PART Three

PART

Three

26

For three years Maurice had been so fit and happy that he went on automatically for a day longer. He woke with the feeling that it must be all right soon. Clive would come back, apologizing or not as he chose, and he would apologize to Clive. Clive must love him, because his whole life was dependent on love and here it was going on as usual. How could he sleep and rest if he had no friend? When he returned from town to find no news, he remained for a little calm, and allowed his family to speculate on Clive’s departure. But he began to watch Ada. She looked sad—even their mother noticed it. Shading his eyes, he watched her. Save for her, he would have dismissed the scene as “one of Clive’s long speeches”, but she came into that speech as an example. He wondered why she was sad.

“I say—” he called when they were alone; he had no idea what he was going to say, though a sudden blackness should have warned him. She replied, but he could not hear her voice. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, trembling.

“Nothing.”

“There is—I can see it. You can’t take me in.”

“Oh no—really, Maurice, nothing.”

 “Why did—what did he say?”

“Nothing.”

“Who said nothing?” he yelled, crashing both fists on the

table. He had caught her.

“Nothing—only Clive.”

The name on her lips opened Hell. He suffered hideously and before he could stop himself had spoken words that neither ever forgot. He accused his sister of corrupting his friend. He let her suppose that Clive had complained of her conduct and gone back to town on that account. Her gentle nature was so outraged that she could not defend herself, but sobbed and sobbed, and implored him not to speak to her mother, just as if she were guilty. He assented: jealousy had maddened him.

“But when you see him—Mr Durham—tell him I didn’t mean—say there’s no one whom I’d rather—”

“—go wrong with,” he supplied: not till later did he

understand his own blackguardism.

Hiding her face, Ada collapsed.

“I shall not tell him. I shall never see Durham again to tell.

You’ve the satisfaction of breaking up that friendship.”

She sobbed, “I don’t mind that—you’ve always been so unkind to us, always.” He drew up at last. Kitty had said that sort of thing to him, but never Ada. He saw that beneath their obsequious surface his sisters disliked him: he had not even succeeded at home. Muttering “It’s not my fault,” he left her.

A refined nature would have behaved better and perhaps have suffered less. Maurice was not intellectual, nor religious, nor had he that strange solace of self-pity that is granted to some. Except on one point his temperament was

normal, and he behaved as would the average man who after two years of happiness had been betrayed by his wife. It was nothing to him that Nature had caught up this dropped stitch in order to continue her pattern. While he had love he had kept reason. Now he saw Clive’s change as treachery and Ada as its cause, and returned in a few hours to the abyss where he had wandered as a boy.

After this explosion his career went forward. He caught the usual train to town, to earn and spend money in the old manner; he read the old papers and discussed strikes and the divorce laws with his friends. At first he was proud of his self-control: did not he hold Clive’s reputation in the hollow of his hand? But he grew more bitter, he wished that he had shouted while he had the strength and smashed down this front of lies. What if he too were involved? His family, his position in society—they had been nothing to him for years.

He was an outlaw in disguise. Perhaps among those who took to the greenwood in old time there had been two men like himself—two. At times he entertained the dream. Two men can defy the world.

Yes: the heart of his agony would be loneliness. He took time to realize this, being slow. The incestuous jealousy, the mortification, the rage at his past obtuseness—these might pass, and having done much harm they did pass. Memories of Clive might pass. But the loneliness remained. He would wake and gasp “I’ve no one!” or “Oh Christ, what a world!”

Clive took to visiting him in dreams. He knew there was no one, but Clive, smiling in his sweet way, said “I’m genuine this time,” to torture him. Once he had a dream about the dream of the face and the voice, a dream about it, no nearer.

Also old dreams of the other sort, that tried to disintegrate

him. Days followed nights. An immense silence, as of death, encircled the young man, and as he was going up to town one morning it struck him that he really was dead. What was the use of money-grubbing, eating, and playing games? That was all he did or had ever done.

“Life’s a damn poor show,” he exclaimed, crumpling up the Daily Telegraph.

The other occupants of the carriage who liked him began to laugh.

“I’d jump out of the window for twopence.”

Having spoken, he began to contemplate suicide. There was nothing to deter him. He had no initial fear of death, and no sense of a world beyond it, nor did he mind disgracing his family. He knew that loneliness was poisoning him, so that he grew viler as well as more unhappy. Under these circumstances might he not cease? He began to compare ways and means, and would have shot himself but for an unexpected event. This event was the illness and death of his grandfather, which induced a new state of mind.

Meanwhile, he had received letters from Clive, but they always contained the sentence, “We had better not meet just yet.” He grasped the situation now—his friend would do anything for him except be with him; it had been thus ever since the first illness, and on these lines he was offered friendship in the future. Maurice did not cease to love, but his heart had been broken; he never had wild thoughts of winning Clive back. What he grasped he grasped with a firmness that the refined might envy, and suffered up to the hilt.

He answered these letters, oddly sincere. He still wrote what was true, and confided that he was unbearably lonely

and should blow out his brains before the year ended. But he wrote without emotion. It was more a tribute to their heroic past, and accepted by Durham as such. His replies were unemotional also, and it was plain that, however much help he was given and however hard he tried, he could no longer penetrate into Maurice’s mind.

27

Maurice’s grandfather was an example of the growth that may come with old age. Throughout life he had been the ordinary business man—hard and touchy—but he retired not too late, and with surprising results. He took to “reading”, and though the direct effects were grotesque, a softness was generated that transformed his character. The opinions of others—once to be contradicted or ignored—appeared worthy of note, and their desires worth humouring. Ida, his unmarried daughter, who kept house for him, had dreaded the time “when my father will have nothing to do”, and herself impervious, did not realize that he had changed until he was about to leave her.

The old gentleman employed his leisure in evolving a new religion—or rather a new cosmogony, for it did not contradict chapel. The chief point was that God lives inside the sun, whose bright envelope consists of the spirits of the blessed.

Sunspots reveal God to men, so that when they occurred Mr Grace spent hours at his telescope, noting the interior darkness. The incarnation was a sort of sunspot.

He was glad to discuss his discovery with anyone, but did not proselytize, remarking that each must settle for himself: Clive Durham, with whom he had once had a long talk, knew as much about his opinions as anyone. They were those of the

practical man who tries to think spiritually—absurd and materialistic, but first hand. Mr Grace had rejected the tasteful accounts of the unseen that are handed out by the churches, and for that reason the hellenist had got on with him.

Now he was dying. A past of questionable honesty had faded, and he looked forward to joining those he loved and to be joined in due season by those whom he left behind. He summoned his late employees—men without illusions, but they “humoured the old hypocrite”. He summoned his family, whom he had always treated well. His last days were very beautiful. To inquire into the causes of beauty were to inquire too closely, and only a cynic would dispel the blended Sorrow and Peace that perfumed Alfriston Gardens while a dear old man lay dying.

The relations came separately, in parties of two and three.

All, except Maurice, were impressed. There was no intrigue, as Mr Grace had been open about his will, and each knew what to expect. Ada, as the favourite grandchild, shared the fortune with her aunt. The rest had legacies. Maurice did not propose to receive his. He did nothing to force Death on, but it waited to meet him at the right moment, probably when he returned.

But the sight of a fellow-traveller disconcerted him. His grandfather was getting ready for a journey to the sun, and, garrulous with illness, poured out to him one December afternoon. “Maurice, you read the papers. You’ve seen the new theory—” It was that a meteor swarm impinged on the rings of Saturn, and chipped pieces off them that fell into the sun. Now Mr Grace located the wicked in the outer planets of our system, and since he disbelieved in eternal damnation had

been troubled how to extricate them. The new theory explained this. They were chipped off and reabsorbed into the good! Courteous and grave, the young man listened until a fear seized him that this tosh might be true. The fear was momentary, yet started one of those rearrangements that affect the whole character. It left him with the conviction that his grandfather was convinced. One more human being had come alive. He had accomplished an act of creation, and as he did so Death turned her head away. “It’s a great thing to believe as you do,” he said very sadly. “Since Cambridge I believe in nothing—except in a sort of darkness.”

“Ah, when I was your age—and now I see a bright light— no electric light can compare to it.”

“When you were my age, grandfather, what?”

But Mr Grace did not answer questions. He said, “Brighter than magnesium wire—the light within,” then drew a stupid parallel between God, dark inside the glowing sun, and the soul, invisible inside the visible body. “The power within— the soul: let it out, but not yet, not till the evening.” He paused. “Maurice, be good to your mother; to your sisters; to your wife and children; to your clerks, as I have.” He paused again and Maurice grunted, but not disrespectfully. He was caught by the phrase “not till the evening, do not let it out till the evening.” The old man rambled ahead. One ought to be good—kind—brave: all the old advice. Yet it was sincere. It came from a living heart.

“Why?” he interrupted. “Grandpapa, why?”

“The light within—”

“I haven’t one.” He laughed lest emotion should master him. “Such light as I had went out six weeks ago. I don’t want to be good or kind or brave. If I go on living I shall be

—not those things: the reverse of them, I don’t want that

either; I don’t want anything.”

“The light within—”

Maurice had neared confidences, but they would not have been listened to. His grandfather didn’t, couldn’t understand.

He was only to get “the light within—be kind”, yet the phrase continued the rearrangement that had begun inside him. Why should one be kind and good? For someone’s sake—for the sake of Clive or God or the sun? But he had no one. No one except his mother mattered and she only a little. He was practically alone, and why should he go on living? There was really no reason, yet he had a dreary feeling he should, because he had not got Death either; she, like Love, had glanced at him for a minute, then turned away, and left him to “play the game”. And he might have to play as long as his grandfather, and retire as absurdly.

28

His change, then, cannot be described as a conversion.

There was nothing edifying about it. When he came home and examined the pistol he would never use, he was seized with disgust; when he greeted his mother no unfathomable love for her welled up. He lived on, miserable and misunderstood, as before, and increasingly lonely. One cannot write those words too often: Maurice’s loneliness: it increased.

But a change there had been. He set himself to acquire new habits, and in particular those minor arts of life that he had neglected when with Clive. Punctuality, courtesy, patriotism, chivalry even—here were a few. He practised a severe self- discipline. It was necessary not only to acquire the art, but to

know when to apply it, and gently to modify his behaviour.

At first he could do little. He had taken up a line to which his family and the world were accustomed, and any deviation worried them. This came out very strongly in a conversation with Ada.

Ada had become engaged to his old chum Chapman, and his hideous rivalry with her could end. Even after his grandfather’s death he had feared she might marry Clive, and gone hot with jealousy. Clive would marry someone. But the thought of him with Ada remained maddening, and he could scarcely have behaved properly unless it had been removed.

The match was excellent, and having approved of it publicly he took her aside, and said, “Ada, I behaved so badly to you, dear, after Clive’s visit. I want to say so now and ask you to forgive me. It’s given a lot of pain since. I’m very sorry.”

She looked surprised and not quite pleased; he saw that she still disliked him. She muttered, “That’s all over—I love Arthur now.”

“I wish I had not gone mad that evening, but I happened to be very much worried about something. Clive never said what I let you think he said either. He never blamed you.”

“I don’t care whether he did. It doesn’t signify.”

Her brother’s apologies were so rare that she seized the opportunity to trample on him. “When did you last see him?”—Kitty had suggested they had quarrelled.

“Not for some time.”

“Those weekends and Wednesdays seem to have quite stopped.”

 “I wish you happiness. Old Chappie’s a good fellow. For two people who are in love to marry strikes me as very jolly.”

“It’s very kind of you to wish me happiness, Maurice, I’m sure. I hope I shall have it whether I am wished it or not.” (This was described to Chapman afterwards as a “repartee.”) “I’m sure I wish you the same sort of thing you’ve been wishing me all along equally.” Her face reddened. She had suffered a good deal, and was by no means indifferent to Clive, whose withdrawal had hurt her.

Maurice guessed as much and looked gloomily at her.

Then he changed the subject, and, being without memory, she recovered her temper. But she could not forgive her brother: indeed it was not right that one of her temperament should, since he had insulted her centrally, and marred the dawning of a love.

Similar difficulties arose with Kitty. She also was on his conscience, but was displeased when he made amends. He offered to pay her fees at the Domestic Institute whereon her soul had been so long set, and, though she accepted, it was ungraciously and with the remark, “I expect I’m too old now to properly learn anything.” She and Ada incited each other to thwart him in little things. Mrs Hall was shocked at first and rebuked them, but finding her son too indifferent to protect himself, she grew indifferent too. She was fond of him, but would not fight for him any more than she would fight against him when he was rude to the Dean. And so it happened that he was considered less in the house, and during the winter rather lost the position he had won at Cambridge. It began to be “Oh, Maurice won’t mind—he can walk—sleep on the camp bed—smoke without a fire.” He raised no objection—this was the sort of thing he now lived

for—but he noted the subtle change and how it coincided with the coming of loneliness.

The world was likewise puzzled. He joined the Territorials —hitherto he had held off on the ground that the country can only be saved by conscription. He supported the social work even of the Church. He gave up Saturday golf in order to play football with the youths of the College Settlement in South London, and his Wednesday evenings in order to teach arithmetic and boxing to them. The railway carriage felt a little suspicious. Hall had turned serious, what! He cut down his expenses that he might subscribe more largely to charities —to preventive charities: he would not give a halfpenny to rescue work. What with all this and what with his stockbroking, he managed to keep on the go.

Yet he was doing a fine thing—proving on how little the soul can exist. Fed neither by Heaven nor by Earth he was going forward, a lamp that would have blown out, were materialism true. He hadn’t a God, he hadn’t a lover—the two usual incentives to virtue. But on he struggled with his back to ease, because dignity demanded it. There was no one to watch him, nor did he watch himself, but struggles like his are the supreme achievements of humanity, and surpass any legends about Heaven.

No reward awaited him. This work, like much that had gone before, was to fall ruining. But he did not fall with it, and the muscles it had developed remained for another use.

29

The crash came on a Sunday in spring—exquisite weather.

They sat round the breakfast table, in mourning because of Grandpa, but otherwise worldly. Besides his mother and

sisters, there was impossible Aunt Ida, who lived with them now, and a Miss Tonks, a friend whom Kitty had made at the Domestic Institute, and who indeed seemed its only tangible product. Between Ada and himself stood an empty chair.

“Oh, Mr Durham’s engaged to be married,” cried Mrs Hall, who was reading a letter. “How friendly of his mother to tell me. Penge, a county estate,” she explained to Miss Tonks.

“That won’t impress Violet, mother. She’s a socialist.”

“Am I, Kitty? Good news.”

“You mean bad news, Miss Tonks,” said Aunt Ida.

“Mother, who toom?”

“You will say ‘Who toom’ as a joke too often.”

“Oh mother, get on, who is she?” asked Ada, having stifled a regret.

“Lady Anne Woods. You can read the letter for yourselves.

He met her in Greece. Lady Anne Woods. Daughter of Sir H.

Woods.”

There was an outcry amongst the well-informed. It was subsequently found that Mrs Durham’s sentence ran, “I will now tell you the name of the lady: Anne Woods: daughter of Sir H. Woods.” But even then it was remarkable, and owing to Greece romantic.

“Maurice!” said his aunt across the hubbub.

“Hullo!”

“That boy’s late.”

Leaning back in his chair he shouted “Dickie!” at the ceiling: they were putting up Dr Barry’s young nephew for the weekend, to oblige.

 “He doesn’t even sleep above, so that’s no good,” said

Kitty.

“I’ll go up.”

He smoked half a cigarette in the garden and returned. The news had nearly upset him after all. It had come so brutally, and—what hurt him as much—no one behaved as if it were his concern. Nor was it. Mrs Durham and his mother were the principals now. Their friendship had survived the heroic.

He was thinking, “Clive might have written: for the sake of the past he might”, when his aunt interrupted him. “That boy’s never come,” she complained.

He rose with a smile. “My fault. I forgot.”

“Forgot!” Everyone concentrated on him. “Forgot when you went out specially? Oh Morrie, you are a funny boy.” He left the room, pursued by humorous scorn, and almost forgot again. “In there’s my work,” he thought, and a deadly lassitude fell on him.

He went upstairs with the tread of an older man, and drew breath at the top. He stretched his arms wide. The morning was exquisite—made for others: for them the leaves rustled and the sun poured into the house. He banged at Dickie Barry’s door, and, as that seemed no use, opened it.

The boy, who had been to a dance the night before, remained asleep. He lay with his limbs uncovered. He lay unashamed, embraced and penetrated by the sun. The lips were parted, the down on the upper was touched with gold, the hair broken into countless glories, the body was a delicate amber. To anyone he would have seemed beautiful, and to Maurice who reached him by two paths he became the World’s desire.

 “It’s past nine,” he said as soon as he could speak.

Dickie groaned and pulled up the bedclothes to his chin.

“Breakfast—wake up.”

“How long have you been here?” he asked, opening his eyes, which were all of him that was now visible, and gazing

into Maurice’s.

“A little,” he said, after a pause.

“I’m awfully sorry.”

“You can be as late as you like—it’s only I didn’t want you to miss the jolly day.”

Downstairs they were revelling in snobbery. Kitty asked him whether he had known about Miss Woods. He answered “Yes”—a lie that marked an epoch. Then his aunt’s voice arrived, was that boy never coming?

“I told him not to hurry,” said Maurice, trembling all over.

“Maurice, you’re not very practical, dear,” said Mrs Hall.

“He’s on a visit.”

Auntie remarked that the first duty of a visitor was to conform to the rules of the house. Hitherto he had never opposed her, but now he said, “The rule of this house is that

everyone does what they like.”

“Breakfast is at half past eight.”

“For those who like. Those who are sleepy like breakfast at nine or ten.”

“No house could go on, Maurice. No servants would stop, as you will find.”

“I’d rather servants went than my guests were treated like

schoolboys.”

“A schoolboy! Haw! He is one!”

 “Mr Barry’s now at Woolwich,” said Maurice shortly.

Aunt Ida snorted, but Miss Tonks shot him a glance of respect. The others had not listened, intent on poor Mrs Durham, who would now only have the dower house. The loss of his temper left him very happy. In a few minutes Dickie joined them, and he rose to greet his god. The boy’s hair was now flat from the bath, and his graceful body hidden beneath clothes, but he remained extraordinarily beautiful.

There was a freshness about him—he might have arrived with the flowers—and he gave the impression of modesty and of good will. When he apologized to Mrs Hall, the note of his voice made Maurice shiver. And this was the child he wouldn’t protect at Sunnington! This the guest whose arrival last night he had felt rather a bore.

So strong was the passion, while it lasted, that he believed the crisis of his life had come. He broke all engagements, as in the old days. After breakfast he saw Dickie to his uncle’s, got arm in arm with him, and exacted a promise for tea. It was kept. Maurice abandoned himself to joy. His blood heated. He would not attend to the talk, yet even this advantaged him, for when he said “What?” Dickie came over to the sofa. He passed an arm round him…. The entrance of Aunt Ida may have averted disaster, yet he thought he saw response in the candid eyes.

They met once more—at midnight. Maurice was not happy now, for during the hours of waiting his emotion had become physical.

“I’d a latch key,” said Dickie, surprised at finding his host

up.

“I know.”

 There was a pause. Both uneasy, they were glancing at

each other and afraid to meet a glance.

“Is it a cold night out?”

“No.”

“Can I get you anything before I go up?”

“No, thanks.”

Maurice went to the switches and turned on the landing light. Then he turned out the lights in the hall and sprang after Dickie, overtaking him noiselessly.

“This is my room,” he whispered. “I mean generally.

They’ve turned me out for you.” He added, “I sleep here alone.” He was conscious that words were escaping him.

Having removed Dickie’s overcoat he stood holding it, saying nothing. The house was so quiet that they could hear the women breathing in the other rooms.

The boy said nothing either. The varieties of development are endless, and it so happened that he understood the situation perfectly. If Hall insisted, he would not kick up a row, but he had rather not: he felt like that about it.

“I’m above,” panted Maurice, not daring. “In the attic over this—if you want anything—all night alone. I always am.”

Dickie’s impulse was to bolt the door after him, but he dismissed it as unsoldierly, and awoke to the ringing of the breakfast bell, with the sun on his face and his mind washed clean.

30

This episode burst Maurice’s life to pieces. Interpreting it by the past, he mistook Dickie for a second Clive, but three years are not lived in a day, and the fires died down as

quickly as they had risen, leaving some suspicious ashes behind them. Dickie left on the Monday, and by Friday his image had faded. A client then came into the office, a lively and handsome young Frenchman, who implored Monsieur ‘All not to swindle him. While they chaffed, a familiar feeling arose, but this time he smelt attendant odours from the abyss. “No, people like me must keep our noses to the grindstone, I’m afraid,” he replied, in answer to the Frenchman’s prayer to lunch with him, and his voice was so British that it produced shouts of laughter and a pantomime.

When the fellow had gone he faced the truth. His feeling for Dickie required a very primitive name. He would have sentimentalized once and called it adoration, but the habit of honesty had grown strong. What a stoat he had been! Poor little Dickie! He saw the boy leaping from his embrace, to smash through the window and break his limbs, or yelling like a maniac until help came. He saw the police—

“Lust.” He said the word out loud.

Lust is negligible when absent. In the calm of his office Maurice expected to subdue it, now that he had found its name. His mind, ever practical, wasted no time in theological despair, but advanced to the grindstone. He had been forewarned, and therefore forearmed, and had only to keep away from boys and young men to ensure success. Yes, from other young men. Certain obscurities of the last six months became clear. For example, a pupil at the Settlement—He wrinkled his nose, as one who needs no further proof. The feeling that can impel a gentleman towards a person of lower class stands self-condemned.

He did not know what lay ahead. He was entering into a state that would only end with impotence or death. Clive had

postponed it. Clive had influenced him, as always. It had been understood between them that their love, though including the body, should not gratify it, and the understanding had proceeded—no words were used—from Clive. He had been nearest to words on the first evening at Penge, when he refused Maurice’s kiss, or on the last afternoon there, when they lay amid deep fern. Then had been framed the rule that brought the golden age, and would have sufficed till death. But to Maurice, despite his content, there had been something hypnotic about it. It had expressed Clive, not him, but now that he was alone he cracked hideously, as once at school. And it was not Clive who would heal him. That influence, even if exerted, would have failed, for a relation such as theirs cannot break without transforming both men for ever.

But he could not realize all this. The ethereal past had blinded him, and the highest happiness he could dream was a return to it. As he sat in his office working, he could not see the vast curve of his life, still less the ghost of his father sitting opposite. Mr Hall senior had neither fought nor thought; there had never been any occasion; he had supported society and moved without a crisis from illicit to licit love.

Now, looking across at his son, he is touched with envy, the only pain that survives in the world of shades. For he sees the flesh educating the spirit, as his has never been educated, and developing the sluggish heart and the slack mind against their will.

Presently Maurice was called to the telephone. He raised it to his ear, and, after six months’ silence, heard the voice of his only friend.

 “Hullo,” he began, “hullo, you will have heard my news, Maurice.”

“Yes, but you didn’t write, so I didn’t.”

“Quite so.”

“Where are you now?”

“Off to a restaurant. We want you to come round there.

Will you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. I’ve just refused one invitation to

lunch.”

“Are you too busy to talk a little?”

“Oh no.”

Clive resumed, evidently relieved by the atmosphere. “My young woman’s with me. Presently she’ll talk too.”

“Oh, all right. Tell me all your plans.”

“The wedding’s next month.”

“Best of luck.”

Neither could think of anything to say.

“Now for Anne.”

“I’m Anne Woods,” said a girl’s voice.

“My name’s Hall.”

“What?”

“Maurice Christopher Hall.”

“Mine’s Anne Clare Wilbraham Woods, but I can’t think of

anything to say.”

“No more can I.”

“You’re the eighth friend of Clive I’ve talked to in this way

this morning.”

“The eighth?”

 “I can’t hear.”

“I said the eighth.”

“Oh yes, now I’ll give Clive a turn. Goodbye.”

Clive resumed. “By the way, can you come down to Penge next week? It’s short notice, but later all will be chaos.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that very well. Mr Hill’s getting married too, so that I’m more or less busy here.”

“What, your old partner?”

“Yes, and after him Ada to Chapman.”

“So I heard. How about August? Not September, that’s almost certainly the by-election. But come in August and see us through that awful Park v. Village cricket match.”

“Thanks, I probably could. You had better write nearer the time.”

“Oh, of course. By the way, Anne has a hundred pounds in her pocket. Will you invest it for her?”

“Certainly. What does she fancy?”

“You’d better choose. She’s not allowed to fancy more

than four per cent.”

Maurice quoted a few securities.

“I’d like the last one,” said Anne’s voice. “I didn’t catch its name.”

“You’ll see it on the Contract Note. What’s your address,

please?”

She informed him.

“All right. Send the cheque when you hear from us.

Perhaps I’d better ring off and buy at once.”

He did so. Their intercourse was to run on these lines.

However pleasant Clive and his wife were to him, he always

felt that they stood at the other end of the telephone wire.

After lunch he chose their wedding present. His instinct was to give a thumper, but since he was only eighth on the list of the bridegroom’s friends, this would seem out of place. While paying three guineas he caught sight of himself in the glass behind the counter. What a solid young citizen he looked— quiet, honourable, prosperous without vulgarity. On such does England rely. Was it conceivable that on Sunday last he had nearly assaulted a boy?

31

As the spring wore away, he decided to consult a doctor.

The decision—most alien to his temperament—was forced on him by a hideous experience in the train. He had been brooding in an ill-conditioned way, and his expression aroused the suspicions and the hopes of the only other person in the carriage. This person, stout and greasy-faced, made a lascivous sign, and, off his guard, Maurice responded. Next moment both rose to their feet. The other man smiled, whereupon Maurice knocked him down. Which was hard on the man, who was elderly and whose nose streamed with blood over the cushions, and the harder because he was now consumed with fear and thought Maurice would pull the alarm cord. He spluttered apologies, offered money. Maurice stood over him, black-browed, and saw in this disgusting and dishonourable old age his own.

He loathed the idea of a doctor, but he had failed to kill lust single-handed. As crude as in his boyhood, it was many times as strong, and raged in his empty soul. He might “keep away from young men”, as he had naïvely resolved, but he could not keep away from their images, and hourly committed sin

in his heart. Any punishment was preferable, for he assumed a doctor would punish him. He could undergo any course of treatment on the chance of being cured, and even if he wasn’t he would be occupied and have fewer minutes for brooding.

Whom should he consult? Young Jowitt was the only doctor he knew well, and the day after that railway journey he managed to remark to him in casual tones, “I say, in your rounds here, do you come across unspeakables of the Oscar Wilde sort?” But Jowitt replied. “No, that’s in the asylum work, thank God,” which was discouraging, and perhaps it might be better to consult someone whom he should never see again. He thought of specialists, but did not know whether there were any for his disease, nor whether they would keep faith if he confided in them. On all other subjects he could command advice, but on this, which touched him daily, civilization was silent.

In the end he braved a visit to Dr Barry. He knew he should have a bad time, but the old man, though a bully and a tease, was absolutely trustworthy, and had been better disposed to him since his civilities to Dickie. They were in no sense friends, which made it easier, and he went so seldom to the house that it would make little difference were he forbidden it for ever.

He went on a cold evening in May. Spring had turned into a mockery, and a wretched summer was expected also. It was exactly three years since he had come here under balmy skies, to receive his lecture about Cambridge, and his heart beat quicker, remembering how severe the old man had been then. He found him in an agreeable mood, playing bridge with his daughter and wife, and urgent that Maurice should make a fourth in their party.

 “I’m afraid I want to speak to you, sir,” he said with an emotion so intense that he felt he should never accomplish

the real words at all.

“Well, speak away.”

“I mean professionally.”

“Lord, man, I’ve retired from practice for the last six years.

You go to Jericho or Jowitt. Sit down, Maurice. Glad to see you, shouldn’t have guessed you were dying. Polly! Whisky for this fading flower.”

Maurice remained standing, then turned away so oddly that Dr Barry followed him into the hall and said, “Hi, Maurice,

can I seriously do anything for you?”

“I should think you can!”

“I’ve not even a consulting-room.”

“It’s an illness too awfully intimate for Jowitt—I’d rather come to you—you’re the only doctor alive I dare tell. Once before I said to you I hoped I’d learn to speak out. It’s about that.”

“A secret trouble, eh? Well, come along.”

They went into the dining-room, which was still strewn with dessert. The Venus de Medici in bronze stood on the mantelpiece, copies of Greuze hung on the walls. Maurice tried to speak and failed, poured out some water, failed again, and broke into a fit of sobbing.

“Take your time,” said the old man quite kindly, “and remember of course that this is professional. Nothing you say will ever reach your mother’s ears.”

The ugliness of the interview overcame him. It was like being back in the train. He wept at the hideousness into which he had been forced, he who had meant to tell no one

but Clive. Unable to say the right words, he muttered, “It’s about women—”

Dr Barry leapt to a conclusion—indeed he had been there ever since they spoke in the hall. He had had a touch of trouble himself when young, which made him sympathetic about it. “We’ll soon fix that up,” he said.

Maurice stopped his tears before more than a few had issued, and felt the rest piled in an agonizing bar across his brain. “Oh, fix me for God’s sake,” he said, and sank into a chair, arms hanging. “I’m close on done for.”

“Ah, women! How well I remember when you spouted on the platform at school … the year my poor brother died it was … you gaped at some master’s wife … he’s a lot to learn and life’s a hard school, I remember thinking. Only women can teach us and there bad women as well as good. Dear, dear!”

He cleared his throat. “Well, boy, don’t be afraid of me. Only tell me the truth, and I’ll get you well. When did you catch the beastly thing? At the Varsity?”

Maurice did not understand. Then his brow went damp.

“It’s nothing as filthy as that,” he said explosively. “In my own rotten way I’ve kept clean.”

Dr Barry seemed offended. He locked the door, saying, “Impotent, eh? Let’s have a look,” rather contemptuously.

Maurice stripped, throwing the garments from him in a rage. He had been insulted as he had insulted Ada.

“You’re all right,” was the verdict.

“What d’ye mean, sir, by all right?”

“What I say. You’re a clean man. Nothing to worry about here.”

 He sat down by the fire, and, dulled though he was to impressions, Dr Barry noted the pose. It wasn’t artistic, yet it could have been called superb. He sat in his usual position, and his body as well as his face seemed gazing indomitably at the flames. He wasn’t going to knuckle under—somehow he gave that impression. He might be slow and clumsy, but if once he got what he wanted he would hold to it till Heaven and Earth blushed crimson.

“You’re all right,” repeated the other. “You can marry tomorrow if you like, and if you take an old man’s advice you will. Cover up now, it’s so draughty. What put all this into your head?”

“So you’ve never guessed,” he said, with a touch of scorn in his terror. “I’m an unspeakable of the Oscar Wilde sort.”

His eyes closed, and driving clenched fists against them he sat motionless, having appealed to Caesar.

At last judgement came. He could scarcely believe his ears. It was “Rubbish, rubbish!” He had expected many things, but not this; for if his words were rubbish his life was

a dream.

“Dr Barry, I can’t have explained—”

“Now listen to me, Maurice, never let that evil hallucination, that temptation from the devil, occur to you again.”

The voice impressed him, and was not Science speaking?

“Who put that lie into your head? You whom I see and know to be a decent fellow! We’ll never mention it again. No —I’ll not discuss. I’ll not discuss. The worst thing I could do for you is to discuss it.”

 “I want advice,” said Maurice, struggling against the overwhelming manner. “It’s not rubbish to me, but my life.”

“Rubbish,” came the voice authoritatively.

“I’ve been like this ever since I can remember without knowing why. What is it? Am I diseased? If I am, I want to be cured, I can’t put up with the loneliness any more, the last six months specially. Anything you tell me, I’ll do. That’s all.

You must help me.”

He fell back into his original position, gazing body and

soul into the fire.

“Come! Dress yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, and obeyed. Then Dr Barry unlocked the door and called, “Polly! Whisky!” The consultation was over.

32

Dr Barry had given the best advice he could. He had read no scientific works on Maurice’s subject. None had existed when he walked the hospitals, and any published since were in German, and therefore suspect. Averse to it by temperament, he endorsed the verdict of society gladly; that is to say, his verdict was theological. He held that only the most depraved could glance at Sodom, and so, when a man of good antecedents and physique confessed the tendency, “Rubbish, rubbish!” was his natural reply. He was quite sincere. He believed that Maurice had heard some remark by chance, which had generated morbid thoughts, and that the contemptuous silence of a medical man would at once dispel them.

 And Maurice went away not unimpressed. Dr Barry was a great name at home. He had twice saved Kitty and had attended Mr Hall through his last illness, and he was so honest and independent and never said what he did not feel.

He had been their ultimate authority for nearly twenty years —seldom appealed to, but known to exist and to judge righteousness, and now that he pronounced “rubbish”, Maurice wondered whether it might not be rubbish, though every fibre in him protested. He hated Dr Barry’s mind; to tolerate prostitution struck him as beastly. Yet he respected it and went away inclined for another argument with destiny.

He was the more inclined for a reason that he could not tell to the doctor. Clive had turned towards women soon after he reached the age of twenty-four. He himself would be twenty- four in August. Was it possible that he would turn also … and now that he came to think, few men married before twenty- four. Maurice had the Englishman’s inability to conceive variety. His troubles had taught him that other people are alive, but not yet that they are different, and he attempted to regard Clive’s development as a forerunner of his own.

It would be jolly certainly to be married, and at one with society and the law. Dr Barry, meeting him on another day, said, “Maurice, you get the right girl—there’ll be no more trouble then.” Gladys Olcott recurred to him. Of course he was not a crude undergraduate now. He had suffered and explored himself, and knew he was abnormal. But hopelessly so? Suppose he met a woman who was sympathetic in other ways? He wanted children. He was capable of begetting children—Dr Barry had said so. Was marriage impossible after all? The topic was in the air at home, owing to Ada, and his mother would often suggest that he should find someone

for Kitty and Kitty someone for him. Her detachment was amazing. The words “marriage,” “love,” “a family” had lost all meaning to her during widowhood. A concert ticket sent by Miss Tonics to Kitty revealed possibilities. Kitty could not use it, and offered it round the table. Maurice said he should like to go. She reminded him that it was his Club night, but he said he would cut that. He went, and it happened to be the symphony of Tchaikovsky Clive had taught him to like. He enjoyed the piercing and the tearing and the soothing—the music did not mean more to him than that—and they induced a warm feeling of gratitude towards Miss Tonks.

Unfortunately, after the concert he met Risley.

“Symphonie Pathique,” said Risley gaily.

“Symphony Pathetic,” corrected the Philistine.

“Symphonie Incestueuse et Pathique.” And he informed his young friend that Tchaikovsky had fallen in love with his own nephew, and dedicated his masterpiece to him. “I come to see all respectable London flock. Isn’t it supreme!”

“Queer things you know,” said Maurice stuffily. It was odd that when he had a confidant he didn’t want one. But he got a life of Tchaikovsky out of the library at once. The episode of the composer’s marriage conveys little to the normal reader, who vaguely assumes incompatibility, but it thrilled Maurice.

He knew what the disaster meant and how near Dr Barry had dragged him to it. Reading on, he made the acquaintance of “Bob”, the wonderful nephew to whom Tchaikovsky turns after the breakdown, and in whom is his spiritual and musical resurrection. The book blew off the gathering dust and he respected it as the one literary work that had ever helped him.

But it only helped him backwards. He was where he had been

in the train, having gained nothing except the belief that doctors are fools.

Now every avenue seemed blocked, and in his despair he turned to the practices he had abandoned as a boy, and found they did bring him a degraded kind of peace, did still the physical urge into which all his sensations were contracting, and enable him to do his work. He was an average man, and could have won an average fight, but Nature had pitted him against the extraordinary, which only saints can subdue unaided, and he began to lose ground. Shortly before his visit to Penge a new hope dawned, faint and unlovely. It was hypnotism. Mr Cornwallis, Risky told him, had been hypnotized. A doctor had said, “Come, come, you are no eunuch!” and lo! he had ceased to be one. Maurice procured the doctor’s address, but did not suppose anything would come of it: one interview with the science sufficed him, and he always felt Risley knew too much; his voice when he gave the address was friendly but slightly amused.

33

Now that Clive Durham was safe from intimacy, he looked forward to helping his friend, who must have had a pretty rough time since they parted in the smoking-room. Their correspondence had ceased several months ago. Maurice’s last had been written after Birmingham, and announced he should not kill himself. Clive had never supposed he would, and was glad the melodrama was over. When they talked down the telephone he heard a man whom he might respect at the other end of it—a fellow who sounded willing to let bygones be bygones and passion acquaintanceship. There was no affectation of ease; poor Maurice sounded shy, a bit

huffy even, exactly the condition Clive deemed natural, and felt he could ameliorate.

He was anxious to do what he could. Though the quality of the past escaped him he remembered its proportions, and acknowledged that Maurice had once lifted him out of aestheticism into the sun and wind of love. But for Maurice he would never have developed into being worthy of Anne.

His friend had helped him through three barren years, and he would be ungrateful indeed if he did not help his friend. Clive did not like gratitude. He would rather have helped out of pure friendliness. But he had to use the only tool he had, and if all went well, if Maurice kept unemotional, if he remained at the end of a telephone, if he was sound as regarded Anne, if he was not bitter, or too serious or too rough—then they might be friends again, though by a different route and in a different manner. Maurice had admirable qualities—he knew this, and the time might be returning when he would feel it also.

Such thoughts as the above occurred to Clive rarely and feebly. The centre of his life was Anne. Would Anne get on with his mother? Would Anne like Penge, she who had been brought up in Sussex, near the sea? Would she regret the lack of religious opportunities there? And the presence of politics?

Besotted with love, he gave her his body and soul, he poured out at her feet all that an earlier passion had taught him, and could only remember with an effort for whom that passion had been.

In the first glow of his engagement, when she was the whole world to him, the Acropolis included, he thought of confessing to her about Maurice. She had confessed a peccadillo to him. But loyalty to his friend withheld him, and

he was glad afterwards, for, immortal as Anne proved, she was not Pallas Athene, and there were many points on which he could not touch. Their own union became the chief of these. When he arrived in her room after marriage, she did not know what he wanted. Despite an elaborate education, no one had told her about sex. Clive was as considerate as possible, but he scared her terribly, and left feeling she hated him. She did not. She welcomed him on future nights. But it was always without a word. They united in a world that bore no reference to the daily, and this secrecy drew after it much else of their lives. So much could never be mentioned. He never saw her naked, nor she him. They ignored the reproductive and the digestive functions. So there would never be any question of this episode of his immaturity.

It was unmentionable. It didn’t stand between him and her.

She stood between him and it, and on second thoughts he was glad, for though not disgraceful it had been sentimental and deserved oblivion.

Secrecy suited him, at least he adopted it without regret.

He had never itched to call a spade a spade, and though he valued the body the actual deed of sex seemed to him unimaginative, and best veiled in night. Between men it is inexcusable, between man and woman it may be practised since nature and society approve, but never discussed nor vaunted. His ideal of marriage was temperate and graceful, like all his ideals, and he found a fit helpmate in Anne, who had refinement herself, and admired it in others. They loved each other tenderly. Beautiful conventions received them— while beyond the barrier Maurice wandered, the wrong words on his lips and the wrong desires in his heart, and his arms

full of air.

 34

Maurice took a week’s holiday in August and reached Penge according to invitation three days before the Park v.

Village cricket match. He arrived in an odd and bitter mood.

He had been thinking over Risley’s hypnotist, and grew much inclined to consult him. It was such a nuisance. For instance, as he drove up through the park he saw a gamekeeper dallying with two of the maids, and felt a pang of envy. The girls were damned ugly, which the man wasn’t: somehow this made it worse, and he stared at the trio, feeling cruel and respectable; the girls broke away giggling, the man returned the stare furtively and then thought it safer to touch his cap; he had spoilt that little game. But they would meet again when he had passed, and all over the world girls would meet men, to kiss them and be kissed; might it not be better to alter his temperament and toe the line? He would decide after his visit—for against hope he was still hoping for something from Clive.

“Clive’s out,” said the young hostess. “He sends you his love or something, and will be in to dinner. Archie London will look after you, but I don’t believe you want looking after.”

Maurice smiled and accepted some tea. The drawing-room had its old air. Groups of people stood about with the air of arranging something, and though Clive’s mother no longer presided she remained in residence, owing to the dower house drains. The sense of dilapidation had increased.

Through pouring rain he had noticed gate posts crooked, trees stifling, and indoors some bright wedding presents showed as patches on a threadbare garment. Miss Woods had brought no money to Penge. She was accomplished and delightful, but

she belonged to the same class as the Durhams, and every year England grew less inclined to pay her highly.

“Clive’s canvassing,” she continued, “there’ll be a by- election in the autumn. He has at last induced them to induce him to stand”; she had the aristocratic knack of anticipating criticism. “But seriously, it will be a wonderful thing for the poor if he gets in. He is their truest friend, if only they knew it.”

Maurice nodded. He felt disposed to discuss social problems. “They want drilling a bit,” he said.

“Yes, they need a leader,” said a gentle but distinguished voice, “and until they find one they will suffer.” Anne introduced the new rector, Mr Borenius. He was her own importation. Clive did not mind whom he appointed if the man was a gentleman and devoted himself to the village. Mr Borenius fulfilled both conditions, and as he was High Church might strike a balance against the outgoing incumbent, who had been Low.

“Oh Mr Borenius, how interesting!” the old lady cried from across the room. “But I suppose in your opinion we all want a leader. I quite agree.” She darted her eyes hither and thither. “All of you want a leader, I repeat.” And Mr Borenius’s eyes followed hers, perhaps looking for something he did not find, for he soon took leave.

“He can’t have anything to do at the Rectory,” said Anne thoughtfully, “but he always is like that. He comes up to scold Clive about the housing, and won’t stop to dinner. You see, he’s so sensitive; he worries about the poor.”

“I’ve had to do with the poor too,” said Maurice, taking a piece of cake, “but I can’t worry over them. One must give them a leg up for the sake of the country generally, that’s all.

They haven’t our feelings. They don’t suffer as we should in their place.”

Anne looked disapproval, but she felt she had entrusted her hundred pounds to the right sort of stock broker.

“Caddies and a college mission in the slums is all I know.

Still, I’ve learned a little. The poor don’t want pity. They only really like me when I’ve got the gloves on and am knocking

them about.”

“Oh, you teach them boxing.”

“Yes, and play football … they’re rotten sportsmen.”

“I suppose they are. Mr Borenius says they want love,” said Anne after a pause.

“I’ve no doubt they do, but they won’t get it.”

“Mr Hall!”

Maurice wiped his moustache and smiled.

“You’re horrible.”

“I didn’t think. I suppose that does sound so.”

“But do you like being horrible?”

“One gets used to anything,” he said, suddenly turning, for the door had blown open behind.

“Well, good gracious me, I scold Clive for being cynical, but you outdo him.”

“I get used to being horrible, as you call it, as the poor do to their slums. It’s only a question of time.” He was speaking rather freely; a biting recklessness had come to him since his arrival. Clive hadn’t bothered to be in to receive him. Very well! “After you’ve banged about a bit you get used to your particular hole. Everyone yapping at the start like a lot of puppies, Waou! Waou!” His unexpected imitation made her

laugh. “At last you learn that everyone’s far too busy to listen to you, so you stop yapping. That’s a fact.”

“A man’s view,” she said, nodding her head. “I’ll never let Clive hold it. I believe in sympathy … in bearing one another’s burdens. No doubt I’m unfashionable. Are you a

disciple of Nietzsche?”

“Ask me another!”

Anne liked this Mr Hall, whom Clive had warned her she might find unresponsive. So he was in a way, but evidently he had personality. She understood why her husband had found him a good travelling companion in Italy. “Now why don’t you like the poor?” she asked suddenly.

“I don’t dislike them, I just don’t think about them except when I’m obliged. These slums, syndicalism, all the rest of it, are a public menace, and one has to do one’s little bit against them. But not for love. Your Mr Borenius won’t face facts.”

She was silent, then asked him how old he was.

“Twenty-four tomorrow.”

“Well, you’re very hard for your age.”

“Just now you said I was horrible. You’re letting me off

very easily, Mrs Durham!”

“Anyhow, you’re set, which is worse.”

She saw him frown, and, fearing she had been impertinent, turned the talk on to Clive. She had expected Clive to be back by now, she said, and it was the more disappointing because tomorrow Clive would have to be really away. The agent, who knew the constituency, was showing him round. Mr Hall must be forgiving, and he must help them in the cricket match.

 “It rather depends upon some other plans…. I might have to….”

She glanced at his face with a sudden curiosity, then said, “Wouldn’t you like to see your room?—Archie, take Mr Hall

to the Russet Room.”

“Thanks…. Is there a post out?”

“Not this evening, but you can wire. Wire you’ll stop…. Or oughtn’t I to interfere?”

“I may have to wire—I’m not quite sure. Thanks frightfully.” Then he followed Mr London to the Russet Room, thinking “Clive might have … for the sake of the past he might have been here to greet me. He ought to have known how wretched I should feel.” He didn’t care for Clive, but he could suffer from him. The rain poured out of a leaden sky on to the park, the woods were silent. As twilight fell, he entered a new circle of torment.

He stopped up in the room till dinner, fighting with ghosts he had loved. If this new doctor could alter his being, was it not his duty to go, though body and soul would be violated?

With the world as it is, one must marry or decay. He was not yet free of Clive and never would be until something greater intervened.

“Is Mr Durham back?” he inquired, when the housemaid

brought hot water.

“Yes, sir.”

“Just in?”

“No. About half an hour, sir.”

She drew the curtains and hid the sight but not the sound of the rain. Meanwhile Maurice scribbled a wire. “ ‘Lasker Jones, 6 Wigmore Place, W.,’ ” he read. “ ‘Please make

appointment Thursday. Hall. C/o Durham, Penge,

Wiltshire.’ ”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks so much,” he said deferentially, and grimaced as soon as he was alone. There was now a complete break between his public and private actions. In the drawing-room he greeted Clive without a tremor. They shook hands warmly, Clive saying, “You look awfully fit. Do you know whom you are going to take in?” and introducing him to a girl. Clive had become quite the squire. All his grievances against society had passed since his marriage. Agreeing politically, they had plenty to talk about.

On his side, Clive was pleased with his visitor. Anne had reported him as “rough, but very nice”—a satisfactory condition. There was a coarseness of fibre about him, but that didn’t matter now: that horrible scene about Ada could be forgotten. Maurice also got on well with Archie London— important, for Archie bored Anne and was the sort of man who could fix on to someone. Clive assigned them to each other, for the visit.

In the drawing-room they talked politics again, convinced every one of them that radicals are untruthful, and socialists mad. The rain poured down with a monotony nothing could disturb. In the lulls of conversation its whisper entered the room, and towards the end of the evening there was “tap, tap” on the lid of the piano.

“The family ghost again,” said Mrs Durham with a bright smile.

“There’s the sweetest hole in the ceiling,” cried Anne.

“Clive, can’t we leave it?”

 “We shall have to,” he remarked, ringing the bell. “Let’s shift our pianoforte though. It won’t stand much more.”

“How about a saucer?” said Mr London. “Clive, how about a saucer? Once the rain came through the ceiling of the club, I rang the bell and the servant brought a saucer.”

“I ring the bell and the servant brings nothing,” said Clive, pealing again. “Yes, we’ll have a saucer, Archie, but we must move the piano too. Anne’s dear little hole may grow in the night. There’s only a lean-to roof over this part of the room.”

“Poor Penge!” said his mother. All had risen to their feet, and were gazing at the leak. Anne began to probe the piano’s entrails with blotting paper. The evening had broken up, and they were well content to make fun about the rain, which had sent them this hint of its presence.

“Bring a basin, will you,” said Clive, when the bell was answered, “and a duster, and get one of the men to help shift the piano and take up the carpet in the bay. The rain’s come through again.”

“We had to ring twice, ring twice,” remarked his mother.

“Le délai s’explique,” she added, for when the parlourmaid returned it was with the keeper as well as the valet. “C’est toujours comme ça quand—we have our little idylls below stairs too, you know.”

“You men, what do you want to do tomorrow?” said Clive to his guests. “I must go canvassing. Don’t come too. It’s beyond words dull. Like to take out a gun or what?”

“Very nice,” said Maurice and Archie.

“Scudder, do you hear?”

“Le bonhomme est distrait,” said his mother. The piano had rucked up a rug, and the servants, not liking to raise their

voices before gentlefolk, misunderstood one another’s orders, and whispered “What?”

“Scudder, the gentlemen’ll shoot tomorrow—I’m sure I don’t know what, but come round at ten. Shall we turn in now?”

“Early to bed’s the rule here, as you know, Mr Hall,” said Anne. Then she wished the three servants good night and led the way upstairs. Maurice lingered to choose a book. Might Lecky’s History of Rationalism fill a gap? The rain dripped into the basin, the men muttered over the carpet in the bay, and, kneeling, seemed to celebrate some obsequy.

“Damnation, isn’t there anything, anything?”

“—ish, he’s not talking to us,” said the valet to the gamekeeper.

Lecky it was, but his mind proved unequal, and after a few minutes he threw it on the bed and brooded over the telegram. In the dreariness of Penge his purpose grew stronger. Life had proved a blind alley, with a muck heap at the end of it, and he must cut back and start again. One could be absolutely transformed, Risley implied, provided one didn’t care a damn for the past. Farewell, beauty and warmth.

They ended in muck and must go. Drawing the curtains, he gazed long into the rain, and sighed, and struck his own face, and bit his own lips.

35

The next day was even drearier and the only thing to be said in its favour was that it had the unreality of a nightmare.

Archie London chattered, the rain dribbled, and in the sacred name of sport they were urged after rabbits over the Penge

estate. Sometimes they shot the rabbits, sometimes missed them, sometimes they tried ferrets and nets. The rabbits needed keeping down and perhaps that was why the entertainment had been forced on them: there was a prudent strain in Clive. They returned to lunch, and Maurice had a thrill: his telegram had arrived from Mr Lasker Jones, granting him an appointment for tomorrow. But the thrill soon passed. Archie thought they had better go after the bunnies again, and he was too depressed to refuse. The rain was now less, on the other hand the mist was thicker, the mud stickier, and towards tea time they lost a ferret. The keeper made out this was their fault, Archie knew better, and explained the matter to Maurice in the smoking-room with the aid of diagrams. Dinner arrived at eight, so did the politicians, and after dinner the drawing-room ceiling dripped into basins and saucers. Then in the Russet Room, the same weather, the same despair, and the fact that now Clive sat on his bed talking intimately did not make any difference. The talk might have moved him had it come earlier, but he had been so pained by the inhospitality, he had spent so lonely and so imbecile a day, that he could respond to the past no longer. His thoughts were all with Mr Lasker Jones, and he wanted to be alone to compose a written statement about his case.

Clive felt the visit had been a failure, but, as he remarked, “Politics can’t wait, and you happen to coincide with the rush.” He was vexed too at forgetting that today was Maurice’s birthday—and was urgent that their guest should stop over the match. Maurice said he was frightfully sorry, but now couldn’t, as he had this urgent and unexpected engagement in town.

 “Can’t you come back after keeping it? We’re shocking hosts, but it’s such a pleasure having you. Do treat the house as an hotel—go your way, and we’ll go ours.”

“The fact is I’m hoping to get married,” said Maurice, the words flying from him as if they had independent life.

“I’m awfully glad,” said Clive, dropping his eyes.

“Maurice, I’m awfully glad. It’s the greatest thing in the world, perhaps the only one—”

“I know.” He was wondering why he had spoken. His sentence flew out into the rain; he was always conscious of the rain and the decaying roofs at Penge.

“I shan’t bother you with talk, but I must just say that Anne guessed it. Women are extraordinary. She declared all along that you had something up your sleeve. I laughed, but now I shall have to give in.” His eyes rose. “Oh Maurice, I’m so glad. It’s very good of you to tell me—it’s what I’ve always

wished for you.”

“I know you have.”

There was a silence. Clive’s old manner had come back.

He was generous, charming.

“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?—the—I’m so glad. I wish I could think of something else to say. Do you mind if I just tell Anne?”

“Not a bit. Tell everyone,” cried Maurice, with a brutality that passed unnoticed. “The more the better.” He courted external pressure. “If the girl I want won’t, there’s others.”

Clive smiled a little at this, but was too pleased to be squeamish. He was pleased partly for Maurice, but also because it rounded off his own position. He hated queerness, Cambridge, the Blue Room, certain glades in the park were—

not tainted, there had been nothing disgraceful—but rendered subtly ridiculous. Quite lately he had turned up a poem written during Maurice’s first visit to Penge, which might have hailed from the land through the looking-glass, so fatuous it was, so perverse. “Shade from the old hellenic ships.” Had he addressed the sturdy undergraduate thus? And the knowledge that Maurice had equally outgrown such sentimentality purified it, and from him also words burst as if they had been alive.

“I’ve thought more often of you than you imagine, Maurice my dear. As I said last autumn, I care for you in the real sense, and always shall. We were young idiots, weren’t we?—but one can get something even out of idiocy.

Development. No, more than that, intimacy. You and I know and trust one another just because we were once idiots.

Marriage has made no difference. Oh, that’s jolly, I do think

—”

“You give me your blessing then?”

“I should think so!”

“Thanks.”

Clive’s eyes softened. He wanted to convey something warmer than development. Dare he borrow a gesture from the past?

“Think of me all tomorrow,” said Maurice, “and as for Anne—she may think of me too.”

So gracious a reference decided him to kiss the fellow very

gently on his big brown hand.

Maurice shuddered.

“You don’t mind?”

“Oh no.”

 “Maurice dear, I wanted just to show I hadn’t forgotten the past. I quite agree—don’t let’s mention it ever again, but I

wanted to show just this once.”

“All right.”

“Aren’t you thankful it’s ended properly?”

“How properly?”

“Instead of that muddle last year.”

“Oh with you.”

“Quits, and I’ll go.”

Maurice applied his lips to the starched cuff of a dress shirt. Having functioned, he withdrew, leaving Clive more friendly than ever, and insistent he should return to Penge as soon as circumstances allowed this. Clive stopped talking late while the water gurgled over the dormer. When he had gone Maurice drew the curtains and fell on his knees, leaning his chin upon the window sill and allowing the drops to sprinkle his hair.

“Come!” he cried suddenly, surprising himself. Whom had he called? He had been thinking of nothing and the word had leapt out. As quickly as possible he shut out the air and the darkness, and re-enclosed his body in the Russet Room. Then he wrote his statement. It took some time, and, though far from imaginative, he went to bed with the jumps. He was convinced that someone had looked over his shoulder while he wrote. He wasn’t alone. Or again, that he hadn’t personally written. Since coming to Penge he seemed a bundle of voices, not Maurice, and now he could almost hear them quarrelling inside him. But none of them belonged to

Clive: he had got that far.

 36

Archie London was also returning to town, and very early next morning they stood in the hall together waiting for the brougham, while the man who had taken them after rabbits waited outside for a tip.

“Tell him to boil his head,” said Maurice crossly. “I offered him five bob and he wouldn’t take it. Damned cheek!”

Mr London was scandalized. What were servants coming to? Was it to be nothing but gold? If so, one might as well shut up shop, and say so. He began a story about his wife’s monthly nurse. Pippa had treated that woman more than an equal, but what can you expect with half educated people?

Half an education is worse than none.

“Hear, hear,” said Maurice, yawning.

All the same, Mr London wondered whether noblesse

didn’t oblige.

“Oh, try if you want to.”

He stretched a hand into the rain.

“Hall, he took it all right, you know.”

“Did he, the devil?” said Maurice. “Why didn’t he take mine? I suppose you gave more.”

With shame Mr London confessed this was so. He had increased the tip through fear of a snub. The fellow was the limit evidently, yet he couldn’t think it was good taste in Hall to take the matter up. When servants are rude one should merely ignore it.

But Maurice was cross, tired, and worried about his appointment in town, and he felt the episode part of the ungraciousness of Penge. It was in the spirit of revenge that

he strolled to the door, and said in his familiar yet alarming way, “Hullo! So five shillings aren’t good enough! So you’ll only take gold!” He was interrupted by Anne, who had come to see them off.

“Best of luck,” she said to Maurice with a very sweet expression, then paused, as if inviting confidences. None came, but she added, “I’m so glad you’re not horrible.”

“Are you?”

“Men like to be thought horrible. Clive does. Don’t you, Clive? Mr Hall, men are very funny creatures.” She took hold of her necklace and smiled. “Very funny. Best of luck.” By now she was delighted with Maurice. His situation, and the way he took it, struck her as appropriately masculine. “Now a woman in love,” she explained to Clive on the doorstep, as they watched their guests start: “now a woman in love never bluffs—I wish I knew the girl’s name.”

Interfering with the house-servants, the keeper carried out Maurice’s case to the brougham, evidently ashamed. “Stick it in then,” said Maurice coldly. Amid wavings from Anne, Clive, and Mrs Durham, they started, and London recommenced the story of Pippa’s monthly nurse.

“How about a little air?” suggested the victim. He opened the window and looked at the dripping park. The stupidity of so much rain! What did it want to rain for? The indifference of the universe to man! Descending into woods, the brougham toiled along feebly. It seemed impossible that it should ever reach the station, or Pippa’s misfortune cease.

Not far from the lodge there was a nasty little climb, and the road, always in bad condition, was edged with dog roses that scratched the paint. Blossom after blossom crept past them, draggled by the ungenial year: some had cankered,

others would never unfold: here and there beauty triumphed, but desperately, flickering in a world of gloom. Maurice looked into one after another, and though he did not care for flowers the failure irritated him. Scarcely anything was perfect. On one spray every flower was lopsided, the next swarmed with caterpillars, or bulged with galls. The indifference of nature! And her incompetence! He leant out of the window to see whether she couldn’t bring it off once, and stared straight into the bright brown eyes of a young man.

“God, why there’s that keeper chap again!”

“Couldn’t be, couldn’t have got here. We left him up at the

house.”

“He could have if he’d run.”

“Why should he have run?”

“That’s true, why should he have?” said Maurice, then lifted the flap at the back of the brougham and peered through it into the rose bushes, which a haze already

concealed.

“Was it?”

“I couldn’t see.” His companion resumed the narrative at once, and talked almost without ceasing until they parted at Waterloo.

In the taxi Maurice read over his statement, and its frankness alarmed him. He, who could not trust Jowitt, was putting himself into the hands of a quack; despite Risley’s assurances, he connected hypnotism with séances and blackmail, and had often growled at it from behind the Daily Telegraph; had he not better retire?

 But the house seemed all right. When the door opened, the little Lasker Joneses were playing on the stairs—charming children, who mistook him for “Uncle Peter”, and clung to his hands; and when he was shut into the waiting room with Punch the sense of the normal grew stronger. He went to his fate calmly. He wanted a woman to secure him socially and diminish his lust and bear children. He never thought of that woman as a positive joy—at the worst, Dickie had been that —for during the long struggle he had forgotten what Love is, and sought not happiness at the hands of Mr Lasker Jones, but repose.

That gentleman further relieved him by coming up to his idea of what an advanced scientific man ought to be. Sallow and expressionless, he sat in a large pictureless room before a roll-top desk. “Mr Hall?” he said, and offered a bloodless hand. His accent was slightly American. “Well, Mr Hall, and what’s the trouble?” Maurice became detached too. It was as if they met to discuss a third party. “It’s all down here,” he said, producing the statement. “I’ve consulted one doctor and he could do nothing. I don’t know whether you can.”

The statement was read.

“I’m not wrong in coming to you, I hope?”

“Not at all, Mr Hall. Seventy-five per cent of my patients are of your type. Is that statement recent?”

“I wrote it last night.”

“And accurate?”

“Well, names and place are a bit changed, naturally.”

Mr Lasker Jones did not seem to think it natural. He asked several questions about “Mr Cumberland”, Maurice’s pseudonym for Clive, and wished to know whether they had

ever united: on his lips it was curiously inoffensive. He neither praised nor blamed nor pitied: he paid no attention to a sudden outburst of Maurice’s against society. And though Maurice yearned for sympathy—he had not had a word of it for a year—he was glad none came, for it might have shattered his purpose.

He asked, “What’s the name of my trouble? Has it one?”

“Congenital homosexuality.”

“Congenital how much? Well, can anything be done?”

“Oh, certainly, if you consent.”

“The fact is I’ve an old-fashioned prejudice against hypnotism.”

“I’m afraid you may possibly retain that prejudice after trying, Mr Hall. I cannot promise a cure. I spoke to you of my other patients—seventy-five per cent—but in only fifty per cent have I been successful.”

The confession gave Maurice confidence, no quack would have made it. “We may as well have a shot,” he said, smiling.

“What must I do?”

“Merely remain where you are. I will experiment to see how deeply the tendency is rooted. You will return (if you wish) for regular treatment later. Mr Hall! I shall try to send you into a trance, and if I succeed I shall make suggestions to you which will (we hope) remain, and become part of your normal state when you wake. You are not to resist me.”

“All right, go ahead.”

Then Mr Lasker Jones left his desk and sat in an impersonal way on the arm of Maurice’s chair. Maurice felt he was going to have a tooth out. For a little time nothing happened, but presently his eye caught a spot of light on the

fire irons, and the rest of the room went dim. He could see whatever he was looking at, but little else, and he could hear the doctor’s voice and his own. Evidently he was going into a trance, and the achievement gave him a feeling of pride.

“You’re not quite off yet, I think.”

“No, I’m not.”

He made some more passes. “How about now?”

“I’m nearer off now.”

“Quite?”

Maurice agreed, but did not feel sure. “Now that you’re quite off, how do you like my consulting-room?”

“It’s a nice room.”

“Not too dark?”

“Rather dark.”

“You can see the picture though, can’t you?”

Maurice then saw a picture on the opposite wall, yet he knew that there was none.

“Have a look at it, Mr Hall. Come nearer. Take care of that

crack in the carpet though.”

“How broad is the crack?”

“You can jump it.”

Maurice immediately located a crack, and jumped, but he was not convinced of the necessity.

“Admirable—now what do you suppose this picture is of,

whom is it of—?”

“Whom is it of—”

“Edna May.”

“Mr Edna May.”

 “No, Mr Hall, Miss Edna May.”

“It’s Mr Edna May.”

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

“I want to go home to my mother.” Both laughed at this remark, the doctor leading.

“Miss Edna May is not only beautiful, she is attractive.”

“She doesn’t attract me,” said Maurice pettishly.

“Oh Mr Hall, what an ungallant remark. Look at her lovely

hair.”

“I like short hair best.”

“Why?”

“Because I can stroke it—” and he began to cry. He came to himself in the chair. Tears were wet on his cheeks, but he felt as usual, and started talking at once.

“I say, I had a dream when you woke me up. I’d better tell it you. I thought I saw a face and heard someone say, ‘That’s your friend.’ Is that all right? I often feel it—I can’t explain —sort of walking towards me through sleep, though it never

gets up to me, that dream.”

“Did it get near now?”

“Jolly near. Is that a bad sign?”

“No, oh no—you’re open to suggestion, you’re open—I made you see a picture on the wall.”

Maurice nodded: he had quite forgotten. There was a pause, during which he produced two guineas, and asked for a second appointment. It was arranged that he should telephone next week, and in the interval Mr Lasker Jones wanted him to remain where he was in the country, quietly.

 Maurice could not doubt that Clive and Anne would welcome him, nor that their influence would be suitable.

Penge was an emetic. It helped him to get rid of the old poisonous life that had seemed so sweet, it cured him of tenderness and humanity. Yes, he’d go back, he said: he would wire to his friends and catch the afternoon express.

“Mr Hall, take exercise in moderation. A little tennis, or stroll about with a gun.”

Maurice lingered to say, “On second thoughts perhaps I

won’t go back.”

“Why so?”

“Well, it seems rather foolish to make that long journey twice in a day.”

“You prefer then to stop in your own home?”

“Yes—no—no, all right, I will go back to Penge.”

37

On his return he was amused to find that the young people were just off for twenty-four hours’ electioneering. He now cared less for Clive than Clive for him. That kiss had disillusioned. It was such a trivial prudish kiss, and alas! so typical. The less you had the more it was supposed to be— that was Clive’s teaching. Not only was the half greater than the whole—at Cambridge Maurice would just accept this— but now he was offered the quarter and told it was greater than the half. Did the fellow suppose he was made of paper?

Clive explained how he wouldn’t be going had Maurice held out hopes of returning, and how he would be back for the match any way. Anne whispered, “Was the luck good?”

Maurice replied, “So-so,” whereupon she covered him with

her wing and offered to invite his young lady down to Penge.

“Mr Hall, is she very charming? I am convinced she has bright brown eyes.” But Clive called her off, and Maurice was left to an evening with Mrs Durham and Mr Borenius.

Unusual restlessness was on him. It recalled the initial night at Cambridge, when he had been to Risley’s rooms. The rain had stopped during his dash to town. He wanted to walk about in the evening and watch the sun set and listen to the dripping trees. Ghostly but perfect, the evening primroses were expanding in the shrubbery, and stirred him by their odours. Clive had shown him evening primroses in the past, but had never told him they smelt. He liked being out of doors, among the robins and bats, stealing hither and thither bare-headed, till the gong should summon him to dress for yet another meal, and the curtains of the Russet Room close.

No, he wasn’t the same; a rearrangement of his being had begun as surely as at Birmingham, when Death had looked away, and to Mr Lasker Jones be all credit! Deeper than conscious effort there was a change, which might land him with luck in the arms of Miss Tonks.

As he wandered about, the man whom he had reprimanded in the morning came up, touched his cap, and inquired whether he would shoot tomorrow. Obviously he wouldn’t, since it was the cricket match, but the question had been asked in order to pave the way for an apology. “I’m sure I’m very sorry I failed to give you and Mr London full satisfaction, sir,” was its form. Maurice, vindictive no longer, said, “That’s all right, Scudder.” Scudder was an importation —part of the larger life that had come into Penge with politics and Anne; he was smarter than old Mr Ayres, the head keeper, and knew it. He implied that he hadn’t taken the

five shillings because it was too much; he didn’t say why he had taken the ten! He added, “Glad to see you down again so soon, sir,” which struck Maurice as subtly unsuitable, so he repeated, “That’s all right, Scudder,” and went in.

It was a dinner-jacket evening—not tails, because they would only be three—and though he had respected such niceties for years he found them suddenly ridiculous. What did clothes matter as long as you got your food, and the other people were good sorts—which they wouldn’t be? And as he touched the carapace of his dress shirt a sense of ignominy came over him, and he felt he had no right to criticize anyone who lived in the open air. How dry Mrs Durham seemed— she was Clive with the sap perished. And Mr Borenius—how dry! Though to do Mr Borenius justice he contained surprises. Contemptuous of all parsons, Maurice had paid little attention to this one, and was startled when he came out strong after dessert. He had assumed that as rector of the parish he would be helping Clive in the election. But “I vote for no one who is not a communicant, as Mr Durham understands.”

“The Rads are attacking your church, you know,” was all he could think of.

“That is why I do not vote for the Radical candidate. He is a Christian, so naturally I should have done.”

“Bit particular, sir, if I may say so. Clive will do all the things you want done. You may be lucky he isn’t an atheist.

There are a certain amount of those about, you know!”

He smiled in response, saying, “The atheist is nearer the Kingdom of Heaven than the hellenist. ‘Unless ye become as little children’—and what is the atheist but a child?”

 Maurice looked at his hands, but before he could frame a reply the valet came in to ask whether he had any orders for the keeper.

“I saw him before dinner, Simcox. Nothing, thanks.

Tomorrow’s the match. I did tell him.”

“Yes, but he wonders whether you’d care to go down to the pond between the innings for a bathe, sir, now that the weather had altered. He has just bailed out the boat.”

“Very good of him.”

“If that’s Mr Scudder may I speak to him?” asked Mr Borenius.

“Will you tell him, Simcox? Also tell him I shan’t be bathing.” When the valet had gone he said, “Would you rather speak to him here? Have him in as far as I’m concerned.”

“Thank you, Mr Hall, but I’ll go out. He’ll prefer the kitchen.”

“He’ll prefer it no doubt. There are fair young females in the kitchen.”

“Ah! Ah!” He had the air of one to whom sex occurs for the first time. “You don’t happen to know whether he has anyone in view matrimonially, do you?”

“ ’Fraid I don’t … saw him kissing two girls at once on my arrival if that’s any help.”

“It sometimes happens that those men get confidential out shooting. The open air, the sense of companionship—”

“They don’t get confidential with me. Archie London and I got rather fed up with him yesterday as a matter of fact. Too anxious to boss the show. We found him a bit of a swine.”

“Excuse the inquiry.”

 “What’s there to excuse?” said Maurice, annoyed with the rector for alluding so smugly to the open air.

“Speaking frankly, I should be glad to see that particular young man settled with a helpmate before he sails.” Smiling

gently, he added, “And all young men.”

“What’s he sailing for?”

“He is to emigrate.” And intoning “to emigrate” in a particular irritating way, he repaired to the kitchen.

Maurice strolled for five minutes in the shrubbery. Food and wine had heated him, and he thought with some inconsequence that even old Chapman had sown some wild oats. He alone—Clive admonishing—combined advanced thought with the conduct of a Sunday scholar. He wasn’t Methuselah—he’d a right to a fling. Oh those jolly scents, those bushes where you could hide, that sky as black as the bushes! They were turning away from him. Indoors was his place and there he’d moulder, a respectable pillar of society who has never had the chance to misbehave. The alley that he was pacing opened through a swing gate into the park, but the damp grass there might dull his pumps, so he felt bound to return. As he did so he struck against corduroys, and was held for a moment by both elbows; it had been Scudder escaping from Mr Borenius. Released, he continued his dreamings. Yesterday’s shoot, which at the time had made little impression on him, began faintly to glow, and he realized that even during its boredom he had been alive. He felt back from it to the incidents of his arrival, such as the piano-moving: then forwards to the incidents of today, beginning with the five shillings’ tip and ending with now.

And when he reached “now”, it was as if an electric current passed through the chain of insignificant events so that he

dropped it and let it smash back into darkness. “Damnation, what a night,” he resumed while puffs of air touched him and one another. Then the swing gate in the distance, which had been tinkling for a little, seemed to slam against freedom, and he went indoors.

“Oh Mr Hall!” cried the old lady. “How exquisite is your coiffure.”

“My coiffure?” He found that his head was all yellow with evening primrose pollen.

“Oh, don’t brush it off. I like it on your black hair. Mr Borenius, is he not quite bacchanalian?”

The clergyman raised sightless eyes. He had been interrupted in the middle of a serious talk. “But Mrs Durham,” he persisted. “I understood so distinctly from you that all your servants had been confirmed.”

“I thought so, Mr Borenius, I did think so.”

“Yet I go into the kitchen, and straight away I discover Simcox, Scudder, and Mrs Wetherall. For Simcox and Mrs Wetherall I can make arrangements. Scudder is the serious case, because I have not time to prepare him properly before he sails, even if the bishop could be prevailed upon.”

Mrs Durham tried to be grave, but Maurice, whom she rather liked, was laughing. She suggested that Mr Borenius should give Scudder a note to some clergyman abroad—there was bound to be one.

“Yes, but will he present it? He shows no hostility to the Church, but will he be bothered? Had I only been told which of your servants had been confirmed and which had not, this crisis would not have arisen.”

 “Servants are so inconsiderate,” said the old lady. “They tell me nothing. Why, Scudder sprung his notice on Clive in just the same way. His brother invites him. So off he goes.

Now Mr Hall, let’s have your advice over this crisis: what would you do?”

“Our young friend condemns the entire Church, militant and triumphant.”

Maurice roused himself. If the parson hadn’t looked so damned ugly he wouldn’t have bothered, but he couldn’t stand that squinny face sneering at youth. Scudder cleaned a gun, carried a suitcase, baled out a boat, emigrated—did something anyway, while gentlefolk squatted on chairs finding fault with his soul. If he did cadge for tips it was natural, and if he didn’t, if his apology was genuine—why then he was a fine fellow. He’d speak anyhow. “How do you know he’ll communicate if he’s confirmed?” he said. “I don’t communicate.” Mrs Durham hummed a tune; this was going too far.

“But you were given the opportunity. The priest did what he could for you. He has not done what he could for Scudder and consequently the Church is to blame. That is why I make so much of a point which must appear very trivial to you.”

“I’m awfully stupid, but I think I see: you want to make sure that he and not the Church shall be to blame in the future. Well, sir, that may be your idea of religion but it isn’t mine and it wasn’t Christ’s.”

It was as smart a speech as he had ever made; since the hypnotism his brain had known moments of unusual power.

But Mr Borenius was unassailable. He replied pleasantly, “The unbeliever has always such a very clear idea as to what Belief ought to be, I wish I had half his certainty.” Then he

arose and went, and Maurice walked him through the short cut through the kitchen garden. Against the wall leant the subject of their deliberations, no doubt awaiting one of the maids; he appeared to be haunting the premises this evening.

Maurice would have seen nothing, so thick now was the darkness; it was Mr Borenius who exacted a low “Good night, sir” for them both. A delicate scent of fruit perfumed the air; it had further to be feared that the young man had stolen an apricot. Scents were everywhere that night, despite the cold, and Maurice returned via the shrubbery, that he might inhale the evening primroses.

Again he heard the cautious “Good night, sir,” and feeling friendly to the reprobate replied, “Good night, Scudder, they

tell me you’re emigrating.”

“That’s my idea, sir,” came the voice.

“Well, good luck to you.”

“Thank you, sir, it seems rather strange.”

“Canada or Australia, I suppose.”

“No, sir, the Argentine.”

“Ah, ah, a fine country.”

“Have you visited it yourself, sir?”

“Rather not, England for me,” said Maurice, strolling on and again colliding with corduroys. Dull talk, unimportant meeting, yet they harmonized with the darkness, the quietness of the hour, they suited him, and as he walked away he was followed by a sense of well-being which lasted until he reached the house. Through its window he could see Mrs Durham all relaxed and ugly. Her face clicked into position as he entered, so did his own, and they exchanged a few

affected remarks about his day in town, before parting for bed.

He had taken to sleeping badly during the past year, and knew as soon as he lay down that this would be a night of physical labour. The events of the last twelve hours had excited him, and clashed against one another in his mind.

Now it was the early start, now the journey with London, the interview, the return; and at the back of all lurked a fear that he had not said something at that interview that he ought to have said, that he had missed out something vital from his confession to the doctor. Yet what was it? He had drawn up the statement yesterday in this very room, and been satisfied at the time. He began to worry—which Mr Lasker Jones had forbidden him to do, because the introspective are more difficult to heal: he was supposed to lie fallow to the suggestions sown during the trance, and never wonder whether they would germinate or not. But he could not help worrying, and Penge, instead of numbing, seemed more stimulating than most places. How vivid, if complex, were its impressions, how the tangle of flowers and fruit wreathed his brain! Objects he had never seen, such as rain water baled from a boat, he could see tonight, though curtained in tightly.

Ah to get out to them! Ah for darkness—not the darkness of a house which coops up a man among furniture, but the darkness where he can be free! Vain wish! He had paid a doctor two guineas to draw the curtains tighter, and presently, in the brown cube of such a room, Miss Tonks would lie prisoned beside him. And, as the yeast of the trance continued to work, Maurice had the illusion of a portrait that changed, now at his will, now against it, from male to female, and came leaping down the football-field where he bathed…. He moaned, half asleep. There was something better in life than

this rubbish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend….

He really was asleep when he sprang up and flung wide the curtains with a cry of “Come!” The action awoke him; what had he done that for? A mist covered the grass of the park, and the tree trunks rose out of it like the channel marks in the estuary near his old private school. It was jolly cold. He shivered and clenched his fists. The moon had risen. Below him was the drawing-room, and the men who were repaying the tiles on the roof of the bay had left their ladder resting against his window sill. What had they done that for? He shook the ladder and glanced into the woods, but the wish to go into them vanished as soon as he could go. What use was it? He was too old for fun in the damp.

But as he returned to his bed a little noise sounded, a noise so intimate that it might have arisen inside his own body. He seemed to crackle and burn and saw the ladder’s top quivering against the moonlit air. The head and the shoulders of a man rose up, paused, a gun was leant against the window sill very carefully, and someone he scarcely knew moved towards him and knelt beside him and whispered, “Sir, was you calling out for me?… Sir, I know…. I know,” and touched him.