Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.

THE FULFILMENT

By the Same Author

JEWEL SOWERS. 6s.

The Week’s Survey.—“An original and intensely interesting novel. We should welcome anything further from the pen of this anonymous writer, who has produced a book that anyone might be proud to sign.”

The Onlooker.—“The author hides her—is it her?—identity under anonymity, but has no reason to fear criticism. Though called ‘a novel’, it is a clever parable, and deals with the evil of selfishness and the blessings resulting from work for work’s sake.”

Manchester Guardian.—“‘The Jewel Sowers’ is wholly fantastic in its incidents, but its characters are those of our society, and with all the machinery of a fairy tale the book still belongs to the realms of daily fiction. Appropriately enough the scene is laid in another world, one in which everything is said to be the opposite of the life of this planet. But this is a mere warning that the tale is fantastic; men and women in Lucifram, as the new world is called, are even too much like those on this, and if their powers are strangely superior, their motives are entirely familiar. The book, in fact, is an experiment in fantasy, and none the less pleasant on that account. It is neither an allegory, as are other tales similarly constructed, nor yet a satire, though there are elements of both interwoven with the adventures and the incidents. The anonymous authoress has demanded a wider sphere for the evolution of her characters, and no one who feels the charms of her pleasantly-depicted heroine will grudge the novel atmosphere in which she is forced to suffer and to act. The book is lightly written, bright and entertaining, and almost every character introduced is neatly characterised. Perhaps the best of them is the fairy frog, whose cheerful temper is the result of martyrdom, and who should earn a place among the favourite heroes of the fairy world.”

MARIGOLD. 6s.

The Court Journal.—“The author has so tender and graceful a touch, so keen an insight into human nature and human impulses, and so marked a power of vivid description, that he must almost certainly one day write a book of great beauty and power.”

Manchester Courier.—“The author of ‘Jewel Sowers’ has written another allegorical romance entitled ‘Marigold,’ depicting the loves, hatreds and jealousies of spirit beings in a fantastic world. The book is curious and unconventional, and is altogether as much removed from the average ‘potboiler,’ both in aim and treatment, as anything could well be. The author gives evidence of considerable talent, and further contributions from his or her pen are to be awaited with interest.”

Scotsman.—“Light, agreeable, and animated always by a lively play of graceful feeling, the story should not fail to entertain anyone who takes it up.”

THE
FULFILMENT

BY

LONDON
GREENING & CO. LTD.
1905
[All Rights Reserved]

First Published, Dec. 1st, 1905

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

The book for which its author gave her life is now given to the world with profound pity and regret. Pity for a bright young life so suddenly hurried into Eternity, and regret that the circumstances of her tragic death have made it necessary that her work should be published in an incomplete and unrevised state. Had Miss Edith Allonby lived there is no doubt that the story would have been considerably altered and improved before being put into print. Much that is now vague in meaning would have been explained, much that is now retained would have been deleted. The explicit terms of her last letters make the task of bringing out The Fulfilment a hard and anxious one for her executors, her relatives and her publishers. She wished the book to be published word for word as she wrote it, as can be seen from her last letter to her publisher, quoted below. Her last letter to her relatives was much to the same effect. It will show the responsibility which had to be faced.

“I have received your letter and the enclosed criticism. Thank you for both. I have read the criticism through but it has not altered me in my decision. He has said what I know will be the general opinion of the world. Most of the views I had expressed in the beginning part of Marigold, and you will remember how those were received—as ‘uncouth attempts at satire,’ ‘silly remarks,’ ‘a farrago of nonsense,’ ‘a silly and pretentious book.’ “I have told you I do not mind criticism, neither do I. But it hurts me to the very soul that people should so misunderstand that which is true. God knows with what purity of intention I wrote the first chapters of Marigold—never meaning to give offence, but how in this world can it be avoided?

“I have read the criticism, and I could answer it word for word, or any criticism that might follow it from any source, but that is not allowed, and not to be. When I first wrote The Fulfilment I longed to see it published, that I might fight the battle for it with my pen. It would have been like coming down into the arena to fight and breathe and conquer. But as the time went by, after it was returned to me, I began to realise slowly what a terrible book I had written, as well as beautiful and true, and it seemed as if it called for all I had to give as an expiation before it could go free. I put it away—the book and the thought. But I began to write ever on the same theme—the revelation Heaven had given me. You know how it has prospered. And then on Whitsunday the voice awoke me that I must bring my greatest treasure forward once again, for though I have let it lie patiently these four years, hoping to make an opening for it, it has ever been in my heart and brain. And again I felt the pleasing prospects of the battle. I knew what strength I had, and always have had, did I care to use it, to answer those who disagreed with what I wrote. And in the cause of such a book I felt that everything would be allowable. But there has come the Season out of Silence to be silent. We cannot bandy words about religious things. I cannot anyway. I feel it all so much I cannot talk about it. For all I write about I love and fear. God knows I have not been familiar, I have only loved simply both God and man.

“But there is only one way of showing it, and that by dying simply. When I am once out of the way the big stumbling-block has been removed. People can no longer think I have written with a fanciful irreverence when I have had before me, all the time, nothing but Death; for I believe, looking back, it was there with the very first page.

“And so (for when this reaches you I shall be dead—only to this world) I leave it as my dying request that you publish, exactly as I have sent it to you, The Fulfilment. You must ask the gentleman to return it, and tell him my decision. And at the same time I do not wish you or him or anyone to think that his criticism has had anything to do with my death. For I do not wish you or anyone to view me as a common suicide—overcome by this or that, or bowed down by the thought of failure or disappointment. I have simply died to make room for a great truth. And I have died trusting humbly in God.

“And so you cannot deny me that which I decide. To you it must become an impersonal affair. You must publish it because it is a dying command, and publish it word for word as I have left it. And now no one can take offence—neither the company whose impress the book bears, nor anyone connected with it.

“And of the religionists I only ask that they will have the same toleration for me that I have ever had for them. I mean those who are sincere and simple among them, of any denomination. For I am sincere and simple too.

“And now I must say ‘Good-bye.’ I feel very sad about it, for I have written so many letters to you, and told you so many things that it is parting with a friend. And you will say a good word for me if you get the chance. And if they say I’m mad, tell them from me it’s a madness that will spread—not the suicide but the belief. But indeed it is no madness.

“And for your friend, tell him this from me—I wasn’t writing of ‘Paradise Lost’ but of ‘Heaven Gained,’ and that if I remember my Milton correctly, they didn’t aspire to tea-tables in the Garden, but simply ate it picnic fashion, so that Heaven with its tables goes one better still. And tell him that if he will only read the book through once again, I think he’ll find there is a simple, homely charm even in Jesus Christ, for it’s like everything else. You’ve got to get used to it. And when I go to Heaven I’d rather meet simple people who had power than great big kings who talked of it and sometimes found it wasn’t there. And give him my love and tell him there was no one more disgusted with those sties than I was at the time. And that the young man was so terribly real he nearly broke my heart, and the College—well, perhaps that was a nightmare, but they’re realer than anything else. And tell him it was all me. And ask him not to be too particular over grammar, or meanings or muddles. They were invented to make men human—that is, unsuperior. I never heard of such a thing as Goethe explaining his meaning all before. That’s quite an old fashion. You give people nothing to think about, and cast quite a slur upon their reputation for brains.

“And you see in my capacity as teacher I would force people to think if I could, whether they would or no.

“I am afraid I am very loath to stop, it will be such a long silence—but silence speaks, you know, and I shall speak, or rather my Heavenly Father. And now I say, not from politeness, but from the bottom of my heart, I hope some day we shall meet again—not in stuffy London, or anywhere upon this earth, but, why not? at one of the tea-tables of Heaven. And I wish it very much indeed—and it all depends on you—whether you will follow in the simple way that God directs.

“With kind regards, and the love that all Heaven’s children may bear with one another.”

Both Miss Allonby’s previous books, Jewel Sowers and Marigold, were subjected to revision before they appeared, and her publisher fully expected that she would consent to the same necessary revisions in the case of The Fulfilment. There was no question as to the book being published. It was mutually understood that The Fulfilment should be issued on her birthday, December 1st. She desired that the passages to be deleted should be indicated. Her wish was complied with, and her publishers were daily awaiting a letter giving consent to the revision, which was to be made and submitted for approval, when the news of her death came as a terrible shock. It is here unnecessary to refer to the sympathetic attention the tragedy attracted from the press and the public.

The question then arose as to the possibility of publishing the book for which Miss Allonby died so unnecessarily. Her relatives and her publishers were in constant and personal communication. Could her last wish be fulfilled? Curiously enough she expressed the desire in her will that none of her relatives should see or read the book until it was printed and published. Her publishers’ responsibility was therefore a serious one. The feelings and the wishes of the living and Miss Allonby’s reputation had to be considered. Certain pages of her book contained references to holy things and persons turned in such a way that they seemed flippant, irreverent, even ridiculous, and they were undoubtedly not literature in any sense. No possible good could come of giving such pages to the world. They appear to convey no message, though no doubt the author could have supplied a key. They seem to be meaningless flippancy. Now no one had more sincere respect for Miss Allonby than her publishers. They were on the most friendly terms. Therefore, while they would have liked to carry out her last wish to the letter, they felt that in justice to her memory the book could not appear in the exact condition in which she left it. In this predicament a request was put to a well-known and prominent London minister, of broad views and large sympathies—on whose judgment the publishers felt the utmost reliance could be placed—that he should see the troublesome passages and give his opinion as to the advisability of publishing them. He courteously consented and very kindly gave considerable time and thought to the matter. His earnest opinion was that the book should not be published at all, or, if published, that all the emendations suggested by the publishers should be carried out. For good reasons the minister who thus criticised the book desires that his name shall not be made known, but the public can rest assured that he is a gentleman in whom all denominations would have confidence, and whose judgment all would respect. This opinion was conveyed to Miss Allonby’s relatives and executors, who, after careful consideration, decided to publish The Fulfilment with the emendations the publishers considered necessary. To quote from a letter from the executors: “We think we should do our utmost to carry out Edith’s wishes, but they should be the real wishes. Her real wish was that the message contained in her book should reach as many as possible. To publish it in its present form, though it would comply with the letter of her request, would be to defeat its object.... The guiding principle should be to publish it in such a form as would be most likely to realise her wish of giving the message to the largest number possible.” Under these conditions the publishers carefully and sympathetically prepared The Fulfilment for press, and it is now published with some of the emendations originally suggested. Only such pages or passages as the publishers considered Miss Allonby herself would, at a more normal time, have deleted have been taken out. The book has not been subjected to any revision, except of the most obviously necessary kind—literals, etc. There are no alterations. All the Editor has done has been to carefully eliminate those passages most likely to give pain and offence both to the relatives and the religious public. Wherever an omission occurs it is indicated by a hiatus, and also a statement to that effect. All those who knew, loved and respected Miss Edith Allonby will understand the publishers’ attitude regarding the emendations. They have been firm in not yielding to the morbid wish of numerous correspondents who have pleaded for the book being issued as the author left it. They have preferred to respect the feelings of the living and honour the memory of the dead.

It will be of interest to quote a few extracts from Miss Allonby’s correspondence relating to The Fulfilment, as showing her own attitude towards her work. She first approached her publishers respecting The Fulfilment on June 17th 1905, when in the course of a long letter she said:—

“June 17th.

“Will you please give me all your attention, without thinking of anything else whilst you read. I have been thinking, five minutes in church last Sunday morning, and since then I have deliberated. You see I have been brought up to teach—in an age when great things are expected of teachers—patience, lucidity, sympathy, and I don’t know what. One’s classes are never blamed for stupidity, carelessness or inattention—only the teacher. That has its dangers for the pupils, certainly, but it does not excuse the teacher from doing the utmost best.... Now I have a book which is as easy to read as A B C (for those who will attend). It has no allegories in it, no myths—nothing but Truth. And I am very proud of it, for it was given me by God right away down at the bottom of the Valley of Despair and Humiliation. I have been wandering about down there, it is true, ever since, but that proves all the more that it is direct from God, for otherwise it isn’t the air in which an ordinary person could live at all. I am not to blame either for keeping it all this time (I wrote it in the spring and summer of 1901), for I did send it to some publisher or other one Friday night and it was back by Tuesday morning—and it was too good for that. Too good to be tossed about from one place to the other like any tramp or fawning beggar asking to be taken in.... I am very serious, I am sending to you something that I was going to say is more precious to me than life—I only pray God grant that it may be.”

The manuscript was duly read and reported on, and, subject to some necessary alterations and omissions being made, it was accepted for publication and a promise given that it should be published on the first of December. The suggested revision was the subject of considerable correspondence. The following few lines are taken from a letter dated August 13th 1905:—

“August 13th.

“The first part of the book is true—man can witness that—and for the remainder God is witness. I have not written it for money, I have not written it to please, but only to instruct and lighten those few who care to understand, and they may be few now, but some day they will be many.... Of course I am a bit frightened of the world, but, believe me, I am a great deal more frightened of God. Real fear. That is what makes me write common sense about Heaven instead of twaddle, and as for people being so sensitive about Jesus Christ—they don’t feel all that much, or the world would be a vastly different place.... When I wrote Marigold you wanted to send a copy to all the religious papers, but I should like that for this instead, for it is the essence of real, true religion.”

Miss Allonby’s own opinions as to the seeming irreverence of certain portions of her work were both firm and strong. She knew her own interpretation of such passages. She alone, in her own mind, held the key which would make plain all hidden meanings. She, firm in her own purity and reverence for her Maker, seemed quite unable to realise that others, nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand, would without hesitation condemn much that she had written as rank blasphemy, even as silly, flippant irreverence. Writing on August 20th, she said:—

“August 20th.

It will be seen from the above extract that the deleting of certain passages was an understood thing, for she hopes that the publisher will not need “to cross out the bit about the sties.”

It would seem impossible to imagine a more bright, gentle and lovable nature than Miss Allonby’s, nor one less likely to give way to a suicidal impulse. She was always of a happy disposition. All who knew her loved her for her pleasant manner, her refinement, her good temper and kindly sympathy. However, it may be recorded that she never enjoyed very good health, being always frail and delicate.

Miss Allonby was born at Bankside Farm, Cark-in-Cartmel, North Lancashire, on December 1st 1875. Her mother died when she was only four years of age, and when she was thirteen she lost her father. She felt his death very keenly, and it made a lasting impression upon her. When she was seven the family moved to Liverpool, and she was educated at St Saviour’s, Everton, at Grove Street College for Girls, and finally at Whitelands College, Chelsea. On leaving college she became mistress of the school at Bishopsbourne, Kent, where she remained for three years. Then she took charge of the school at Bishop’s Fonthill, Salisbury, and afterwards went to Lancaster as head of St Anne’s School, and was there till her untimely and tragic death, a period of four years and a half. When she took charge of the Lancaster School it had a none too enviable reputation either as regards behaviour nor education. By sheer strength of will, by the power of loving-kindness, she made a wonderful change in two years. The children worshipped her, became well-behaved, obedient and attentive to their lessons. The school again earned its grants and gained good reports. One of the Inspectors in a report said that her influence had brought the school “from Darkness into Light.”

PREFATORY

The following words were prefixed to the MS. by the authoress:—

DEDICATED
TO
GOD
With all the reverence and fear
of which the human heart is capable.

As to the interpretation of the allegorical persons and incidents which figure mainly in the second and third parts of the book, we may remember Mr Augustine Birrell’s excellent phrases on Browning:—“Lucidity is not simplicity. A lucid poem is not necessarily an easy one. A great poet may tax our brain, but he ought not to puzzle our wits. We may often have to ask in humility, What does he mean? but not in despair, What can he mean?” This holds good of writers in prose as well as in verse: and Miss Allonby’s full meaning is scarce likely to be revealed on a first perusal.

PART I
EARTH

THE FULFILMENT

CHAPTER I

Cold, cold, unutterably cold and silent. The woods were still, the frosty air so still that not a leaf stirred. The moon shone white and glorious; scarcely one shimmering cloud marred its strength; and the stars tingled and gleamed and danced. White hung a silver robe of sparsest snow over all the land, like a net of interwoven diamonds. Away up north ran the Cumbrian Mountains, standing like giants against the blue-black sky. There rose Helvellyn with its mighty hump, like a headless criminal burdened high with woe: there the “Old Man”—he who looks o’er Coniston—his beard and head quite white and blazoned by the moon. Then stretching away from these, down to the coast and southward, the barren Peat Moss—nothing but marsh and bush and scanty tree—and bordering this on the land-side a range of hills, alternate wood or grass, terminating in Ellerside and How-barrow.

There is a glorious view from these two hilly peaks: the one a barren rock-strewn height, bare and uncompromising, the other, in its very name, breathing its loveliness. “Ellerside Breast”—sweetest and purest name—most beautiful of visions.

The rugged mountains, the lonely Mosses, grand in their desolation, the wide expanse of woodland, the gentle fields, the green park with its herd of deer and well-planned trees, the glorious sea and bay, untarnished yet by aught but lonely cottages and farms along its shores, the large Hall with its towers and stately cupolas, all make the country round a dream of loveliness. But on this December night, in its calm and purity, it has grown to grandeur. The heavy woods with their black shadows look weird, their stillness frightens. No twitter of bird or hum of insect, till suddenly the shrill tu-hoot of an owl breaks forth and is repeated.

And suddenly, as if by the magic of it, you and I are transported to that wooded Breast. We see a narrow path leading through the trees up to a simple wooden seat, a narrower, more rugged one leading down from it, a short, rocky space in front, and then a sheer declivity down through the steep wood to the borders of the park. The quiet little hamlet, never noisy, is now still with the silence of sleep. Nothing but the owl cries out the reign of night.

And now having come with me thus far—stay—and cavil not, if for a little time instead of flesh and blood I give you Spirits; Spirits who in their intensity, their grandeur, and even in their littleness, do far outvie our flesh-imprisoned selves.

There are two, and at first glance there is a similarity about them so striking that you are compelled to look again.

One was a little above medium height. Every limb was sinewy, with a lithe suppleness and gracefulness which glossed over the real strength beneath. He stood out dark in bold relief against the moonshine—like serpentine coiling smoke of clearest blackness. A face magnificent in profile—though framed on delicate lines—and eyes deep, hard, dark, far-seeing, far-reaching, unfathomable and cold. The other, at first sight, bore a marked resemblance. But there were strong differences, which showed themselves more strongly at every after-glance. He was of about the same height, with the same perfect cast of features, and there the likeness ended. White and pure and cold, he too was vividly distinct, with a simple strength and purpose, and the grace, if grace it can be called, born of these. In his eyes there shone simplicity and pureness, and something stern too. He was standing on the extreme rocky point of the peaked woodland, scanning the horizon, land, and sea, and sky, and ever and anon his eyes travelled to one of the millions of bright stars shining overhead. To this star the eyes of his companion also wandered in contemplation. He sat upon the rustic seat, bending his arm gracefully over the back and leaning there, his head upon his hand. His left hand hung motionless by his side, and on its middle finger shone a ring. A glorious belt of blood-red stones with a brilliant one of remarkable beauty in the centre. It was the only relief from darkness round about him, and though but a small thing, it gleamed with magical effect.

Another “tu-hoot.” A slight wind rustled and parted the leaves, and there between the two in the open space another figure stood, a spirit of animation, beauty, strength and vigour. Slightly taller than the other two, he moved with easy step and sat down by the opposite arm of the seat. Then he looked up and revealed a face on which sat some discontent and perhaps annoyance.

“Thank God to get away for a time,” said he.

“Contact with mortals makes you unmindful of manners.” The dark spirit had spoken, gazing at him, laughingly.

“Yes, Plucritus. One cannot stay in an old farm-house for several hours in the society of an over-fed midwife and not get slightly tarnished.”

“But what are you doing there?” said he who answered to the name of Plucritus. “Over-fed midwives? What shocking bad taste.”

“Well, so it may be. But there I’ve been and there I’ll have to stay.”

“But why?”

“Destiny, I suppose—or perhaps ill-luck.”

“A girl or a boy?”

“A girl—worse luck still.” And he said it with such contempt that the other’s laugh was perhaps excusable.

“You’re in for it and no mistake. If I am any judge you won’t get on very well.” And the spirit Virginius alone saw the steady, penetrating, sidelong glance that accompanied Plucritus’s idle words.

“No,” rejoined Genius.

“It’s ridiculous. You have made a mistake.”

“I never make mistakes,” replied the other, drily.

The blood-red ring gleamed scarlet.

“Never? Did you say never?”

“Yes. What a beastly night. That moon looks as sickly as the baby.”

“It is a glorious night.” Virginius spoke for the first time.

“You there, Virginius? I had not seen you.”

“Yes, Genius, I am here,” he answered slowly, but his face was turned toward the mountains.

“Virginius is always there,” continued the dark spirit. “But tell us how you come to be here. I saw the star, but scarcely reckoned it was yours.”

“Well, the story is long and uninteresting. But to be brief and enclose much in a nutshell, I have come to remove a curse.”

“Pooh! An impossibility. Bah! An idle dream.”

“That is exactly my own opinion. I am no good at removing curses. Besides, the family is particularly unlucky.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. It has a descent, I am told, from the coming of the first Pretender, and is part Scotch, part Irish, and part English.”

“And in what does its ill-luck consist?” Plucritus had changed his position. He was leaning forward, apparently examining and playing with his ring.

“A few uninteresting sins, I believe. Debts contracted by ancestors descended upon children. You know it, the Catechism explains it.”

“Heigh! Virginius! what is it?” And Plucritus threw back his head, laughing indolently. But as he received no answer he quoted it himself:—

“‘For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, and visit the sins of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me, and shew mercy unto thousands in them that love Me and keep My commandments.’”

“What profanity!” said Genius, idly. “Do you know, Plucritus, I have been often struck by your astounding knowledge of Scripture?”

And Plucritus, looking up, met the eyes of Virginius. It was but the glance of an instant, but even the moonshine paled beneath the gleam of steel against steel, flash for flash, quivering in the frosty light.

“I have to keep myself in touch with mankind,” he answered lightly. “And that latter half of the second Commandment has always appealed to me. But continue your story. I am interested. Tell me of this ill-luck.”

“There is really nothing to tell. The usual debts, you know, contracted by those who willingly lend themselves to the devil. Gambling, drinking, adultery, self-indulgence, self-centring. All these things, when practised by successive generations, bring their accompaniments of mental or physical weakness, sometimes both.”

“And in all cases moral decay,” remarked Plucritus, thoughtfully.

“In all cases,” said Genius.

“And so what you call ill-luck is simply just punishment,” Plucritus continued.

“Maybe,” said Genius, carelessly, “maybe not. I do not concern myself much about it. I am neither philosopher nor philanthropist, and I can assure you I take this task upon me grudgingly. I have no wish to become guardian angel to little girls.”

“You need not fear that. Virginius belongs to the jealous God, and will look after his position jealously. Besides, after a time, you will learn to like her.” And again he gave the sidelong, piercing glance.

“Not I. Before I arrived some malign fairy godmother had stepped in and bestowed a bundle of infirmities; I suppose from other years.” Here Plucritus laughed right out, and his laugh was very clear and low.

“Alas! poor Genius! you have been forestalled. A man afflicted that way is bitter enough and bad enough—but a woman!”

“Yes. It has put me out considerably. For of all things I love the beauty of proportion. And I am not able to find out who has done it.”

“Virginius,” said Plucritus, gaily, “it is to be the scourge and rod wherewith He chasteneth. Now, had I arrived there first I should have gifted her with rarest beauty—as a snare, you know.”

“Well, I am going now,” Plucritus went on. “The removal of a paltry curse is but a paltry affair, scarcely worthy of my notice. But for all that, before I go I will lay you a wager, Genius, that you will not be able to perform your task.”

“And what is the bet?”

“Why, it will grow with time. At present it is nondescript and vague. Say that ring upon your finger. But to show you that I bear no ill-will let us shake hands for old comradeship.”

And so these two clasped hands and parted, and Virginius and Genius were left alone.

Then Genius removed from the middle finger of his left hand a ring, and held it in the moonlight.

It was a perfect round of opals, designed on exactly the same plan as that worn by Plucritus, with a wonderful stone in the centre.

“Look at this ring,” he said thoughtfully. “Every tint of the rainbow is blended in it, and sparkles at every turn, and yet running round from stone to stone, and centring in the largest like one pure drop, there is to-night a streak of blood, a streak of red, I should say, and that means pain. Now I know the meaning of that. It means failure and disappointment—two things that I detest more than any other.”

Virginius then likewise removed from the middle finger of his left hand a ring of similar construction, but of diamonds, pure and flashing bright.

“Look at this ring,” he said. “Every flash of dazzling light is imprisoned in it. To-night it has shone with marvellous brilliancy. Look at this centre stone; it is glorious. This means success.”

“To you, perhaps. But your reckoning of success is somewhat strange”; and Genius looked at the dazzling purity with interest, for it was marvellously bright. Presently he added: “And yet had we compared rings with Plucritus I doubt not that he would have been able to express an opinion too. I noticed the scarlet bloodstones were expressly bright to-night.”

“Even so,” replied the other spirit.

CHAPTER II

The shabby old farmyard, small and dingy as it might appear to one more accustomed to the outside world, was a huge and magnificent place to the untravelled. The gates, the doors, the barns, the stables, the cow-sheds, the very puddles and the cart-ruts were tremendous. The swing in the granary took you higher and gave you a more delicious feeling than any other swing could. In fact, you doubted if there could be found another swing in the whole wide world worthy to be called a swing beside it. Then when you went to play at “houses,” couldn’t you just wander off on to the rocky lots and pick and choose just what you liked? That very big rock was the drawing-room, and all the little rocks the chairs and tables. And over there by the flat rock you had your dining-room, and a little further off was the kitchen.

But you didn’t reckon much of the kitchen. You saw that every day. But drawing-rooms and dining-rooms! you didn’t often get into these in real life, for in your house there was only a parlour with a glorious thunder-and-lightning carpet. For all that, the parlour had its attractions too. The family never sat in there unless there was “company.” Then, of course, state had to be kept up. On ordinary days you played about the kitchen and listened to the ghost stories of the servant girl. And my! no duchess in the land could have been more interesting to you than that girl. She belonged to the Salvation Army, and could sing hymns that really were interesting, not like those you sang at church, which were so roundabout you couldn’t understand them. This is what she used to sing, and the tune was so catchy and easy you could never forget it:—

“The devil and me

We can’t agree,

I hate him

And he-e hates me.

He caught me once

But he let me go-o

From the land o-of si-in and woe.”

Then when she got tired of that she would break forth thus:—

“We’ll all go to glory when we die

(When we die).

Oh, we’ll all go to glory when we die

(When we die).

We’ll all go to glory—We’ll all go to glory

We’ll all go to glory when we die.”

There was something rousing about that last. When one has been told a thing about six times with much vehemence, one begins to believe it.

But her resources did not end with the religious. Bless you, no! When she was peeling the potatoes she gained inspirations for ghost stories.

“It was as black as pitch,” she would say, in a low voice. “And as he was passing by the oak tree he saw something ghastly swinging from the branches. It was the body of a woman who had been murdered twenty years ago. And he saw her throat was cut. And all the way home he heard footsteps following him. And when he got there he fell down dead.”

It was gruesome, as of course it was meant to be. But the teller had her reward. Some three or four pairs of blue eyes were all fixed on her, mouths open, breath coming in short gasps. And then, of course, she had the satisfaction of knowing that the children dared not go to bed at night, and the still greater satisfaction of knowing that they were too ashamed to own up to their fear.

The most wonderful part about her was that she would stop quite calmly in the most awful part to remove an eye from the potato she was peeling, and then she would actually say, “Where did I get to? oh, yes.” There was something uncanny about that girl, she had so much sang-froid, and was never frightened at the workings of her own brain, as so many of us are.

But if you were to be told all the marvellous deeds she did it would fill a book. In the end she was married and went to live in America. She married a Captain in the Salvation Army. Probably she fascinated him as much as she had the farmer’s children.

But it would be a pity, whilst one is about it, not to mention another of her great charms. On a Sunday afternoon, when the work was all done and she was dressed in her best, and wearing a silver locket, having inside it the picture of her young man, the Captain, she would begin to rap, in a peculiar way, upon the kitchen table with her nails, and this is what she said, keeping absolute time with the aforementioned knockers,—

“Go to bed, Tom. Go to bed, Tom.

Father and mother and everyone.”

One day when she was in an extra good humour she showed the children how to do it. And then it was glorious; you could just imagine them all walking off to bed carrying a candle apiece.

There was a great deal of life going on about the farm—so, at least, the children thought. At night, when the men-servants came in from their day’s work, it was really quite cheerful.

They used to sit at the wooden table. Then there was oat bread, and plain bread, and cheese, and beer, and milk, and porridge. Upon these occasions the girl always gave herself a few extra airs and graces. She would sing little snatches of songs that did not belong to the Salvation Army, and altogether her manner was different from what it had previously been. Those of the children who noticed this never commented on it. She was a person with whom they could never take liberties. The men-servants eyed her from a distance, but they never thought of approaching nearer. They had respect for her, and then, of course, they had been given to understand pretty early the mysteries of the silver locket, and respected the other gentleman’s claim.

One of them, who was the most good-natured and the best worker of the lot, used at times to chaff her, but she took it with stolid indifference, and so he gave it up. His name was Bob, and he was good-looking, with a square, open, ruddy face, bright blue eyes, and fair hair. He could eat a quantity of cheese and bread, and a big basin of porridge besides. The children used to sit round him on the form whenever they got the chance. It was really marvellous the way he never choked after gulping down a whole pint pot of beer.

The other men-servants were not so interesting. They couldn’t ride a horse like him, they couldn’t walk like him, they couldn’t laugh like him. He was, in fact, about perfect. They were a very large family at the farm—too large for a poor man, or rather too large for an unlucky man.

The farmer had not started life a poor man, that is speaking relatively. His grandfather had died a miller and maltster, leaving a fortune of some few thousands. But the son could never make things pay. His father had died when he was quite a boy, and his mother had carried on the business very efficiently till her son was of age. He had wished to enter a certain firm in a certain large town, but perhaps the ambition had not been strong enough, or his stern mother’s will had been too strong, for he followed in his father’s footsteps, and, like him, could not, as has been said, make it pay.

He married young, a very pretty wife, and he was very proud of her, and she of him. But there is little doubt he was unfortunate in his marriage too. She had always been used to plenty at home, for her own brothers (she was an orphan) were on the whole good business men. It was considered when she married that she was doing very well. There had always been a certain amount of pride and reserve about her husband’s family that held them up as very respectable. They were supposed to have come of a good family, fond of fast living, who had fallen low. Her own brothers, especially her eldest one, were all prosperous men doing well; and what more natural than that she should suppose the same of her husband? She knew him to be clever, well liked, greatly respected, and much consulted by everyone. She therefore had no doubts at all that he was making money and laying by for future years.

So one by one the little children came, and had all to be provided for. Ten of them there were, and two died young. Her own health failed as well, for she had never been strong, and there is no question that doctors’ bills ran away with more money even than hungry mouths.

She was a wonderfully good housekeeper, scrupulously clean and neat in everything. Hospitable too; perhaps too hospitable, seeing her husband was the same. Hospitable people get encroached upon, you know. The people who receive from them salve their consciences by making themselves believe the givers are well off. Like most beliefs it is rotten, and worse than rotten.

However, her health failed, and after the birth of her last child she was never much better than an invalid. But long before this the mill had been given up and a farm taken. That was a very bad stroke of business. Farming in England so rarely pays, and millers on the whole are prosperous.

So it was the farmer found himself at forty-four a poor man with a large family. Not that he would admit he was poor. He lived on the same scale as he had always lived, and his wife never for one moment dreamt it was a hard struggle to make headway.

He was reserved, and he was sensitive, and lacking in that courage and determination which are essential to the business man. He loved peace above all things, and though energetic and industrious he seemed to have no power of bringing this energy and industry to good account.

When, therefore, his wife, now an invalid, tried expensive medicine after medicine in the hopes of recovery, he paid the bills cheerfully and never complained. And she, thinking the money always ready, would take perhaps but a little of this, or a little of that, and leave the rest untouched. It was the struggle to recover a lost constitution. Poor thing! who could blame her? And he—why, poor thing too!—he too may be excused. But in the midst of this heavy strain upon his finances there suddenly came heavy losses on the farm.

One year the potato crop entirely failed and other crops were poor as well. Then the cows had pneumonia, and several had to be killed. Seven calves were shot together in the little field at the back of the farmyard. Then the sheep had footrot, and after that two horses died, and both were good and valuable. They were very dark days, terribly dark days, but never one word of complaint was heard to pass the farmer’s lips.

Had he been wise he would have given the farm up then and there and have turned his sons out into some business, or at least his eldest son. But, unfortunately, his eldest son was no good at figures or books or lessons, and though he had the best intention in the world to work, and much pluck in sticking to what he could do, he seemed incapable of taking any situation that befitted his position as the son of a well-to-do and much-respected farmer. The second son, a lad of about sixteen, was absorbed heart and soul in the farm. He loved it, and he worked well on it, therefore it was as well he should stay there. The third boy was a mere child of twelve. But besides having to think for his sons, the farmer had also to bear in mind his daughters, and of these he had five.

The eldest was a girl of about eighteen. She was tall and pretty, with a certain distinction that made people turn to look at her. The second girl was about fourteen, good-natured and easy-going at that age, as after. The third was a girl of about eleven, fond of dressing, fond of admiration, impulsive and warm-hearted. The fourth was a girl of five. Very fat and very pretty. She was sturdy and fought to go to school when she was three, so she went and stuck to it. The fifth was little better than a baby, just turned four, puny and delicate.

So the farm was pretty full, you see, and it could be no light task to provide suitably for them all.

CHAPTER III

The bedroom was still. A candle burned on the chimney-piece, but its light was only feeble. In the bed lay a woman, wasted and weak, but at present sleeping, and there was no one else in the room. Downstairs, supper was being served to the workers, and in the small sitting-room the more grown-up members of the family sat. The children had gone to bed and were asleep; the farmer was away at a meeting in the neighbouring village.

And so the cold, shivering days of December, Christmas and the New Year wore away. And with them silently and slowly the sufferer wore away too. For months she had lain in bed, waiting and wasting, and now the end of wait and waste was coming.

It had fallen to the lot of the second daughter to act as nurse, and she fulfilled her part well. She was only a young girl, but had all a girl’s devotion. It fell to her daily task to read to the poor invalid the Litany from the Prayer-Book.

Who could blame her if now and again she omitted long clauses? That Litany was so very long and dull, and the delight of skipping so refreshing.

But even the Litany with its many repetitions must at last have an ending; and there came a day when it was no longer needed—for the poor soul that besought its God to hear it and have mercy on it had gone to take its peep behind the curtain.

It was bitterly cold in the first month of the new year, and there upon the white bed lay the corpse. The smell of coffin wood and burial flowers intermingled—white waxen flowers that looked a part of the white waxen figure in the snowy shroud. Beautiful and peaceful and care-free was that thin face, now the restless fragment of life had left it.

In the adjoining room, all alone upon the bed, sat Deborah, the little sickly baby. It wasn’t very nice having anybody dead in the house—you had all to go about quiet, and the rooms were dark.

Just then the door opened, and in came Deborah’s eldest sister. She had been crying.

“You may come with me to see mother,” she said.

So together they went. Marion held the younger sister up so that she might see and kiss the dead face—and it was perhaps in that first glance at the dead that she became conscious of her own life.

How beautiful, and strange, and far-away looked that weak and ailing mother! She who had let you nestle beside her in the bed and kissed you every night and morning. But now she was going away to heaven—to be really beautiful and never to be ill any more.

After that life settled down pretty much as it had been before, and all the usual little trivialities went on in the farm.

Marion became mistress in her mother’s place. Susan was sent away to school. Elinor, and fat, chubby, sturdy Maggie went to school near by, and Deborah, being the youngest, stayed at home.

It was very nice being at home all alone, as then she could wander about the orchard and garden, and the yard and the lot, and be happy. Besides, there were nine special chickens to feed, and they were so tame that they would let Deborah carry them about; and she used to sit upon the little stone slabs at the door and feed them—and they were so greedy that they nearly upset the tin with the oatmeal paste in it, and if she didn’t look quick about it she nearly always missed her share, for naturally she always ate a little with them. Also they used to drink in such a funny way, holding their heads up and letting the water trickle down their throats, but though they were always hungry they didn’t often want to drink—so perhaps they belonged to the Blue Ribbon Army like the servant girl.

Then there was the old grey cat. It was the most wonderful cat on the earth, and the biggest. But alas! poor thing! it had seen bad days. The girl (you will understand that to mean the servant) let some scalding porridge fall on it one day, which made it so timid that for a long time it would not come near anyone. And when it had got over that catastrophe and was one day sneaking round the stable, probably in search of mice, one of the horses struck out and kicked it on the head. Ever after that it walked about as if it had forgotten something, and formed a great affection for Deborah. They loved each other very sincerely, and she used to nurse it by the hour together; it used to lay its great head upon her little breast, and she for pure love used to kiss its velvet ears.

Besides, the grey cat was really so much better behaved than the black cat. The black cat was cruel and wild and would think nothing of killing and eating a mouse before your very eyes. Moreover, it often went away from home for six weeks at a time, and never left word where it was going to, nor when it would come back; which was decidedly bad manners, to say the least of it. And it was pretty certain that it never went away for any good purpose, because after it came back the least thing would frighten it, and it would fly off for the least sound, just like some guilty person.

Then there were the little Bantams—two little Bantam hens and a Bantam cock—they kept quite aloof from all the other big clumsy fowls, and refused to let their small and pretty families mix with them.

Then there was the fierce old sheep-dog, Spring, who died. There was a very grand funeral and a properly-dug grave. Jack, the youngest boy, acted as grave-digger, clerk and clergyman all in one; he was so serious that he never saw anything the least bit funny about his work. And there followed him to the grave-side, Elinor, Maggie and Deborah, all wearing a remnant of black.

They were strange days—curious dream-like days—and they followed each other silently, like shadows over grain fields.

Thus the time passed on, and gradually, gradually, the cloud darkened.

Some said when his wife died the farmer showed every sign of relief—perhaps, poor man, he did. In the ruin that was staring at him he could face it better alone. She was not quite the woman to invite, he not the man to give, confidences. Oh, Life! Life! Life! how many couples are there that will face these things bravely? How much selfishness would have to be torn from its very heart-roots! How much narrow-heartedness and shallow depths have to be swept right away!

But, by the irony of fate, though he had escaped from his wife he could not escape altogether from his family. He must provide for them and look after them, ruin or no ruin.

Accordingly, two years after his wife’s death, he gave notice that he was leaving the farm, but where he was going or what he was going to do no one knew.

When it was heard that the farmer had given up the farm everybody talked.

Naturally people wondered what he was going to do; he was getting middle-aged, they thought, and too old to start a new line of business.

The real fact probably was that he did not know what he was going to do himself. He wished to get to some town and there try what luck would do for him. Experience had not yet taught him that he was essentially an unlucky man.

Along with all these worries for the farmer his children lived their own little lives.

Elinor had her photograph taken and went and spoiled the family album by going into the parlour secretly and forcing all her photos (a round dozen) into the empty spaces. She tore the paper and spoilt the album, and you may be sure she did not get off lightly.

Next, Maggie found out whereabouts in this same wonderful parlour the iced Christmas cake was kept. She went quietly and helped herself to the delicious sugar. At first they thought it was a mouse. So it was, but just a little two-legged one, who was soon found out, and suffered the natural penalty of such greed.

Deborah, however, didn’t do much in this interesting line. She had no individuality, and it always needs individuality to err. At this time she had more respect for the grey cat than for any human being, and more love for the speckled chickens than anything beside. They made up her small world and she was quite content; it would have been far too much trouble to commit any of the faults common to childhood.

The farmer, in his spare time, taught her her lessons—and that was the beginning of the great love she afterwards bore him. He bought her a wonderful book with pictures and words in, and by the time she was seven she could read and understand quite well.

Just about this time a boy from the town came to stay with them. He was a very well-to-do boy, and the son of very worldly people, and he looked down greatly upon Jane and the men-servants on the farm. But he formed a great attachment for Jack, the youngest son, probably as being much older than himself, and able to teach him some wonderful country games. He was a very curious boy and had what might be called a wonderful conceit of himself.

One day he appeared before Deborah with a very determined air.

“We’ve known each other nearly a week,” he said decidedly, “so it’s quite time we were engaged.”

“All right,” she observed cheerfully, for it all seemed quite natural; and she began to plan a place for him among the chickens in her affection.

“Yes,” he went on, “but of course I sha’n’t be able to give you much of my time. I’m a boy, you know. Some day I’ll be a man, so my life will be a much grander one than yours. You’re only a girl.”

“Yes,” remarked Deborah, and accepted the inevitable with contentment.

“Then if you like you can take a short walk with me now.”

“All right,” said Deborah again. So they went.

For some days after that they took the usual short walk, till one day he began in the same decided way.

“We’ve been engaged long enough. It’s time we were married.”

“But we’re not old enough,” said Deborah. This was too quick work altogether for one who always let things glide.

“Yes, we are. Besides, if I’m married to you now I shall feel bound in honour to stick to you. Otherwise, when I go away I may forget you.”

It seemed a very terrible thing to be forgotten, so she consented.

“But how are we to do it?” she asked.

“Oh! we stand together with the sky above us, and you must say to me, ‘Bernard’ (not Bay, that’s only short, you know) ‘Bernard, I take you to be my wedded husband’—and then I shall say to you, ‘Deborah, I take you to be my wedded wife.’ After that it’s all done and nothing but death can part us.”

So they went together to the old rustic, ear-wiggy seat in the garden, and were married very solemnly. And he got his place among the chickens in her heart, and what place she got in his it would be hard to tell, as it was a very matter-of-fact union.

Some days later he came with a more serious and thoughtful air.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, sitting down upon the floor and clasping his hands round his knees. “When I go home I’m going to school. Then when I’m old enough I shall be going to Oxford. And after that I’m going to India to shoot big game. Then when I’ve made a name I’ll come home and marry you proper—on the very day you’re twenty-one.”

Now there was something very exciting about all that, which awoke even phlegmatic Deborah, the more so as she was too ignorant to understand the half of it. Even the grey cat got up to stretch itself, but after blinking idly at the speaker it settled comfortably once more in Deborah’s lap.

“What’s Oxford?” she asked curiously.

“Oh!—er—it’s a place where you go to learn to look down on everybody who isn’t as good as yourself,” he answered, first with hesitation, then with decision. “There’s another place called Cambridge where you can go to learn the same thing,” he added as an afterthought.

“But—it’s not a good thing to learn, is it?”

“Of course. If one is a gentleman one must know it, and let other people know it too.”

“What do you mean by big game?” she asked next.

“Tigers and elephants,” he answered, his eyes sparkling.

“And could you really shoot a tiger?”

“Of course. Just lend me that old cat, and I’ll show you how it’s done,” he said, springing up. But all Deborah’s instincts revolted at the thought.

“No, indeed,” she cried, and put as much of her two hands over it as would go for protection.

“I won’t hurt it. Just you lend it to me and I’ll—”

“I won’t, it’s got the headache and feels tired.”

“Got the headache!” exclaimed he with great contempt. “Who ever heard of a cat with the headache?”

“It has got the headache,” she persisted. “Darling kicked it—and it’s had the headache ever since.”

“Well, it’s only a tame old thing, so it wouldn’t do. But listen to me and I’ll tell you about shooting big game. I shall go on an elephant right into the thickest part of the forest.”

“How will you get up?”

“Climb, of course, up a ladder. Then in the thickest part of the forest I shall suddenly see two eyes like fire shining down at me. Then I shall take my gun—one—two—three. At the third shot it will fall mortally wounded. And then, so that everybody may really know I’ve really shot the tiger, I shall have it skinned, and bring the fur home.”

“But suppose instead it killed you,” observed Deborah, who by this time was fully roused to the possibilities of such an event.

“Well, you see, I shall have to be a pretty good shot before I could think of going out. And after that—well, a man with a gun, who knows how to use it, is a match for a tiger any day.”

They became very great friends indeed, and took the short walks together every day most religiously, till at last the time came for his going away.

They met each other in the kitchen lobby when there was no one there, and kissed several times very sadly. Deb wiped her eyes with the corner of her small pinafore, but he kept up manfully.

“I’ll come back when—I’ve shot the big game—and—you’re twenty-one, you know.”

But he never shot the big game, and he never came back.

CHAPTER IV

Once more night was reigning, but the frost had gone. It was cold, but with the chilliness of late spring, not winter, and the gusty wind blew heavy clouds across the sky. A rainy mist hid the mountains, and added darkness to the already dreary night.

And even as the night was indistinct and gloomy, the Spirits were indistinct and gloomy too. The soughing, sighing wind as it passed among the branches was miserable, but then it is this same dreary wind, they say, that purifies and clears the air.

“The old home, as they call it, is to be broken up,” said Plucritus. “The farm was a very bad speculation. It has never paid.”

“Who is to blame?” asked Genius.

“Why, the farmer. He is one of those delightfully amusing and interesting men so rarely met, who can legislate better for other people than for themselves. He gives other people advice gratis, they take it and prosper. He gives himself advice, and follows it, then fails.”

“Yet,” said Genius, slowly, “I respect and like the farmer. He is a man of well balanced and proportioned judgment.”

“Oh, yes. That makes him the more interesting. He’s a bad speculator, that’s all. Personally, I am not particularly fond of him, you know.”

Genius laughed.

“That should be a mark in his favour,” he said.

Plucritus laughed in turn.

“Well, no. I am not fond of him, but I’m going to cultivate his acquaintance more. When I am interested in a man I always cultivate his acquaintance. Humanity is so very interesting.”

“Thousands of years have not altered it then for you?”

Plucritus shook his head.

“Oh, no. We tire of our playthings but do not lose our interest in the game. Besides, where you are I must of necessity be.”

“But you mistake. I am not with the farmer, I am simply bound to have an interest in one of his children.”

“And I have an interest in the same child, and therefore through that child an interest in the farmer. Not that I can do much, but still I can watch the game, and help when needed.”

“You do not mean to work him any harm?”

“Oh, no. I am powerless to work real harm, you know, being but an inferior power. Let him but pray to God Almighty and he’s pretty safe.”

“Yet to-night I am gloomy and ill at ease.”

Hereat Plucritus burst out laughing.

“You’re a fool,” he said. “Why don’t you go away and leave them? Tawdry, poor and plebeian—what are you dreaming about? Go away now and you are doing the greatest kindness; stay, and you will only create misery and death. You can go to hundreds who will repay and appreciate your presence—whilst where you are you will never be understood. The sight of that child’s puny face and figure sickens me. You are going the right way to make yourself the laughing-stock of all.

“These people are going from here to the town, to live a very humdrum, miserable, ground-down sort of life. There will be nothing elevating, nothing intellectual—nothing in the least refined about it. There will be a great deal of nonsense talked about refinement, the sort of thing you abhor, but no true refinement in itself.”

“All the more reason then why I should stay to make up the deficit.” But a shadow crossed the face of Genius.

“Will you stay, or will you go?” Plucritus had reached across the wooden seat, and as he whispered the words his hot breath blew upon the cheek of Genius like some unwholesome fever-blight in a pestilential marshland.

“I will stay.”

“Fool, fool that you are, and rightly mated with a fool. Stay then and become a kind of circus-clown, a kind of Punchinello with a hump—not meeting with applause like him though, but with jeers and scorn, the only thing you’re fit for.”

And away he went, and the blood-red rays from the blood-red ring flashed round about him like a blood-red sulphur cloud.

“Why is he so eager for my departure?” asked Genius, turning to Virginius, who stood there silently as ever.

“He has his own reasons doubtless, but they are hard to fathom.”

Virginius came and sat down beside Genius. “But you will stay. Duty demands that you should stay—and I can say, or beg, or ask no more.”

“Yes, I will stay.”

“Shall you care for the change, do you think?”

“To me, as you know, it is immaterial.” Then Virginius smiled. “I apologise sincerely for my apparent disinterestedness, but like your human soldier I am bound to take the country as I find it. All my energies are bent on reconnoitring and organising; there is nothing left for ‘buts’ and ‘ifs.’”

“It seems to me, Virginius, if you would but stoop to make yourself agreeable, and put on some little affability, you might be a ready match for Plucritus and the rest of them.”

But before this the cold and stern expression had returned.

“The trickery of bribery is beyond me,” he observed.

“Beneath you, you mean,” said Genius, somewhat sorrowfully. “I can understand it.”

Virginius now rose, and began pacing back and forwards upon the rock-crowned hill-top. The wind still cried in misery, and big drops of rain fell upon the earth.

For some time silence prevailed, till at last Virginius broke it.

“Genius, I am going to make a request; I am going to ask you to look at me.”

“That is easily done. I have fulfilled it.”

“No. I am going to ask you to look at me. When I am most silent, look at me most.”

“That is precisely where the difficulty comes. Plucritus is so essentially interesting and fascinating that he attracts attention entirely to himself.”

“You will see less of his fascination in the future. You have thwarted him and he dislikes you. You see you are not working as an immaterial power.”

“What a topsy-turvy rendering,” said Genius, and he laughed. “No, I am working in the concrete—with a child. The child has a mind so pliant that it bends to my slightest whim most unconsciously.”

“That child also, besides having a mind, has what, in this world, they honour with the name of soul.”

“Oh, yes, but that’s the unknown quantity over which one half the world stumbles blindly and the other half develops itself into a superstitious bigot.”

“You make sweeping statements.”

“Contempt for the world has taught me it.”

“I should advise you to restrain that contempt. But let us return. In the same way that you exercise a strong power over the mind, so do I exercise a strong power over what is called the soul.”

“Yours is the harder work,” said Genius, and he laughed.

“Yes, the task is always difficult and delicate. But this child is not particularly addicted to any particular sin. That is in a measure owing to you. You have a knack of absorbing vices to a certain degree within yourself—in the same way that you absorb passions, thoughts, and even actions.”

“Well, let us proceed. What does this lead to?”

“Simply this. I wish to warn you. Plucritus dislikes you because you have thwarted him; he dislikes the child because its natural tendency is more toward good than evil; and he dislikes me because I am his natural and his greatest enemy.”

“Well, a triple alliance should certainly overcome him.”

“There is no alliance,” replied Virginius, earnestly. “I am unable to make alliances except those which spring from unstinting self-denial and self-sacrifice. Our alliance now would be simply one of self-defence, and that to me is impossible.”

“Then,” cried Genius, seriously, “I suppose it means we have each to fight the devil separately.”

“That is what it means. I wish to impress this on you as it is the last time we shall meet for many years and be able to converse as friends.”

“Then you are able to foretell the future.”

“No. I simply watched Plucritus when he spoke, and by long experience I have learnt somewhat of his tactics.”

CHAPTER V

The farmer and his family left the old north-country farm and went to live in a large town some sixty miles away.

To the children at first this was all delightfully new. The house was bigger, the rooms higher, and altogether it was wonderfully strange. Hot water upstairs and down was a tremendous luxury, and a bath into which Maggie and Deborah could both get together, and still leave room for Elinor if she had also a mind to come, seemed really too miraculously funny for words. But when you looked outside it was not so inviting. To be sure there were trees in the garden opposite, and very pretty gardens and trees belonging to the houses at the back, but there was nothing loose, nor wild, nor natural about them. They hadn’t breathed the scent of air blown off the Fells, nor drunk of the rain whose clouds had blown across the Cumbrian Mountains. No, they were simply city trees and city grass, and gave one a feeling of unrest and unhappiness one could scarcely understand, for at the time you didn’t understand that you were comparing them with a fuller, freer growth far away. And here there was no interesting servant to impress them with her conversation. And no milk, nor porridge, nor fowls, nor chickens, nor anything that there had been before. The old grey cat had been given away, and only the best of the furniture transplanted. So that at the bottom there was something distinctly sad about this new home. However, they settled down, and after a time things looked a bit more ship-shape.

Then came the vital question—Where were the children to go to school?

Opposite their house was a semi-detached villa in which lived three ladies who conducted a private school. It was eminently respectable, indeed select, and just the place for the three younger girls to be sent to. About five minutes’ walk away was a large church school, very respectable and in good working order, and also well conducted, but still supplying only elementary education.

Marion determined they should go to the former. Their father, for once, was resolved they should attend the latter.

It was a very uncomfortable time.