; her spirit HEseemed lost and dragged under into the strange circling life of the body, stubborn as that of a tree, that goes on regardless of the mind. I don't care, she thought, I'm glad I'm alive. She was too inert to close her hot eyes or turn over into the pillow to shut out sounds from her sharpened ears. She heard George's step on the garden path, Phyllis come downstairs and go to the kitchen. Beneath everything else was the obbligato of the house itself; twinges of loose timbers, the gurgle and rush of plumbing, creak of beds, murmuring voices, soft shut of doors. Tenacious life reluctantly yielding itself to oblivion. Then into this fading recessional came the low sough in the pines, the slackening volleys of the crickets like a besieging army that had withdrawn its troops. And the far-away cry of a train. She imagined it, trailing panes of golden light along the shore, or perhaps darkly


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 curtained sleeping cars partitioned into narrow kennels where mysterious people lay alone: and the bursting silver plume of its whistle, spirting into the cool night, tearing a jagged rent in silence, shaking the whole membrane of elastic air that enveloped them all, a vibration that came undulating over the glittering bay, over the lonely beaches, trembled beside her and went throbbing away. . . . She hadn't been down to the beach yet, past the rolling dunes that gave her childhood a first sense of fatal solitude. She tried to remember how that shore looked: wideness, sharp air, the exact curved triangle of sails leaning into unseen sweetness of breeze, steep slides of sand over-tufted above by toppling clumps of grass. If one could escape down there and go bathing in moonlight; come back cleansed, triumphant.

The whisper at the window sill startled her. She knew Bunny at once.

"You must get him away. Before it's too late, before he knows."

Joyce understood perfectly; so perfectly it didn't seem necessary to say anything. This was just what she had been telling herself.

She nodded.

"I kept calling him while you were all in the


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 living room. I was here at this window. He won't listen. He thinks I'm just teasing him."

Joyce remembered Martin closing the door.

"Then I called you. I was so afraid you wouldn't hear me. It's awful to be helpless."

"Bunny, you're not helpless. Tell me what to do."

"What room is he in?"

"I don't know. Yes, I do, I think it's at the end of the passage, next the bath."

"The old nursery. Oh, if I could come indoors. I can't; they've forgotten me."

"We'll manage," Joyce whispered. "I always knew you and I would have to help each other."

"He must find something to take him back. You are the one who can help."

Joyce knew there was some secret here too beautiful to be said. Bunny could not tell her, it must be guessed.

"Is it something I gave him?"

"Something you'd like to keep."

"Is it the mouse? Bunny, how can we find it? That was a lifetime ago."

"Perhaps it's in the nursery. In the old toy cupboard."

"I'll get it in the morning."

"That may be too late. Now, to-night."


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 It goes on. And it is a good thing that that is so."

"Why?"

"Because the train gets to its journey's end at last, and there is a proverb about that in your language, Mademoiselle."

Journeys end in lovers meeting. Lenox laughed. "That is not going to be true for me."

"Yes—yes, it is true. You are young, younger than you yourself know. Trust the train, Mademoiselle, for it is le bon Dieu who drives it."

The whistle of the engine came again.

"Trust the train, Mademoiselle," murmured Poirot again. "And trust Hercule Poirot. He knows."


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 "Oh Bunny, tell me plainly. Is it the mouse you mean?"

She was tugging fiercely to raise the screen, jammed in its grooves. Her fingers still tingled from the sharp edges of the shallow metal sockets. Only the empty garden, the sinking candy-peel moon beyond the black arc of hill.

The impression was vivid upon her. There was only one thing to do, she must go through the sleeping house to Martin's room, rouse him, tell him at once. She rose from bed and opened the door.

He was there, holding out his hand; motionless as though he had been waiting so all the shining night. She took it mechanically.

"Who is it?" she said.

"Who else could it be?"

But at first she had thought it was Martin, somehow warned by Bunny. They stood aghast of one another, in silence, awkwardly holding hands. It was not like a meeting, it was like a good-bye.

The declining moonlight limned her cloudily. But this was no silly dream. He saw her revealed in all her wistful beauty, meant from the beginning for him.

"George, we must get Martin out of the house"


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 Martin again. Evidently, he thought, the gods intend to wring the last drop of comedy out of me.

"Damn Martin," he said softly. "Joyce, I didn't find you at last to talk about him. Dear, I told you we'd know it if the time came."

Was this what Bunny meant by giving? I have nothing to give. The Me he loves has gone somewhere. How can I tell him? Instead of the imagined joy and communion there's only horror. And I want so to love him.

He had carried her to the couch and was kneeling beside her. Oh, if I could lay down the burden of this heavy, heavy love. If I could love him gladly, not just bitterly. Is this the only way to save him from knowing? Such a little thing, that I wanted to keep for myself. She turned from him convulsively and buried her face in the pillow. He mustn't see my tears. The cruellest thing is he'll think I don't love him. No man was ever so loved. But I gave myself, long ago, to the dream of him. I can't mix it with the reality.

She turned, in a mercy of pure tenderness.

"George, dear George, I meant what I said."

I'll do whatever you tell me, I'll do whatever you tell me. But he divined her misery. The brave words trembled. She lay before him, white, inaccessible, afraid. Exquisite, made for delight


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 with every grace that the brave lust of man has dreamed; and weariness, anxiety, some strange disease of the spirit, frustrated it. Their love too was a guest of honour, a god to be turned away. She lay there, her sweet body the very sign and symbol of their need, and he knew nothing but pity, as for a wounded child. In that strange moment his poor courage was worthy of hers. God pity me for a fool, he thought. But I love her best of all because I shall never have her.

"I'm going to tell you the truth," he began

A jarring crash shook the house, followed by a child's scream. He rose heavily to his feet, tightened and nauseated with terror. He knew exactly what must have happened. The railing on the sleeping porch, which he had forgotten to mend. One of the children had got out of bed, stumbled against it, the rotten posts had given way. If she had fallen from that height. . . he pictured a broken white figure on the gravel. This was his punishment for selfishness and folly. Oh, it is always the innocent who suffer.

With heaviness in his feet he hurried through the dining room and veranda. All was still: looking up he could see the balcony unaltered. Then, through the open windows above he heard the


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 unmistakable clang of metal on a wooden floor. Ben's bed.

Unable to shake off his conviction of disaster he ran upstairs. Phyllis was crouching in the passage, comforting Janet. "I had a bad dream," the child sobbed, "then there was that awful noise."

"There, there, darling, you're all right now. We all have dreams sometimes. You can come into bed with Mother."

There was the bleat of one of the talking dolls. "Maaa-Maa!" it cried, and Sylvia appeared, sleepily stolid. "Is it to-morrow?" she asked.

"I thought the porch had broken down," said Phyllis hysterically. "George, did you fix that railing?"

"Nonsense. The porch is all right. Get back to sleep, little toads."

"What was it, Ben's bed?"

"Ben's! No such luck, it's mine," said Ruth, opening the door. "Where does the light turn on? I can't find the button." She saw George and gave a squeak of dismay.

She needn't be so damned skittish, he thought angrily. Nightgowns don't seem to be any novelty in this house. "Phyl, you take Janet into bed, I'll put Sylvia on the window seat. Keep


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 them off that porch till I've mended the railing in the morning."

Ben was grumbling over the wreckage. "George, what's the secret of this thing? Lend a hand."

"I'm frightfully sorry," said George. "I ought to have warned you. Here, I can fix it, there's a bit of clothes line"

"For Heaven's sake, don't start tinkering now," said Ruth, who had dived into the other bed. "I'm all right here, and Ben can sleep on the mattress."

Her door was open, she stood anxiously waiting as he came downstairs at last. She had put on her wrapper, he noticed with a twinge.

"Ruth's bed had a blow-out," he said. "At least I thought she was safe when she's between the sheets." He felt that he ought to want to laugh, but he had no desire to. I suppose it's because I've got no sense of humour. "Mr. Martin seems the only one who knows that night is meant to forget things in. Well, let him sleep. He'll be on his way early in the morning."

She did not answer at once, searching for the words that would help him most.

"I must go too. George, you must let me. I'd only spoil your Picnic."


text: The Mystery of the Blue Train/Chapter 35


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 "You'll miss a lot of nice sandwiches," he said bitterly. "I made them myself, white meat."

With divine perception she saw the nature of his wound, the misery of his shame and self-abasement. It was not love of her he needed now, but love of himself, to keep life in him.

"We wouldn't have any chance to be us, we couldn't talk, we must say it now."

He remembered that once they had promised themselves they would never say it.

"It's better so, I suppose. Then there won't be even one sorrow that we haven't shared."

"Sorrow?" she said. "Let's call it joy. Dear, I shall always worship you as the bravest and most generous I have ever known. To do without things one can't have, what credit is that? But to do without what one might have had . . . George, let me try to get a little rest. I feel so ill."

He tucked her in and patted her shoulder.

"Good-night, dear," he said. "Don't worry. Everything will be all right in the morning. God bless you. . . . Don't forget any of the things I haven't told you."

She knew that this was as near being one of his Moments as he could be expected to manage. He had turned the corner, at least three of the Georges


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 would live. And the Fourth—well, she had that one where nothing mortal now could blot or stain him. For ever.

"In the morning". . . it was morning already. As he lay down on the couch he could feel, rather than see, the first dim fumes of day. The brief hush and interim was over, the pink moon had gone. The last of the crickets flung the password to the birds, treetops began to warble. A new link in the endless chain picked up the tension of life. Somewhere over the hillside a cock was crowing his brisk undoubting cheer.

So this was what they called victory. What was the saying? One more such victory. . . . Not even those last merciful words of hers could acquit him of his own damnation. All the irony, none of the bliss. The world hung about his neck like the Mariner's dead albatross. The charnel corpse clung to him, rotting, with bony skull and jellied festering eye. But even the Mariner was worthier, having killed the bird; he himself had only maimed it. There would not even be the sharp numbing surgery of good-bye. Endlessly, through long perspectives of pain, he could see themselves meeting, smiling and parting, to encounter once more round the next corner of mem-


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 ory and all the horror to be lived again. We're experienced in partings, he had said once.

The gradual summer dawn crept up the slopes of earth, brimmed and brightened, and tinctures of lavender stained the sweetened air. The hours when sleep is happiest, ere two and two have waked to find themselves four, and the birds pour the congested music of night out of their hearts. And the day drew near: the day when men are so reasonable, canny, and well-bred; when colour comes back to earth and beneficent weary necessities resume; the healthful humorous day, the fantastic day that men do well to take so seriously as it distracts them from their unappeasable desires. With an unheard buzz of cylinders the farmer's flivver twirled up the back lane and brought the morning milk.


text: The Mystery of the Blue Train/Chapter 36


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ANET was surprised to find that she had gone abroad during the night. She was puzzled until she noticed that where she lay she could see herself reflected in the dressing-table mirror, which was tilted forward a little. The shoehorn, that held it at the proper angle for Mother's hair, had slipped down. So the whole area of the big bed was visible in the glass, and the mounded hill of white blanket that must be Mother. Under the snug tent of bedclothes Janet could feel the radiating warmth coming from behind her. She experimented a little, edging softly closer to see how near she could get to that large heat without actually touching it. How warm grown-up people's bodies are!

The curtains rippled inward in the cool morning air. The light was very grey, not yellow as it ought to be on the morning of a picnic. Her clothes were on the floor beside the bed. Clothes look lonely with nobody in them. She watched herself in the glass, opening her mouth and holding up her hand to see the reflection do the same thing.


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 Then the clock downstairs struck seven, and she felt it safe to slip out. In the glass she saw the blankets open, a pair of legs grope outward. Cautiously, not to rouse Mother, she picked up her clothes and got to the door. As she turned the knob one shoe fell with a thump. She looked anxiously at the rounded hill. It stirred ominously, but said nothing.

Sylvia, with sheets and blankets trailing from her, lay like a bundle of laundry on the window seat. Janet woke her, they sat dressing and babbling together, now and then shouting along the passage to Rose, who slept with Nounou. Rose kept opening the nursery door to ask what they said, then, while the remark was being repeated, Nounou's voice would command her to shut it. Janet, with brown knees hunched under her chin, picked at shoelace knots. Sylvia, in her deliberate way, was planning this time to get her shirt on right side forward. She announced several times her intention of drinking plenty of ginger ale at the Picnic, because peanut butter sandwiches make you so thirsty. She kept saying this in the hope of learning, from Janet's comment, whether milk has to be drunk at Picnics. Janet did not contradict her, so Sylvia felt that the ginger ale was a probability.


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 Ruth, lying in a delicious morning drowse, rather enjoyed their clatter, as one does enjoy the responsibilities of others. Refreshed by long slumber, she relished the seven-o'clock-in-the-morning feeling of a house with children in it. A sharp rumour of bacon and coffee came tingling up the back stairs. She lazily reckoned the number of people who would be using the bathroom. It would be a good plan to get ahead of the traffic. But while she was trying to make the decision she heard the children hailing George. He said something about not leaning out of the windows without any clothes on. "We're trying to see if there are cobwebs on the lawn, when there's cobwebs it's not going to rain." Then his steps moved along the corridor. She relapsed into her warm soothing sprawl. Besides, it's always a nuisance to get down too early and have to wait about for breakfast. She liked to arrive just when the coffee was coming fresh onto the table.

She looked forward to an entertaining day. Nothing is more amusing than one's friends in the knot of absurd circumstance. She had been afraid of Joyce; but certainly last night the girl had made a fool of herself. And Phyllis, the cool and lovely Phyllis, usually so sure, she too would be on the defensive. The life of women like Ruth


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 sometimes appears a vast campaign of stealth. They move like Guy Fawkes conspirators in the undervaults of society, planting ineffective petards in one another's cellars.

She enjoyed herself trying to foresee what Phyllis's strategy would be. I think I'll take pains to be rather nice to Mr. Martin. In spite of his simplicity there's something dangerous about him. It would be fun to allay his suspicions and then, when she got him in clear profile against the sky, shoot him down without mercy. She felt an agreeable sensation of being on the strong side; of having underneath her the solid conventions and technicalities of life—as comfortable and reassuringly supportive as the warm bed itself. Not a very lucky analogy, perhaps: she looked over at Ben, who was still asleep on the floor. He looked pathetic beside the collapsed bed frames, his dejected feet protruding at the end of the mattress. But that was the satisfying thing about Ben: he was conquered and beaten. He would never surprise her with any wild folly. Urbane, docile, enduring, he knew his place. Properly wedged into his seat in the middle of the row, he would never trample on people's toes to reach the aisle between the acts. The great fife and drum corps might racket all around him, he would scarcely hear it.


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 There was cotton in his ears. Any resolute woman, she reflected sagely, even without children to help her, can drill a man into insensibility.

George allowed the bath water to splash noisily while he cleaned his teeth, but he always turned off the tap while shaving. He shaved by ear as much as by sight or touch. Unless he could hear the crackling stroke of the razor blade he was not satisfied that it was cutting properly.

"How soon do you think the Pony will come?" Janet had asked him as he came upstairs. The children had found some deceptive promotion scheme advertised in a cheap magazine of Nounou's. The notice had led them to believe that if they solved a very transparent puzzle they would easily win the First Prize, a Shetland pony. They had answered the puzzle and now were waiting daily to hear the patter of hoofs up the lane. To George's dismay he had found that they took this very seriously. They had swept out an old stall in the stable and ravished a blanket from Rose's bed to keep Prince (whose name and photograph had appeared in the advertisement) from being cold at night. He had tried, gently, to caution them, explaining that the original puzzle had only been preliminary lure for some subscription-getting


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 contest. Undismayed they had badgered Lizzie, the ice man, and a couple of neighbours into signing up at twenty-five cents each. They paid no heed to his temperate warnings that it would be impossible to get many subscriptions for so plebeian a journal. He wondered how he would ever be able to disillusion them.

The razor paused and he stared at his half-lathered face in the glass as he realized the nice parallel. Isn't it exactly what Nature is always doing to us? Promising us a Pony! The Pony of wealth, fame, satisfied desire, contentment, if we just sign on the dotted line. . . . Obey that Impulse. By Heaven, what a Promotion Scheme she has, the old jade! Had his sorry dreams been any wiser than those of Janet and Sylvia? His absurd vision of being an artist in living, of knowing the glamour and passion of some generous fruitful career, of piercing into the stormy darkness that lies beyond the pebbly shallows of to-day—all risible! Life is defeat. Hide, hide the things you know to be true. Fall back into the genial humdrum. Fill yourself with sleep. It's all a Promotion Scheme. . . . And inside these wary counsels something central and unarguable was crying: It wasn't just a Pony. It was the horse with wings.


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 The great Promotion Scheme, the crude and adorable artifice! How many infatuated subscribers it has lured in, even persuaded them to renew after they had found the magazine rather dull reading. In the course of another million years would it still be the same, man and woman consoling and thwarting one another in their study of the careless hints of Law? He could see the full stream of life, two intervolved and struggling currents endlessly mocking and yearning to one another, hungry and afraid. Clear and lucent in sunlit reaches, troubled and swift over stony stairs, coiled together in dreaming eddies, swinging apart in frills of foam. Sweet immortal current, down and down to the unknown sea. Who has not thrilled to it, craved it, cursed it, invented religions out of it, made it fetich or taboo, seen in its pure crystal the mirror of his own austere or swinish face. Turn from it in horror, or muddy it with heavy feet, this cruel water is troubled by angels and mirrors the blind face of God. Blessings on those who never knew it, children and happy ghosts.

George ran his fingers over his glossy chin. He looked solemn recognition at the queer fellow in the glass, and mused that it's only people who haven't had something they wanted who take the trouble


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 to think confused and beautiful thoughts. But he heard a cautious hand trying the knob. Even thinking about God is no excuse for keeping others out of the bathroom. He laughed aloud, a peal of perfect self-mockery, and splashed hastily into the cold water. Martin, waiting to get in, heard him and wondered. Usually it is only gods or devils who are merry by themselves. Among human beings it takes two to make a laugh.

"Why were you laughing?" he asked, opening his door when he heard George leave the bathroom.

George paid no attention. He was hurrying to tell Phyllis his thoughts before they escaped. Who but she would have endured his absurdities? If she had had hallucinations of her own, that only brought them closer together. Out of these ashes they could rebuild their truth. Love means nothing until you fall into it all over again.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, by the window, nervously picking the nails of one hand with the forefinger of the other. This habit, which he detested, almost broke his enthusiasm. He had a grotesque desire to tell her that he would forgive her even that. I guess I really do love her enormously, he thought, or the little things she does wouldn't madden me so. Exasperated with sudden tenderness, he had somehow expected her to


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 meet him with equal affection. But she just sat there, looking down at her hands. He took them, to stop the hated gesture. The bantam over the hill repeated his rollicking sharp salute, which would have been an epigram if he had uttered it only once.

"I wish you could stop that rooster," she said. "Over and over again, the same identical squawk. I wouldn't mind so much if he wasn't a bantam. It makes it seem so silly, somehow. He goes out under those great tall pine trees and shouts at them."

He smiled and turned her face toward him. She looked pitiably tired. He knew how she would look when she was old.

"Perhaps he's rather like me," he said.

"There was one here that crowed just like that when we were children. The same note exactly."

"It's heredity. Probably this is his great-great-great-great-grand-egg."

She reached under the pillow, pulled out the little flattened handkerchief, and stood up.

"I must hurry. I'd give anything if to-day were over. I suppose life is like this, just day after day."

"Give me that," he said, taking the handkerchief. "I've seen it before."


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 "No, you haven't," she said, still in the same dull tone. "It's a new one."

"Yes, I have. Last night."

"Last night?"

"Yes, under your pillow."

"You?"

She stared, her face quivering. Suddenly the line of her mouth seemed to collapse and run downward. Something tight had broken, something proud and fierce had bent. She was crying.

"Oh, Geordie, life is so much queerer than I ever knew. Why didn't you tell me? I had such beastly dreams. I wish I could die."

The old name recalled one of his own for her.

"Leopard, Leopard . . . you silly little half-tamed leopard. What do I care about your dreams? It'll all be all right in the morning."

"It is the morning, and it isn't all right. You take them for the Picnic, let me stay at home. I won't see Mr. Martin. Take him away. He's so like you, Geordie, but with all your beastliness left out. Your nice beastliness, your dear beastliness, everything that makes me hate and adore you."

"Now, listen. I've got a great idea. I didn't half take my bath, I was so keen to tell it to you. Let's get married."

She looked at him in such quaint misery, her


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 face all wrinkled and slippery with tears, he was almost angry again.

"Damn it, I mean really married. The first time doesn't count, it's only a Promotion Scheme, your genial old prayer book admits it. But the Bible says it's better to marry than to burn, doesn't it?"

"Let's do both."

(Why, he thought, she's got almost as much sense as Joyce.)

"That's the way to talk," he said. "Because I'd much rather marry a woman with a sense of humour. All right, we'll pretend we've been living in sin, and now I'm going to make an honest woman of you. Wilt thou, Phyllis, have this man to thy wedded husband"

"We have been living in sin. It's sin to be unhappy and hateful."

"Of course it is. And if either of you know any impediment Where's that prayer book of yours? I love that marriage—service stuff so much, it'd be worth while to get spliced every now and then just to hear it. It's so gorgeously earthy. Remember that bit where as soon as he's tied 'em up the parson has misgivings, and sings out in alarm 'O Lord, save thy servant and thy handmaid!


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 "No, don't read me the prayer book now, I can't stand it. I want to get my bath."

"Run along then." He threw her blue robe around her shoulders. "We've got to go through with the Picnic, for the children's sake. We'll make it the happiest day in the world."

"You don't think it's too late?"

He watched her down the passage, and then stood by the window seat looking out. The morning was very moist, there was fog over the bay, the hall had a faint musty odour like damp wallpaper. Certainly it was going to rain. Never mind, it would be one of those steady drumming rains that make a house so cosy. He was surprised to see that Joyce was in the garden already, she had set up her easel near the tea table and was painting. No, he thought, I shan't let her go: we can all be happy together. If Phyl knew how much she owes to Joyce she'd fall at her feet. How wise women would be if they knew that a man who has only loved one has never loved any. But better not mention it. Who wants them to be wise, poor. . . half-tamed leopards!

"There's someone in the bathroom," Phyllis said, coming back.

"Martin, probably."

"No, it's Ruth. I can smell her all down the


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 passage. That mignonette she uses. Funny how sharp one's nose is in damp weather."

"If we ever come here again we'll have the house repapered."

She knelt on the seat beside him.

"Don't let's come again."

Her look followed his into the quiet garden. Both were silent. George guessed well enough why Joyce was there. She was doing a sketch for him, something to leave him. In that little figure at the easel was all the honour and disaster of all the world.

Side by side, his arm about her, he and Phyllis looked down into the cool green refreshment of birdsong and dew. The light was filled with a sense of mist, too thin to be seen, but sunshine was incapable behind it. Filmy air globed them in, as the glimmering soap-bubble spheres a breath of the soap's perfume. A dream, a fog stained with dim colour, a bubble of glamour, farce, and despair; all the sane comfortable words are no more than wind. One gush of violets rebuts them. Life is too great for those who live it. Purposely they wound and mar it, to bring it to their own tragic dimension. What was Joyce's word? . . . Inadequate. Yes, not all the beauty of the world


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 can allay the bitter disproportion. And Time will come to rob us even of this precious grievance, this pang we carry in our dusty knapsack like the marshal's silver baton. And Time will come and take my lust away. . ..

So learn to live on farce. To savour its venom, like the Eastern King, dose and larger dose, until one can relish and thrive on a diet of acid that would blast the normal heart. Isn't it this very disproportion that makes the glory? There would be no laughter in a perfect world. Ever after, digesting his secret poison, he would search other faces too for the sign of that healing bane.

He felt that Phyllis was about to say something. He erased his mind, to be ready to receive her thought; as one parent holds out arms to take the baby from the other.

"I think she's rather wonderful. I think I could . . ."

Joy and clean gusto, the blessed hilarity of living! Why, it was so divinely simple, if Phyl would care to understand. . ..

"Dearest, if you . . . if you only . . ."

The half-tamed leopard stirred and showed a yellow spark. George's mind, uneasily changing itself, made swift cusping arcs like the tracks of a


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 turning car. Ruth came rustling from the bathroom. She was amazed to see them doing a foxtrot together.

"Good-morning!" he said. "Perhaps you didn't know, this is our wedding day."

"Hurry up," he whispered to Phyllis. "Grab the bath while you can. I'll get dressed, I'll just have time to mend that railing before breakfast."


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OYCE had slipped out early. There was something unbearable in the house's morning stir, its sense of preparation for living in which she would have no part.

Under the pine trees she was far enough from the house to consider it as a whole. She studied its weatherbeaten secrecy. She had the anxious apprehension of the artist, who needs to feel his subject, purge it of mere reality, before he can begin work. The long line of the roof sagged a little, like an animal inured to carry burdens. The two semicircled bays, flanking the veranda, kept the garden under scrutiny. Each of all those windows had its own outlook on life. A thread of smoke stole from the kitchen chimney, sifting into the hazy morning. Imperceptible greyness was in the nebulous light, filtered through a gauze of ocean fog. The house was waiting, waiting. That vapoury air dimmed the bright world like breath on a mirror. Yet, for her mood, it was somehow right. A morning of fire and blue would have been indecent.


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 of men? and yet Nestorius was not aware of the consequences of his own heresy. Then followed Eutyches, who in another way came to the same impious conclusion of the virtual denial of the atonement; for he denied the distinction of natures in Christ. Running into the opposite extreme against the heresy of Nestorius, who affirmed not only the distinetion of natures, but of Persons, in Christ, he (Eutyches) denied that Christ had at once the nature of God and the nature of man, and he affirmed that the manhood of Christ was altogether confounded with the nature of God the Son, so that he was not truly man, as well as truly God: and by this heresy he overthrew all the reality of Christ's merits and sufferings, for the Divinity can neither merit nor suffer, although the creature cannot have infinite merit (such as the Redeemer of all men must have) unless hypostatically united, as the Church teaches us the humanity of Christ was, with the Divinity. Then the Manicheans, uniting in themselves all previous heresies, carried on the tradition of impious denial, till at last, when the Roman empire had been removed, and the world was once more plunged in barbarian anarchy; Mahomet came forth from his obscurity, to usher in a new religion, and to found a new empire. His religion was


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 Houses, built for rest and safety, and then filled with the tension of such trivial sufferings. I wonder if any one has ever done a true portrait of a house? The opaque pearly light now seemed to her more sincere than any glamour of sun or moon. But how reluctant it was to surrender its meaning. She could hear the excited voices of the children, calling to and fro. Her mind was still pursuing something, she didn't know just what. It was like trying to think of a forgotten word. The house hasn't yet quite got over being empty so long, she thought. It's still a little bit empty. Or it believed that being lived in again would be such fun, and now it's disappointed. It had forgotten that life is like this.

She began to paint. This picture was for George, to remind him of things he did not know he knew. It must have love in it, and something more, too. The name of this picture, she said to herself, is A Portrait of a House Saying Good-bye.

The shading was very odd along the veranda, between the two turreted bays and beneath the overhang of the sleeping porch. The light came from no direction, it was latent and diffused, softened in slopes and patches among many angles. She had already dabbed in the profile of the building when she realized what it was that she wanted.


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 It was not the outside of the house but an interior that was forming in her mind. She left the outline tentative, as it was, and imagined the side of the house to be transparent. Under the sharp projection of the balcony her brush struck through the glassed veranda and found itself in the dining room. The tinted panes gave her a clean spot of colour to focus on. Below these the room was obscure, but then the brush had discovered a pool of candlelight to dip in. Shadowy figures were sitting there, but just as she was about to sketch them they seemed to dissolve from their chairs and run toward the windows, looking outward furtively. There was another, too, outside the little sitting room, whispering in a dapple of black and silver chiaroscuro. Oh, if I could only catch what this means. If someone could help me. If George were here to help me. His large patience, his dear considering voice with the wandering parentheses of thought that she had so often mocked and loved. Voice so near her now and soon so impossible to hear. No one would help her. No one can ever help the artist. Others she saves, herself she cannot save. . ..

She had saved him. She had saved Phyllis's George, given Phyllis the greatest gift of all. Given her back those Georges, enriched with


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 understanding and fear. But could she save her own poor phantom, or even herself? At any rate she was going back to her own life. She thought of that adored city waiting for her, its steep geometries of building, its thousand glimpses that inflame the artist's eye. Extraordinary: you'd expect to find a painter exultantly at work on every street corner; and how rarely you see 'em!—The correct miseries of polite departure, a few gruesome hours in the train (ripping out the stitches of her golden fancy) and she would be there. There, where the whole vast miracle seemed, in moments of ecstasy, to have been planned for her special amazement and pleasure. The subway, with rows of shrewd and weary faces; girls with their short skirts and vivid scarves; men with shaven, sharply modelled mouths. . . the endless beauty of people, and their blessed insensibility to the infernal pang. . . . Yes, that was what Phyllis could do for him better than she: dull and deaden that nerve in his mind: chloroform George the Fourth, the poor little bastard!

She was going back to her own life. Back to the civilized pains of art: its nostalgia for lost simplicity, its full and generous tolerance, its self-studious doubt, its divinely useless mirth, its dis-


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 regard of things not worth discussing among the cheerfully disenchanted. Ah, never try to explain things you know are true. As soon as you begin to do that, they seem doubtful.

A darkness kept coming into the picture. It was as though the silence that had been stored up in that house was now draining out of it, seeping into the absorbent air. The fog was thickening and distorted perspectives. The house was out of drawing. That tricky shadow under the balcony was baffling: it made the whole porch seem out of plumb. Holding up a brush to get a true horizontal, she saw that Martin was coming across the lawn.

"Why, it's Bunny!" he said, pointing to the figure she had suggested with a few hasty strokes. "I know now why she wanted you to help me."

Joyce did not look up.

"You must go, at once," she said.

"I was lying in bed, waiting for it to be time to get up. I saw that some of the wallpaper, by the window, was torn. When I looked at it I found the mouse pattern underneath. It's the old nursery."

"That's what Bunny meant! Go and look in the cupboard, see if you can find it, the mouse I gave you. That's your only chance."

"I think I understand now."


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 "You mean, you know that we're the same"

"Yes, that this is what we're all coming to. Except Bunny . . . and—and you. You haven't done it, not quite. . . ."

"Martin, I'm worst of all," she cried. "I'm neither one nor the other."

"No, I think Ben is the worst," he said slowly. "It's too bad; he was such a nice boy. Of course George is pretty awful, but I didn't know him before."

"Quick, go away. Don't try to learn too much. You must go for their sake. If they find out who you are"

She had a sick presentiment that they must hurry. And still he lingered, and she could feel Time sloping toward some bottomless plunge.

"Perhaps I don't want to go. There's something I don't quite understand. You all look at each other so queerly: look, and then turn away. And you and George in the garden. What is it? What's happened that hurts you all so?"

How could she answer? How tell him that the world is often too fierce for its poor creatures, overstrains and soils them in their most secret nerves; and that with all their horrors they would not have it otherwise. He had come like the unspoiled essence of living, groping blindly for what


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 it divines to be happy and real and true; he was thwarted and damned by the murderous pettiness of his own scarred brethren. If I had two friends called Food and Hunger, I'd never introduce them to each other. Must she, who was born to love him, be the one to tell him this?

"You must go. Don't you see, it isn't only us. It's you too. You and George. . . . Oh, I tried not to tell you. George is just you grown up."

He looked at her, appalled.

"You're the George that was once. That's why he hates you so.—You're George the Fifth, I suppose," she said, forgetting he wouldn't understand.

"I won't be like George!" he exclaimed. "But I shan't go unless you'll come with me. It wouldn't be any fun unless you were there. Help us to get away, and we'll never come again."

She did not tell him that she could never go back; that he must go alone; that they would always be lonely.

"Are you sure?" he asked pitiably. "Have I got to be like that? Like George, I mean?"

"Hurry, hurry," was all she could say.

He was running toward the house.

She tried to follow, but some sluggish seizure was about her limbs. The house, shadowy in


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 deepening mist, loomed over her. She seemed to hear its passages patter with racing feet. There was a face at the pantry window. Perhaps there was a face at every window. There always is. She dared not look.

There were racing feet. The three children burst onto the porch above her.

"Time for breakfast!" they called. "And then we'll be ready for the Picnic!"

Now she knew. The whole dumb face of the house had been warning her; George's premonition last night was the same. She tried wildly to wave them back, but her voice was sealed. Frolicking with anticipation, Janet and Sylvia and Rose ran to the railing and leaned over to shout to her.

"See if there are any cobwebs! If there are, it's not going to rain."

Time swayed over her like an impending tree, tremulous, almost cut through. It seemed so gingerly poised that perhaps the mere fury of her will could hold it stable for a moment. Where was Martin? Oh, if he found the mouse in time he would get back before this happened and perhaps his memory would be wiped clean. She saw George appear at the door of the porch with tools in his hands, and his face turn ghastly.


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 "We're going to have ginger ale at the Picnic," Sylvia was calling.

She tried to hold Time still with her mind. She was frantically motioning the children back, crying out and wondering whether her voice made any sound. The balustrade was going, she saw the old splintery wood cracking, swaying, sagging. There was a snapping crash of breaking posts. The children's faces, flushed with gaiety, their mouths open, suddenly changed. They leaned forward and still farther forward, holding out their arms to her as though for an embrace. They were beginning to fall. After so many little tears and troubles, how could they know that this was more than one last strange tenderness. And as the railing shattered and they fell, she saw that Martin was at the door of the porch. He had found it.


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HE candles were still smoking on the cake, the children all trooping toward the hall.

"Wait, wait!" he cried. "Come back a minute!"

They turned in surprise. The Grown-Ups, very large in the doorway, looked like gigantic prison guards faced by some sudden unexpected insurrection. One of them brushed against the bronze gongs hanging at one side of the door. They jangled softly as if calling them all to attention.

"Don't let's play that game," he said breathlessly. "It's too terrible."

"What game?" asked Mrs. Richmond.

"We made up a game. A game of spies, to" He realized that he couldn't possibly explain with the Parents standing there. He caught Joyce's eye. She looked frightened.

"Why, Martin, how silly you are," chirped Phyllis. "Of course we weren't going to play it, not really."

"He's not silly!" Joyce shouted fiercely. "I was going to play it."


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 "So was I," Bunny flashed. "Phyllis is telling fibs. We were going to play it. We were going to spy on Grown-Ups, to find out whether they have a good time."

"Bunny, Bunny," said her mother reprovingly. "Tell Phyllis you're sorry. You mustn't forget she's a guest."

"Don't mention it," said Phyllis primly. "When I grow up I'm going to have a lot of children and teach them lovely manners."

"When I grow up," Bunny exclaimed, "my children won't never have to say Thank you or they're sorry unless they really mean it."

"When I grow up," Ruth said, "I'm going to do without children. They're too much of a burden."

"Perhaps when the time comes," said one of the guards, "they'll find it's not as easy as it sounds."

Martin turned hopelessly to the boys. "Ben, don't you grow up. It isn't fun. Ben, I—I advise you not to grow up."

"Quit your kidding," Ben retorted. "What's biting you?"

"Ben!" exclaimed an indignant parent. "Where on earth do you pick up that way of talking. I'm amazed at you."

Martin saw it was too late. Already something


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 to supersede Christianity, and his empire was to be universal, so he said, and so he promised his deluded followers. He admitted that Christ was a Prophet, but he denied that He was God, and he spurned at the doctrine of the atonement, and he proclaimed himself to be the last and the greatest of the Prophets, consequently greater than Christ: and as Christ had founded a religion and a spiritual empire, to embrace one day within its sacred bounds the whole extent of the world, so did this "Father and Son denying" Antichrist found a carnal and sensual religion, connecting it with a brutalizing and carnal empire; and as Christ had connected the establishment of His empire with that of every virtue, especially with the Divine gift of continence and virginity, so did this beastly Antichrist associate his empire with the reign of promiscuous concubinage, and of every sensual gratification. What he adopted and retained of revealed Divine Truth was but the mask and the cloak for his impious blasphemies, to deceive the unwary, and if possible to lead captive even the elect. And how many millions and hundreds of millions of men has he not led captive from the first dawning of his career up to this very hour, in which we see England and France ranging themselves in battle array to uphold his old, now worn out, cursed


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 had happened. Just the invasion of elders into the room had changed them all.

"Mother!" he appealed. "Tell the truth, it's awfully important, cross your heart and hope to die. Do you have a good time?"

A chorus of laughter from the adults.

"Why, dear, what an absurd question. Do we look so miserable?"

"They won't tell us," he cried bitterly. "They're all liars!"

There was an appalled silence.

"It's time to get them home. Parties always upset them. Ben, stop biting your nails."

"Joyce, what on earth are you snivelling about? Really, it seems as though the more you do for them the less they appreciate it."

The rain had thinned to a drizzle. Martin stood uneasily in the hall while the others collected umbrellas and rubbers and repeated their curtsies. The house smelt of raincoats and fresh wallpaper.

"Martin, what is it? Don't you see I'm busy talking to Mrs. Clyde? What do you keep twitching my arm for?"

He had only wanted to ask her if they could invite Joyce to stay to supper. But he couldn't shout it out before everyone.


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 "Well, then, if you didn't want anything special, why are you bothering me? Go and say good-bye to Joyce. Say it politely, and tell her you hope she'll come again. And after that your father wants to speak to you."

But Joyce had already gone, and when she looked back, to try to show him she understood, she did not see him. His father was asking him if a boy ten years old didn't know better than to insult his parents like that.


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 dominion! How many fair provinces of holy Church has he not trampled down! how many millions of Christians has he not slain during more than twelve centuries! how has he not desolated the richest and most beauteous provinces of the earth, diffusing barrenness and desolation over lands flowing with milk and honey, stopping the current of civilization, and realizing to the letter all the hideous descriptions of Antichrist and Antichristian dominion contained in the infallible prophecies of God's Word!

It is a remarkable fact connected with the spiritual affinity, of which we have been speaking, between Mahomet and the early heretics, that Mahomet was actually assisted by Nestorians and Jews in compiling the first outlines of his religious system. This fact is attested by all historians, and it is another fulfilment of the conditions of that spiritual genealogy of Antichrist indicated in the passages of St. John's Epistle, which we have already cited.

But if we turn from the words of St. John to the writings of St. Paul, who also predicted many things concerning the great Antichrist, as all commentators unite in affirming, we shall find all that he foretold no less literally and strikingly fulfilled in the person of Mahomet.


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text: Thunder on the Left (1925)

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 1

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 1


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 2

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 2


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 3

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 3


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 4

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 4


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 5

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 5


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 6

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 6


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 7

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 7


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 8

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 8


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 Variants   Notes


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 9

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 9


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 10

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 10


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 11

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 11


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 12

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 12


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 13

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 13


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 14

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 14


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 15

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 15


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 16

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 16


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 17

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 17


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 18

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 18


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 19

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 19


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 20

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 20


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 21

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 21


text: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 22

title: Thunder on the Left (1925)/Chapter 22


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Cupid only throws the Dart,

That’s dreadful to a Warriour’s Heart.

And ſhe that VVounds can only cure the Smart.

If not for mine, for Empires ſake,

Some pity on your Lover take.

Ah! make not in a hopeleſs Fire,

A Hero fall, and Troy once more Empire.

Purſue thy Conqueſt, Love—her Eyes,

Confeſs the Flame her Tongue Denyes.

To the Hills and the Vales, to the Rocks and the Mountains

To the Muſical Groves, and the cool Shady Fountains,

Let the Triumphs of Love and of Beauty be Shown,

Go Revel ye Cupids, the day is your own,

Eyward Siſters you that Fright,

The Lonely Traveller by Night.

VVho like diſmal Ravens Crying,

Beat the VVindowes of the Dying.

Appear at my call, and ſhare in the Fame,

Of a Miſchief ſhall make all Carthage to Flame.

Say Beldam what’s thy will,

Harms our Delight and Miſchief all our Skill,

The Queen of Carthage whom we hate,

As we do all in proſperous State.

E’re Sun ſet ſhall moſt wretched prove,

Deprived of Fame, of Life and Love.

Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, &c.

Ruin’d e’re the Set of Sun,

Tell us how ſhall this be done.

The Trojan Prince you know is bound

By Fate to ſeek Italian Ground,

The Queen and He are now in Chaſe,

Hark, how the cry comes on apace.

But when they’ve done, my truſty Elf

In Form of Mercury himſelf.

As ſent from Jove ſhall chide his ſtay,

And Charge him Sail to Night with all his Fleet away.

Ho, Ho, ho, ho, &c.

Rh

title: Page:Dido and Aeneas (1689).pdf/9


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Page:The Black Moth.pdf/32

 his late master owing to the penniless condition of that gentleman’s pocket. He had engaged him as his own personal servant, and the man had remained with him ever since, proving an invaluable acquisition to my Lord John. Despite a singularly wooden countenance he was by no means a fool, and he had helped Carstares out of more than one tight corner during his inglorious and foolhardy career as highwayman. He probably understood his somewhat erratic master better than anyone else, and he now divined what was in his mind. He returned that glance with a significant wink.

Twas them gentlemen ye held up to-day, sir?” he asked, jerking an expressive thumb towards the window.

“M’m. Mr. Bumble Bee and friend. It would almost appear so. I think I do not fully appreciate M. Bumble Bee. I find his conduct rather tiresome. But it is just possible that he thinks the same of me. I will further my acquaintance with him.”

Jim grunted scornfully, and an inquiring eye was cocked at him.

“You do not admire our friend? Pray, do not judge him by his exterior. He may possess a beautiful mind. But I do not think so. N-no, I really do not think so.” He chuckled a little. “Do you know, Jim, I believe I am going to enjoy myself to-night!”

“I don’t doubt it, your honour. ’Twere child's play to trick the fat gentleman.”

“Probably. But it is not with the fat gentleman that I shall have to deal. ’Tis with all the officials of this charming town, an I mistake not. Do I hear the small spider returning?”

Salter stepped back to the window.

“Av, sir—with three others.”

“Pre-cisely. Be so good as to hand me my snuffbox. And my cane. Thank you. I feel the time has now come for me to put in an appearance. Pray, bear in mind that I am new come from France and journey

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 by easy stages to London. And cultivate a stupid expression. Yes, that will do excellently.”

Jim grinned delightedly; he had assumed no expression of stupidity, and was consequently much pleased with this pleasantry. He swung open the door with an air, and watched “Sir Anthony” mince along the passage to the stairs.

In the coffee-room the city merchant, Mr. Fudby by name, was relating the story of his wrongs, with many an impressive pause, and much emphasis, to the mayor, town-clerk, and beadle of Lewes. All three had been fetched by Mr. Chilter, his clerk, in obedience to his orders, for the bigger the audience the better pleased was Mr. Fudby. He was now enjoying himself quite considerably, despite the loss of his precious cash-box.

So was not Mr. Hedges, the mayor. He was a fussy little man who suffered from dyspepsia; he was not interested in the affair, and he did not see what was to be done for Mr. Fudby. Further, he had been haled from his dinner, he was hungry; and, above all, he found Mr. Fudby very unattractive. Still, a highroad robbery was serious matter enough, and some course of action must be thought out; so he listened to the story with an assumption of interest, looking exceedingly wise, and, at the proper moments, uttering sounds betokening concern.

The more he saw and heard of Mr. Fudby, the less he liked him. Neither did the town-clerk care for him. There was that about Mr. Fudby that did not endear him to his fellow-men, especially when they chanced to be his inferiors in the social scale. The beadle did not think much about anything. Having decided (and rightly) that the affair had nothing whatever to do with him, he leaned back in his chair and stared stolidly up at the ceiling.

The tale Mr. Fudby was telling bore surprisingly little resemblance to the truth. It was a much embellished version, in which he himself had behaved with

title: Page:The Black Moth.pdf/33


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 O then ays Captain Ward, my boys, let's put to ea again, And ee what prizes we can find on the coats of France and Spain. Then we epied a loft hip, a ailing from the wet, She was load with ilks and atins, and cambrics of the bet. The we bore up to her traightway, the thinking no uch thing: We robb'd them of their mercandize, and bade them tell their king Now when our kind he heard of this, his heart was grieved ore, To think his hips could not get pat, as they had done before. Then he caus'd build a worthy hip, a worthy hip of ame, O the Rainbow he was called. and the Rainbow was her name, He rigged her and freighted her, and ent her to the ea With five hundred and fifty mariners, to bear her company. They ailed eat, they ailed wet, but nothing could epy, Until they came to the very , where Captain Ward did lye.

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 quite remarkable gallantry. It had been gradually concocted during the journey to Lewes.

He was still holding forth when my lord entered the room. Carstares raised his glass languidly to survey the assembled company, bowed slightly, and walked over to the fire. He seated himself in an armchair and took no further notice of anybody.

Mr. Hedges had recognised at a glance that here was some grand seigneur and wished that Mr. Fudby would not speak in so loud a voice. But that individual, delighted at having a new auditor, continued his tale with much relish and in a still louder tone.

My lord yawned delicately and took a pinch of snuff.

“Yes, yes,” fussed Mr. Hedges. “But, short of sending to London for the Runners, I do not see what I can do. If I send to London, it must, of course, be at your expense, sir.”

Mr. Fudby bristled.

“At my expense, sir? Do ye say at my expense? I am surprised! I repeat—I am surprised!”

“Indeed, sir? I can order the town-crier out, describing the horse, and—er—offering a reward for the capture of any man on such an animal. But—” he shrugged and looked across at the town-clerk—“I do not imagine that ’twould be of much use—eh, Mr. Brand?”

The clerk pursed his lips and spread out his hands.

“I fear not; I very much fear not. I would advise Mr. Fudby to have a proclamation posted up round the country.” He sat back with the air of one who has contributed his share to the work, and does not intend to offer any more help.

“Ho!” growled Mr. Fudby. He blew out his cheeks. Twill be a grievous expense, though I suppose it must be done, and I cannot but feel that if it had not been for your deplorably cowardly conduct, Chilter—yes, cowardly conduct, I say—I might never have been robbed of my two hundred!”

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 He snuffled a little, and eyed the flushed but silent Chilter with mingled reproach and scorn. “However, my coachman assures me he could swear to the horse again, although he cannot remember much about the man himself. Chilter! How did he describe the horse?”

“Oh—er—chestnut, Mr. Fudby—chestnut, with a half-moon of white on its forehead, and one white foreleg.”

Jack perceived that it was time he took a hand in the game. He half turned in his chair and levelled his quizzing-glass at Mr. Chilter.

“I beg your pardon?” he drawled.

Mr. Fudby’s eye brightened. The fine gentleman was roused to an expression of interest at last. He launched forth into his story once more for my lord’s benefit. Carstares eyed him coldly, seeing which, Mr. Hedges came hurriedly to the rescue.

“Er-yes, Mr. Fudby—quite so! Your pardon, sir, I have not the honour of knowing your name?”

“Ferndale,” supplied Jack, “Sir Anthony Ferndale.”

“Er-yes” Mr. hedges bowed. “Pray pardon my importuning you with our”

“Not at all,” said my lord.

“Not—quite so The fact is, these—er—gentlemen have had the—er—misfortune to be waylaid on their journey here.”

Sir Anthony’s glass was again levelled at the group. His expression betokened mild surprise.

“ All these gentlemen?” he inquired blandly. “Dear, dear!”

“Oh, no, no, no, sir! Not all! Only Mr.—er”

“Fudby,” said that worthy, and discovered that Sir Anthony was bowing frigidly. At once he rose, and resting his knuckles on the table before him, bent his body slowly and painfully. Sir Anthony inclined his head, whereupon, to the delight of all the rest, Mr. Fudby bowed again with even greater stateliness than

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 Observation of the spectrum enthuses the children with a feeling for color which can be developed in no other way, and they never tire with watching the wonderful vibrating effects of the liquid colors; and by studying it the mental image of each of the six colors becomes as distinct as that of the cube after it has been handled and modeled. If the schoolroom is provided with shutters or dark curtains a much better spectrum can be produced by closing them, as even a slight change from a bright sunny daylight has a very perceptible effect in bringing out the colors. A person who has never seen a carefully prepared spectrum in a room almost perfectly dark can have no realizing sense of the purest possible expressions of color.

Accident once disclosed a simple means by which one teacher secured a very good spectrum. There was a deep, dark closet opening from the schoolroom and one bright day when the prism was being used the spectrum was accidentally thrown into this closet, and the sudden and enthusiastic expression of approval by those pupils who were in position to discover it was certainly interesting to the teacher of that country school, with a dark coal closet.

In a spectrum such as can be produced in a dark room with the most perfect form of prism, all the various colors can be separated and carefully examined and by special appliances compared with pigmentary colors. Experiments of this kind are exceedingly interesting and instructive, and demonstrate the wonderful intensity and purity of the spectrum colors as compared with the purest pigmentary colors that can be produced. Such experiments were carried to a great degree of perfection when the six standard colors for the Bradley Colored Papers were selected.

After many months of labor in securing samples of material colors, and many days spent with the spectrum, a committee of artists, scientists, teachers, and artizans unanimously decided that aesthetically and psychologically the colors adopted


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 ere the best possible material expression of the six localities in the spectrum corresponding to the feeling or psychological perception of red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet. Many subsequent experiments have apparently proved that practically the same six colors best serve the purpose of primaries from which to make all others by combination.

In accordance with these selections the educational colored papers have been made, and since that time an expert scientist has accurately located each of these colors in the spectrum by its wave length. Consequently after the children have come to know the six colors in the sun spectrum the six standard colors of the papers may be shown as the best imitations possible. In studying the six colors from the spectrum in a schoolroom it frequently happens that one color may be best seen on the floor, another on the wall or even the blackboard, and another on the ceiling, and after the order of the colors in the whole spectrum has been observed, it is well to get each color where it can be best secured.

When the spectrum has been studied so that the children have some idea of the six colors and their location relative to each other, give each of the children a package of the colored paper tablets, one inch by two inches, containing the eighteen normal spectrum colors, i. e., those in the central vertical column in the Chart of Pure Spectrum Scales, Page 41, and tell them to select from the eighteen the six which they have seen in the spectrum and which may be named to them as red, orange, yellow, green, blue and violet.


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 The triumph in his voice was thinly veiled. She found nothing to say.

He rose.

“With your leave, I will go to procure you some refreshment, child. Do not think me uncivil if I remind you that a servant stands without either door.”

“I thank you for the kind thought,” she smiled, but her heart was sick within her.

He disappeared, returning a few moments later with a glass of wine and some little cakes.

“I deplore the scanty nature of your repast,” he said. “But I do not wish to waste time. You shall be more fittingly entertained when we reach Andover.”

Diana drank the wine gratefully, and it seemed to put new life into her. The food almost choked her, but rather than let him see it, she broke a cake in half and started to eat it, playing to gain time: time in which to allow her father a chance of overtaking them before it was too late. She affected to dislike the cake, and rather petulantly demanded a ‘maid of honour.’

Tracy’s eyes gleamed.

“I fear I cannot oblige you, my dear. When we are married you can go to Richmond, and you shall have maids of honour in plenty.”

He relieved her of her glass, taking it from hands that trembled pitifully.

The rest of the journey was as some terrible nightmare. She felt that she dared no longer feign sleep. She was terrified at what his Grace might do, and kept him at arm’s length by means of her tongue and all her woman’s wit. As a matter of fact, Andover had himself well in hand, and had no intention of letting his passion run away with him. But as the time went on and the light went, some of Diana’s control seemed to slip from her, and she became a little less the self-possessed woman, and a little more the trapped and frightened child. When they at last reached Andover Court, and his Grace assisted her to alight, her legs would barely carry her up the steps to the

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But e’re we, we this perform,

We’l Conjure for a Storm.

To Mar their Hunting Sport,

And drive ’em back to Court.

In our deep-Vaulted Cell the Charm wee’l prepare,

Too dreadful a Practice for this open Air.

Thanks to theſe Loveſome Vailes,

Theſe deſert Hills and Dales.

So fair the Game, ſo rich the Sport,

Diana’s ſelf might to theſe Woods Reſort.

Oft ſhe Viſits this Loved Mountain,

Oft ſhe bathes her in this Fountain.

Here Acteon met his Fate,

Purſued by his own Hounds,

And after Mortal Wounds.

Diſcovered, diſcovered too late.

Behold upon my bending Spear,

A Monſters Head ſtands bleeding,

VVith Tuſhes far exceeding,

Theſe did Venus Huntſmen Tear.

The Skies are Clouded, heark how Thunder

Rends the Mountain Oaks aſunder.

Haſt, haſt, to Town this open Field,

No Shelter from the Storm can yield.

Stay Prince and heat great Joves Command,

He Summons thee this Night away.

To Night.

To Night thou muſt forſake this Land,

The Angry God will brook no longer ſtay;

Joves Commands thee waſt no more,

In Loves delights thoſe precious Hours,

Allowed by the Almighty Powers.

To gain th’ Heſperian Shore,

And Ruined Troy reſtore.

Joves Commands ſhall be Obey’d,

To Night our Anchors ſhall be weighed, But

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 If a sheet of neutral gray cardboard can be secured for use on each desk all early color work will be more valuable, because of the undesirable effect of the usual yellow or orange color of the wood of the desk.

If some of the pupils do not make the correct selection of the papers it may be well to let the error pass for that time and have another exhibition of the spectrum before the next trial. Get as many of them as possible to make the selection of the six colors from the eighteen solely by comparison with the spectrum. Later if some are still unable to succeed, a paper spectrum may be shown to them, or what is better, six bits of paper like their own, pasted on a card, with an interval as wide as two papers between each two. When every child can readily select the six standard colors from the eighteen then all of them may with advantage be told to lay the six in a row on the gray cardboard or desk, in their proper order, and sufficiently separated to allow room for two other papers between each two. When all have made the attempt and some have failed to arrange the papers correctly the card having them properly mounted may again be shown and each one iu error may make the necessary corrections by comparison.

In a solar spectrum such as is possible in the ordinary schoolroom the intermediate colors between the standards cannot be very distinctly seen but the child can be shown that between the red and orange, with which he is familiar, there are colors different from both and possibly he may be led to see that these colors seem to be a mixture of the two. With this impression in the minds of the children the following experiment may be a very interesting psychological test of the natural color perception of each child, or in other words his "color feeling."

Ask the children to arrange the remaining twelve papers between the six standards in pairs and one outside of the red and violet at the ends. This exercise will serve to bring each of the other colors to the critical attention of the children so that they may not be entirely strangers to them in the succeeding


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 Notes


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 before. Mr. Hedges observed Sir Anthony’s lips to twitch convulsively. He waited for Mr. Fudby to subside, and the continued:

“Yes—Mr. Fudby and Mr.”

“My clerk!” snapped Fudby.

Sir Anthony favored Mr. Chilter with his peculiarly sweet smile, and turned again to Mr. Hedges.

“I see. A daylight robbery, you say?”

“Broad daylight!” boomed Mr. Fudby.

“Er—yes, yes,” interposed the mayor, fearing a fresh outbreak from that quarter. “I wonder if you have seen anything of such an animal as Mr.—er—Chilter—described?”

Tis a most extraordinary thing,” said Carstares slowly, “but I have just bought such an one.” He glanced round with an inquiring smile and one eye-brow lifted.

“Well!” ejaculated Mr. Fudby. “Well!”

“Dear me, sir, what a strange coincidence! May I ask where you bought it, and from whom?”

“She has not been in my possession over two hours. I bought here from an out-at-elbows ruffian, on my way hither. I thought at one time that ’twas strange that the man should possess such a mare—pure bred, I vow—and wondered why he was so eager to be rid of her.”

“He was eager because he knew the would be recognised by her,” explained Mr. Fudby kindly.

“Without doubt, Perhaps you would like to see her? I will send my man”

“Oh no, no!” cried the mayor. “We would not dream of so inconveniencing you”

Twere a pleasure,” bowed Jack, devoutly hoping that Mr. Fudby would not require to see Jenny, who, he felt sure, would betray him by her very evident affection.

“No, no, Sir Anthony, ’tis quite unnecessary, I assure you, but I thank you for all that. Mr. Fudby,

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 It was a master stroke, and for an instant his brows drew together. Then he laughed.

“Merci du compliment, mademoiselle! I admire your wit.”

“I protest I am overwhelmed. May I ask when we are like to arrive at our destination?”

“We should reach Andover soon after eight, my dear.”

So it was some distance he was taking her?

“I suppose you had the wit to provide food for the journey?” she yawned. “You will not wish to exhibit me at an inn, I take it?”

He marvelled at her indomitable courage.

“We shall halt at an inn certainly, and my servant will bring you refreshment. That will be in about an hour.”

“So long?” she frowned. “Then, pray excuse me an I compose myself to sleep a little. I am like to find the journey somewhat tedious, I fear.”

She shifted farther into the corner, leaned her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

Thus outwitting his Grace. For it is impossible to be passionate with a girl who feigns sleep when she should be struggling to escape from you. So Tracy, who, whatever else he might lack, possessed a keen sense of humour, settled himself in his corner and followed her example. So they jogged on. …

Arrived at length at the inn, the coach pulled up slowly. Diana opened her eyes with a great assumption of sleepiness.

“Already?” she marvelled.

“I trust you have slept well,” said his Grace suavely.

“Excellently well, I thank you, sir,” was the unblushing reply.

“I am relieved to hear you say so, my dear. I had thought you unable to—your mouth kept shut so admirably. Doubtless you have schooled your jaw not to drop when you sleep sitting up? I wish I might do the same.”

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 As he spoke, Mr. Chilter placed his hand in my lord’s, and for the second time in his life, felt the pressure of those firm, kindly fingers.

“Why, your honour! Ye’ve lost your emerald!”

“No, Jim. I gave it away.”

“Ye—ye gave it away, sir?”

“M’m. To the small spider.”

“B-but”

“And he called me fat, too.”

“Called ye fat, sir?” asked the man, bewildered.

“Yes. Very fat. By the way, let me tell you that I bought Jenny at Fittering to-day from the naughty ruffian who waylaid Mr. Bumble Bee.” He proceeded to give Jim a sketch of what had transpired below. When he had finished the man shook his head severely.

“I doubt ye’ll never learn wisdom, sir,” he scolded.

“I? What have I done?”

“What did ye want to tell it all to the spider man for, sir? ’Twas most incautious of ye. Like as not, he’ll split to the fat gentleman, and we’ll have the whole town at our heels.”

“Which just shows all you know of the small spider,” replied his master calmly. “Hand me the powder.”

title: Page:The Black Moth.pdf/40


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But ah! what Language can I try,

My Injured Queen to pacify.

No ſooner ſhe reſignes her Heart,

But from her Armes I’m forc’t to part.

How can ſo hard a Fate be took,

One Night enjoy’d, the next forſook.

Your be the blame, ye Gods, for I

Obey your will - but with more Eaſe cou’d dye,

The Sorcereſs and her Inchantereſs.

Then ſince our Charmes have Sped,

A Merry Dance be Led

By the Nymphs of Carthage to pleaſe us.

They ſhall all Dance to eaſe us.

A Dance that ſhall make the Spheres to wonder,

Rending thoſe fair Groves aſunder.

Ome away, fellow Saylors your Anchors be

Tide and Tide will admit no delaying. (weighing,

Take a Bouze ſhort leave of your Nymphs on the Shore,

And Silence their Morning,

VVith Vows of returning.

But never intending to Viſit them more.

See the Flags and Streamers Curling,

Anchors weighing, Sails unfurling.

Phœbus pale deluding Beames,

Guilding more deceitful Streams.

Our Plot has took,

The Queen forſook, ho, ho, ho.

Eliſas ruin’d, ho, ho, ho, next Motion,

Muſt be to ſtorme her Lover on the Ocean.

From the Ruines of others our pleaſure we borrow,

Eliſas bleeds to Night, and Carthage Flames tomorrow.

Deſtruction our delight, delight our greateſt Sorrow,

Eliſas dyes to Night, and Carthage Flames to Morrow.

Rh

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Your Councel all is urged in vain,

To Earth and Heaven I will Complain.

To Earth and Heaven why do I call,

Earth and Heaven conſpire my Fall.

To Fate I Sue, of other means bereſt,

The only refuge for the wretched left.

See Madam where the Prince appears,

Such Sorrow in his Looks he bears,

As wou’d convince you ſtill he’s true,

What ſhall loſt Æneas do.

How Royal fair ſhall I impart,

The Gods decree and cell you, we muſt part.

Thus on the fatal Banks of Nile,

Weeps the deceitful Crocodile.

Thus Hypocrites char Murder Act,

Make Heaven and Gods the Authors of the Fact.

By all that’s good,

By all that’s good no more,

All that’s good you have Forſworn.

To your promiſed Empire fly,

And let forſaken Dido dye.

In ſpight of Joves Command I ſtay,

Offend the Gods, and Love obey.

No faithleſs Man thy courſe purſue,

I’m now reſolved as well as you.

No Repentance ſhall reclaim,

The Injured Dido ſlighted Flame.

For ’tis enough what e’re you now decree,

That you had once a thought of leaving me.

Let Jove ſay what he will I’le ſtay.

Away

To Death I’le fly, if longer you delay.

But Death, alas? I cannot Shun,

Death muſt come when he is gone.

Great minds againſt themſelves Conſpire,

And ſhun the Cure they moſt deſire.

Thy Hand Belinda, - darkneſs ſhades me,

On thy Boſom let me reſt,

More I wou’d but Death invades me.

Death is now a Welcom Gueſt,

When I am laid in Earth my wrongs Create.

No trouble in thy Breaſt,

Remember me, but ah! forget my Fate.

With drooping Wings you Cupids come,

To ſcatter Roſes onher Tomb.

Soft and Gentle as her Heart,

Keep here your Watch and never part.

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'''138 On the eighth day he is to bring them for his cleansing to the priest at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting before the LORD. The priest shall take the lamb for the guilt offering, along with the log of olive oil, and wave them as a wave offering before the LORD.

And after he slaughters the lamb for the guilt offering, the priest is to take some of the blood of the guilt offering and put it on the right earlobe of the one to be cleansed, on the thumb of his right hand, and on the big toe of his right foot. Then the priest is to pour some of the oil into his left palm and sprinkle with his right forefinger some of the oil in his left palm seven times before the LORD. The priest shall also put some of the oil in his palm on the right earlobe of the one to be cleansed, on the thumb of his right hand, and on the big toe of his right foot—on the same places as the blood of the guilt offering.

The rest of the oil in his palm, the priest is to put on the head of the one to be cleansed, to make atonement for him before the LORD. Then he must sacrifice the turtledoves or young pigeons, whichever he can afford, one as a sin offering and the other as a burnt offering, together with the grain offering. In this way the priest will make atonement before the LORD for the one to be cleansed.

This is the law for someone who has a skin disease and cannot afford the cost of his cleansing.”

Signs of Home Contamination

Then the LORD said to Moses and Aaron, “When you enter the land of Canaan, which I am giving you as your possession, and I put a contamination of mildew into a house in that land, the owner of the house shall come and tell the priest, ‘Something like mildew has appeared in my house.’

The priest must order that the house be cleared before he enters it to examine the mildew, so that nothing in the house will become unclean. After this, the priest shall go in to inspect the house.

He is to examine the house, and if the mildew on the walls consists of green or red depressions that appear to be beneath the surface of the wall, the priest shall go outside the doorway of the house and close it up for seven days.

On the seventh day the priest is to return and inspect the house. If the mildew has spread on the walls, he must order that the contaminated stones be pulled out and thrown into an unclean place outside the city. And he shall have the inside of the house scraped completely and the plaster that is scraped off dumped into an unclean place outside the city.

So different stones must be obtained to replace the contaminated ones, as well as additional mortar to replaster the house.

If the mildew reappears in the house after the stones have been torn out and the house has been scraped and replastered, the priest must come and inspect it.

If the mildew has spread in the house, it is a destructive mildew; the house is unclean. It must be torn down with its stones, its timbers, and all its plaster, and taken outside the city to an unclean place. Anyone who enters the house during any of the days that it is closed up will be unclean until evening. And anyone who sleeps in the house or eats in it must wash his clothes.


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144

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'''Leviticus 15:15 Cleansing a Home

If, however, the priest comes and inspects it, and the mildew has not spread after the house has been replastered, he shall pronounce the house clean, because the mildew is gone.

He is to take two birds, cedar wood, scarlet yarn, and hyssop to purify the house; and he shall slaughter one of the birds over fresh water in a clay pot.

Then he shall take the cedar wood, the hyssop, the scarlet yarn, and the live bird, dip them in the blood of the slaughtered bird and the fresh water, and sprinkle the house seven times. And he shall cleanse the house with the bird’s blood, the fresh water, the live bird, the cedar wood, the hyssop, and the scarlet yarn.

Finally, he is to release the live bird into the open fields outside the city. In this way he will make atonement for the house, and it will be clean.

This is the law for any infectious skin disease, for a scaly outbreak, for mildew in clothing or in a house, and for a swelling, rash, or spot, to determine when something is clean or unclean. This is the law regarding skin diseases and mildew. ” The Uncleanness of Men (Deuteronomy 23:9–14)

And the LORD said to Moses and Aaron, “Say to the Israelites, ‘When any man has a bodily discharge, the discharge is unclean. This uncleanness is from his discharge, whether his body allows the discharge to flow or blocks it. So his discharge will bring about uncleanness.

Any bed on which the man with the discharge lies will be unclean, and any furniture on which he sits will be unclean. Anyone who touches his bed must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening. Whoever sits on furniture on which the man with the discharge was sitting must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening.

Whoever touches the body of the man with a discharge must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening. If the man with the discharge spits on one who is clean, that person must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening.

Any saddle on which the man with the discharge rides will be unclean. Whoever touches anything that was under him will be unclean until evening, and whoever carries such things must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening.

If the man with the discharge touches anyone without first rinsing his hands with water, the one who was touched must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening. Any clay pot that the man with the discharge touches must be broken, and any wooden utensil must be rinsed with water.

The Cleansing of Men

When the man has been cleansed from his discharge, he must count off seven days for his cleansing, wash his clothes, and bathe himself in fresh water, and he shall be clean. On the eighth day he is to take two turtledoves or two young pigeons, come before the LORD at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting, and give them to the priest. The priest is to sacrifice them, one as a sin offering and the other as a burnt


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'''140 offering. In this way the priest will make atonement for the man before the LORD because of his discharge.

When a man has an emission of semen, he must bathe his whole body with water, and he will be unclean until evening. Any clothing or leather on which there is an emission of semen must be washed with water, and it will remain unclean until evening. If a man lies with a woman and there is an emission of semen, both must bathe with water, and they will remain unclean until evening.

The Uncleanness of Women

When a woman has a discharge consisting of blood from her body, she will be unclean due to her menstruation for seven days, and anyone who touches her will be unclean until evening. Anything on which she lies or sits during her menstruation will be unclean, and anyone who touches her bed must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening.

Whoever touches any furniture on which she was sitting must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening. And whether it is a bed or furniture on which she was sitting, whoever touches it will be unclean until evening.

If a man lies with her and her menstrual flow touches him, he will be unclean for seven days, and any bed on which he lies will become unclean.

When a woman has a discharge of her blood for many days at a time other than her menstrual period, or if it continues beyond her period, she will be unclean all the days of her unclean discharge, just as she is during the days of her menstruation. Any bed on which she lies or any furniture on which she sits during the days of her discharge will be unclean, like her bed during her menstrual period. Anyone who touches these things will be unclean; he must wash his clothes and bathe with water, and he will be unclean until evening.

The Cleansing of Women

When a woman is cleansed of her discharge, she must count off seven days, and after that she will be ceremonially clean. On the eighth day she is to take two turtledoves or two young pigeons and bring them to the priest at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting. The priest is to sacrifice one as a sin offering and the other as a burnt offering. In this way the priest will make atonement for her before the LORD for her unclean discharge.

You must keep the children of Israel separate from their uncleanness, so that they do not die by defiling My tabernacle, which is among them.

This is the law of him who has a discharge, of the man who has an emission of semen whereby he is unclean, of a woman in her menstrual period, of any male or female who has a discharge, and of a man who lies with an unclean woman.’” The Day of Atonement (Leviticus 23:26–32; Numbers 29:7–11)

Now the LORD spoke to Moses after the death of two of Aaron’s sons when they approached the presence of the LORD. And the LORD said to Moses: “Tell your brother Aaron not to enter freely into the Most Holy Place behind the veil in front of the mercy seat on the ark, or else he will die, because I appear in the cloud above the mercy seat.

This is how Aaron is to enter the Holy Place: with a young bull for a sin offering and a ram