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THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

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THE MIRROR AND

THE LAMP

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THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

I .

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

RoiCE resembled Athens, Brussels was just a smaller
Paris, one country town is very like another ; but St Dun-
Stan's is like nothing except itself.

Even the idlest tourist at once recognises the spell, and in
every minute that he lingers he submits to its deepening
force. He is not so much affected by what he sees as l^
what he feels. The place is old, the streets are narrow, and
over all the clustered roofs rises the splendour of the church
of Christ ; here one pauses with bowed head to gaze at hal-
lowed ground, here one strains lifted eyes to catch the sun-
light on stones that look like lace hung as a curtain in the
si^; under that archway used to ride mailed warriors;
round those cloisters came lines of singing monks ; and over
the marshy plain, through the night of history, from cities
that are dust and lands that have long since lost a name,
wended their way century after century the endless pilgrim
horde — but all this is nothing, the drone of hireling guides,
the tale of a three-penny book, the echo of memory's sleepy
tongue. What is real is Ae faith that clings to the faithftd
^t. Here men believed ; here men are still believing.

It is less than nothing that all which was material should
perish and decay, if all that was spiritual and impalpable
may continue to live. This is the third church that has
stood in the meadow blessed by the saint, and if this too
falls a fourth shall take its place ; but, new or old, it would
always be the same church — ^the self-same church wherein
conquering lords of a savage isle craved pardon from the
God-man whom their ancestors had killed, wherein sun-
beams slanting down from lofty windows made tremulous
tinted halos for a martyr's brow; wherein foreign refugees
crept underground to worship in darkness, and praise the
maiden queen whose hand was strong enough to hold them

safe.

1

2 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMI»

And so it is with the whole town. Time cannot truly
touch it, and change leaves it unchanged. Where fierce-
eyed Romans used to buy and sell their slaves, bland traders
now assemble with samples of hops and grain; the Nor-
man keep is a gas-work, the dungeon moimd a nursemaid's
garden; the pilgrims' inn and its hundred beds have van-
ished in flame; carved scrolls and polished stone are suc-
ceeded by slates and bricks and plate glass; the vulgar
music-hall brings ruin to the Intimate theatre, and in its
turn is destroyed by the lantern-flash of a cinema show;
boat expresses sweep through iron girders, screaming in the
silence of night and belching out foul clouds by day; look
where you will, you can see the ugliness of an ugly age, the
cynical contempt for grace, the unfaltering grasp at gain;
railway companies and jerry-builders, municipal committees
and gentlemen speculators, have all tried to spoil the grey
old city; — and ye^ still the air that blows across its three
towers is holy, the smoke that rises from its hearths has a
perfume of incense, and the murmur of its river is a prayer.

Such and so great has proved the persistent force of the
spell.

II

Mss. Chuschill used to tell her sons that when their
father died she felt utterly lost. She was overwhelmed by
fear as well as by grief. It seemed such a tremendous task
that Providence had set before her — ^to watch over three
little fatherless boys all the time while they were changing
into three wise good men, ready to fight life's battle, sound
of limb and clean of mind.

She further told them that at this period she might have
lightened her burden by marrying again ; the husband who
was in heaven would have understood and approved; only
for their sake she had abstained from a second marriage.
There and then — ^that is to say, as soon as the first agony of
sorrow had abated and prayer had b^^un to fortify her —
she had made a solemn vow to dedicate herself to their
service as long as they should need her. And this they were
always to remember — ^bearing it in mind if the time came
when she grew to be a clog rather than a prop — that she had
been brave for them when they were small and helpless,
and so they must deal gently with her in her old age.

She told them also— and they loved to hear it — ^how in
her perplexity, surrounded by the illimitable callousness of
London, when measuring her narrow means and realising
that there would be only just enough money to enable them
to live decently in some modest remote neighborhood, she
had been suddenly inspired to bring them to St. Dunstan's,
where they could obtain excellent cheap education at the
ancient school, where rents would be low, and where, be-
cause of the traditional Christian feeling of cathedral towns,
poor gentlefolk may be secretly pitied, but are never openly
despised. She said she firmly believed that the idea of
coming here to St. Dunstan's had been a veritable inspira-
tion, a guidance by that invisible hand which takes especial
pleasure in directing widows and orphans. For see how
kind people had been to them down here, and how they had
duiven.

3

4 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

These matters, well remembered and often pondered on,
became a sort of primal legend for the boys, dieir story of
origin, rich in wonder and mystery as any historical page or
romantic song — ^the journey with divine finger-posts point-
ing a way out of the labyrinth, the woman braving all things
for love, the weak little children that were to grow strong
enough to protect instead of being protected The l^;end
app^ed to all that was chivalrous in their natures; it
formed the basis of their mother's unquestioned authority ;
it served, and a hundred times more effectually, for all that
in households ruled by men is represented to rebellious
youths by stem frowns, angry growling voices, and the
dancing torment of a cane.

Whenever severe reproof became necessary Mrs. Churchill
adverted to the legend, never failii^ on these occasions par-
ticularly to point out the extent of her sacrifice in absten-
tion from giving them a stepfather.

''You must remember, Tom," she would say to her eldest
boy, when he had really disgraced himself, "I was much
younger. You must not judge what I was then by what I
am now. There were plenty willing to tempt me to do what
no one would ever have blamed me for doing.''

"And it was ripping of you not to do it," Tom blurted
out hotly and eagerly. ''Mother, I swear 111 never forget
it We'll none of us forget it."

Charles, the second son, contorted his face and writhed his
body when this picture of a possible stepfather was conjured
up before him.

"Mother, I simply couldn't have stood it. I should have
run away to sea— ^r else murdered him. We couldn't have
stood any one between you and us."

"No, Charles, that is what I felt myself. We four must
hold together and be all in all to one another."

"Yes, yes."

"Then why cannot you bdiave yourself, Charles? Do
you think it is gentlemanly, or Christian, or even clever, to
utter horrid words that a poor neglected street-boy might be
ashamed to speak ?"

"No, I don't," said Charles, with a fervour of shame and
contrition. "I think it was beastly of me."

Once, when she had chidden her youngest boy, Edward.

THE HIRROR AND! THE LAMP 5

for quite a slight fault, and the bogy second father had been
almost automatically paraded, she got an answer that queerly
changed the orbit of confusion and brought swift moisture
to the wrong pair of eyes.

"Suppose I had married again, Edward — ^where would
you have been then ? How would you have liked that ? You
wouldn't have been here — ^not b^ng pleaded with by the
mother who loves and comprehends you, but being blown-up
and punished by a comparative stranger. I saved you from
that — at some sacrifice to myself. I resisted temptation. I
was different then, you know. People said — and I don't
think it was a very great exaggeration — ^no, I think it was
true — ^in those days I was pretty."

"But, mother," said the little boy firmly, "you are pretty
now. You are the prettiest person I have ever seen."

And perhaps then — for who can say what tiny tortuous
paths will one day make the widest roadway to a woman's
heart? — ^Mrs. Qiurchill for the first time was plainly aware
that she loved this boy more tenderly than she loved the
other two.

Neither Tom nor Charles could have made such an an-
swer ; neither could as yet have dimly guessed that out of all
die possible things that might be said this was the right
thing to say, the only thing that, from boy or man, would
at that moment give exquisite pleasure. Edward was more
sensitive than the other two, a finer organism, a more com-
plex instrument that responded to a fainter stimulus : he was
going to be very clever and to make his mother very proud.

She folded him in her arms, and held her head above his
head so that he should not see her tears.

They lived in one of the old streets near the market-place,
and their narrow little house was just large enough to con-
tain them and their single servant. When the wind set from
die south the cathedral bells made the window-glass vibrate,
and when it set from the east you could hear the clock at
St Martyr^s school chiming the hours. In summer the
Churdiill boys did their "preparation" at home and were
not particular about supper ; but in winter they always went
to evening school, and regularly brought back with them
diree hearty schoolboy af^tites. The two elders especially
made the cold meat and pickles fly. Maria, the staunch

iS THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

and trusted maid^-to whom every liberty or privilege was
permitted except that of giving notice to leave — f redy com-
mented on their voracious powers.

**More mutton?" she would say, affecting incredulity,
as Tom brought his plate once again to the sideboard. ''You
astound me, Mr. lliomas." And she laughed and whis-
pered as she carved. "I see it's to be Red Riding Hood
for the pantomime at The Royal,' and I'm thinking they
wouldn't be far wrong to engage you for the wolf."

"And you for Granny," said Tom. "In the revised ver-
sion, you know, where &e old woman is so ugly she fright-
ens the wolf to death."

Tom resumed his seat at the table opposite to his mother,
and Charles rose, plate in hand. Then there was more
bantering of honest, faithful Maria.

"Another slice, madam."

"Oh, do take the whole joint, Mr. Charles, and save me
trouble."

"Buck up, you old slacker—- or I'll recite the poem you
don't like."

"No, I do not like it," said Maria indignantly.

To Mrs. Churchill this supper hour was always extraor-
dinarily pleasant. All day long she had been toiling, and
now the friendly night brought rest ; she was tired, she was
happy. Once again her loved ones were gathered under the
roof-tree ; all was well, since they were well ; the work of
her life was safely progressing.

Truly it made a pretty picture: the snug lamp-lit room,
the shining young faces, the dose-drawn circle of home, and
the presiding genius sending out beams to meet each glance
that came her way. She was unquestionably still good-
looking in a gentle, sedate manner, with a girlish figure, a
pale, calm face, and dark hair pulled trimly back from the
rigid central parting, but making graceful waves about her

When thdr meal was nearly over she left the table and
began to help the maid in dearing things away ; but, while
passing to and fro, she watched and listened and smiled, and
eadi night her heart was full of thankfulness and hope.
Tom, though only just fifteen, is so big and strong already.

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 7

with such noble shoulders, such a broad chin, and such deep
notes in his voice; Charles is splendidly robust also; and
Edward — ^whose finely-chiselled features, beautiful mouth,
and thoughtful brow she has now paused to admire— does
not, praise be to God, look in the least delicate.

Their appetites appeased, the two dders talked volubly,
while Edward attended to their discourse and seemed to feel
that as a jimior it would be prestmiptuous to introduce fresh
topics or to lead a line of argument. But in fact the talk was
all schoolboy chatter and schoolboy slang, with little per*
ceptible sequence — ^as, for instance, of how "the Head" en-
deavoured to be funny and failed ; of what Seigeant Miller
said to Mr. Westford outside the gymnasium door; of a
saloon pistol exhibited with delicious daring by Gordon
Secundus under a desk-lid in class.

"The pistol is no use," said Tom disparagingly. "It's not
a real weapon. I bet the sergeant would laugh at it as just
a toy/'

"I bet he wouldn't. It would put a bullet through a man
at two hundred yards."

"Rot !" Tom said the word with force, but he continued
more doubtfully. "How did Gordon come by it — if it's any-
Aing more than a popgun?"

"Swop— from Richardson."

"What was the swop?"

"Gordon's entire stamp collection, his stationary engine,
and five bob ready."

"Oh! That shows Gordon believes in it — but it doesn't
show anjrthing else. If I was going to risk swishing for a
pstol I'd want to be sure it was the real thing."

"Gordon Secundus won't be swished. He's too jolly
artful. He'll enjoy that pistol until he twigs it's being too
much talked about, and then — you see — he'll swop it on to
Saunders, Chuff Brown, or one of that lot, and let them take
any swishing that's required."

And at this shrewd prophecy they roared with laughter.

Mrs. Churchill loved that sound of hearty laughter, al-
thoogfa evoked by jokes that often seemed pointless to her,
and she never checked the high spirits of her boys if she
eoold avoid doing so. But they must of course be consid-

«<1

8 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

erate for the feelings of others, show respect where respect
is due, and above all be gentlemanly, however wild meir
fun.

Thus to-night she called Tom to order when he began to
mock at their vulgar but valuable friend Mr. Barrett; and
she also cut short the delayed recitation that Charles was
delivering to poor Maria.

''Maria, Maria, with her nose on fire,

Put on her Sunday clothes.
She'd powdered her cheek for the end of the week.
But quite forgot her nose.''

''Charles, be silent . . . Good-night, Maria. Don't be
vexed with such silly nonsense."

1 don't like it, ma'am," said Maria. "I've told him so."
'But you know he doesn't mean to be unkind. You know
he is fond of you — ^that we are all fond — grateful too— very
grateful," and Mrs. Churchill followed Maria to the kitchen,
soothing her all the way.

Lastly, when she returned to the room again, she was
compelled to administer a more serious rebuke ; and now the
offender was the one who scarcely ever offended — ^her own
dear Edward.

All in a moment, during her absence, the boys had begun
to talk of Christ, and the recent alleged discovery of an en-
tirely new and authentic Gospel.

"It's fudge," said Tom. "Mr. Sedley doesn't credit a word
of it. He says the newspapers start such stories. He
says they've done it again and again."

"But what a lark," said Charles, "if it was true this time.
How sick the beastly atheists would be."

"Yes, it'd let the bounce out of 'em nicely — if what was
dug up was proof positive."

"It might be only corroborative evidence," said Charles,
obviously quoting a master; "but there would be satisfac-
tion in that."

They talked on, speaking exactly as they had spoken of
the gymnasium or the saloon pistol, but witfi keener interest
and an even more noisy enthusiasm ; and presently Edward,

"]

Ml

THE HI5ROR T^ND THE LAMP 9

by reason of his vivacious suggestions, was controlling this
ddate.
'*! wish He'd break His rule and do one miracle — ^just

"So do I. Butwhatr

**I don't know — something that would be a knock-down
Uow to unbelievers. Suppose, when one of them was lectur-
ing — you know, lecturing against God, as Mr. Nicholson
says they do in Ijondon — suppose all the lights went out."

*I don't see much in that/' said Tom.

'Jolly tame miracle that'd be," said Charles.

'But I mean all over London," said Edward eagerly.
••The railway stations— everywhere — so that nobody could
go anjrwhere. And when all the workmen tried to mend
the gas-pipes and the electric wires, they couldn't."

"Yes," said Charles, taking to the idea, "that would be
rather a suck and a sell."

"And it would mean," Edward went on intensely, " 'Let
those who have refused the light remain in darkness 1' And
they'd find out that the churches could be lit up just the same
as ever — people would see the lighted windows. And even
the atheists would understand the meaning of the miracle."

"What a funk they'd be inl"

*'But would they really twig He'd done it?"

"The crowd would hang them on the lamp-posts."

"No," said Edward, "He wouldn't let it go as far as that.
He'd frighten them half out of their wits, but He'd save
their lives. He wouldn't do a miracle with death in it."

"What price the swine? I call atheists the dirtiest sort
of swine."

"Or suppose," cried Edward excitedly, "He just burned
up every unbelieving book as fast as the printers could print
it Or suppose He rang all the bells in the world witliout a
human hand touching them ; or **

And then Mrs. Churchill interposed.

"Edward," she said crushingly, "of whom are you speak-
ing in that flippant irreverent tone? You have pained me
inexpressibly ;" and truly she was both grieved and shocked.

Edward was overcome by confusion. He could but mur-
mur that he meant no irreverence ; he did not know that it
was wroi^.

10 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

**But, Edward," said Mrs. Churchill sadly, "you ought to
know. You have surprised me. I will say no more. . • .
Tom, have you any further work to do for to-morrow?"

"No, mother."

"Very well. Then we will have prayers at once— and all
of us go to bed."

With a grave vmce and unusually solemn manner, she read
a chapter from the New Testament ; and after that they all
four knelt, bending over the seats of their chairs, to say the
lovely evening hymn.

"Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed ;
Teach me to die, that so I may
Rise glorious at the awful day."

Edward's face was white and his lips trembled, but his
ears showed crimson in the lamplight as he knelt before his
chair. He did feel so dreadfully ashamed of himself.

"You little ass," said Charles, when he and Edward
reached their joint bedroom, "you have fairly upset the
mater. I haven't seen her so upset for ages."

The wind was in the east, and when the clock above St.
Martyr's gatehouse chimed the next quarter Charles was
soundly sleeping. In his room on the other side of the land-
ing Tom snored comfortably. But for a long while Edward
lay wide awake.

Shame and regret tortured him. He thought of himself
as many million times worse than a little ass. A double hor-
ror made him hot and cold, sending waves of pins and
needles along his spine and producing clammy dampness on
his neck. He had wounded the mother he fondly adored
and insulted the God he devoutly worshipped.

Inadvertently ; yes, but that was no excuse, and not for a
moment did he attempt to console himself with it. He
ought to have known better. Christians, gentlemen, boys
whose dim beginnings are like a Bible chapter or a chanted
psalm, should not commit such brutal ignorances.

A restless, unappeasable activity of thought made him feel
as if he would never sleep again ; his eyes in this dark room
saw vivid pictures; memory and imagination worked to-

THE MIRROR AND! THE LAMP

11

gether to show him all that he had truly seen or merely
dreamed of; space and time seemed nothing, the present
and the past were one. He was here tossing on his bed ; he
was hundreds of miles away. Thus he saw the sunlight on
distempered walls, a trapeze and iron bars, and the bare-
armed sergeant swinging Indian clubs ; and in the very same
minute he saw the white-robed figure of a bearded man
standing in a moonlit garden and leaning outstretched open
hands against the horizontal branches of a tree. One pic-
ture belonged to yesterday and close by — Miller in the school
gymnasium. The other picture was recorded in a distant
land nearly two thousand years ago— the Redeemer of Man-
kind making the shadow of His cross fall on the moonlit
ground of Palestine. The first picture was a memory, the
seccmd an imagination ; but to Edward Churchill one was as
absolutely real as the other.

Ill

It is proper that boys should feel a glowing pride in their
school, and the Churchills, together with their two hundred
fellow-pupils, were proud of St. Martjrr's. It was not Eton
or Winchester; but it was grand and old, perhaps the oldest
foundation in England — ^indeed, it was claimed to be so.
Moreover, as all things are relative and comparison is the
only firm base on which young minds can frame their rough
and ready estimates, the fact that the city of St. Dunstan's
contained two other palpably inferior schools helped to puff
up all happy Martyrites with a becoming self -glory.

Day boys were numerous, and, far from being looked
down upon, had rather the upper hand. Some element of
charity that entered into the boarding arrangement — ^nomina-
tions, presentations, and so forth — proved slightly injurious
to social prestige ; for, again as is probably proper or at least
inevitable to what has always been admired as the healthy
public school spirit, in these halls erected by the order of
kind King Henry a certain savage snobbishness of youth
made itself plainly perceptible.

It showed itself with strength in the general attitude
towards the half-dozen boys who avowedly received food
and erudition "free gratis and for nothing." These were the
six poor scholars perpetually dowered by the royal founder
— ^"'six lads of ample brow but narrow purse," spoken of in
the famous poem — or "Henry's paupers," as they were
called in the school. No one was unkind to them, but all
considered them as fitting targets for shafts of wit; and
continued jokes were made at the expense of the six, not-
withstanding recurrent commands from the authorities.

Quite lately the present "Head" had delivered a public
homily on the subject, linking it with the wider topic of good
taste, comradeship, and esprit de corps. "Let me tell you,"
he said, "that if I began to mock at poor scholars, I could
name a hundred in this establishment-— scholars who are
poor in scholarship, poor in the sense of humour, poor in

12

THE KTIRROR AND THE LAMP 13

industry; intellectual paupers, mendicants of other folk's
ideas, outcasts from the fair temple of true learning.''

The boys enjoyed this, felt that "Whiskers" had distinctly
scored, and, had they not been in chapel, would have loudly
applauded. They always liked rhetorical invective when
addressed to their mass. Only when called upon to bear the
brunt of it individually, did it ever disturb them — and then
not too painfully.

Day boys gained inq)ortance and boarders lost it by the
circumstance that the school's greatest day of the year oc-
curred in the holidays just after Christmas. This was the
Martyr's Feast, and as the boarders had all scattered to
their respective homes, only residents were left at St. Dun-
stan's for the grand celebration. They told boarders all
about it with a most patronising care — ^the glorious gather-
ing in the school hall ; the reading of the Archbishop's an-
nual letter, which always b^gan with the time-honoured
words, "Boys of St. Martyr's, greeting and good-will ;" the
recitation of a poem first in Latin, then in English, on the
subject of one of the noble virtues ; and, finally, the proces-
sion to the cathedral and special service there.

"Dickson, I'm describing it rottenly, but it was really
ripping — best Feast I've seen. Every one said so."

"Sorry you chaps are shut out of it all."

"Wonder your governor didn't bring you down for it.
If I was you, I should have told him I'd rather see the Feast
than forty blooming pantomimes."

Naturally this sort of thing made the absentees feel rather
small, until echoes of the Feast faded out of the residential
diatter.

Now and then there were added to the school roll a boy or
two from a higher, if not necessarily a superior, stratum
of society than that to which the rest belonged. These were
generally sons of soldiers quartered at the cavalry barracks ;
and they sometimes incautiously explained their presence as
an accident, saying that in the ordinary course of events, if
it had not proved more convenient to follow the rattle of
their parents' kettledrums, they would have gone to aristo-
cratic establishments where noble lords their cousins were
all ready to welcome them. For such siding and lx)unce,
until they drc^ped the practice of both vices, their lives

k

14 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

were made a burden; but on these occasions it was cer-
tainly an insidious, although unacknowledged, comfort to
Tom and Charles Churchill to be able to take very high
ground in condemning the glorification of rank and pedigree.

For really, if one wanted to brag about one's family, they
themselves were better qualified than anybody else to do it.
Their mother had always allowed them to understand that
they could claim kinship with tfie Churchills. She used to
talk in a vague yet satisfying fashion of cadets of noble
houses going out into the world to earn their livelihood, of
great families getting enormously widespread, of some
members going up and others going down. They were not,
of course, descendants of the illustrious duke, but they were
of his house. There was no reason why they shouldn't be.

But Charles and Tom often joked about the large hoard-
ing advertisements of "Churchill's popular boot-paste." The
pictorial posters of the commodity were well displayed at
St Dunstan's, as everywhere else. "No relation to us ; but
dash the bounder's cheek for using our name without by
your leave or for your leave.**

Once when Tom had been pestered by a crest-collector to
produce examples of the Churchill coat-of-arms, Mrs.
Churchill told him that his father never troubled about
heraldic devices. Being in business, he did not think it
necessary. She added that all his branch of the family
was commercial.

*'Not the boot-paste, mother?"

"Oh, no, nothing whatever to do with the boot-paste. I
feel sure those people are not real Churchills."

There was nothing derogatory in commerce for cadets of
noble houses, but Tom felt exceedingly glad it didn't mean
the boot-paste ; and if he never boasted of his fine connec-
tions, perhaps secret thought of them made him rather in-
tolerant of open, tmquestionable plebeianism. For instance,
he and Charles loathed that vulgarian Mr. Barrett, and noth-
ing but respect for their mother's wishes enabled them to be
decently civil to him.

Mr. Barrett was the auctioneer of Halberd Street, through
whose agency Mrs. Churchill had originally taken her house ;
and since then he had been useful to her in arranging for
lenewals of the tenancy, and even in advising her on general

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 15

business matters. To the boys he seemed a common, en-
croaching person : a sandy, flabby creature, with a sycophan-
tic manner that changed in a moment to gross familiarity
if you weren't on your guard with him; a horrid Low
Church believer, who went to Holy Trinity instead of to St.
Alban's or the cathedral, who spoke of the deity as "Him
who" and of his invalid wife as "pore Mrs. Barrett."

His only mitigating attribute was the reverential respect
that he professed to entertain for Mrs. Churchill. He would
stand on the pavement bare-headed, as though imcovered
before a queen, tmtil she said, "Oh, do please put on your
hat;" and even then he apologised for obeying her.

Thai the young Mr. Churchills liked — but they did not like
his oHning roimd of an evening and drinking weak whisky-
and-water while he held forth on railway debentures and
corporation loans. They did not like his making their
mother visit the sick wife. They preferred that she should
consort only with the wives of the masters, the clergy, the
medical profession — ^in a word, with the gentry. Mr. Bar-
rett, however, by fawning and flattery, seemed to be able to
make not only Mrs. Churchill but everybody else do what
he desired. And if the arts of humbleness failed him, he
overcame you by sheer impudence.

Thus, meeting Tom one day in the open street, he offered
him half-a-crown as a tip. Think of it ! A tip from a trades-
man to a gentleman — a tip to a fifth form boy, who was a
member of the football team — and a tip of two shillings and
sixpence. Tom nearly suflFocated. He didn't know what to
do; he thought he was going to knock Mr. Barrett down;
and in the end — as he himself said, ruefully repeating the
ancient facetiousness — ^he pocketed the insult.

'There/* said Mr. Barrett, "don't stand on ceremony.
See, it's a bright new one, and will bum a hole in your
pocket before you can look round. Go on," and he laughed
in an oily maddening way. "I've bin a boy myself."

When Tom described this incident to his brothers, Charles
said, rather cynically, "Well, if you didn't punch his head,
I don't see what else you could do but take his money."

And Edward said it was quite right to take it. Anything
was better than hurting people's feelings.

But now, before long, something occurred to give Tom a

16 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

wider and more philanthrcmic view of that immense ma-
jority of mankind called vulgar, middle-class, htunbly bom,
and other ugly names by the exclusive, aristocratic, grandly
descended few.

During the Easter holidays he and the others had a glimpse
of their great-aunt.

Never till now had they heard of the existence of this old
lady, and they were indignant, and disposed to be implacable
towards her, when their mother told them that she had been
far from kind or considerate in the past. But at present it
seemed that she was contrite for ancient unkinchiess, she
wanted bygones to be begones, and she longed to make the
acquaintance of her great-nephews. Mrs. Churchill said
that one must forget and forgive ; adding that the poor old
soul, although rich, was probably sad and lonely, and
further warning them that she might appear to their eyes
a little eccentric and they were on no account to laugh at her.

That warning was not unneeded; for Aunt Jane struck
them as being the most tremendous joke that had as yet ever
come to enliven them. When presented to her in her sitting-
room at the Rose Hotel, where she had taken up her
auarters for a few days with her maid and her lap-dog,
ley really wanted to lie on the floor in order to laugh at
their ease.

She was a fat, round little woman, richly apparelled in
velvet and lace, with all sorts of golden and jewelled orna-
ments; and the way she laughed, cackling like a hen, the
way she talked to the waiters and die maid, the way she tried
to make the dog jump through her arms, waddling about the
room after him, and tripping on her rich skirts — all these
unexpected phenomena impelled one to hysterical mirth, and
made one class her with such immortally ludicrous types as
Allv Sloper, the Widow Twankey, or Miss Moucher.

My dears, you're welcome,*' she said hospitably; "and
your dear Ma I must kiss again. Edith, my dear, I am so
glad to make it up at last;" and then she shouted to the
waiter to hurry with dinner.

They were to dine in the sitting-room, and the table was
all set out and ready on their arrival.

"More cosy," she said, "more homey, more kumm-il-fo
than downstairs in that horrid big kaffy-room. . . . Well,

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 17

Tom — ^you are Tom? — ^what are you going to be all in good
time one of these days when you're quite grown up?''

Tom replied that he was going to be a clergyman.

"That's right. Very nice, I'm sure. I like clergymen —
not all, but some. The Reverend Canon Forster, of Hove,
is a very old friend of mine. . . . And Charles — ^this is
Charles, isn't it ? — ^what are you to be ?"

Charles said that he also was going into the Church.

*'Oh, bless us and save us I" cried Aunt Jane. "How
good we all are !"

Mrs. Churchill explained that it was a vocation with both
of them ; they had never deviated in their wish to enter holy
orders, and as well as making her happy it was working out
very conveniently, because they could remain at school until
they were nineteen and then pass on to the theological col-
lege in this very town. There would thus be no disruption
of home life in the early stages of their careers.

"And how about young hopeful? What does Number
Three intend to be?"

Edward said that he had not yet made up his mind.

"An excellent answer too," and Aimt Jane gave her side-
splitting imitation of poultry. "P'raps you haven't got a
mind to make up yet awhile, Teddy — ^Teddy's right, eh?
And take Auntie's advice. When you feel it's there, all
waiting to be made up — ^well, do it yourself, Teddy, and don't
expect or allow other people to do it for you. . . . But
there, I shall be putting my foot in it. Merest fun, Edith,
. . . Come ! To table 1 And let me have Mr. Teddy on
my right hand."

She was disconcertingly vulgar, and one could see that
Mrs. Churchill felt constraint in her company. But the
hearts of the boys rapidly warmed to her; and, although it
made Tom shiver when he thought of possibly having to
show her round St. Martyr's, yet he began to recognise in
her " a real good old gump." She meant well ; she was ami-
able, if vain and silly ; and she certainly gave them what in
school jargon might be termed a gloriosum festum atque
multum vinum Hzsibum.

"I know boys like pop," she said, as the first cork was
discharged ; "and it can't hurt them, Edith, once in a way.
Have another cutlet, Charles. Cutlets drive away growing

18 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP!

pains. There's roast tuticey and plum pudding to follow.
They told me downstairs the menoo wasn't seasonable, but
I said 'Bother the seasons/ . . . My dears, it does me
good to have you all around me — ^and I hope you'll visit me
at my little house in Montagu Square. I'll take you to the
theatres, and show you Madame Toosso's."

It was after dinner that the great discovery occurred.

Tom, cheered and replenished with the good fare, and
becoming expansive, persisted in talking of "the family,"
asking many questions, to which his hostess replied quite
readily.

All those grandeurs were a m3rth— or at least an hypo-
thesis deduced from very slender materials. The boys'
father and Aunt Jane's late husband belonged to Midland
folk who for three generations had been engaged in the
wholesale hardware trade. There were, it appeared, many
of these hardware Churchills, some prospering, some doing
little beyond keeping their heads above water.

"Your papa," said Aunt Jane, "offended us — ^but that's
an old story, and far too much was made of it at the time.
But, as no doubt mamma has told you, he represented the
original house in London — ^and if he didn't make a success
of the London agency, I dare say that was no fault of his.
Times were beginning to change. We were getting behind
them"

Mrs. Churchill sat in silence during all this talk, neither
endorsing anything nor contradicting anything ; but Edward,
watching her, saw that she stirred uneasily and bit her lip
when they came to speak of boot-paste.

"No, I'm sure I wish we were the 'boot-paste Churchills,' "
said Atmt Jane. "No such luck 1 What that firm must have
piled up!"

And at last Tom tackled the question of the ducal leader
of the clan. Could Aunt Jane trace the links between us and
him?

Aunt Jane cackled. "Oh, no doubt we're all one lot — ^if
you go back far enough. Yes, there's the best authority for
that;" and she cackled most merrily. "We all come down
from the same couple — the man and wcnnan who started the
biggest family on record. You know who I mean."

"Adam and Eve ?" said Tom, after a long pause.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

19

"Just so/' said Aunt Jane.

Not even cadets of the boot-paste — ^just nobodies. Tom,
returning to the subject that night after he and his brothers
had gone up to bed, said he felt glad he was past his seven-
teeatii birthday, and therefore strong enough to stand the
shock.

"I don't mind twopence," said Charles; 'T)ut it is a bit
of a suck and a sell."

Edward said nothing, and neither of the other two asked
his opinion. He had gone to the bedroom window, and he
stood with his back to the room. It was a clear still night,
a touch of late frost in the air ; and he looked sadly and wist-
fully upward at the fixed stars— one of which was shining
with a much diminished brightness. His mother had de-
ceived him.

IV

"Mother dear, everything else you ever told us is true,
isn't it?"

"Yes, every word-— every smallest word. Oh, Edward."
And Mrs. Churchill began to cry.

Aunt Jane had gone back to London, and Edward for the
first time had spoken to anybody about that trifling dis-
illusionment.

"Oh, oh, oh I" And Mrs. Churchill sobbed hysterically.
"I hope I may never set eyes on her again — I don't want her
money, none of it. I hate her — a horrid, wicked old woman
to come between my dearest son and me."

"Nothing can come between us," said Edward wildly.
"Oh, mother, forgive me for what I said."

It was terrible to him to see that dear face convulsed with
grief, the venerated head bowed down, the gentle delicate
fingers opening and shutting themselves spasmodically.
In a frenzy of self-reproach he begged her to forget his rash
and foolish words. But for a while she would not be con-
soled.

They were alone in her room — a place that had been to
him like the storehouse of his earliest, most tender memories,
and that was now with increasing intelligence and imagina-
tion as sacred to him as a shrine.

"My darling — ^my darling mother."

Presently they sat in the cushioned window seat where she
used to teach him his first lessons, and he held her with his
arm about her waist, kissing her wet eyelids, imploring
pardon, feeling half dead with love and pain.

The spring sunbeams came softly above their heads, shed-
ding a delicate radiance throughout the room, lighting up
solid objects, and seeming to touch with a tremulous rever-
ence all pretty, fragile things. He looked at her writing-
desk and thought of how she had sat there hour after hour
struggling to learn a little Latin so as to be able to help him
in his work ; at the curtains that hid the alcove and her bed ;

20

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 21

at the bedside table standing outside the curtains. The sight
of this table used to affect him with a sense of awe and
mystery. It always carried a small pile of her devotional
books; above the books, fixed to the wall, there was a
crucifix made of ivory and black wood; and above that,
again, hung his father's photograph. AJl this was quite
unchanged, exactly as he had always seen it ; but he noticed,
by the books, a green twig of spruce that she had brought
away with her from St. Alban's church on Palm Sunday.

"Edward, 111 explain, so that you'll understand and not
blame me."

"Mother!"

"It was silly — but I didn't want to practise any unworthy
decepticHL" She had dried her eyes now, and was speaking
calmly; only her voice shook, and htr hands, claspmg his,
were hot and limp. "It came from my pride and love — ^in
the beginning — from nothing else."

Then she told him that her marriage was a love match,
a runaway match, and that it created an irrevocable breach
with her own family as well as with the Churchill family.
The Churchills wanted her husband to marry somebody else,
a rich unattractive hardware cousin, and they never forgave
him for not doing so ; while her people, who were well-lx>m,
poor, old-fashicmed, and stupidly, obstinately narrow-
minded, looked down on trade, said diat young Mr. Churchill
was common, and sternly forbade her to encourage his ad-
dresses. She herself, brought up among those who esteemed
rank and valued gentle blood, could not eradicate all false
pride; and she suffered greatly because of the contempt
poured out upon the man she loved. She denied what her
parents said, she vowed that he was not only a gentleman,
bat a very fine gentleman.

"And, Edwanl, I used to pray that, some day, somehow,
we should be able to prove it — to show that he was really
better bom than I was. I loved him so — ^was so proud of
him himself, and it broke my heart to think of others scorn-
ing him.

''And, Edward," she went on, with a burst of enthusiasm,
''I know he must have descended from rulers and not from
slaves. You had but to look at him. Come now — ^look for
younelf ;" and they went across the room, and stood before

22 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

the fading photograph. "Look at his mouth and chin — and
the way his hair grew ; not rough and coarse in a tuft above
his forehead, as you see in common people. Observe the
nose — ^well-modelled — ^just like a Greek statue. And his
hands were beautiful — ^not common hands. In everything
he showed race — really and truly.

"And so I carried on my fiction — ^no, not fiction, my
belief — ^when my father and mother were gone, when all
were gone, and I was left quite alone with you three. You
all show the same signs. I couldn't let you think — if I
could help it — ^that your father was beneath anybody or
anything. Do you understand?

"You are like him, Edward. You have beautiful hands
like his. And your forehead is noble." As she spoke she
pushed back his hair, and brought her face close to his. "You
are my beautiful son — ^beautiful in mind and body. And you
might be a prince — all the world would proclaim it. Kiss
me, and say that you understand.''

"Yes, yes — quite."

Then Aey sat again in the window. They were happy
now, both of them, drawn nearer together than they had ever
yet been.

"I couldn't bear it, Edward, if you lost confidence in me.
I'd rather you knew me for just exactly what I am — so that
you wouldn't expect too much of me. Heavens knows I
have put duty before pleasure. I have tried to be good."

"You are as good as the angels."

"I have tried to make myself stronger and stronger, but
there are weaknesses in my nature. I am weak in many
ways — about myself — as weak as lots of women I despise.
Sometimes I long for worthless evanescent things — praise,
flattery even, the encouragement of other people's good
opinion. But all that will soon be over. Soon I shall
scarcely be a woman at all— I shall be old and ugly, grey
and bloodles s "

'No, never."

'Yes. But what does it matter — so that my children
are contented ? I shall live again in their lives. . . There
my boy must go out now, and jJay his games and be joyous
and free."

After this day the bond between mother and son was

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 23

always growing in strength. It was as though something
new within him had been bom at the sight of the tears that
he himself had caused. Something had died too ; but that
which he had gained was infinitely more precious than what
had been taken away from him.

And there were things that he had hitherto been able to
do with great enjoyment that he could never do again. Before
this it had seemed perfectly natural that he and his brothers
should leave her altogether to her own devices while they
sought pleasure far away ; that she should stand on a door-
step kissing her hand in farewell, and then vanish from one's
thought, almost fade from the zone of memory, during long
hours and even whole days ; until, tired and hungry, one came
lounging home and she restuned existence in a welcoming
smile. But now he thought of her, carried her image with
him, whether far or near.

Once, when an unexpected half-holiday befell the school,
and games were impossible by reason of the flooded condition
of both playing-fields, he started in congenial company for a
long ramble. His party meant to push far out into the
country; the stm shone; all the voices rang out loud and
dear ; and there was joy in walking fast, in looking at distant
horizons, in shaking off the insipidity of too familiar sur-
roundings. Then all at once, only a mile out on the western
road, his spirits suddenly sank. He thought of his mother
alone in the empty house. She had declared that there were
a lot of odds and ends she wished to attend to, that she would
be busy and contented, that the time would fly ; nevertheless
he could not escape from the mental picture of loneliness and
sadness. It was spoiling all his pleasure.

He gave some excuse for deserting the noisy band, and
hurried home. His mother uttered an exclamation of delight
when, hot and flushed and eager, he burst in upon her and
said that he had returned to take her for a stroll.

They spent the whole afternoon together, taking tea at a
little shop in Abbot's Lane, sauntering on the old walls,
sitting on benches in the public garden, talking with open
hearts. And he never thought of his late companions rang-
ing wide over the hillsides and through the vales. He was at
peace and felt no regrets.

"But I don't want to tie you to my apron-strings," she

24 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

said, with the utmost sincerity. "I have always kept it
before me« that as my boys grew up I must to a certain
extent lose them. All I have hoped is that none of you would
desire to leave me absolutely — ^to put seas and continents
between us — to go right to the other side of the world."

And Edward said that he would never do that, whatever
happened. If they could not always live under the same roof,
at least he would never go far away. He would stay within
reach. "I swear it, mother. I swear it, as a vow."

"Ah, Edward, my altruist."

"No," he said emphatically, "it is not altruism — ^it is
selfishness. I could not be happy otherwise."

And, not for the first time, she sounded him this afternoon
about his ideas in regard to the future. Had he any inclina-
tion to do what his brothers had decided upon doing?

"Mr. Jennings says he sees in you many qualities that
suggest the Church as perhaps the profession that would
best suit you."

"Mr. Jennings doesn't really know me. Mother, I don't
know myself. Sometimes I think — Oh, a man ought to
be very good to be a priest. I could not trust myself to say —
I'm too young to know myself."

She expressed approval of these words. They were so
wise. One must, of course, wait until one felt quite sure.
Nothing could be more dreadful than to make a mistake
about so sacred a step.

"Because it is for all time, Edward. Once a priest always
a priest."

They had come alo^g the path upon the wall and were
entering the outer precincts of the cathedral. The sun was
down now, and all about them the greyness of dusk spread
fast. Vague and tremendous, the great church loomed like
a cliff in front of them, with jagged broken summits tfiat
glowed redly in the last light of the day.

"But, whatever you decide, Edward, I shall approve.
I'd never oppose your wish— or even try to guide it. I place
a confidence in you that I cannot in dear Tom or Charles.
You understand me, as they never did;" and she leaned
upon his arm, joining her hands about it, as they walked
beneath the darkness of an arch. "You are more to me —
much more than the others. You know it, my dearest ; so

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 25

f

why shouldn't I confess it? I am just to them, and always
will be — ^making no outward difference. I know you wotdd
be miserable if I did. But God pours the measure of love
into our hearts. It is His measure, not ours, and we cannot
alter it."

In the lamplight of their home he used to observe her
when she fancied herself unobserved, searching her face for
any lines or wrinkles that might hint at age, thrilling with
joy when she looked young and fresh, feeling cold dread
when she looked weary and pale. He wished to toil for her,
fight for her, die for her — ^if by death he could save her from
peril and pain. Even when on nis knees, praying to the throne
of grace, angry revolt rushed into his mind as he remem-
bered the shortness of this mortal life, the terrific edict that
spares neither the virtuous nor the wicked. He prayed night
and day that she might be given long years in which he
could guard and cherish her, and that when at last she died
his life might soon be done.

It was a great love, and yet few people guessed at its
existence, and she herself never knew a htmdredth part of its
power. He could not tell all of it to her, and to no one else
could he even speak of it. It made no external change in
him ; at school he was just what he had always been, working
hard enough to please the masters, but not so hard as to
offend the boys. He did not shine at games, although he
showed a sort of fitful ardent aptitude in every game they
(dayed. He was not anyhow conspicuous ; yet gradually all
recognised that in a progressive, unobtrusive, inexplicable
way he had become astoundingly popular. He was the boy
that no one spoke of and the boy that every one liked.

If any envious schoolmate, chancing to fathom his secret,
had said, ''You fellows are deceived in this third Churchill.
He is nothing but a milksop and a mammy's darling" — ^well,
that boy would have been called a liar, a sneak, a dirty chuff.

Yet it was a very great love, although throughout the
dawn of adolescence Edward ChurchiU contrived to hold it
sacred and secret, a splendid mystery far down beneath the
surface of things. His love for his mother and his ever-
deepening religious faith mingled and became one. She was
his Madonna — all that the Blessed Virgin can be to the most
tnnsccndentally fervid Catholics.

But in spite of fervours of religious emotion that thus
were fed from a dual source, he showed a curious sort of re-
luctance against becoming a full and accredited member of
the Church. When contemporaries were being confirmed he
obtained a year's postponement, and for a second time, not
without difficulty, his confirmation was delayed.

He did not feel ready. With this explanation Mrs.
Churchill succeeded in satisfying herself and the authorities.
Truly it was not the ceremony of laying on of hands that he
shrank from, but the rite that must follow it. Lying awake
at night he used to think of our Lord's last supper, seeing in
imagination the actual feast, hearing the wonderful words
that instituted for all time that shadow of the reality which
was to bind men together in holy communion ; and it seemed
to him that this, the most mysterious and soul-stirring of all
sacraments, should have been reserved as a reward for tried
virtue, and not be lightly and presumptuously approached
by the young and untested. He felt that participation in it
should be the end of one's youth and the beginning of a life-
long enterprise; and some voice of instinct seemed to warn
him, to try to appal him, as though saying in a distorted echo
of his mother's words : "It is once and always. Keep your
liberty of choice as long as you can. You are still free, but
when the consecrated cup is held towards you — in the mo-
ment when your lips touch the red shadow of His blood —
your freedom will be gone for ever."

One saint's day in mid-term a certain newly-appointed
suffragan-bishop came to the school chapel, and there
preached on "Tne Inner Life." He at ante secured attention
by his informal method, and when presently the coughing
of Jarvis and another boy interrupted the sermon, he al-
together captivated his audience with a remark about cougb
lozenges being cheap and easily procurable. All then hs-
tened; but Edward Churchill, listening with the rest, could
scarcely believe hi& ears. For it was as though this man had

26

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 27

been sent to preach to him alone and to answer half his
secret thoughts.

The i^'eacher told him that every one is apparently offered
the choice of two lives, either of which he may live — the
inner Ufe or the outer Ufe; but that eventually, in old age,
we find that only one of these lives is possible — ^the inner
Hfc.

''That is a simple fact," he said; ''with nothing about
it that need frighten or even worry us. The dwelling-place
wherein we all must dwell, when our wanderings are over,
when we have exhausted our physical energy and can no
longer strive and fight or love or hate as we used to do, is
our own mind. There is the palace or the hovel in which
we are to finish our days. And the queston that I am going
to a^ you, the question of paramount importance that 1
pray you to ask yourselves, is. What are you going to make
of tihis last resort, this place to which you will be forced to
withdraw sooner or later? You can make of it what you
will ; but you must b^n the making now. It can truly be
a palace, a glorious, noble home where you may sit enthroned
as a king, and look through crystal-clear windows at floods
of heavenly light ; or it can be a black and dismal dungeon,
windowless, airless, foul. There are the two extremes.
Which do you choose? Boys of St. Martyr's, I mean to ham-
mer this question at you. I mean to rub it into you — as I
believe you would elegantly express it. This is your real
choice. The other choice is only apparent — ^not real. Your
real choice and freedom lies in what you are going to make
of the minds that God has given you."

And then, after speaking with great earnestness, he re-
sumed his genial chatty tone, and told the boys how they
were to set about improving their minds without an hour's
dday. He gave them rudimentary notions of psychology,
quoted natuial philosophers, and gossiped and almost chaffed
about metaphysical speculation and all the time Edward
Churchill was thinking: "This is true. . . . This is solid.
. . . This is based on unchanging laws. . . . These are things
that have confused me, and now I begin to understand them."

Then the preacher again used for the human mind that
of a jriace which one could build oneself. He said that
flhoold visit it frequently, inspect it carefully, see for

28 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

oneself that the building process was going on all right. He
said that, unlike houses made by hands, it should always be
comfortable and dwellable throughout its course of construc-
tion. And it should be used as a church too: the con-
venient and accessible place into which one can go at any
moment for rest and peace.

He said that the saints and fathers habitually spoke of
"prayer and meditation," linking the two words together as
if they symbolised things of almost equal value ; but in the
hurry and bustle of modem life there seemed only time for
prayer, and people were tempted to ignore the necessity of
meditation also. He told the boys to let no day pass without
meditation. ''Retire into yourselves, if only for five minutes,
and just think quietly.''

Then he wound up with "a really jolly bit" about good
resolutions ; and the way people make them on New dear's
Day and break them before Twelfth Night. "We all do it,"
he said, beaming down on the rows and rows of upturned
faces ; "and he would be a poor-spirited dull dog who didn't
do it. I mean the making of good resolves, not their break-
ing, of course. We say to ourselves, 'In this year that begins
tonday I am going to be a better, kinder, cleverer boy than I
was in the year that's ending to-day.' Believe me, such
resolutions are worth making ; while their influence lasts tliey
effect something; and it's a fatal mistake to suppose that,
even when we fail to continue acting up to the fixed ideal, we
are worse off than if we had never tried to succeed. Now
take this from me as what the sportsmen call a straight tip.
Don't reserve such resolutions for the first of January. A
year may begin on any date in the almanac Let a year
begin for you every morning. Make every day your New
Year's Day. ..."

This sermon created a great impression on the school
There were boys here and there who distinctly modified their
conduct, and wrestled with the thraldom of old-established
habits. On all sides one heard scraps of talk about the
Inner Life, and for some little time "A happy new year to
you," was quite the fashionable thing as a morning saluta-
tion.

Curiously enough, the boy who seemed to be most pro-
foundly affected was the last one in the world from whom

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 29

you would have anticipated any reaction at all from such
a stimulus. Yet Jarvis, to everybody's surprise, stoutly
declared that the bishop-suffragan had revolutionised his
entire view of existence.

Jarvis was an odd, blinkng, shambling boarder, who more
dian once had been publicly denounced as incorrigibly lazy
and faint-hearted at his work, but who nevertheless had, to
his present age of eighteen, escaped the often imminent
catastn^he of "supersessioa'' He was a boy who drifted
on the surface of things and seemed incapable of taking a
dive into the deeps of thought; he loved tittle-tattle — not
sneaking, of course, but foolish chatter about individuals;
he read trashy novelettes; and last, but not least, gave
frequent performances of his famous graveyard cough.

At request, he would stand in King Henry's corridor and
ooagfa until the old stone walls seemed to shake with hollow
Aunder. Once after thus rousing the echoes to his ugly
nmsic, he spat some blood upon the stone pavement; and
since then he had pleaded, "No encores. I'll do it with
pleasure. But you chaps really mustn't encore me."

Generally the school tolerated him as an amiable, in-
offensive person who had been there for a prodigious long
time, but of late sixth form boys had complained of his
siiaU>y appearance. "I wish," they used to say, "that Jarvis
would treat himself to a new suit. Speak to him, somebody.
Ten him that he is beginning to look like a scarecrow, and
that it won't do."

If spoken to by somebody, Jarvis Hushed and made ex-
cuses, referred vaguely to his aunt at Dover, and treated
himself to the graveyard cough instead of to the new suit.

Nowadays he used to come limping after Edward
Churchill on his way to the gymnasium or the library, and
babble of the Inner Life.

". . . Yesterday evening I meditated thirty-seven minutes
by the dock, and all the time I didn't know where I was.
I'd like to do it with you one evening, Churchill. Give me an
appointment — and we'll do it one against the other. . . .
Gcmig in there? Then cood-bye for the present."

Edward Churchill had been drawn to explore the school
libruy in search of books that purported to describe the
vorkuigB of the human mind, and his form-master had fur-

30 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

nished him with a short list of philosophers whom he ought
to consult.

"It's all antiquated stuff, you know. So don't go swallow-
ing it wholesale. If you ever want to study psychology, you
must begin with physiology. . . . And by the way," said
Mr. Sefiey, "don't be introspective."

"No, sir?"

"Introspection is the curse of the present age. There is
too much thinking and dreaming, and not enough doing in
this old England of ours. When you've finished mugging
over the stuff up there^ get the taste of dust out of your
mouth by reading Carlyle."

"I have read some of him, sir."

"Then read some more. Read his Heroes and Hero
Worship. History is made by people who go about and act,
not by people who sit brooding and weighing consequences,
and examining their personal motives. A healthy man
oughtn't to be conscious of his inside — ^whether it's his
tummy or his mind."

Edward Churchill had a high respect for Mr. Sedle/s
judgment, but this advice, coming so soon after the bishop's
sermon, jarred strangely.

He returned again and again to the library, and, stirring
the dust of rarely-turned pages, soon made a startling dis-
covery. Just as that sermon had seemed to be specially
addressed to him, so these old books seemed to have been
written solely for his benefit. There was, he found, nothing
new in his thoughts, nothing tmusual. Others had felt what
he felt, had felt it more strongly, and had expressed it in the
boldest and plainest language. This notion of the unreality,
the dreamlike and intangible character of the whole world in
which one lived, was probably as old as thought itself. It
was a consequence of primeval wonder, when men began to
recognise the marvellous scope of their mental powers. When
for the first time men carried home with them into the dark-
ness of their caves all the sunlit extent of the hills and plains
they had hunted over during the day, they must have asked
themselves, "Which, then, is real — ^what I have seen or what
I am seeing?" And with the growth of imagination the
doubt would naturally increase instead of diminish, until
noble learned students solemnly began to deny the eacistenoe

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 31

of all things external to themselves. That, of course, was a
reductio ad absurdum; and yet the longer one brooded upon
it the less flagrant appeared to be the absurdity.

He sat thinking deeply, doing exactly what Mr. Sedley
had declared to be injudicious : staring at the self-contained
mystery with introspective eyes, examining his motives,
saying to himself, ''A life without action is a poor thing, but
a Uf e without thought would be nothing at all. One would
not even know that one had lived it. And merely to perform
actions cannot make one happy ; it is only the afterglow of
thought in which they are performed again that brings one
any peace or joy. And the actions that one performs must
not only be good in themselves and done for a good purpose
to others, they must be exactly what one wanted and longed
to do. Otherwise the horrible restlessness of thought is
greater than if one had refused to do them, and had wUf ully
ignored one's duty."

The room, with its low beamed ceiling and narrow mul-
lioned window, was dimly lit, full of silence and motionless
shadow ; and when one looked out through the small latticed
panes of glass one saw the grass plot, a comer of the head-
master's house, and boys passing singly or in groups — ^all
very vivid and bright and solid. The silent shadowy room
seemed to symbolise thought; and all that one could see
through the window represented life. When one thought
intendy a grey curtain came down upon the leaded glass,
and, though one had not turned one's head, everything out-
side the window had gone.

Edward Churchill said to himself, ''Suppose it is true, and
not an absurdity. The inner or the outer life? What if,
after all, there is no outer life? Suppose it is nothing but
tboi^t."

For a time now he was always haunted by such ideas.
He could not get away from them. They came back, incon-
gruously obtruding themselves, no matter what he was doing
—even when he was going to the gymnasium to box.

Mrs. Churchill had wished that her boys should receive
instruction in the art of self-defence, and, following his
kothers, Edward duly became a pupil of the illustrious
Sergeant Miller. This great man took considerable pains
iritli him, teaching him how to use his feet, how to put

52 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

"stingo" into head blows by aiming always to hit right
through people's faces to the back of their skulls, and give
"beef" to body blows by imagining that you were inserting
your arm up to the elbow through people's ribs. He expressed
r^et that Edward's lessons were so soon coming to an end.

Here was a man of action if you like, and one might safely
say that the better part of all the hero-worship practised at
St. Martyr's was evoked by Sergeant Miller. Little boys saw
in him the perfect type of manhood, and he made them at
once worship and despair. They felt that as the cruel years
dragged by they "would be able to shout without squeaJcing,
to smoke without being sick ; they might be heavy and hairy
as Mr. Westford or Mr. Jennings ; they might grow up into
masters, but never, never could they grow up into sergeants.
The biggest and most athletic boys regarded him as their
dearest friend; but friendship did not lessen their venera-
tion. The lightest word that fell from his lips was precious.
They worshipped his neck and chest, his cast-iron cheeks,
his steel-cased limbs — his laugh, his stare, his frown, even his
stnell, that strange odour of nuts, and oil that seemed as the
very essence of his stupendous strength.

It was an inunense privilege to be admitted to his room
behind the gym., and to be shown his museum of personal
trophies and treasures — ^the box that held his medals, the
photographic groups of officers, sergeants, band of the 140th
regiment, the presentation bowl, the iUtuninated testimonial,
and so on. Beyond this room there was a sort of carpenter*s
shop with bench and lathe and soldering apparatus, where the
sergeant's assistant, Dick, worked all day fashioning clubs
and single sticks, or binding and glueing leather grips round
dumb-bells ; and it was pleasant to linger here also, watching
Dick, and asking innumerable questions about the largest
dumb-bells ever lifted and the lightest gloves permissible in
the prize ring. Indeed, the charm of Uie gym. and its de-
pendencies was very suave and penetrating, and Edward
Churchill, as well as everybody else, surrendered himself to
it with satisfaction.

Naturally, the sergeant could not actually box with one.
He invited you to hit him as hard as you were able, standing
to take his buffet like the knight in Ivanhoe, and merely
jQicking you with an open hand, here, there, and eveiywlunx.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 33

to indicate that you were exposing yourself. But if he wished
to test a pupil's proficiency, he would call Dick from the shop
and tell him to put on his gloves and spar lightly with the
gentleman. And he called for Dick now, at Edward
Churchill's last lesson.

Dick untied his apron, wiped his sticky hands on a bit of
rag, and hurried to the call, snatching up a pair of gloves as
he came.

A weedy lad of uncertain age, with large feet and long thin
arms, he looked just as weak as water, and yet, mirabUe
dictu, his skill made him more than a match for the biggest
boy in the school. No one had ever seen the sergeant give
Dick a lesson; he had no practice except when summoned
thus from the glue-pots ; but it was as though merely living
under the eye of the sergeant had been sufficient. Virtue
and force had been imparted to him in the atmosphere that
he daily breathed.

No hitting, you understand," said the sergeant severely.
Just spar."

"All right," said Dick, after adjusting with his teeth the
wrist elastic of his right glove. And the sparring began.

"Steady, sir," said the sergeant. *TDon*t rush. Take
your time. . . . You see how easy he avoids you. His desire
being to let you tire yourself without troubling him. . . .
Very good, Dick. . . . Very nice indeed. . . . Now take a
breather, sir."

Then they sparred again; and Edward, warming to the
exercise, acquitted himself better. Consciousness of sur-
roundings lessened, the circle of interest narrowed to a
smaller and smaller space, in another moment he and Dick
were isolated from all the rest of humanity ; and it was as if
feet and hands could think, and were thinking, as effectively
as brains. Edward's mind and body had but one concen-
trated wish : to do what ages ago was a precept and now had
become an instinct — that is, to put stingo and beef into the
gloves.

"Balance," cried the sergeant, "balance. Damme, keep
your balance."

But he was speaking to Dick and Edward felt a suffusion
of pleasure rather than an analysable thought. Dick had
staggered, not he.

34 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

When they were commanded to stop for another breather,
the sergeant rebuked Dick, and Didc answered somewhat
morosely.

"Yes, I know— but it's all mighty fine. I'm to play, and
he's to slog — and yet I'm not to break away an inch."

^Is he putting anything into it?" asked the sergeant,
with tender and solicitous interest

"Course he is," said Dick. "But I mustn't stop him for
fear of hurting him. ... All right, sir. Come on ;" and he
gave Edward a sickly but good-natured smile. "I'm paid
for it — ^so don't you mind. But I shall expect a shilling in-
stead of sixpence off you this time."

Then Edward insisted that every embargo should be
removed from Dick. Nothing would content him but that
Dick should deal with him on equal terms.

"D*you mean it?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes, I do. I want it — ^just to see."

**Very well," said the sergeant indulgently. **You hear,
Dick? Let it be give and take till I stop you."

The long bout tihat followed was like drinking deep of a
fiery potent wine — but a wine that did one good, not harm.
Sensation now was certainly the same thing as thought; or,
at least, all that might be traced to a lightningly rapid cogi-
tative process was the joy in finding that one could take all
that Dick could give. Each smack in the face exhilarated
and refreshed one, and of itself produced the appropriately-
placed r^ly. To stagger was a frenzied agony, but to recover
was a wild thrill of delight. To take and to give — to give
like that, and like that. . . .

"Good. Very good." The sergeant's voice was a remote
sweet music — a melody that cheered and never disturbed.
"Good again. There, stop. That's enough. You've had
best part of three minutes."

They had stopped, and they stood smiling at each other,
and breathing hard through distended nostrils.

"Give him his bob, sir, and let him go. Get back to your
work, Dick."

Then he paid Edward a most gratifying complim^t.
"You have pleased me, sir" — and he said it with genuine
cordiality. "You have surprised and pleased me. Con-
sidering the few opportunities you haye been enabled to put

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 35

at my disposal, you do me true credit." These words from
the sergeant meant a great deal. And he went on to talk very
seriously, telling Edward that no one, of course, can learn
boxing in a dozen lessons, and that he ought to have further
lessons whenever he could conveniently arrange to obtain
them. *Tf not from me, sir, then from some other party."

And Edward, standing there, proud and contented after
the immense enjoyment both of his exercise and the com-
jdiment, felt more conscious than ever of the dreamlike
unsubstantial nature of the whole thing. The idea came to
him in a moment, from nowhere : "All this is fading fast.
In a little while the sergeant will be gone ; not a boy that I
know will be here ; all wiU have vanished. It will be another
generation — and boys like myself will go to the library and
sit reading the thoughts of dead men. Only that room will
be full of life — ^the thought that alone has survived. Then
^ugfat must be everything, and action nothing in com-
parison." This seemed to him a flash of inexorable logic.

"Have I your attention, sir?" said the sergeant, in a tone
that betrayed slightly offended dignity. "I was telling you
a street row is not a sparring match. I tell all my gentlemen :
If you get drawn into a wrangle with one of the bullying
fraternity, your best and p'raps your only chance is to knock
him down. Don't argue, don't waste time in inviting him
to put his hands up — ^hit him as hard as you can, before he
knows what's coming. Step back for room, and knock him
down.' And in this respect I b'lieve there's a fallacy that
tmderlies the preaching of the left hand on all occasions.
Certainly if — like us professional chaps — ^your left hand
drive is better than your right, why, by all means use it. But
is tfiat probable ? No. It stands to reason, with nine ordi-
nary gentlemen out of ten, the right arm and the entire right
side of the boy is more strongly developed than the other.
Then I say to you, as I would to any other ordinary gentle-

man—

And the sergeant went on talking very seriously indeed.

VI

All at once the school was shaken by a terrible and scan-
dalous affair. Jarvis, who had left at the spring half-term,
was seen acting as an assistant at the glass and china shop in
Mitre Street. He wore a black apron and stood outside the
shop dusting the common earthenware that was exposed for
sale on the pavement ; or he swept straw away with a broom ;
or he helped to unload packing-cases. He had been seen
doing these things.

Evidently his sense of shame and degradation was very
great, for he lodced up and down the street, blinking his
eyes, and peering timorously; and when one passed, he
flushed, turned hi^ head away, and shambled into the shop.
But the horror of the St. Martyr's boys was greater than
Jarvis's shame. They said it was a disgrace to the school.
Such things probably happened often enough to the other
two schools in the town, but never before had the prestige
and reputation of St. Martyr's suffered thus.

Nothing else was talked of. Scarcely a word of pity for
Jarvis himself was uttered, because, although the boys no
doubt were sorry for him, they were sorrier for themselves.
And, moreover, the thing was so abnormal that it removed
itself from all recognised categories of form, conduct, and
sympathetic feeling. Thus small boys frequented Mitre
Street merely to stare at Jarvis in fascinated awe, and large
boys, walking by the shop, no more thought of greeting
Jarvis than he thought of greeting them.

Edward Churchill could not stand the painfulness of all
this. Jarvis's black apron and dusting brush had formed a
mental picture of misery that interfered with his sleep ; and
nevertheless he was aware of the instinctive shirking and
shrinking, the resistance of immediate inclination, the dead
weight of adverse public opinion that had to be overcome on
the day when he went down Mitre Street and talked to Jarvis
outside the shop. It was difficult even then, and Jarvis did
not make it easier. He kept flushing and coughing ; but at

36

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 17,

last he agreed to the arrangement that they should spend
next Saturday afternoon together.

They met accordingly when Saturday came and slunk out
of the town, over the meadows and far away from all other
boys. Jarvis led, and by the time they had gone a couple of
miles he was tired.

"Let's cross the railway," he said, "and find somewhere
sheltered where we can sit a bit."

There was a level crossing close to them, and a footbridge
two or three hundred yards farther up the line.

"Let's make for the bridge," said Jarvis; and they
accordingly did so.

"Now let's stop a minute," he said, when they were on
top of the bridge, and he looked up and down the line. "No
train coming — so we can't treat ourselves to a nerve-
shocker."

The bridge was well known and highly esteemed by St
Marytr boys for two reasons: first, because the story ran
that it had been erected after three haymakers had met
their death one night at the level crossing, and secondly,
because it afforded a pleasurable test of the steadiness of
one's nerves.

When you stood upon it and watched an approaching
train, you had, just at the last moment, an extraordinarilv
powerful illusion that the engine was too big to get through
and that you and the whole bridge were going to be smashed
into smithereens. Really it was a remarkable illusion ; and
little boys, treating themselves to the nerve-shocker, had
been known to crouch and emit a squeal of terror as the white
bath of steam envelc^d them and the thunder of the iron
mass swept beneath their feet.

"Here," said Jarvis presently, 'let's rest our bones here."

A March wind was blowing in a cold bright sky, but its
nip ¥ras not felt under the cliff of the chalk quarry into which
Jarvis conducted his companion ; and here, sitting on a pile
of timber props, they had a lon|^ talk.

"Churchill, I love you for this.'*

"For what, Jarvis old fellow?"

"For doing what you've done to-day. But don't do it
again.

"Why not?"

38 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"It's no use. It only upsets me — ^makes things harder to
bear," and Jarvis began to cough.

"JarvisI" Edward Churchill laid a hand upon his arm»
and kept it there till he ceased coughing.

"You see," said Jarvis, "I always knew that something
like this was hanging over me. Father and mother dead —
and only my aunt to lode to. She always put it before me
that the advantages of a good education were all she could
promise, and I must therefore work hard at school so as to
make my way in the world afterwards."

"Then why didn't you work, Jarvis?"

"I don't know. I ought to have."

Then, talking in just the same fussy hurried way that
used to be habitual to him when he gossiped about the captain
of the cricket eleven or the matron's sailor cousin, he told
Edward Churchill all that could possibly be told about him-
self from childhood onwards.

"But I couldn't act in harmony with the facts of my true
position," he said, when he had reached the present stage of
his life history. "I seemed to think that school would go
on for ever — ^and no one more surprised than myself at its
ending. Then when the blow fell, and Aunt said she'd
settled with Wilson's to start me there on the Monday morn-
ing, I made up my mind there was only one way out for me.
Yes, Churchill, I made up my mind to commit suicide."

"Jarvis, you can't really mean what you're saying."

"On my word of honour as a gentlemen — " and Jarvis
laughed and coughed. "As a gentleman! That's funny.
How the old words slip out unawares. Rum word for me
to use nowadays. But I do assure you, Churchill, I did
really and truly mean to do it."

"But you don't mean it any longer?"

"No. I soon abandoned the intention."

"Jarvis— dear old fellow — ^it would have been a very
wicked and cowardly act."

"Yes, I see that now ; but I didn't see it at first. I thought
I'd come out here after dark and do it on the line near the
bridge. That's why I chose this direction for our walk. I
wanted to have a look."

And then, in the same tone, without any increase of earn-

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 39

estness or solemnity, he said that he had been saved from
suicide by religious meditation and thoughts of Christ

*'It came while I was asleep, Churchill. No dream that I
could remember, but a sort of message."

'What was the message, Jarvis?"
*I carried my cross, and you must carry yours.' An* I
mean to do it. Perhaps it won't be for long. I'm not strong
— never was. There's something queer with my right hip,
as well as the ankle. And, you know, my chest 1 My famous
graveyard cough. It tears me to pieces at night some-
times;" and he smiled. "You bet, the two fellows who
sleep in the same room with me don't trouble me for

u

'You'll let me come and see you pretty often, Jarvis?"

'No. But thank you all the same.^

"Let me come once in a way."

"No," said Jarvis. "But, Churchill, what a brick you
are! No wonder fellows are fond of you. Of course I'd
like to see you— only it's not a bit of good." And he added
that soon he would leave St. Dtmstan's altogether. He was
merely learning the trade in Mitre Street, and after that he
was going to a shop at Sittingboume, a branch of the same
establishment. "So you'd best leave me alone. You see,
it's no use my hankering after you chaps. If I live, I must
settle down to the new level — the common beggars who've
never had a chance of learning Latin or Greek. Common I
After all, aren't we all one brotherhood ? And if you don't
Iflce your company, you can always retire into yourself.
That's what I do half the time I'm on duty."

They were silent as they walked back to the town, and
just before they reached the western gate Jarvis insisted
upon saying good-bye.

'•Yes, I'd sooner go on by myself now."

"Do let me see you to your door, Jarvis."

"No. Many thanks, Churchill. I shan't forget you, you
know."

"And I shan't forget you either."

"Good-bye."

It was really good-bye, because they never spoke to each

40

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

other again. By Easter Jarvis had disappeared, and the
school scandal being over, no one talked of him any more.

Edward Churchill had thought of him frequently, and had
written to him several times, but without receiving an
answer. Indeed, perhaps it was something in his thoughts
about Jarvis that laid the train of other thoughts and made
him now as eager for his confirmation as he had previously
been anxious to delay it.

Together, then, with twelve other boys from St. Mart)rr's
and innumerable boys from the town, he duly renewed the
solemn promise and vow that had been made for him at his
baptism, answering audibly "I do" at the proper moment,
and thinking throughout the very long ceremony, "All this
is but a preparation for what will now happen to me in three
days. This is nothing: that is all."

His mother was kneeling and praying among the other
mothers, and he would have liked to spend the rest of the
day with her, but the newly-confirmed were enjoined to keep
together in a kind of sacred good-fellowship until the evening
came.

VII

At first gradually, and then with dreadful swiftness,
changes came into the quiet home life of Mrs. Churchill and
her sons. Tom Churchill was nineteen now, and it was more
than time for him to begin his studies at the Theological
College; but one night after supper, without preliminary
warning, he told his mother that he did not think he was
suited for the Church. He felt acute longings for a career of
adventure, and, as she couldn't afford to make him a soldier,
he fancied he had better go out to the Colonies.

Poor Mrs. Churchill was thunderstruck. "What has put
this into your head?" she asked. "You were so siure of
yourself. It is some bad influence."

Tom did not answer.

But he shocked Charles, and utterly disgusted Edward,
by the explanation he gave to them when Mrs. Churchill's
pale sad face was no longer there, to check his tongue.

"What could I say to her without offenduig her?" he asked
bluntly. "For of course this upset — ^if she chooses to make
it an upset — ^is her fault, not mine."

"How dare you speak of her like that?" said Edward
hotly.

"Don't you try to teach me manners," said Tom. "Dash
your impudence, who do you think you are?"

"If it's anything against the mater," said Charles, with
righteous indignation, "I stand shoulder to shoulder with
Edward.''

Then Tom laughed in good-humoured contempt "Lo<Jc
here, my dear innocent babes, I know my duty to the
mater just as well as you do, and I am just as fond of
her as either of you. But I have reached years of discre-
tion, and things that are still dark to you have become
painfully clear to me."

And he went on to say that it was his mother and not he
who had chosen the Church as his profession. Any man of
the world would have seen with half an eye that he did not

41

42 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

show the slightest fitness for the Giurch. He himself would
have seen it, if he hadn't been rendered almost blind, deaf,
and dumb by the dear mater's unceasing "pi" talk. Before
he had begun to understand what was what, the mater had
got to work "pumping religion" into him. She never
stopped doing it. Bless her heart, she couldn't help doing
so ; it was her nature.

"I suppose," he said, with the same horrible bluntness,
"there never was anybody quite so much stuffed up with
the Church as she is. I admire her for it — only so far as I
am concerned, well, my case is : You can take a horse to the
water, but you can't always make him drink."

Then there were some warm passages between him and the
other two; but he put forward an argument that carried
weight. He said that he had a right to speak openly and it
was their duty to listen to anything he had to say. He was
their senior, he was the eldest son.

"We'll listen," said Edward, "so long as you don't speak
disrespectfully of our mother."

"Who wants to speak disrespectfully of her? Not I.
God bless her. I know her only thought has been to do
what's best for us. But one can't get away from facts.
With the best intentions in the world, the dear mater has
been trying for I don't know how many years to turn us
into the three largest Al copper-plated prigs that the universe
has ever contained."

"The mater loathes priggishness."

"Does she?" said Tom drily.

This was terrible to Edward. That Tom should renounce
all hope of entering the Church if he did not feel good
enough for a priestly life was without doubt the right tiling
to do ; but that he should speak thus of his mother was unfor-
givable. Here, then, was the brutal conclusion of that beau-
tiful legend. In the fullness of time, one of the weak little
children had become strong, big, hardy, able to begin to
repay; and this is how he talked of Uie protector of his
weakness.

A week or two passed, and Tom formulated proposals.
A St Martyr's boy called Venables, the son of a New Zea-
land farmer, was now returning to the Antipodes, and Tom
would like to go with him.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 43

Mrs. Oiurchill refused to hear of it. She said, "Would
you put the whole world between us, Tom?"

"^1, it's nothing nowadays," said Tom cheerfully. "Why,
look at Venables — ^two years younger than me, and he's been
there and back three times already. If I make money, you
can all come out for your swmner holiday."

"I will never consent," said Mrs. Churchill. "When you
are of age, you will be your own master ; but till then you
cannot be so cruel, so unfilial as to defy my authority."

In fact, she felt that her authority had ceased to exist;
and this was what others told her. She went about asking
advice from everybody — ^the headmaster, the form masters,
the vicar of St Alban's, and Mr. Barrett.

Mr. Barrett, the auctioneer, was not a person that Edward
would have wished his mother to introduce into these most
intimate troubles and perplexities. Truly, any snobbish-
ness that perhaps once flourished in a childish mind had
long since died. Had it at all survived to a later period, the
episode of Jarvis would have been a grand and final uproot-
ing of this noxious weed from the mental garden. Edward
did not therefore object to Mr. Barrett because of any caste
prejudices, but because the man himself seemed quite
unworthy of Mrs. Churchill's countenance and favour.

It was especially distasteful to see him ensconced in a
large rocking-chair that had belonged to the late Mr.
Churchill, a chair that the boys had been accustomed to
consider as an almost sacred piece of furniture, so hallowed
was it bv sentimental memories.

"Don t go away, Edward," said Mrs. Churchill. He had
opened the drawing-rocmi door, and, at the unwelcome sight
of Mr. Bsurrett, was about to close the door ^;ain.

"Mr. Barrett takes your view, Edward — that it is much
better all this should happen now than later, and that I
must not be angry with poor Tom."

**Yes," said Mr. Barrett, "I tell your dear manmia these
little accidents will happen in the best regulated families;"
and, joining his fat finger tips together, he uttered a string of
the tritcst possible platitudes. "That is my advice to your
dear mamma," he concluded. *^e can't any of us afford
to see her wearing herself to a shadow with the annoyance of
it No, na That wouldn't do," and he smiled, and nodded

44 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

his head. "We also have to remember/' and he ceased
smiling and turned up his eyes : "The ways of Him who
preordains these small rubs and discomfitures are always
mscrutable, and we may therefore hope that everything will
turn out for the best in the long run."

Whatever one thought of Mr. Barrett, and however much
one disliked the manner in which his advice was tendered,
its matter was no doubt wise enough. In substance it was
what every one said, and Edward among the rest. Very
little reflection had shown him his clear and obvious duty.
He must, by making open rebellion appear something quite
natural to the ordinary course of events, save his mother
from grief and sorrow. An actual quarrel between her and
Tom must be avoided at all costs.

The quarrel, however, came.

For Tom presently absented himself for a day or two
without leave, merely sending a message to say that business
affairs had called him to London. When he returned,
although he spoke in what purported to be an apologetic
tone, he unfortunately gave one an impression of being in
fact almost truculently triumphant. Acting on what he con-
sidered to be a brilliant idea, he had hunted up their funny
old Aunt Jane, and she had consented to act as capitalist
at this crisis of his affairs. In other words, she would pro-
vide money for sufiicient outfit and pay his passage to New
Zealand. This arrangement, Tom said, gave him great
pleasure, because it would relieve his mother from expense,
and she need not worry about things any more. Indeed she
might consider the whole thing as finally settled, because he
had received a most gratifying letter from Venables senior,
offering him employment on a sheep farm immediately after
his arrival. But far from sharing the satisfaction of Tom,
Mrs. Churchill was bitterly wounded by what he had dcme.
It cut her to the quick to think that he had appealed for
assistance to anybody but herself ; that he should have done
this without her permission, and, above all, that he should
have made the unauthorised appeal to Aunt Jane. Since
that visit to the Rose Hotel years ago, there had been no
further intercourse between Uie Churchills and their aunt
Auntie had indeed made further overtures of good will, but
Mrs. Churchill, actuated by pride that was perhaps not

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 45

Ic^^icaUy defensible, had discouraged them, and now for a
long time there had been silence.

With flashing eyes and blazing cheeks, she told Tom that
she would never pardon such an act of treachery; that
henceforth he might do what he pleased; that it did not
matter to her whether he went or stayed, because she felt
that she had already lost the son whom she had loved and
trusted. And, perhaps for the first time in her life, she
banged a door instead of closing it quietly behind her.

Tom looked very sheepish at the sound of this domestic
thunder, but he presently whistled and shrugged his
shoulders and said, "Of course she doesn't mean it. Shell
come round before I go. But now, as the fat seems to be in
the fire, the sooner I go the better."

Later on he asked Charles to tell him, as brother to brother,
whether he thought that there had really been such mon-
strous gilt in "biting the ear of old Janie." To which
question Charles replied guardedly that he really did not
Uke to pronounce an opinion, but that he honestly felt that
Tom was behaving very badly, and sacrificing every one's
feelings to his own whims and fancies. The ardour of Tom
seemed slightly damped by this reply, but presently rallying,
he said it was all a storm in a teacup, and that he thought the
world had gone mad to make such a fuss about nothing ; he
added that he felt it his duty to give both Charles and
Edward a faithful report of his visit to Aunt Jane, as it
might be useful to them for their future guidance.

"Between you and me and the post," he said, "the old
lady didn't welcome me, and I had to return to the charge
again and again before I could screw her up to parting point.
You never saw such a rummy house or such a queer way of
going on. Heaps of pictures and furniture and all that, but
the whole place lodced beastly dirty. I saw at least half a
dozen cats, and she told me that since her dog died she had
taken to cats, but they could never make up to her for the
loss of Fluffy-face. Her maid — ^not the one she brought
here — seemed to boss the whole show, and to have the old
lady completely tmder her thumb. Anyhow, I persuaded
her at last to do the handsome, and she wrote a cheque while
the maid was out of the room, and told me to put it in my
podcet and say nothing about it. She said, too," and Tom

46 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

laughed cheerily, "that it was all I need ever expect from
her; that none of us had any claim upon her; that all her
money was her very own, and that she could do what she
liked with it. I tell you this," he said, "for what it's worth.
I don't know whether you or Charles have ever built castles
in the air, but I often used to think myself that when the
old dame turned up her toes, something might come our
way."

In the days that followed, home ceased to be home. Tom
was busily occupied in his preparations, and Mrs. Churchill
rigorously ignored him. She refused to listen to any account
of his proceedings. At meal-time she would talk to him only
on indifferent subjects, and in the cold manner and tone of a
reserved and unbending stranger.

But of course Tom had diagnosed the situation correctly.
She did not really mean it. On the last evening that he was
to spend under the maternal roof her resolve broke down ;
she wept upon his shoulder, clinging to him, and calling him
her firstborn, barging that they might part as friends, assur-
ing him that she only desired his happiness, and promising
to pray for him night after night while he was crossing
the waste of waters.

Next morning early she and his brothers went to the rail-
way station to see him off. After he and his friend, young
Venables, had got into their compartment in the Dover
train, there were more tears and clinging during the pause
before the wheels moved and the train began to roll away.
Mrs. Churchill, supporting herself on Edward's arm, and
still sobbing, waited till the train vanished from sight
Charles stood a few paces from them, and slowly and
solemnly waved his pocket handkerchief. He still seemed to
be inexpressibly shocked by the whole of this affair.

Tom had gone, and for two months there was comparative
peace.

Then Charles, who had recently been growing moodier and
moodier, pushed his plate away from him at the supper table,
and spoke explosivdy.

"Tom was right. Tom was right all through. And
what's more, I'm not a bit better suited to be a sky-pOot
^lan he was."

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 47

Mrs. Churchill rose from her chair with such haste that it
fell over. Her lips trembled, and she became so white that
Edward sprang to her side, believing that she was about to
faint.

"Charles," she gasped, "what do you mean by such
blasphemy ?"

"I used a wrong word," cried Charles excitedly. "I in-
tended to say clergyman, and I said the other by accident.
But, mother, the fact remains. As Tom said, one can't get
away from facts. It would be madness — ^it would be a crime
for me to go into the Church. I'm not good — far from it.
I should be a slimy hypocrite if I pretended otherwise. I
should be a rotter of the deepest dye if I went on with the
'pi' programme any longer."

.Aiter this the trouble began all over again, and Charles
caused more anguish than had been caused bv Tom. Tom,
at least, had definite proposals to submit ; whereas Charles
did not know what he wanted to do, beyond not wanting
to be a clergyman. For the second time Edward acted as
buffer, stru^ed to make rough things smooth, pleaded for
the rebel and sheltered the deposed ruler. But to Mrs.
Churchill it seemed like the solid work of her life going to
water before her eyes. It was monstrous and unbelievable —
as though a smiling fertile landscape had been devastated by
a whirlwind, as &ough all the pleasant tranquil hillsides
had changed to roaring volcanoes, as though evil suffocating
fires had burst forth from fields of daisies and cowslips.

The headmaster of St. Martyr's, being again solicited to
give his advice, told her that only one thing was certain to
Us mind — Charles must leave the school. He had suddenly
developed unsatisfactory habits; he was becoming a bad
example to others ; he was "out of hand," and it would be
wise to remove him before he committed some flagrant
enonnity.

"But what then — what am I to do next?" asked Mrs.
QmrdiiU. "Can you not help me with suggestions? You
have such great knowledge — and I am cmly an ignorant
MQian.

The Head, however, was empty of practical hints. Nor
£d he for a moment appear to think that there was anything
vnotual or surprising in his confession that a young gentle-

48 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

man who had enjoyed his training for a considerable num-
ber of years might finally turn out rather badly.

"Possibly," he said, "a course of strcmg physical labour —
such as may be obtained in, ah, an engineer's works, or, ah,
one of these experimental farms one reads of — ^would dis-
sipate your son's sloth and stimulate his more healthful
energies."

While gravely escorting Mrs. Churchill to his front door,
he spoke with high approval of Edvrard, no doubt feeling
glad to pay a compliment after giving voice to censure.

"In the opinion of Mr. Jennings — and I may say also in
my own opinion, so far as I have had a chance of judging— >
your third son exhibits very promising mental gifts. His
essays, especially, indicate, ah, high imagination, and a great
propriety of language. He is painstaking and orderly. If
I may say so, he strikes me as obviously being more the
material out of which clergymen are made than either of
the other two."

*Ah, yes," said Mrs. Churchill, sighing.

*Had you also thought of the Church for him?"

"Yes, constantly — always.'

«

"Viau yuu aisu uiuugui ui

"And he himself?"

'He thinks of it — ^but that is all, so far."

Charles then ceased to be a St. Martyr's boy. He strolled
about the town in a perpetual holiday, smoked a meerschaum
pipe, made the acquaintance of the barmaid at the Crosier
saloon, and became the bosom friend of the marker at Kent's
Billiard Rooms. The vicar of St. Alban's told his mother
that she should not allow him to stay out so late at night,
and Mr. Barrett told her he had been seen talking to some
very undesirable companions in the lounge of the music-
hall. Lastly, she told herself that his manner of fixedly
r^[arding Maria's niece was not quite nice.

Maria, their still loyal and faithful servant, growing no
younger with the passing years, had come to need some slight
assistance in the household drudgery, and this young relative
had been introduced on probation. She was a black-haired,
red-cheeked, untidy girl, very avid for evenings out, and
inclined to be sulky to her mistress as well as impudent to
her aunt. Mrs. Churchill had already decided that somehow
without wounding Maria's feelings, she must be sent bade to

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 49

her parents; and she was more sure than ever when she
observed Qiarles's idle eyes pertinaciously following her.

Alas, neither Maria's nor anybody's else feelings could be
spared.

Mrs. Churchill, entering her rarely-used drawing-room at
dusk, found Charles in the big swing chair with Maria's niece
on his knee. They were gently rodcing the chair and whis-
pering to each other dreamily, as though they had already
rocked themselves to a kind of beatific waking trance that
might now at any moment change to sleep.
"Charles !" said Mrs. Churchill.

Charles, roused from his state of oblivion, made frantic
efforts to get rid of his burden and bring the chair to a stand-
still ; and the girl, disengaging herself without haste, put a
careless hand to her tumbled blade hair, looked impudent,
and slipped away downstairs to tell Aunt Maria that she was
passionately fond of the young master and would marry him
to-morrow if he asked her.

She left for home the same evening. And three or four
days afterwards Charles went to London en route for Bir-
mmgham, in order to begin his studies as an electrical
engineer in the workshops of a highly esteemed and go-ahead
fimt

It was Mr. Barrett — to whom Mrs. Churchill had turned
in her utter despair — ^who discovered this opening and
nqiotiated all the arrangements for the reception of the pupil,
diepavment of the premium, and everything else.

'T, Qon*t know what I could have done without you/' said
Mrs. Churchill gratefully.

"Dcm't mention it,"' said Mr. Barrett. "ITiere's nothing
I wooldn't do for yoUi if it was in my power."

vm

Edwaio) and his mother were alone now. A delicious quiet
filled their home, and the only trouble was occasional scarcity
of money.

Tom, sheep-farming in New Zealand, wrote long letters
of which the unvaried gist was : This is a wonderful country;
it affords great chances for capitalists, but is rough for
working men, and unfortunately life is very expensive. Mrs.
Churchill was sending him as an allowance exactly what he
would have cost at home, and he never asked for more ; but
each letter was a long rambling hint that he would like some
more.

Charles, too, was a drain upon his mother's slender re-
sources, costing much more than one had hoped. He did not
get on well with the Birmingham firm, and another premium
was required to establish him at Manchester. Then he
moved to Edinburgh. From Edinburgh he launched unusu-
ally heavy demands; and Mrs. Churchill, revolting, told
Edward, "It isn't fair to you, or to me either. It is like
blackmail." The end of the debate, however, was always
the same : on Edward's advice, she sent the money. She and
he were happy together, and perhaps she secretly thought
that, if the absent ones were blackmailers, it was worth pay-
ing to be rid of them. Edward reminded her always of thdr
sterling virtues; but truly, though thinking of them with
tenderness, he felt that they had become strangers. They
had themselves wilfully broken the legend of love.

The most inopportune claim made by Charles was when
he found it necessary to visit the electrical works of Lyons
and Paris ; but once again the money was sent to him— the
money that should have taken Mrs. Churchill and Edward
for a long summer holiday at a farmhouse in Cornwall.

It did not matter. They were so happy together^, any*
where. They told each other that they did not need diange
of air. St. Dunstan's was sufficiently near the sea. They
went out for days in the country, ate their luncheon on the

SO

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 51

grass, had tea at pretty little roadside cottages; and the
people of St. Dunstan's who saw them coming home of an
evening said they were more like sweethearts than mother
and son.

So the years passed for Edward, with a happiness only
disturbed by self-questionings, until he came to be nineteen
years of age.

For the last time he had attended the Martyr's Feast as
a member of the school. His boyhood was over, but as yet
all that makes up the life of men remained uncertain.

One winter's evening, not long after the Celebration of the
Feast, he persuaded his mother to come to the service at the
cathedral instead of going to her favourite St. Alban's. She
went with him readily enough, and to have her by his side
added sweetness to the music and softness to the lamps.

Yet presently, when all rose to sing the Magnificat, he
forgot that she was there, and it was as if he stood quite
alone.

''My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath
rejoiced in God my Saviour."

He was thinking; but the glory of the song, the swell from
die great organ, the clustered lights, the grey columns that
lifted themselves out of shadow and hid their heads in dark-
ness, the height and vastness of this noble fane, its antiquity
and its strength — all these things seemed to have their part
as causes of the thrilling emotion that accompanied his
diougfats.

It had been twilight when they came in, and the whole
fabric of carved and cut stone looked like a rich sepia draw-
ing of a church, with the painted windows faintly tinted by
the external light and giving one an impression of ghostliness
and mystery, while monuments at a distance gleamed
whitdy and seemed to whisper of the dead. Now rapidly the
twilight deepened ; night began to flood the farther parts of
the church; the ghostly windows faded, the white tombs
vanished, great walls of shadow advanced until the worship-
pers seemed to be in a little church within the great one.
Here, in the transept and choir, where the service was being
bdd, one was conscious every moment of an increasing

52 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

#

brightness; colours glowing vividly beneath the circular
chsuideliers, and the rows of small lights on the dioristers'
desks flashed and sparkled in front of the boys' faces, deep
linen collars, and red neckbands.

Soon the song was over and Edward Churchill knelt, not
listening to the well-known words, but lost- in meditation.

The inner and the outer life. An existence crowded with
incessant and meaningless action would make him the most
miserable of human beings — ^he was, of course, certain of
that He was sure of himself also to this extent : he would
infallibly forfeit real happiness if he merely strove for the
exaltation that comes from individual success. It would
be nothing to him ; for instance, to be a great soldier who led
armies to conquest and added whole continents to his native
land, unless he knew that he had been fighting for an altru-
istic cause. He thought of all the prizes that the world can
ever offer to what are commonly called men of action, and
they seemed to him worse than dust and ashes when com-
pared with the peace of mind that is sometimes gained by
htmibly obliterating oneself for the good of others.

And yet action is inexorably ordained. That marvellous
inward stream of imagination, memory, hope, fear, frets
and rages against every barrier that shuts it from a seeming
issue into the great ocean of material facts. And the neces-
sity of action is constant. Quiet thoughts whose aim is
merely quiet change to storms of passion and revolt. Quiet
thoughts are rewards, not objects; and restlessness can be
banished only by fatigue. We must spend ourselves in
action and in thought. We must use every fibre of bodies,
exhaust each drop of blood, work till the work kills us, or
we do not live to the full. That is the second half of the
great enigma. He had been wrong in all his guesses; the
bishop-suffragan was wrong; those old philosophers were
wrong. For neither the inner life nor the outer life is
real. One must live both, or one does not live at all. The
lying man must still fight life with action, or he will not
conquer death with thought.

And his ideas seemed in a moment to crystallise and
flash from many facets one splendid gleam of truth.

Christ offered the life of mental peace. Only by follow-
ing Him could one blend action and thought in a perfect

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 53

schema. If one acted as His faithful messenger one would
use all one's strength; one would fight and yet rest; and
even in hours when the struggle was fiercest, when all that
the eye could see was ugly and all that the hand could
touch was vile^ amidst brutsd violence and wanton sin, with
the whole external picture changed to a huge kaleidoscope
of hellj the stream of one's inward thought would flow deep
and still — ^as a river that glides invisible at night, as a river
moving calmly through the darkness to meet the light of
dawn.

'Teach me to live, that I may dread
The grave as little as my bed ;
Teach me to die, that so I may
Rise glorious at the awful day."

Slow waves of melody rolled from the great organ, filling
the air with majesty and awe ; the chorus of young voices
rose sweetly and clearly; each believing heart vibrated in
the soi^ of praise.

And Edward Churchill whispered to himself, ''This is my
call. This is my hour. This is all that I have been humbly
waiting for. Poor, weak, and vain as I am, my service is
accepted."

He thought of the grandeur of Christ, and of His cour-
age. He was braver than all the warriors the world has
ever seen. As highest possible commendation of the heroes
and war leaders of history, it is said that when enemies fell
into their power, they were lenient; sparing many. But
the whole human race were His captives, and He spared
them all ; for their sake He renounced the use of His infi-
nite power; and when He mig^t have shattered the uni-
verse with one word of just anger. He accepted death and
torment at the hands of those whom He had come to save.
He was the Great Captain, the Hero of Heroes. What
other leader should a brave man want to follow ?

Throughout the final verse of the hymn, Mrs. Churchill
was lookup at her son and admiring his profile. He stood
very erect, with head well back, his lips shut, and his eyes
fixed on the cross above the altar.

Then everybody once more knelt, and soon the blessing
was p ronounced. The choir and the clergy trooped out

54 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

slowly, through the open screen, down the nave to the west-
ern door. Two stately vergers with lanterns accompanied
them ; and, as the glow of the lanterns passed on, the vast
nave seemed to spring into existence again, to become a
magnificent, a fabulous avenue leading far away into the
night. At a seemingly immense distance the surpliced
group stopped to say the last prayer. No words reached
one; it was like an echo of the blessing. There came a
faint burst of song, a movement in which the stupendous
fabric seemed to join; then the lantern gleams vanished,
and all was dark and still.

A light covering of snow lay upon the ground, and as
Edward and his mother walked along a narrow swept path
the music of the voluntary followed them a little way and
kept them silent.

Then, when they had reached the streets and she had
taken his arm, he told her that he felt decided at last. He
no longer doubted himself. He had heard the call.

Mrs. Churchill could scarcely speak for joy.

"Oh, my son — ^my true son. Oh, how I have prayed for
this ! You crown my life with gladness."

And that night she made their supper a feast; telling
old Maria that it was a never-to-be-forgotten occasion, that
hot dishes were to be cooked and confectionery purchased,
that the candles in the chimney sconces were to be lighted
as well as all the lamps. She wore her finest dress, put on
every one of her poor little ornaments, and looked radiant,
grand, and at least ten years younger than before. She
treated Edward as though he had been an august, illus-
trious visitor, bowing with a smile as she took his hand to
lead him to the supper table, and saying when he pro-
tested, "Do you realise that before long I shall be doing
more than bow? I shall have to kneel while you give me
your blessing."

And he, lending himself to her htunour, ate the unusual
dainties, drank wme, and talked lightly, although, perhaps
just then a graver kind of festival would have suited him
better.

But after their meal they talked more seriously, and on
his side with a deepening sense of joy. That evening his

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 55

whole future was mapped out. The difficulty of ways and
means governed all their plans, and, indeed, little choice of
detail seemed possible. He would be ordained without any
avoidable delay, but in the four years that must intervene
he would try to be self-supporting. He would teach, write,
somehow earn some money; and, although they might
necessarily be separated for short periods, he would come
back here each time that he could. Then as soon as pos-
sible they would be united for ever. It was a hard life
that he traced so cheerfully; seeing himself in imagination
the vicar of some overcrowded London parish, who might
remain poor and obscure to the end of the chapter. But
he and she would be together, and they would be very
happy.

"That's a promise, mother, isn't it? You won't mind
leaving St Dunstan's?"

"No."

"And you'll stay with me always?"

'Tfes," and, smiling, she spoke rather sadly. "I'll stay
until you have a wife to look after you instead of a mother."

"I shall never marry."

"Oh, that would be unnatural. / could not wish for that
— greedy as I am for all your love."

But he told her that a priest did not need a wife. "Priests
should be celibates. I have always admired the Roman rule
of cdibacy."

Mrs. Churchill shook her head. "No, marriage is a holy
and beautiful ordinance. A happy marriage can even raise
a priest"

"Motticr, believe me. I want no one but you."

He had no dreams to-nig^t. Directly he lay down in his
bed, where so often the nights had been more tiring than
the days, where as a child he had seen visions and heard
voices, where he had felt the pain of others so keenly that
it seemed bis own, he sank into deep, untroubled sleep.

IX

He was roused next morning by his mother knocking at
the door. The post had brought her a summons to London,
and she wanted him to come with her. He must dress and
get some breakfast at once, and they would catch an early
train.

She appeared nervous and fluttered, but as she offered no
further explanation he did not question her. As they hur-
ried to the railway station, she told him breathlessly that
she had in fact been much agitated by the receipt of unex-
pected news. As always happens on these occasions, they
had time to spare at the station, and while waiting on the
platform she informed him that the principal part of the
tidings related to their Aunt Jane.

"'^iward, she is dead. Her solicitors have written to
me, saying she died a week ago. That is not all — but wc
are to go and see them. Messrs. Joyce & Burdett — in Gray's
Inn. They speak of legacies. Oh, I can't say more. But I
hope. I hope. I am in a fever to know the truth."

There were other people in their compartment, and
she was silent all the way to London.

At the solicitors' offices they were told that Mr. Joyce
would see them at once in his own room, but nevertheless
they were kept waiting in an outer apartment for a period
that to Mrs. Churchill seemed endless. Then at last, after
some compliments and civilities unendurably spun out, they
were seated in front of Mr. Joyce's writing-table listening
to the words that might change the whole current of their
lives.

As I had the pleasure of advisin|^ you," said Mr. Joyce,
the residue of the property is left m eqtial shares to your
three sons, Thomas, Qiarles, and Edward."

Mrs. Churchill was trembling so that she had difficulty in
asking her one great question. What did this mean exactly ?
How much money or how little was coming to her three
boys? "Please, don't keep me in suspense."

56

it

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP. 57

Mr. Joyce, a genial old fellow, laughed good-humouredly.
"^ell, my dear madam, it is not El Dorado ; but it is a nice,
OHnfortable sum for young gentlemen beginning life.
Roughly, each share should bring in an income of six hun-
dred a year — ^perhaps a little over."

And he explained that the capital sum would be handed
over to each of the young gentlemen on attaining his ma-
jority. But meantime the executors were empowered to
pay out income for maintenance, education, and advance-
ment.

''As you know, Mrs. Churchill, your relative was not
exactly like everybody else. I say it in no disrespect — ^no,
certainly not — ^but she was oJJ— especially of late. I men-
tion it merely for this reason. I do not think you need
apprehend any trouble on that scorce — on the validity of
the will I thought you would be glad to know it. Yes, I
think I can safely assure you that everything is in order."

And he went on to say that the will, drafted by himself,
had been executed several years ago, and that quite re-
cently a codicil had been added.

"Yes" and he laughed again, ''substantial provision was
then made for a servant, and for the guardianship and ade-
quate support of certain cats — ^nine cats — for the remainder
of their days. I dare say those cats may not live as long as
the testator hoped — for the capital devoted to their en-
dowment does not return to the estate, but passes to their
guardian. Well, I welcomed that codicil — for this reason.
From the legal point of view, it tended to strengthen the
win. Do you see, it not only brought the will up-to-date, it
also ^"

For a little while neither Mrs. Churchill nor Edward
found it possible to listen with attention. They were en-
tirely engrossed by rapid and quite uncontrollable thoughts.

Edward's first feeling was one of sorrow — sorrow for
the (^ueer, kind old woman who had died. He saw her in
imagination as he had seen her at the St. Dunstan's hotel,
jini^ing trinkets, chattering, fussing, tripping on her velvet
dr^, and fondling the little dog. She was kind and gen-
erous. Why might she not enjoy a little longer the strai^,
confused dream that her life had probably become? Then
immediately he was thinking. Why had she not died

58 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

sooner? If the money had come sooner, Tom need not
have gone to rough it as a fanner. Charles, too— Charles
could have been started on a prosperous course. Tom
would come racing home to claim his own — ^he was already
of age. But it was too late for him to go into the Army.
If the money had come sooner, be and Charles could have
done what they liked.

And then, swift and unintelligible as lightning in a cloud-
less sky, he had a totally illogical thought about himself.
"Has tfie money come too late for me also? If I had
known of it, I could have done what / liked." But inune-
diately he recognised the folly of this reflection. "Why did
I think that?" he asked himself. "For I am doing what I
like. The money could have made no difference. Indeed,
in my case it has come at the veiy moment, the first mo-
ment, I wanted it."

Mrs. Churchill's thoughts were more completely jubi-
lant.

"'By the way, which of the three are you?"

Mrs. ChurchUl and Edward both roused themselves to
answer this direct question.

"The youngest ? Really ? And how old, may I ask ?"

"A little over nineteen."

"You surprise me. I should have guessed your age as
more;" and Mr. Joyce looked at Edward with a studious
and kindly interest. "Yes, you look — ^to my eye— consid-
erably older."

"He does," said Mrs. Churchill, fondly. "Everybody sajrs
so. It is his strength of character."

"I am glad to hear that," said Mr. Joyce genially; *T)e-
cause strength of character is an uncommonly useful thing;
and, if I may take the liberty of speaking with frankness,
you and your brothers may need it just now."

Then he offered Edward the wise advice that, as he ex-
plained, he would give to a son of his own if analogously
situated.

"For your sakes, I am inclined to wish that it had been
left in trust for you — ^yes, I do. You see, the danger is
that young men not accustomed to manage money are apt
to fancy that six htmdred a year is inexhaustible. But not

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 59

at all. Nothing of the sort. It is not nearly enough to live
on in idlessness. But mark this" — and he became impres-
sive. "It is a golden key to almost any career you please
to choose. That is what you should keep before you : This
will be magnificent odds in my favour — ^this lifts me above
the struggle that crushes the hearts out of so many able
men. I can work in comfort — I can afford to bide my
time, if the work is not immediately remunerative. It
opens the world to me."

"Yes," said Mrs. Churchill fervently. "That is what I
felt at once."

"And," asked Mr. Joyce, 'liave you as yet formed any
plans?"

Edward replied that he was going into the Church.
'Yes," said his mother, "he is going into the Church."
'The Church !" ' echoed Mr. Joyce. "Oh. Well, as
you're still so young, you have ample leisure. I should
not finally make up my mind too soon."

"It is quite n^de up," said Edward.

"But you may change it."

"That is not likely."

As he said this, Edward had a vivid memory of his bene-
factress as she came forward welcoming them in the hotel
nxnn. Then he understood why he had thought of her
9gaia so suddenly. She also had advised him to be careful
about making up his mind. And he had been careful. He
had waited until he felt the call.

"Well, if it is to be the Church," continued Mr. Joyce,
"independent means is everything there too. Starting with
tix hundred a year, you ought to be a bishop before you're
fifty. I should keep that before myself. I should say reso-
lutely: With six hundred a year to help me along, if I
don't become a bishop — at the least — ^I shall have failed."

Then diey talked a little business, and after that Mr.
Joyce bade them good-bye.

"One last word, Mr. Churchill. Never, on any pretence,
tooch your capital. Consider it as a trust — to pass on in-
tict Make it a trust in your own mind, since my late
client didn't do it for you."

Tb^ walked away together through the crowded streets,

60 THE MIRROR AND! THE LAMP

not knowing whither they directed their steps, and not really
caring. The sun shone upon them: all the world seemed
bright and gay and full of hope.

Mrs. Churchill felt an almost irresistible desire to spend
some money at once, in order to prove that the wonderful
change of fortune was real and not imaginary. An hour
ago cab fares were matters of great importance; now walk-
ing instead of driving was a whim, an eccentricity, or an
amiable condescension on their part. Since the boys were
opulent personages, they would want no money from her,
and so she had become as rich as they. But it was solely
for them that in truth she rejoiced and above all — oh, infi-
nitely above all — ^she rejoiced for Edward. She kept
squeezing his arm, and murmuring. "Edward, do you
even now see what it means to you?'

"Yes, yes," he answered from time to time. He was
asking himself, "Why am I so glad ? Surely I oug^t to fed
that it is nothing to me ? Why should I be puffed up with
this vainglory?"

In spite of their affluent circumstances, they had a frugal,
inexpensive luncheon, and they travelled back on the rail-
way, as they had come, third-class. But on the return
journey they obtained a compartment to themselves, and
this was just as satisfactory as if they had taken a special
train and sat in a richly upholstered saloon.

They sat side by side, he looking out of the window,
watching the trim landscape rush towards him and drop
behind, like a thing that one carelessly uses a moment,
then tfirows away and forgets; and she with her hands
clasped on his shoulder, looking up at his face, and talking
wiUi the almost passionate admiration of a silly girl for
the strong silent man she loves.

"My darling, I glory in it. My dreams have come true.
In all my rejoicing yesterday there was just that drop of
bitterness — ^what every mother would feel, but no one quite
so much as I. Do you understand? It made my heart ache
—even ^^le you talked so bravely — that you would not
have what is given to so many : a grand and stately prepar-
ation — ^the university — foreign tours. And I thought: He
will be obliged to stint himself in garments, food, and lodg-
ing; he will be unaUe to pick and choose his cuiades; ne

tlHE MIRROR and: THE LAME 61

f

will always be driven by necessity to take what other men
leave;" and she raised herself to touch his chin with her
1^. *3ut now — now you can have all. You shall be
surrounded with beautiful things — ^the frame shall be
worthy of the picture. And all things will be easy for
jrou — as Mr. Joyce said. You shall be a Prince of the
Church — and as a very, very old woman, I will come and
receive your blessing on the cathedral steps. And people
will say, 'Who was it that the Archbishop spoke to so
gently?^ And some one will answer, *It was his mother.
. . •' Oh, my boy — ^my own idolised boy, I'm so happy ;"
and resting her forehead on her hands, she burst into

He kissed and soothed her, holding her close to his
heart, as the train sped onward and the river, the shipping,
and tfie castle of Rochester swung into view. She was pas-
sive in the delight of his embrace for a little while, men
released herself and sat silent by his side. But it seemed
as if her emotion and excitement had been flowing out of
her into him.

His eyts brightened and he drew deep breaths.

Was she right to rejoice so greatly? Had he been timid
and lacking in faith when he fancied that his own elation
was vainglory? It seemed to him now, with the echo of
her fond words still sounding in his ears, that veritably this
money had come to him by divine design immediately upon
his vowing himself to Christ. He felt a thrill of immense
pride. The money implied that he was going to be used for
more delicate work than he had dared hope. Not only was
he chosen, but chosen for special purposes. He was not
merely to be one of the rank and file : he was to be a leader.

And he, too, thought of a splendid preparation for his

glendid task. University training! Yes, he must go to
Kford, and stay there as long as possible. A priest should
not be too young. Entire freedom from hurry, intercourse
with polished intelligences, the opportunity of studying at
one's ease men as well as books — all this he might enjoy
witfumt fear, because it was appointed.

His ambition widened every moment. That dream of
the humdrum toil of crowded parishes seemed to be gone
forever; he must fit lumself for the world-arena; he must

62

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

learn to walk with dignity and confidence in palaces as
well as in cottages ; he must make himself an influence and
force. I

I That was what the money meant to him. In this sense
it was a trust — a sacred trust. After his preparation he
could deal with the money more freely. Even if he used
much of it for others, there would always be more than
enough left for himself.

And he thought of a claim upon his trust fund that must
be satisfied at once. For the rest of the journey he stren-
uously considered this first claim, making arithmetical
calculations in regard to incomes. He thought, ''Six hun-
dred a year is almost twelve pounds a week. That is pre-
posterously too much for any one man. It is exactly six
times as much as is necessary. With two pounds a week,
even a man who was not capable of work would live in
comfort and ease. I myself should never need more, for
myself. Why, whole families often have less, and yet get
along all right. If now I have ten pounds a week instead
of twelve pounds, I can never know the difference." And
he determined that he would spend two pounds a week on
some one else ; he would secure it to that other person abso-
lutely ; as soon as possible he would break into bis capital
to this extent.

Next day, while Mrs. Churchill was telling the wonder-
ful news to her friends and receiving their congratulations,
Edward went over to Sittingboume to pay a call at a china
shop.

Common and ugly as was Wilson's establishment at St.
Dunstan's, this Sittingboume branch was worse — truly a
wretched place, dark, stuffy, with scarce space for the
humble customers to move among the piles of cheap
crockery.

"Can I see Mr. Jarvis?" asked Edward.

''WhatMr. Jarvis?"

*'An assistant here."

"Oh, well," and the shopkeeper looked hard at Edward.
'•He ZMXS an assistant here. That's true enough. Were you
a friend of his ?"

•TTcs, a great friend."

The shopkeeper seemed to search for appropriate words
before he said sympathetically, "Then, being a great friend,
how is it you don't know he's been dead better part of two
years?"

The money had come too late for Jarvis.

Edward Churchill stayed in Sittingboume till nightfall.
He went to the cemetery where his dead friend lay buried,
but sought vainly for the grave. A sexton at last showed
him the spot. There was nothing to mark it — not a trace
of decayed flowers, not a rusted strand of wire, to say
that wreaths and crosses had ever been laid above the
slewing head.

"But it's here or hereabouts," said the sexton, "and
there'll be no difficulty in locating it to an inch. I've only
to get the plan and the number, you know. And if, as
you say, you're wishing to put up a monument, why, come
straight along with me now. I don't know if there's any
firm you regularly patronise ; but, if not, can safely recom-

64 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

mend Banks in Station Road. See that marble cross? It
came from Banks's. You can examine it as a sample of
what they turn out. And I've never heard their prices are
excessive."

Edward Churchill finished his business with the sexton
and the stonemasons, wandered about the town making
many inquiries, and quite late succeeded in obtainii^ an
interview with a clergyman who had known Jarvis well.
He could not have gone home without seeing this man. He
felt an imperative necessity to learn how Jarvis died.

"I fear I have kept you a long time," said Mr. Merrick,
as he entered the dull, cheerless room where his visitor had
been patiently waiting for nearly an hour. "Please be
seated."

He was an old, white-haired man with a thin face and
shaky hands, but directly Edward Churchill heard his voice
he knew that he was a faithful servant of God.

"Pray tell me how I can serve you, Mr. Churchill.''

Then, after sa)ring that he and Jarvis had been^school
friends, Edward asked those questions to which, as it
proved, Mr. Merrick was able to give the ardently desired
answers.

Mr. Merrick had been with Jarvis several times before
the end, and at the end.

"And he received the consolation of the Church?"

"Yes, I administered the Sacrament for the last time
only a little while before he died."

"And you say you don't think he suffered much physi-
cally?"

"I think he suffered very little, scarcely at all."

"And in his mind? He was calm— quite prepared?"

"Oh, yes."

"His faith never wavered ? He died in full belief ?"

"It was a beautiful death — ^perhaps the most beautiful
death I ever witnessed."

"Thank you, Mr. Merrick," and Edward got up from
his chair. "It is most kind of you to have let me see you.
But I know perfectly well that I need not apologise for
troubling you. I had a great respect and admiration for
Jarvis — and you will understand my regret. Truly I am
90 sorry — so bitterly sorry for him."

iTHE MIRROR AND THE LAME 65

''Don't be sorry/' said the old man, shaking hands with
Edward. '*Why should you be sorry for him? Be glad-
be very glad."

As he said this, his eyes glowed and his voice seemed to
strengthen ; indeed for a moment his whole aspect changed,
and one thought instinctively that only a few years ago he
had been a man in the prime of life, robust, vigorous, able
to bear fatigues and hardships. Next moment the light
faded out of his eyes, and, as he came shufSing through
the hall to the outer door, he was a feeble, worn-out old
man.

"Good-bye, Mr. Churchill."

"Good-bye, sir."

And Edward went away thinking, "Yes, one should re-
joice rather than grieve." But nevertheless sorrow re-
mained with him.

Thy will be done.

During the fully occupied weeks that followed he ceased
to think of his friend with such poignant regret. He and
his mother were continuously busy. Together they spent
nearly a fortnight at Oxford, making all arrangements for
his collegiate career. He was to go to a really good col-
l^;e, to have handsome, spacious rooms, to buy books, fur-
niture, and ornaments, on a liberal scale of expenditure.
Mrs. Churchill insisted upon all these matters, and indeed
took them out of his control entirely.

And so the time slipped by until the day came for him to
leave St. Dunstan's and go into residence at the Univer-
sity. That morning he felt both elation and sadness. He
was breaking away from his mother's home ; he was turn-
ing his back on the ancient city that had sheltered his
jrouth. He would return again and again and again, but
perhaps St. Dunstan's would never seem to him quite the
same.

As he and Mrs. Churchill drove to the station, he looked
with loving, grateful eyes at the familiar streets and dear
dd houses. It was a fine spring day, with every open space
full of strong light, and each shadow falling dark and firm.
The market looked like a garden of many colours ; and next
mimite all the gaiety, noise, and crowd had changed to sol-

66

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

emn peacefulness, as they passed beneath medieval walls
and narrow barred windows, and heard a faint bell-music
whisper in the air; and never till now had the spell exer-
cised by the whole place seemed so gently soothing and so
invincibly strong.

Even at the railway station he could feel it lingering,
holding. Only when he had waved his last good-bye, and
the train was bearing him away more swiftly every moment,
could he cease to feel it or think of it.

But no, the spell was not quite broken yet. Looking out
from his corner seat, he saw the city once more. How small
it appeared at this distance — ^just a patch of buildings in the
waste of chalky slope and marshy plain, with its medley of
roofs mysteriously softened instead of illuminated by the
sunlight, and the three towers seeming to swim in a golden
mist.

"Small as it looks," thought Edward Churchill, *'it is
great and must ever be great to an Englishman's heart. To
England, to all the western world, it is Christ's own metro-
polis. His court and palace, the inviolate home that we
built for Him with our hands."

And the full force of the spell was upon him for a little
while, even after the place itself had vanished.

XI

Edwasd Chxtrchill passed five years at Oxford, and
throughout this time his confidence in himself was increas-
ing, his faith solidifying, and his ambition becoming more
definite. He was young, strong, with almost perfect physi-
cal health, and he believed that he was authorised to enjoy
to the full every innocent pleasure that oflFered itself —
that is, if never for a single hour he forgot the solemn char-
acter of the task for which all this was a preparation. And
truly he never did forget.

Here in the wider sphere of University life, as in the
small world of school, he became popular. It was the same
gradual progress of increasing regard given to him without
effort or solicitation on his part. The dons liked him. The
collq^e servants liked him. A constantly recruited army
of undergraduates liked him.

Little by little he grew to be a personage of estab-
lished position, a man of many friends, who belonged to no
partictdar set, but who passed freely through all the in-
visible barriers of social existence, by no means a great
'varsity light, but a quiet, unostentatious wielder of con-
siderable influence. He himself was but very vaguel>f
aware that he exercised any influence at all; but he was
quite conscious of the kindly feeling that so many people
showed him, and he welcomed the obvious fact with de-
hght, thinking, "This is a good sign. The power to win
friendship or trust is what may prove of great value when
I begin my appointed work."

He had written in his diary, as a guiding note— ^

"A priest should be able to imagine all that others
can feel, to be acquainted with all thai they can know,
to forgive all that they can do!*

More and more surely he felt himself reserved for grand
and important things. Perha]

&

68 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

mother's dreams would come true. Everything at Oxford
fostered the largeness of ambition. It was the ancient
storehouse of intellectual force; every stone whispered of
ecclesiastical pomp; the spirit of the place was aristocratic.

During his third year he deliberately abandoned any
chance of securing a high place in the Honours list.

He felt the necessity of a wider range of reading. He
studied biology, psydiology, natural science. A priest
should not be afraid of ''scientific truths/' as they are so
pompously called. A priest should know as soon as possible
all that can be said against the real, living, imperishable
truth that it is his proud duty to expound and maintain.
To this end, also, he read not only all the most famous at-
tacks on the validity of the historical evidence supporting
the Christian faith, but the critical works of avowed
atheists.

Nothing that he read thus of set purpose moved him to
anything stronger than a faint contemptuous wonder that
men of powerful intellect, men trained in logic, should so
pitifully fail. The whole arguments of the materialists,
especially when supporting their disbelief in the immor-
tality of the soul, even in the existence of the soul, struck
him as peculiarly childish and absurd. Truly he felt sorry
for such people, saying in regard to revealed religion, "I
can accept nothing that you do not prove to me. I can
only advance in my belief step by step, after assuring my-
self that at every step I stand on solid ground;" and wil-
fully — ^no, not wilfully, but blindly and insanely — ^ignoring
the fact that their entire life in regard to matters other
than religion was composed of thousands of unquestioning
beliefs, of acceptances from moment to moment of the un-
proved and the unprovable.

Poor little people, who might have been big, but of
their own free will choose to be small ; who, as heirs to the
splendid heritage of a universe, renounce their succession,
and say, "This glimpse of daylight is all I ask, this bit of
earth which seems my birthplace I claim as my tomb, this
dim dream of trouble I hold and cherish, and cannot
barter against the unfolding pageant of eternity."

But just as he felt a sorrowful contempt for the folly of
those who try to trace bounds to the infinite with a yard

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 69

measure that is marked off to the tiny scale of inductive
reasoning, he was sometimes filled with admiration of their
patient research and the ingenious devices of experimental
investigation. Above all, he admired the courage of men
who had devoted what they thought was their all — this
earthly life — ^to examination of the human brain. Failing,
these said that failure was inevitable. It is in the nature
of things. Mind, according to them, is a function of the
brain. But thought and consciousness must ever remain
inexplicable.

And he thought, "No, one day we may know that also.
But the knowledge will flash into us from what these men
call the great void, and we shall recognise then, by 'the
irrefutable logic of facts,' that all we have prized and cher-
ished as the best of ourselves is outside us and not inside
us. Our brains are not apparatus that create thought, but
as yet imperfect instruments that impede thought. Thought,
as we know it, is a poor thing, yes. But the essence of
thought, the vital unchanging principle of our finite intelli-
gences, comes pouring through starlit immensity to fill us
with the potentialities of glory and force. In that sense
there is no end nor beginning to human thought."

All this seemed to Edward Churchill obvious and inde-
structiblk The doubt of others confirmed his own convic-
tions. And he recognised the peculiar strength and virtue
of faith, by the beam of light, the bright dissolving ray,
that he, a humble but faithful believer, could cast upon the
dark confusion that had been left by the strenuous labours
of some of the greatest minds of the age.

Although his study of modem philosophy left him emo-
tionally calm, it was the stimulus that set him writing. He
had for a long time been making copious notes, and now he
attempted, as a regular exercise, to give expression to his
reflections or criticism. The guiding note in his diary was
a quotation from a treatise on psychology : "Be very doubt-
ful of the value of any of your thoughts unless you can
express it in explicit language ;" and, guided by this severe
advice, he wrestled resolutely with the vagaries of a too
exuberant pen. Graces of diction, rhythm of construction,
and style, were to be of no account. One must say what
ooe had to say simply and forcibly: if one couldn't do so,

70 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

the inference was that one really had nothing to say that
was worth saying.

Thus he wrote a series of essays linked together with the
main idea and purpose of utterly demolishing all those blind
and deaf scientists, their specious arguments and faulty
logic. He called them Builders on Sand, and thought that
one day he might publish a book with this title, or perhaps
only use his manuscript materials for sermons. At any
rate, he had no intention of publishing anything at present.
The writing was merely an exercise.

A pleasant and most engrossing exercise — ^the hours that
he spent sitting with sported osdc, hammering hard at his
main idea, squeezing it till it distilled itself in little rivulets
of ink, were altogether happy. Yotmg men would beat upon
the door, shout, and laugh ; but presently his eyes returned
to the paper, and soon he did not hear a sound. Or when
he stood at his window, manuscript in hand, they called up
to him. "Churchill, you villain. You were there all the
time. Come down." He smiled and nodded his head to
them, for a few moments saw them, joyous and frank and
kind, with sunlight on their faces; he noticed the peaceful
beauty of the court, with its mellow red buildings, a spire
rising above the further roofs and black slow-flying rooks
in the sky — ^and then after another moment he ceased to see
anything. That main idea had resumed its dominion; it
was clamouring to be expressed explicitly.

In his fourth year the writing habit had become so strong
that he determined that it was time to break it. But, before
bidding adieu to the attractions of foolscap paper, he could
not resist the temptation of testing in a practical manner
the value of what he had so far done. Taking, therefore,
his notes as a foundation, he completed two or three ar-
ticles and sent them to the editors of London reviews. To
his great pleasure one of these contributions was imme-
diately accepted by the editor of the Nineteenth Century,
and in the course of a few months he saw himself in print.
A further pleasure was given him by the receipt of three
or four letters from strangers who had read his article and
approved of the opinions that it contained. The coUq^
doos also talked about it, and for a little while he enjoyed

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 71

fhe gratifying sensations of a successful author. Then,
just when he was forgetting all about the matter, he re-
ceived a final and astounding letter from some one to
whom he had never spoken, but who yet was not altogether
a stranger. He could scarcely believe his eyes when he
opened the envelope and read the address — Lambeth Palace.
Those two words made him thrill with excitement.

"My dear sir," the letter began, "I have been very much
struck with the arguments for toleration which you so ably
put forward in your article, 'Ritual and Symbolism' in the
Nineteenth Century for July. It has only now been brought
to my notice, and I take the liberty of writing directly to
you." And his Grace, taking it for |rranted that the writer
of the article was a man of considerable experience in
Church discipline, went on to recite some of his own diffi-
culties as head of a not too obedient priesthood.

Edward Qiurchill replied to this letter, telling the Arch-
bishop that he was a St. Martyr's boy; and in due course
he received a second letter, in which his Grace said that he
would be glad to make his acquaintance should Mr.
Churchill be ever able to make an opportunity of going as
far as Lambeth.

Trifling as was this little incident, it was accepted by Ed-
ward as another omen of future grandeurs. It seemed to
him a wonderful and splendid thing that he should have
thus brought himself into touch with the Primate. He
showed the letter to his mother and to no one else ; and to
her it seemed like a definite promise of rapid advancement.
As Edward folded and unfolded the treasured document,
she seemed to hear the delicate rustle of the lawn sleeves
that he would one day wear.

That year they spent the Long Vacation on the Continent,
and really their tour was one long day-dream. Day after
day they talked of the gracious, dignified life that they
would lead together, as Edward rose from rank to rank in
the hierarchy of the Church.

It was rather a blow to her when he told her he had made
up his mind that, after all, that phase of work in a poor
and crowded parish must not be dropped out of the scheme
altogether. He considered it necessary. But now it would
merely be a further period of training — another opportu-

72 THE MIRROR AND' THE LAME

nity of studying human nature — a period in which he could
practise the art of preaching. Of course he would not stop
m humble or obscure surroundings a minute longer than
might be needed for his higher purposes. He would go into
the realm of cultivated people as soon as possible, and then
without an hour's delay he would provide a home for his
mother as well as for himself.

More and more she seemed to look to him as the well-
spring of all her joy. Indeed, pour soul, she had no other
source from which she could extract any comfort. Her two
other sons provided her with nothing but disappointment
and anxiety. Except for Edward, ail the money seemed
worse than useless — a, cause of absolute distress. Thomas
Churchill, instead of coming home, had remained in Aus-
tralasia, wandering about those vast territories, squander-
ing his substance in stupid speculations, and, as she feared,
indulging in far from reputable amusements. She gathered
from guarded statements in his letters that he had a female
companion witli him on these wanderings, and that if he
had not already married this person, he really ought to
have done so. Charles Churchill, without any shilly-shally,
had made a most imprudent marriage, allying himself widi
a music-hall artist of worse than doubtful reputation. He
had said himself that, since his mother could not approve
of the marriage, he preferred not to introduce his wife to
the family circle.

Talking of these unhappy entanglements, Mrs. Churchill
often told Edward that they had made her very desirous of
seeing him suitably married in due course. She said that
when the time came and he found a really nice good wife,
she would welcome her with ardent delight, not only as a
daughter, but as a safeguard against the possibility of acci-
dents. In fact, she harped on this talk about his marris^
in a way that became painful to him. The idea coming
from her seemed strange and unnatural. Were they not all
in all to each other? He understood that his mother, in
talking thus, proved the depth and purity of her unsdfish-
ness, but somehow it jarred upon him; he could not quite
understand it.

''But, Edward," she said, "you will fall in love one day.
It cannot be otherwise ; love is a divine law/'

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 73

And he thought, 'Tfes, but not that kind of love."
Indeed, he had reached his present age without the faint-
est awakening of those normal instincts that usually have
such tremendous power, in spite of their vagueness, during
adolescence and earlv manhood. In regard to the other
sex, his thoughts and his feelings remained almost exactly
what they had been when he was a boy of twelve. In those
days he had admired little girls at juvenile parties for their
slmdemess and grace and silky hair and pretty frocks. But
he had never cared for dancing with them ; and in an3rthing
like a game they were simply a nuisance, by reason of their
incompetence and feebleness. He could not be bothered
with them. G>nsidered merely from the point of view of
their weakness, they did arouse a sort of chivalrous im-
pulse — a dim idea that if, for instance, they fell into water,
one would dive in and rescue them ; but as soon as one had
fetched them out and handed them over to their stupid and
inattentive guardians, one would say "Good afternoon,"
and never see them again. Now, as then, in spite of his
strong sense of beauty, the living presentment of matured
feminine charms filled him with distaste. Standing by his
mother's side in these foreign picture galleries, he could
admire and feel something like reverential awe at the per-
fect symmetry, the life-like flesh tints, the sweeping curves
of the antique nude, but all such pleasure was entirely in-
tellectual; interest in the age of the picture, thoughts of
the patient painter whose hand had grown cold and stiff
hundr^s of years ago, mingled with the appreciation of
a piece of art, and perhaps as an essential factor in this
pleasure lay the fact that what he gazed at was not alive
and real, but merely a coloured shadow upon a wall. If he
turned from the lifeless picture to some young and good-
looking woman at a few yards distance, the sight of this
live modem nymph immediately evoked a faint revulsion
of thought. The rounded solid forms of life, draped in
costly fashionable garments, were vulgar, disenchanting,
almost gross.

Towards the end of his last year at Oxford he took to
writing again, but now it was on a different plan. A con-
versation with his tutor had driven him back to psychology.

74 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

and, after reading some of the most recently published
books of the Continental and American schools, he found
himself compelled to change his own instinctive views upon
the mystery of consciousness. Why? Only a year and a
half had passed since he was so absolutely firm in his stock
of broad ideas, and so confident in the solidity of their log-
ical sequence. Now he suddenly became aware of discon-
nected links, confusions, partial if not general fogginess.
Then he thought, "I have been reading too much — I have
been absorbing too readily." Diffusive reading is perhaps
always destructive to individual originality, and he began
instinctively to dread the thought of others, as killing one's
own thought. Perhaps already he knew enough for his
purpose; he had made a wide foundation, he must begin
now to build for himself, or he would never do so. And he
determined that henceforth, except in regard to specialised
work, such as his theology, he would read only for recrea-
tion and not for the purpose of opening his mind.

It is better to make one's own discoveries, even though
they prove to be as old as the hills. Setting himself, there-
fore, the most difficult of all tasks — ^to think for one's self —
he tried to put down on paper a plain statement of his be-
lief in regard to the soul, the mind, and the human brain,
and he found that he could not do it. Tested by that
standard, the possibilitv of explicit expression, his thoughts
were too vague — ^his tnoughts were of no value.

Day after day, he struggled to express what he felt most
strongly, even if he could not translate his feelings into
set terms of belief ; but here again he failed, and failed in a
curious manner. For now each time that he turned to
spiritual explanations, material facts suggested themselves
vividly, and when he started from the basis of matter the
overwhelming claims of spirit asserted themselves.

But he could think allegorically and find ready words, a
hundred rapid turns of phrase, so long as he did not attempt
to combine the two methods of explanation.

At last he accepted his inability, and said ''It is of no
moment. I will take mental sensation as I find it, and be
content with the certainties of faith."

Then he became comfortable, and he left his notes incon-
secutive or broken as they fell upon the paper.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 75

Meditating on the ceaseless activity of thought— or con-
sciousness — that goes with us aknost from the cradle to the
grave, he said to himself, ''Only in its restlessness can it
ever truly seem a reflection or even a parallel progress with
the incessant motions, the modecular readjustments of our
brain-material. But doubtless the entire substance of our
bodies is drawn upon to support this almost merciless activ-
ity of the inner unappeasable self — ^the something that
Iraows no real respite even in sleep, that is at once a passive
spectator and an active controller, that makes the thought-
pictures which it sees and yet suffers because the subjects
of the pictures bring torment and despair more often than
peace and hope."

At this point he felt the break in the sequence of his
ideas; and he began to think of the soul as a lamp which
bums bright and clear, illuminating the mirror which is the
mind — and for perfect peace the mirror should show noth-
ing but the steady flame of the contented soul. And think-
ing again of the ugly pictures that are memories, coming
unbidden, not to be driven away, shown to us by the
mirror whether we will or no, and causing a sickness of dis-
satisfaction with self, he said, ''Yes, I know that this at
least is true." Then, as if automatically, his pen made a

"And God means men to realise the necessity of
goodness — teaches them by mirror and lamp."

He thought, "Perhaps wicked men, sunk in sensual vice,
have veiled the mirror with encrusted dirt, so that they see
no glimmer of the lamp. But probably not. Glimpses of
light they still have : sufficient to make tfiem suffer transient
remorse." Then he wrote another note —

"Or the flame of the lamp may bum low and dim
in its thought-cavern, and all may seem smoky and
obscure when the thoughts are bad, unhappy, foolish.
But happy, innocent thought feeds the flame, and the
breath of the flame is thought-vapour that rises, and
can rise as high as heaven — ^a fragrant incense for the
throne of grace."

76

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

He went back to theological studies, and left his notes
untouched ; but out of them there had come, most strongly,
that image of the* mirror and the lamp — an image that pre-
sented itself again and again, until he came to use it as a
thought-token or symbol always, saying to himself: "It
shall be my guide, and I will trust to none other. Whether
I stand or fall, I will live by the Mirror and the Lamp."

XII

With some of it on the south and more of it on the north
of the great main thoroughfare that connects Aldgate and
the East India Docks, St. Bede's at this period of its history
was perhaps the poorest and most miserable parish in the
East End of London. Qose-packed, crushed by the but-
tressed height of railway viaducts, rendered airless by huge
walls of factories, it at once banished lively interest from a
stranger's mind and left only a dull oppression of the spirit.
It was forlorn without being tragic, hideous and yet not
thrillingly terrific; it had no salient features; it was not
picturesque like Limehouse, not maritime like Poplar ; there
was none of the gaiety and squabbling good-fellowship of
Jewish districts; there came into it no colour or relief
from strangely garbed Asiatics. Dusty and grey in sun-
shine, black and sinister at twilight, it seemed to be the
place of work without ho|>e, vice without joy, pain that has
become so much a habit that it is no longer felt.

If those who knew the parish best had desired to claim
for it a single distinguishing characteristic, they would
probably have put forward the attribute of unusual noise.
Generally the sounds of the East End are mechanically
produced — ^the rattle of trams, the murmur of moving
wheels, the scroop and jar of swing bridges opening and
shutting, the fussy clamour of steam cranes; but, except
in the big streets, people do not themselves contribute
largely to the babel. They go about their work, never as
elsewhere stopping to stare or lingering to wonder. There
is neither idleness nor curiosity. But in St. Bede's the
racket of mechanism seemed all day long to concentrate it-
self, and at dark the human voice grew loud in meaningless
chorus.

And from various causes the home of religion appeared
to be the very heart or focal point of St. Bede's noisiness.
The church, the vicarage, and dei>endent buildings, had for
companions a ginger beer manufactory and a tol^cco ware-

77

78 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

house; the board schools were close by; the railway line
sprang slantingly from pier to pier, fltmg its arches or girders
above top windows, and divided the immense chimney tow-
ers. The streets here were paved with stone, so that the
clatter of wagon horses aided the thunder of passing trains ;
fifty sorry little shops made a commercial centre, and at
nightfall costers regularly wheeled in their barrows, sta-
tioned themselves at immemorial pitches, filling the road-
way, forming a lamplit market from kerb to kerb.

Inside the vicarage one had almost the same amount of
noise as outside, but with a local and individual atmosphere
of confusion as well. From the roof-tree to the basement
boards, its inmates, except when asleep, were always busy,
always trying to do more than was humanly possible, know-
ing that it was so and yet still trying. Only after repeat-
edly frustrated attempts could the vicar, his wife, or the two
resident curates sit down to eat, to read, to write; and,
when seated, no one was ever comfortable ; each was wait-
ing to be made to get up again.

Mr. Walsden, the vicar, was a short, square man of about
sixty; an eager, quick-moving, plain-speaking man; a
shrewd, kindly, brave creature, but not at all intellectual,
and quite devoid of poetry or romance. The only beautiful
thing in his life was his faith, which had mingling with it a
missionary spirit that burned undimmed. He was worldly
only in his knowledge of the world. He did not allow
people to impose upon him, and rapidly detected the rascal
tricks of jail-bird converts who called in order to announce
that they had found salvation, but who really wanted to
find the silver spoons or an3rthing else they could nip off
with.

Missionary zeal was certainly the strongest note of his
character — the desire to carry the sacred torch to all regions
of darkness. As a young man, he had spent some years at
a mission in Africa — the real thing, honest man-eating
blacks all round one, whole-hearted enjoyment. He loved
it. In his sermons he often drew on the experiences of that
happy period — telling the usual sort of missionary anec-
dotes with immense gusto, not fearing to shock the suscep-
dbUhies of the over-refined, calling a spade a spade. Prob-

\

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 79

ably it was while among the plumed cannibals that he had
acquired a habit of saying exactly what he meant in the
most forcible manner^ and entirely neglecting grace of die-

ti(HL

Mrs. Walsden, a sandy, washed-out little woman, was
just the devoted wife that such a man requires. Her faith
was as great as his, and her energy scarcely less remark-
able. She worked for and with him, labouring at guilds,
mothers' meetings, sick funds, what not; acting as house-
keeper, secretary, and district messenger ; she would fast in
Lent as an example to others, play the church organ, go
on her knees to pray for the good of the dead or to scrub
some filthy bedroom floor for the convenience of the living.
In the same breath she offered a wretched parishioner soup
tickets, coals, and divine consolation. The one grief of her
life had been loss of offspring, and its constant regret was
that Mr. Walsden had not married her in time to take her
with him to Africa.

The children — two weaklings — had died in a Lancashire
town ; poisoned, as the parents thought, by the foul smoke
and miasmic air to which the higher call of duty condemned
them. They would have lived in the salubrious climate of
Africa.

Their miniatures hung upon the drawing-room wall —
sham miniatures, some dreadful coarse process of glori-
fying photographs by the gift of crude colours ; and there
were larger, untinted portraits of the poor mites hanging
in the vicar's study. When showing them to visitors he
would blow his nose violently, brush his bandana hand-
kerchief across his eyes, and say, "The Lord gave, and the
Lord has taken away. We both loved them. Perhaps the
Lord will give again. My wife has ten years of the child-
bearing period still before her. If a child of our old age
were vouchsafed to us, it would be very precious."

"An' I'm sure I 'ope so," said Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Jones
or whoever it happened to be. "I've bin through it myself.
Fraps you recollect the fun'ral of our little Jane."

But there was no time to listen to the guest's expressions
of sympathy. Sad thoughts, like everything else at the vi-
carage, had to be got through as promptly as possible. The

80 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP,

■

rule of the house, which all habitual visitors well under-
stood, had been borrowed from America : State your busi-
ness; do your business; and go about your business^

"Let me see, Mrs. Jones, I signed your book, didn't I?
Then good-bye. Shut the door after you — but don't bang
it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Who is next ? Who is out there ? Come in."

Truly it was an endless bustle. Men, women, and chil-
dren stood waiting in the hall ; a servant was always wanted
at the front door to let the right people in and out; the
curates ascended and descended the stairs; Mrs. Walsden
dived down into the kitchen to help the overwrought cook
in preparing doles of broken victuals; and Mr. Walsden
was here and there and everywhere, in his study one mo-
ment, and the next moment at the far end of the long pas-
sage that led to the church rooms, but always announcing his
situation by a running fire of talk.

"Emily, can Mr. Emart have the use of the drawing-room
for those girls? No, the confirmation class. . . . Hop-
kins says there is a bad escape of gas in the club cellar.
Yes, of course. Send for Mr. Kay. . . . Emily, it is the
singing class. Some one says the piano's locked. No, it is
not locked. Use your strength. Smart, my dear fellow,
force it open. The wood has swelled — ^that is all. . . .
Now, my dear child, what do you want? , . . But why
do you come here ? Go back to the dispensary. See Miss
Lacy. The vicar's compliments to Miss Lacy, and will she
be kind enough to attend to you at once. . . . Where is
my hat? . . . Can any one tell me what time we have
our food to-night ? Mrs. Walsden must know. Cook, what
time did your mistress order supper? Oh, dear, that is the
church bell. Silence, please. Do listen. Has the bell be-
gun?"

And then perhaps practised ears straining themselves
caught, as if miraculously, the monotonous clank of the bell
making a kind of dull beat or rhythm amidst the hubbub.

Into all this Edward Churchill was plunged one winter's
evening.

"Sir," said the maidservant, "the new curate's in th'
'all."

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 81

Mr. Walsden rushed out of his study, calling upstairs as
he came.

'Oh, Mr. Churchill," and he shook hands wamily.
'Emily, Emily. It is Mr. Churchill. Oh, dear, there is
that bell. Look here, I am doing a service. Yes, the bell
is ringing for me. Would you care to come too? Then
this way. . . . Kate — ^where is Kate? Somehow get Mr.
Churchill's luggage taken up to his room — ^but do not do it
yourself, Kate, or you will only hurt yourself again.'*

Edward noticed the beads of perspiration on Mr. Wals-
den's forehead, the queer smell in the long passage through
which they were hurrying, the g^easiness of a large map
against the distempered wall; then they went through a
large and a small room that obviously were used for parish
work, up some steps, and into the vestry; and a minute
later he was on his knees in the church, with closed eyes,
praying for strength and courage.

Indeed he felt that all his courage was necessary to open
his eyes and look about him without distress.

The church was almost unbelievably ugly. Built of yel-
lowish brick, it had courses of glazed tiles running horizon-
tally round its bare walls ; columns of iron encased in plas-
ter were another attempt at decoration, rather than any
adequate or real support for the galleries under which they
stood in rows; the pavement right up to the altar steps
consisted of the sort of coloured and formal tessellation
that is found in hotels and swimming baths ; the pews, pul-
pit, and lectum were made of highly varnished and clumsily
moulded deal ; the eastern wall had stencilled texts on white-
washed scrolls, and the table of the commandments in gold,
with two or three gaudy banners. Fortunately night had
robbed the stained glass windows of their terror. In the
gaslight one could only just see that they were bad, but
one could not guess how bad.

The service began, and the congregation — ^perhaps thirty
women and half a dozen men, all respectably dressed —
seemed devout. The cries of costermongers outside made
an unceasing chorus; even while the oi^an played, one
could hear trains passing on the nearest bridge; when the
four surpliced choristers began to sing, two of them were
out of tune.

82 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Half an hour ago, as he drove in his four-wheeled cab,
Edward Churchill had felt the violence of the contrast be-
tween such scenes and the spacious, tranquil grandeur of
Oxford; and now in God's house he thought of St. Dun-
Stan's Cathedral. Only by assiduous mental effort could
one remember that the same deity was worshipped in these
astoundingly different places. As the service proceeded
he thought of the church that he had regularly attended
while at the University — ^the fervour of its chanted prayers,
the richness and completeness of the ritual. He had liked
his college chapel, but his real religious duties had been
performed at St. Mary's, in the town.

His discomfort increased. Every minute he became more
conscious of surprise and disappointment. In truth he was
feeling now what he was to feel for a long time — ^that aching
sense of loss when of a sudden all that is beautiful has
gone out of the life of one who loves and craves for beauty.
He had prepared himself for the effect of contrast, but it
was a contrast of an entirely different kind. He had
thought, "The uglier I find the aspect of material existence
in this sordid neighbourhood, the more lovely will be, by
comparison, all that pertains to its spiritual life. To turn
from one to the other will be to enjoy light after dark-
ness." But now it seemed to him that this church and the
surrounding streets were all one; matter, not spirit, gov-
erned them ; if those shouting costers came and cried their
wares in here it would scarcely seem a sacrilege.

Mr. Walsden entered the pulpit, began to preach, and
Edward Churchill thought almost indignantly, "Why has he
deceived me? He gave me to understand that he was a
Catholic. He said he hated the term Anglican. But he and
his people are not Catholics at all. They are Protestants. The
service is not even what used to be called High Church ; it is
Low. We shall not think alike on a single point. I shall have
to tell him this plainly. Meanwhile, I blame myself for
having acted so hastily. It was stupid to accept the first
chance that offered. At any rate, I ought to have come here
and seen for myself, instead of taking so much for granted."

And then, not listening to the sermon, he thought of how
he would explain matters, both as to his inclinations in
Ttggrd to ceremonial and Us habit of mind when interpret-

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 83

ing articles of faith. He thought : "I and all those with
whom I have associated and wish to associate are not in the
least slaves to terms, and we only insist on them because of
the plain meaning they convey. That is why we must use
that word Catholic and hold firm to its significance. We
belong to the Catholic Church in England, which is exactly
the same church as in the Martyr's day at St. Dunstan's —
it has been an unbroken succession down the long splendid
line of archbishops. It is the same as Roman Catholicism —
except that we threw off allegiance to the Pope at a certain
period of our history ; and the allegiance, in fact, had been
slight, because before the unhappy quarrel and split, the
Popes had always recognised our right to considerable lib-
erty as the great Western pioneers or colonists. Nowadays,
then, we are one with the Roman Catholic in ever3rthing,
except that we do not recognise the Pope, nor the modem
inventions or developments of the Papacy — such as Mari-
olatry, the Inmiaculate Conception, and so on. But these
are trifles compared with the great principles of faith which
remain unchanged, and which are identical with them and
with us. First and foremost, the Mass — the Sacrifice of the
Eucharist ; and I must tell Mr. Walsden that if he does not
want me to teach this straight sequence of penitence, con-
fession, remission of sins, and the eucharistic sacrament —
well, I can't teach anything at all, and he had better let me
go before I unpack my things."

Then he folded his hands and listened. The preacher was
finishing an anecdote, which he had introduced as an illus-
tration, about some bad and preposterous act committed by
a naked black man. "I didn't blame him" — ^and Edward
noticed the tone of Walsden's shrewd kind voice, and his
simple enthusiastic manner. "No, I didn't blame him. No,
poor fellow, he sinned in ignorance — ^as you and I, my
friends, make our mistakes, and think we are all right-
cock-sure, sometimes, that we are right, just when we are
most wrong."

After the service was over and the congregation had all
gone out, Churchill went back to the vestry. Mr. Walsden
was hurriedly unrobing himself, and perspiration in thicker
beads showed on his bald forehead. He introduced
Omrcfaill to the curate who had been assisting.

84 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"Smart, here is Mr. Churchill. Smart will show you round
to-morrow. Smart knows the ropes — ^none better. Now
where is Mr. Hopkins? Hopkins, I must explain, is a church
warden and an extremely good fellow — and he is bringing
me the printer's proofs of some balance sheets. But why
isn't he here? Oh, I do wish people would be punctual.
Smart, do go and look for him."

Then, alone with Churchill, he spoke jovially. "Well,
what do you think of us ?"

Churchill hinted at his wonder.

"Ah, I see." Walsden pulled a chair forward, and sat
down by the table. "Oh, dear, where are the pens and
blotting paper? Shut the door, please. Look here. Are you
very advanced ? Tell me your position precisely."

But Churchill found now that he could not state the
reasons of his disappointment with the firmness and uncom-
promising method that had seemed, such a little while ago, to
DC necessary. Something in Walsden's aspect, as well as in
a memory of his sermon, made it impossible to say anything
that could conceivably wound. However, spesJcing very
gently, he nevertheless succeeded in expressing his most
fixed opinions with clearness.

"That's all right," said Walsden. "I quite agree — in
essentials. Shake hands ;" and he stretched his hand across
the table. "You and I will get on together. You're frank
and open. You don't beat about the bush. It would have
been a blow to me if you didn't like us, because we were
so glad to get you."

Then he went on to say that to him personally outward
form was of very little consequence. He conducted matters
exactly as his predecessor had done, because the heads of the
congregation had petitioned him not to make any changes.
"I agreed at once. As I say, I don't attach much importance
to it. But Mrs. Walsden would like it the other style — yowr
style. She points out, truly enough, that one ought to go with
the tide. In many respects it would be advantageous. But
you and I will talk of this at length."

Just then there came a tapping at the door.

"Ah, that is Hopkins — at last;'' and Mr. Walsden con-
tinued very rapidly and cheerily. "Take my word for it,
you'll settle down with us all right. Give us a trial anyway.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 85

.... Come in, Mr. Hopkins. . . . This is Mr. Churchill,
who, as you are aware, is good enough to come to us for his
diaconate, and, as we hope, for much longer; and being a
gentleman of independent means, he declines to take any
payment." Saying this Walsden rubbed his hands together
and smiled contentedly. **A very welcome, kind, useful
present, that means to the parish. By the way, Hopkins,
let this go no further. We don't want the tale running
round that a rich person has arrived. Churchill, my dear
fellow, we have such greedy sharks, and wolves in lamb's
clothing. Oh, dear, there's so much to tell you, so many
warnings to give you, but all that must be postponed for
the moment."

At the vicarage, supper was ready and waiting for every-
body, but nobody came to the dining-room. There were
still people in the hall, the front door opened and shut every
minute, Mrs. Walsden and the cook bustled up and down
the kitchen stairs with parcels of provisions.

Finally, however, the assembly at the supper table was
complete — Mrs. Walsden standing up to carve a joint of
cold boiled beef, Mr. Walsden sitting by her side, and
b^fging people to take of a new jar of pickles, Mr. Smart
eating heartily, and Mr. Gardiner, the other curate, eating
very sparingly. Mr. Gardiner had appeared last of all, and
the sight of him in his cassock, making the sign of the cross
as he murmured a grace before he sat down, was cheering
and comforting. He was small, dark, and very thin, with
an ascetic face. Smart, on the contrary, was large and
rather smug; evidently not quite a gentleman, although no
doubt a very good Christian. Instinctively Churchill liked
the small man in the cassock much better than the big man
in the frock coat.

"Will you not patronise these pickles?" said Walsden
hospitably. "The wife, bless her heart, makes a pilgrimage
to Barking for them. We get them from a dear girl — ^yes, a
sweet, good girl — ^who lets us have them at wholesale price.
It is all above board — no hankey-pankey. They allow her
the privil^e at the factory. Smart, help yourself. Smart
is a tremendous fellow for our Barking pickles."

And then, to Churchill's profound astonishment, he ad-
verted to the conversation in. the vestry.

86 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

''Emily, our friend and I have already had a brief chat
on the most serious topics. Far too brief — ^unfortunately
we were interrupted. But strictly in the same connection,
there was something that I particularly wanted to tell you,
Churchill. It has slipped my memory. What was it?
Candles? Vestments? Those banners? Oh, dear!" And
he tapped his forehead and closed his eyes, searching for the
lost thread.

Churchill sat looking at his plate. It seemed incredible
that such sacred matters should thus be publicly and casually
dealt with.

"Ah! I have it. With regard to ritual generally — I was
telling you we all see we are not up to date, and it is a great
handicap. We put ourselves completely out of the fashion.
Yes, I ought to warn you, perhaps, that here, where the
fight is stiffest, scarcely any help comes from outside."

And he went on to say how smart society folk arrived in
batches to do "East-Ending," but never entered this
parish. Father Halliday at Poplar, Mr. Iredale at Canning
Town, Mr. Reeves of Bow were in close touch with
the swells, could command their presence at club openings
and prize-givings, and did not hesitate, when pressed for
funds, to ask for a Fancy Dress Ball at the Albert Hall, or
a matinee at a West End theatre. Mr. Lock, of Burmah
Bridge, famous for his sensational advertising, was regu-
larly patronised by a princess of the blood, who thought
nothing of driving along the East India Dock Road in a
royal carriage. But all these clergyman practised the choic-
est and most picturesque rites; they were strictly fashion-
able, and therefore interesting and sympathetic to people
whose entire life was ruled by fashion. ''They and their
grand friends not only leave us out in the cold, they look
down on us." As he said this Walsden flushed, and his
voice for a moment showed emotion. "Yes, I cannot but
admit, the clergy all round have not shown, either to Mrs.
Walsden or myself, a very generous spirit. They ignore us
— ^they cut us as much as they can."

Mrs. Walsden had silently put her hand upon his coat
sleeve, and he lifted the hand to his lips and kissed it.

'*A11 right, sweetheart. You are always right. We can
get on without the fine birds or the fine feathers/'

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 87

"And you forget the Verschoyles," said Mrs. Walsden.
"Always remember the Verschoyles."

"Ah, yes, indeed," said Walsden gaily. '*They are made
of different stuff." And he told Churchill about this kind
rector of St. Ursula's and his sweet wife, and the charming
qualities possessed by both of them. Verschoyle often in-
vited Walsden to preach in the handsome church of St.
Ursula, and he himself would always come cheerfully to
preach at St. Bede's. Morever, once when Mrs. Walsden
was ill, Mrs. Verschoyle acted as sick nurse, and took the
patient home with her to spend a fortnight in the beautiful
rectory, resting and picking up strength.

But now the maid came into the room and checked Mr.
Walsden's busy tongue. A person who was too dirty to be
admitted desired an interview. Would the vicar go and
speak to the person at the door?

"Yes, Kate, certainly I will;" and Walsde^ jumped up
from his chair.

"Do you want your supper kept for you.^" asked Mrs.
Walsden.

"No. I have had quite sufficient."

Edward Churchill watched the vicar as he bustled away.
Then he glanced at the vicar's plate with the cold meat and
pickles stUl on it, at the nearly full glass of ginger beer, at
the hunk of bread out of which only a comer had been
nibbled. The vicar had been talking so much that he had
lost his opportunity for eating. And it came to Churchill
as a sudden thought — a thought like those which years ago
often seemed to come from nowhere — that one must not
criticise this perspiring old man. So there and then he
determined never to question him ; to be docile towards him,
to submit to his judgment whenever possible ; to act to him
as youth should act to age, as a subordinate to a superior
officer.

The turmoil went on — ^no rest, no peace. He had done
some unpacking and had been out in the streets. It was
nearly eleven oxlock now, and he strolled out again. In the
little fair created by the costers' barrows the evening only
seoned b^gimiiiig; and the naphtha flares made one's eyes

88 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

ache, the men's voices grated harshly, the girls' faces sad-
dened one. He came back to the vicarage ; but there was
no rest yet Two young women stood on the threshold, and
Walsden was talking loudly as he hustled a loafing man
out of the study and through the hall.

"Christ never said anything of the sort, nor I either. And
it is a bit of great impertinence your saying so. Now be
oflF. And don't venture to show yourself here again until
your heart is softened." Then he turned from the door.
"Oh, dear, that is very discouraging. I quite thought that
his heart was permanently softened." Then he turned once
more. "But I'm forgetting. Now, Nancy Burton, what is
it? You know, it is getting late."

At last such indications as a bolted front door, lowered
gas jets, and candlesticks on the hall table, announced that
the vicarage day was nearly if not quite over. Edward
had decided to go to bed, when Walsden called up the stairs
after him.

"Look here. If you're not tired, do come into my room,
and have a pipe and a chat. Will you?"

"With the greatest pleasure."

Mr. Smart was in the study, but soon, yawning woefully,
he apologised for his sleepiness and left the vicar and
Churchill alone together.

This is a treat," said Walsden, with a contented sigh.
An hour stolen from oblivion. Sleep's good, but this is
better, eh ? We keep such hours for Sunday nights as a rule
— but one must make exceptions."

His manner, even his aspect had changed ; the hurry and
fussiness disappeared; he spoke quietly and pleasantly.
Churchill noticed the change, and believed that he under-
stood it. This was what the man would be normally and
always, were he not almost working himself to death.

"Light up," said Walsden, "and make yourself comfort-
able. You must have the arm-chair."

"Oh, no."

"To oblige me — ^to-pight, at any rate."

But Churchill insisted that the host should occupy his
own proper chair, and presently he was leaning back in it
smoking complacently. Nevertheless he observed Churchill

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 89

with great attention, for the first time able to study the
newcomer at his ease.

"You have a fine athletic frame — although so spare. How
tall are you ?"

"Exactly six feet."

"In your stockings?"

•'Yes."

"And how old? You told me, but it has slipped my
memory."

"I am not quite twenty-five."

"Dear me. You look much older. Yes, I should have
guessed you at thirty-two, or thirty-three. How is that?
Have you passed through much trouble?"

"No. I have had an unusually happy life."

"Then it must be because of your self-possession. You
have great self-possession."

"Have I?" And Churchill, standing by the chimney-
piece and filling his pipe, smiled down at Walsden in the
arm-chair.

"I don't mean Mel' and Walsden laughed up at him.
"No, I see very well you aren't that sort of Oxonian. But
you have presence. A very good thing too."

Then they smoked and talked for a long time, and it
seemed that in every minute they liked each other better.

Walsden, speaking of the propagation of the Gospel in
foreign parts and of happy days under a tropical sun, ex-
pres^d wonder that Edward had been able to remain in
England. "Yes, I rather wonder that, with your means,
you did not treat yourself to a few years of that. It is very
delightful — ^the freedom — ^the reality of it — and so healthy.
For a rich young man, full of vigour — most attractive.
Although I need not say how glad I am you chose us instead.
When I heard you were coming, I said, 'This is a godsend in
the truest sense of the word ;' and I sank on my knees and
offered up a few words of thanksgiving. My wife will tell
you."

Edward replied that he had often thought of missionary
enterprise and had been greatly drawn towards it, more par-
tictdariy in rtgsird to a Javanese mission that was the work
of Oxford men. But then he abandoned this idea, together
with many others, because he had slowly arrived at a settled

90 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

conviction of the soundness of the theory of doing the thing
nearest to your hand. "And the Commercial Road is so
much nearer than Java."

"Well, that's a good answer too — a very good answer;"
and Walsden smiled and nodded his head.

And another reason, as Edward explained, was his
mother. She was alone ; he did not like to leave her — and
he told Walsden briefly how he hoped soon to make a home
for her, and have her with him. "She and I are very
dependent on each other ; and outside her affections, religion
is all in all to her."

But there was still another reason, a strong selfish reason ;
and Edward Churchill, while unfolding this, would have
perhaps seemed priggish but for an obvious absence of
conceit, and if he had not spoken as though he now felt a
complete confidence in Walsden's wisdom and an absolute
assurance of his comprehending sympathy. For a moment
or two Walsden perhaps felt that Mr. Churchill was about
to ride the high horse, get on stilts, or even indulge in
Oxford swagger; but then he listened with growing
approval of the young man himself. He liked the steady
outlook of eye, the virile yet tender expression that played
about the lips, the repose of the whole mask that was so
strong in the width of brow, and so unsensual in its clear-
cut nose and narrowed chin. There was certainly great
charm of manner, and surely there must be gifts that would
prove useful as well as ornamental. Yes, behind it all
there must lie a radiance of soul ; a pure, sweet, but forcible
mind, from which thoughts sprang in a lofty sweep, lit up
with the soul-radiance — ^thoughts not in themselves valuable
perhaps, but beautiful as water thrown from a fountain
into sunlight. And as Churchill went on expounding his
views, Walsden thought, "This is a rare bird in the East End
— <m intellectual aristocrat, and not merelv a person of
fashion, like one of Father Bryan's crowd; and with the
thought came the beginning of a quite unreasoned love.
Instinct told him that henceforth he would love his deacon
as much as he could love any individual without detriment
to love of the entire race; tfiat, whether he wished to do
so or not, he would bring him as far forward from the
ruck of humanity as was proper or permissible.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 91

With regard to his other reason against exile in rough
wild lands, Edward said that a fullness and completeness of
the inner life meant so much to him that he dared not
relinquish or even jeopardise it. "To that extent I am
selfishly and schemingly a man of thought. To me, the
supreme beauty of the Christian faith is Uiat it satisfies the
reason. If brooded on it floods the widest minds. Its
philosophy is as perfect as the faith ; and its adaptability is
so wonderful. It is so simple and yet so all-embracing
that, despite of two thousand years of progress, in all the
intricateness and complexities of modem life, there is
nothing that it will not answer. No predicament can befall
the wisest man but Christ will put him straight. And this
makes the intercourse among thinking Christians so pleas-
ant. They can help one another. When assailed by doubts,
they can derive support from their allies. And surely that
must be the greatest glory of the priest— or, say his most
subtle joy — ^when some noble mind comes to him for aid;
when tfie priest fights and beats down the doubts; when
he chases diem like devils through the stately halls of the
man's mind — ^fights them in the throne-room, the ante-
rooms, and outer chambers, driving them headlong at last
from the thought-palace, and leaving its splendid peace
unbroken.

**Well then, you can't have this among the savages. We
of the civilised world are too high above them ; our thoughts
are unthinkable by them. They are — as science tells us —
where our remote ancestors were in the scale of human in-
telligence. There can be no communion of minds. You give
them the bare facts and call upon their faith. With them it
must be all faith — because they have no reasoning faculties
to satisfy. If they are attacked by doubt, it must be the
sort of devil that can be knocked on the head with a blud-
geon. Something you said in your sermon sums it up. You
told us that black preachers do the quickest work — that
converted heathens are the best missionaries to the heathen,
because they are in closer sympathy or harmony of ideas.
Then nearly all the higher powers of an educated man
would seem wasted. To go as a young man might mean
the renunciation of one's dreams or hopes of ever doing the
ler class work of our Master. After all, He has devel-

92

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

oped the delicate instrument of men's brains — and it cannot
be wrong to hope that He will let us use the instrument —
all of it — ^in His service.

''I am afraid this sounds vainglorious— it is not con-
sciously so/' and Edward had a deprecating smile. ''It is
complete selfishness perhaps. And I trust you don't think
I am belittling the noble work of the life-Ion^ missionary. I
can see that, even from my own point of view, it may be
more Christlike — ^the renunciation of the joy of thinking —
the grandeur of giving all. And practically it may be a
more noble — a more widely useful task. Because the mis-
sionary is moulding future generations. In a sense he is
rough-hewing, without set pattern, for God himself; he is
preparing, for God to complete in future ages, the dtunsy
models tfiat he has bravely attempted to shape. Better, I
mean, when all is over — better to have been the man who
made the first rough harpsichord than the man who went
about the villas to set the pianos in tune. That might be
the philosophical view of it."

''I can see one thing, young gentleman — ^ou are a philos-
opher yourself. You look all round questions. And not a
bad thing either. Oh dear;" and Walsden sighed plain-
tively. This has been very refreshing; and I could sit
smoking here till dawn — but then I should go about my
work to-morrow half asleep ; and I do assure you, you want
your eyes wide open in St. Bede's."

xni

Edward Churchill never forgot the impression made
upon him by the first Saturday evening and the Men's
Qub. Truly there could be no need to go to Java: the
savages were here, all round him.

Before visiting the club he was taken for a little tour of
emloration by Mr. Smart, who said rather sententiously,
"Tlie vicar has charged me to show you round, and if agree-
able to you I will do so, although I cannot profess to be a
highly skilled guide. My own duties lie in a small area, and
I do not willingly go out of it."

They passed from the noise and lamplight of the market-
ing centre into dark and comparatively empty streets ; and
Mr. Smart spoke again with the same sententious tone.

"To-night, of course, is the great East End festival, and
one should be prepared to be somewhat shocked if one is not
used to it, but our particular week-end has obtained more
notoriety than it deserved because of the murders ;" and he
said a few words about the series of abominable crimes
concerning which the world still talked.

"But did the murders happen here ?" asked Churchill.

"Two of them — and both on Saturday night. That, of
course, seemed so very daring — ^it being a time when there
are more people passing to and fro. Excuse me a moment."

They had stopped outside a greengrocer's shop, and Mr.
Smart spoke to the shopman.

"You'U be at the club later?"

"No, not to-night, sir. The missis has got comp'ny."

The level of the shop was about two feet below the pave-
ment, and it was merely a room from which the glass
'mndow had been removed, and on the walls of which a
few deal shelves had been fixed. The stock consisted of
onions hanging in strings and some large piles of potatoes
and small piles of turnips and carrots. Nothing in the
nature of green vegetables was visible. The door behind the
shop was open, and one could see in the gaslight an end

94 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

of a bed with four people sitting on it, a woman rocking
a cradle^ five or six other people standing and drinking —
a compact and quite contented evening party gathered to-
gether within a space of perhaps nine teet square.

"Dance is one of the vicar's pillars — ^pillar of the Church,
I mean/' said Mr. Smart, as they walked on. "Quite a good
type. . . . Now this will interest you ;" and he dropped his
voice, as if anxious not to be overheard by any passer-by.
"This is the scene of our last murder."

They had come to a comer where a fairly wide street
opened suddenly on their right between a high blank wall
and the back of a factory. The glimmering light from a
lamp-post near the comer showed one but a few yards of
this avenue, and then all became opaque darkness.

"Cul-de-sac," whispered Mr. Smart, and he advanced a
little way towards the darkness, moving cautiously, as one
who half expects something to spring out at him. "There.
We won't go any farther. I can hear voices," and he put
his hand on Churchill's arm. "There is a gate at the bottom,
which the workpeople use in the da3rtimc. Now, of course,
ever3rthing is shut up, so no one has any business down
here." 'fiien in a still lower whisper he said, "There's a
man with two women. They will make a fuss if they think
we are prying on them. Come."

Churchill's eyes, growing accustomed to the gloom, could
just distinguish three motionless figures at a little distance
by the wall.

"Come along," said Mr. Smart. "We have the light
behind us, you know, so they can see us quite plainly ;" and,
turning, he drew Churchill away.

^What sort of women are they?"
^Oh, the most unforttmate class — ^regularly leading a life
of shame. There are thousands and thousands of them;
and your great surprise, when you get to recognise them,
will be their sordid and miserable appearance. One
wonders, don't you know, that any man could fall so low as
to be lured by them. But there it is;" and, moving off
from the ill-famed spot, Mr. Smart resumed a conversa-
tional tone and seemed more at ease. "I am glad you saw
that — because it was really a peep behind the scenes. You
can imagine all the rest. The victim and her chance corn-

el

\

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 95

panion went down as far as the gate — ^and then, just out of
sight but quite within sound, the deed was done. As a fact,
there was no sound made."

"But those women we saw — ^were they safe?"

"Oh, yes. Two of them, don't you see ? Besides, the man
those two were with was probably quite a respectable fellow.
You know what I mean ;" and Mr. Smart chuckled smugly,
as if he had made a joke. "I mean, a million to one that
he wasn't a murderer. . . . Now, see. This also is typical.
Good-evening, officers."

"Good-evening, sir.'*

A couple of policemen had passed side by side, and Mr.
Smart remarked upon the fact that only at this end of the
town do the police go on duty in pairs. He assured Churchill
that there was a very necessary caution in this habit, since
single policemen had on occasions been most mercilessly
knocked about — indeed, even two at a time had been
maltreated.

"You know, theoretically," he went on, "the cloth is
always respected. Mr. Walsden declares one need never
fear personal violence. It is a saying that the doctor and
the parson may go anywhere — ^with few exceptions. Per-
sonally, I confess I think our friend Walsden pushes the
theory too far. For instance, to-night he asked me to take
you tfirough the worst places, as if it was the most natural
thing in the world — ^and it would have been just the same
if he had been asking me to go alone. Although," and Mr.
Smart laughed, "I might not have accepted the invitation
so readily. For though I have never yet been threatened,
I have several times been grossly insulted."

"I would always go with you — ^if you would be good
enough to let me — ^to answer any call."

Smart said he would be delighted to avail himself of this
offer, and he should certainly remember it; but he added
that, for the most part, he preferred to remain in the imme-
diate vicinity of the church and the church rooms, attending
to parochial organisation. The other curate, Gardiner, was
f(nider of going afield.

It was curious, but instinctively, invincibly, Churchill liked
Mr. Smart less and less. He seemed deficient in sympathy,
narrow of outlook^ unimaginative. And there was some-

96 THE MIRROR AND! THE LAMP

thing very jarrii^ about his talk of danger. Churchill
thought of the police: merely paid servants of the public,
who have to go anywhere— one by one, or two by two-^at
the call of duty. And if a policeman may face all risks,
surely a servant, a soldier of Christ may ao so.

From the side streets they came in a moment to the main
thoroughfare, and were amidst streams of people, the trams
and omnibuses rattling by, gaslight flaring, and a cold wind
blowing. Outside a small music-hall, drawn by the blaze of
electric light and the gaudy pictorial advertisements, the
crowd had assembled so thickly that it was difficult to get
through ; then, when the pressure lessened, one had to malce
a detour in order not to interfere with ragged, dirty children
dancing in front of a piano organ ; and all along the broad
pavement one had to steer wide of flaunting girls who were
followed and often surrounded by groups of pallid boys and
young men. The girls — some of them quite young — ^were
smardy dressed, as though for a summer promenade on
some seaside pier; with bolero hats set jauntily on curled
fringes, cream-coloured or mauve jackets fitting close to
their hips, and many-tinted skirts and scarfs flapping in
the chill breeze. All their faces were painted and powdered.

"O crikey, look at the Devil-dodgers," said one of them,
and she laughed hoarsely, calling after Smart to give her a
kiss next QkkI Friday.

Another of them nudged Churchiirs elbow and said,
"Cheer up, ole pal. Don't look so glum. What price 'oly
water?"

"Who are these young women ?" he asked Smart.

'•Well, how shall I express it? They are, so to speak,
amateurs — but I fear, from a moral point of view, as com-
pletely lost as the— cr — ^professionals."

After less than a hundred jrards of the main thoroughfare
they turned back into a slanting street that seemed to be
another maricet-place, and busier, more prosperous, more
cheerful than the one they had left behind them at the
church. Just at the bottom of this street a man had sta-
tioned himself on an island of pavement where the trams
and buses stopped, and he was loudly preaching to the
empty air. Tram passengers stood close to him, hawkers
with baskets brushed against him, some little children played

iTHE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 97

all round and almost through his legs ; but not a living soul
listened, or even took the faintest notice of him, as he
ranted about heaven and hdl. He was a finely built man, in
his physical prime, black-coated, of tihe superior mechanic
class, with a handsome, strong face, and staring eyes that
had no flash in them, but just vitreous fixity of stare.

Mr. Smart said what Edward Churchill was thinkit^.
'"There's an obvious madman. You can see it in his eyes."

They walked up the street, all among the stalls, and
Churchill noticed a brightness and gaiety that came as a
great relief. The shops seemed much better than any
he had yet seen, the people better clothed, healthier, and
more like men and women anywhere else. Respectable
mothers of families put their purchases in perambulators
and smiled at wide-awake babies, girls and young men
walked together as if th^ were engaged couples, and a
soldier in uniform carried a jolly little chap astride on his
nedc to see the fun.

'^We have got beyond the boundary of St. Bede's," said
Mr. Smart. "This is not in our parish. But as soon as we
cross the water we shall be back again.''

Almost immediately they turned out of the street, left the
cheerfulness of this more fortunate parish, and, passing
through an alley, came to a footbridge over a canal. In this
open space one could look about one, and Churchill saw with
surprise that the moon had risen and was shining palely and
sadly in the midst of a wild, cloud-swept sky. There was
moonlight on the water, the mud banks, and the slate roofs
of lean-to sheds.

They crossed the footbridge, went under a railway arch,
and entered a street that ran parallel with the canal.

**Now we are back in St. Bede's," said Mr. Smart whis-
peringly; **in the very worst part. Criminals, really bad
dass here. Gangs only waiting to set on any stranger —
rob him, kill him, chuck his dead body in the canal ;" and
he linked his arm through Churchill's, and led him slowly.
•It is never advisable to appear to hurry. They don't like
fliat— and then they get suspicious."

It was terrible: oppressing the imagination, making one
not timorous but appalled. The streets were straight, set
very dose together, and over the low roofs the interminable

98 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

brick viaduct threw its shadow by day and made the nights
darker. There seemed to be scarcely any street lamps ; the
houses, with windows all tight-shut and black as the walls,
gave only a gleam here and there from an open doorway ; so
that, but for the moonlight, it would have been like a cold,
evil-smelling cavern — ^like some labyrinth underground, like
a deep-buried inferno where one dreaded but could not
guard against chance contact with the dwellers in darkness.

Yet one almost wished that the moon would not shine;
for all that its rays showed was so ugly, so vile, so fantas-
tically sinister. One saw, as if sketched in grey and silver
on black paper, small courts that issued out of the street
at intervals — ^narrow irregularly shaped openings with
shanties rather than houses on either side, seeming like
the assemblage of roofed shelters where poultry would be
kept and not human beings ; and one knew that just beyond
the bottom of such courts, divided from them by some
crazy rails, if divided at all, there was the deep fosse of
the canal with its black slimy flood ready to hide every
secret. The air, although impregnated with unpleasant
odours, seemed every moment to grow colder and thinner,
as if the breath of famine had long since exhausted its
warmth and sustaining virtues. And an extraordinary life-
less silence reigned over everything.

There were very few people about ; but, as Churchill and
his guide walked slowly on, people seemed to come flitting
like phantoms, all silent of footfall, voiceless, taking strange
shapes as they merged from shadow, moving through a
patch of moonlight and meltin^^ in further shadow. Then
one began to notice men standmg in doorways; men quite
unexpectedly crossed the road just in front of one, or passed
out of one house into another, as if the whole district was
the common dwelling of one vast wicked family.

"We must not go back the way we came," whispered
Mr. Smart. "They are very easily upset. If they fancied
they were being watched or exhibited, it would get on their
nerves. . . . Hush I"

A large man and a very small woman had come out of a
beer-shop at a comer and were now walking by their sides.
The man was like Bill Sikes and nobody else to be met with
in fact or fiction. The woman was middle-aged, dressed in

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 99

m Mack gown and bonnet, and she looked like an old-
fashioned pew-opener who had been left out in the rain for
weeks and got so sodden and dilapidated that birds or b03r9
might mistake her for a scarecrow. Churchill guessed, but
tried not to believe, that she was one of the unhappy persons
described by Smart — ^the professional siren of the slums.

The man spoke, but aldiough close to him one could not
hear his words.

"How was I to leave," expostulated the woman, "with-
out saying good-night to *im?"

The man spoke again, and again inaudibly.

"I merely addressed the word good-night to him. That
is all I said to him."

The man spoke once more, growling; and the woman
seemed to trot forward as a dog does when sworn at by its
master; and then both of them vanished. Where? Utterly
impossible to say. Round an unseen comer, through a dark
entry, behind tfie red curtain of another tavern. They
seemed to be walking close by, a little way ahead, and at
one's side again, and in a moment they were gone, and
Churchill and Smart walked on alone.

So they went through street after street, now near the
viaduct arches, now losing sight of this landmark, and Smart
remarked in a whisper that sounded huskily tremulous, "The
— the bother is that it's so easy to lose one's way. Let
us turn down here. No. I am wrong. That's a cul-de-sac.
We must keep on."

Then presently he paused, irresolute. "I — I think we
must retrace our steps— though I don't like doing it. W-what
do you think?"

Churchill was not given time to answer. For at that
moment there came from somewhere quite near, a piercingly
shrill cry. It was the scream of a woman, and scream fol-
lowed scream.

Truly it made one's blood run cold ; it seemed to be the
concentrated expression of all one's accumulated horror;
the thing that one had been fearing and anticipating and
vainly hoping that one might somehow escape being forced
to hear.

"It is this way. Yes, it is here." Churchill had rushed
frantically and Smart had cltmg to him, impeding him. Now

100 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Churchill shook him off at the entrance of a courts In the
moonlight they could both see two women fighting desper-
ately, while four or five men stood calmly watching.

"You — ^you'd much better not try to interfere," stam-
mered Smart. "I wish you wouldn't. Then I — I'll run for
the police."

Only by thdr garments could one have known that they
were really women. The shrieks had quieted down to snarl-
ings, squealings, gasps, and they clutched and tore at each
other now, with the wild fury of animals. The men, hands
in pockets, watched without excitement ; neither applauding
nor criticising; merely shifting their position in order to
make room when the combatants swung or rolled towards
them.

"You brutes, help me." Churchill, dragging at one of
the women, felt the disgust, the anger, and the impotence
that are usually experienced by anybody who, without a
strong stick, and unaided, attempts to stop a dog fight. "Help
me, you blackguards."

"No business of yours," said a man apathetically and not
in the least wrathfully. "It's our business."

"Then do your business. Quick. Catch hold of her."

The man, with leisurely movements, stepped forward, put
his arms round the waist of the woman wno still remained
free and who was taking every advantage of her freedom ;
and now he quietly drew her away.

"There, stow it." And another man began to curse both
women heartily. "Jer see — get indoors."

Churchill looked round, and the women were there no
more. Like dogs they had crept to kennel at the master's
voice. He looked round again, and all the men except one
were gone too.

To this last remaining man he talked for a little while, at
first passionately, then quietly and pleadingly ; but he elicited
the very slighest response. He could not see the man's
face, but he knew quite well that it was dull, expressionless,
without thought and with very little life.

"I pray you not to let them do it again. I will come back
and see you all by daylight. I want to know you. I mean
nothing but kindness to you. I had no right to speak roughly

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 101

to you. For that I ask your pardon. . . . Will you shake
hands — to show you don't mind?*'

The man spat upon the ground, and shook hands as
requested. His hand was limp and nerveless.

"Good-night."

"Goo'-night, sir."

Churchill slowlv made his way out through the dark,
silent streets, ana a throbbing pity filled his breast. He
thought, ''How could these poor souls be otherwise than
coarse and dirty and fierce, living under such conditions?
If th^ were pure and clean, they would go mad from
despair. And probably it is not true that they are nearly
as bad as Smart says, and all his notions about their watch-
ing one and being ready to rob or kill any stranger are
just cowardly nonsense."

Certainly no one displayed the least disposition to molest
him, or even to look at him, as he retraced his steps ; and two
or three people of whom he inquired the way answered
civilly and sensibly.

At the canal bridge he met Smart hurrying towards him
with two stalwart policemen. The policemen laughed when
they heard they were not wanted, and said it was exactly
what they had told "his reverence."

Going past the cheerful shops again, Churchill remained
silent, but Smart talked volubly.

"I can't tell you how glad I am it ended all right. What
should I have said to the vicar? I'm sure you acted very
pluckily — but, you know, you really did a very reckless
thing. I don't wish to exaggerate, but you might have been
torn to pieces."

Churchill was struggling hard to repress his contempt,
telling himself that he must not judge oUiers. Yet he could
not help thinking, "If this man is a coward he should not

Eretend to be a priest of the Church militant. Sooner or
ter he will disgrace himself. Indeed, his faith must be
weak, or his heart would be stouter. But I will not judge ;
I will not think evil."

At the place where the trams stopped, that same black-
coated man was still preaching. Nobody listened, nobody
cared, nobody seemed to be aware of his existence. His

102

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP"

voice sounded harsh and weary;
glassy stare, as if he saw nothing
movements and noises all round
nothing on earth either near or
cemed with the heaven and hell
ranting.

his eyes were fixed in a
and heard nothing of the'
him, as if he thought of
far, but was solely con-
about which he went on

XIV

The Saturday club was held in the large ground-floor
room of the St. Bede's Church Institute, a building that
contained accommodation and served as headquarters for
various other clubs, guilds, and parish working bodies. The
peculiarity of this week-end club lay in the fact that it had
no regular members ; it was open to any one who cared to
come in from the streets — that is, any tmintoxicated passer-
by who promised either by implication or formal vow, to
behave himself ''like a gentleman" when inside. Mr.
Walsden used to stand sometimes outside the door, inviting
all the male half of the population to avail themselves of
his hospitality. Ladies were not admitted, if they could
be kept out; but it had happened more than once that a
dozen or twenty bold and unblushing representatives of the
fair sex forcibly imposed their company and caused great
unpleasantness. Also on several occasions the rowdy-dowdy
boys had made a raid, smashing glass, furniture and gas
brackets.

At such times Mr. Walsden sought no redress from the
law, refused to prosecute, scarcely complained to any one;
but just mended window panes, repaired the bagatelle board,
bought new benches, and next Sattu'day night came up
smiling again after his punishment.

"Step in, Jim. Glad to see you. A friend of yours ? Very
glad to see him too. . . . Good-evening, sir. . • . No ; I don't
know you, but I shall be pleased to make your acquaintance.
If you have nothing better to do, step inside and join us.
Smoke your pipe, play a game of draughts or dominos — and
have some coffee, if you Uke, one penny per cup. No sermon,
no hymns, no collection.''

He loved his club, and always said that as a humanising
influence he considered it invaluable. When people had
once come, they nearly always came again; and after one
had got to know them at the club it was often an easy task
to niake them go to church.

103

104 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

The room was fairly full when Churchill arrived, and as a
newcomer to the parish he received considerable attention.
Walsden and Gardiner introduced him to honoured fre-
quenters, and others freely introduced themselves. Especially
a young man with brown eyes and an insinuating manner
made continuous advances, acting as self-appointed master of
ceremonies, and explaining and expounding quite evident
matters. This young man proved a great nuisance; first
because he plainly desired to extract a gift of money, and
Churchill had been solenmly exhorted to give no money
to anybody, and secondly because he checked the expan-
sive confidence of many who were ready and anxious to
expand. In two minutes Churchill understood that all these
people took intense pleasure in speaking about themselves
and their private affairs, and that much might be learned by
quietly listening to them.

They were nearly all of them undersized ; very few were
fairly shaped, and among the elder men the slow distorting
effects of a toil that is greater than the physical strength that
meets it were painfully visible. Churchill noticed one tall
man, who stood with his bowler hat tilted so far back that
it seemed to stand on the back of his neck, and his hands
deep-plunged in his trousers pockets, while he grinned as if
enormously amused.

"Dam funny thing, this," he said to Churchill, uttering
the words slowly and thickly. "I can't get the hang of it.
Never bin here before. The guv'nor says, why not? He
says come in here. And here I am. I don't mind it — from
what I see of it.

** Ts employment," said the brown-eyed young man, "is
the spirits and wine trade— carrying and lifting of the
barrels. The temptation in that trade is to get on the drink,
and you can see fer yerself , 'e 'as done it."

"Who do you say is drunk?" asked the tall man.

"I don't say nothing for you to worry about," said the
brown-eyed young man. "But you 'ave 'ad yer drop, old
mate, 'an you know it."

"I have;" and the tall man grinned good-humouredly.
Then he became very angry. "But if I have — ^yes, if I have,
what the hell's it got to do with you ?"

"Language, please/' said Mr. Gardiner, immediately

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 105

crossing to the raised voice. ''Moderate language — that is
our rule. . . . How are you getting on, Churdiill? Here is
some one who must be presented to you. Mr. Philbrick,
this is Mr. Churchill."

''He is a very nice vurchius ole gentleman/' said the
brown-eyed man in a patronising tone.

Mr. Philbrick seemed indeed a most respectable old chap.
He was clean-shaved, with a fringe of grey hair under his
chin, and a big black scarf worn round his neck above a
collarless flannel shirt and hanging down over his jacket.
When talking he screwed up his eyes, wrinkled his whole
face, and put an extraordinary amotmt of deep meaning into
his manner, while he pointed over his shoulder with his
pipe, nodded or jerked an arm significantly. At the moment
he was profoundly interested in a game of draughts, and
he pantomimed excessive delight when one of the players,
a fat-faced, seedy-looking youth, got his man beat. This
result was generally admitted by all the bystanders, although
the defeated player, a middle-^^ed bearded man, never
looked up, but continued desperately to examine the board,
hoping still to find some loop-hole of escape.

"It's a friend o' mine," said Mr. Philbrick, indicating the
conqueror with his pipe. "I taught him the game myself.
. . . Oh, my boy, you could o* ruffed him there."

Everybody protested. "Don't intermeddle. No tellin'."

The fat-faced youth said, *7 seen it — ^he might o' ruffed

me too."

"He seen it all right," said Mr. Philbrick; "or I shouldn't
'a' spoken."

"But you did speak," said the defeated player; "an'

you're a silly for yer pains. Why can't yer hold yer

tongue ?"

"Language, please," cried Gardiner. "My dear friends,
do moderate your language. What is the sense of swearing
at every other word?"

Mr. Philbrick drew away from the draught-players, and
presently he was telling Churchill the story of his conversion
to the Christian faith.

He was a widower who until two years ago had been ex-
tremely prosperous; then health and work failed together,
and he fell into such dire want that he nearly died of starva-

106 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

tion. ''It was that or the work'uss/' he said, nodding and
winking prodigiously. The landlord came to him in his room
and told him that he must clear out at the end of the wedc.
"Well, I says, I make no fuss, I oflfer no blackguarding.
Just so. If I can't pay — ^nothing else to do. So you needn't
puff and blow about it.

"That was the Monday — my chest very bad too, and the
snow on the ground ; and I thmks, *Off with you, Philbrick,
and try and earn a bob along with the rest, road-scraping—
or else it's the work'uss Saturday night' But, sir, I couldn't
stomach it. You'll believe me, it wasn't the shirks, for I do
assure you I've woriced very hard in my time. Any one 11
tell you the same as how old Mr. Philbrick isn't a shirker.
But I was just tired and sick of it. So, thinks I" — and he
lightly tapped Churchill on the chest with his pipe and
stopped to chuckle merrily — ^"thinks I, 'I'll just dodge the
work'uss and everything else along of it.'"

Then he described how he retired to bed, ate his last bit
of food in bed, smoked his last screw of tobacco, and lay
there quite comfortable, dozing and musing. Hunger at
first was hard to support ; but he did not suffer as much as
he expected ; after three days he became light-headed. "An'
by Fridav afternoon I was to the naked eye no more than
a corpse.

On Friday night, however, Mr. Walsden came in a mys-
teriously providential manner and rescued him. "I never
rightly understood how he found me, sir. But it was some-
thing to do with Christmas — ^which was falling due the
Sunday. An' Mr. Walsden's very particular about supplying
a bit of Christmas dinner to them as else wouldn't get
none. I todc it very kind of him, and I like these religious
gentlemen. Yes, he done more for me than others. I assure
you, sir, there was two men in the same house who owed
me money, and never so much as climb the stairs to ask how
I was. Three doors down the street I had another debitor,
who owed me four pounds odd — and not a sign from him
neither. But Mr. Walsden brought me back to life and set
me on my legs again, and in return for his kindness I
accepted of the religion — a thing I'd never done till then."

"And you feel the comfort of it, Mr. Philbrick ?"

"I do, sir/' said Mr. Philbrick, with a glance and an accent

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 107

that was absolutdy convincing in regard to his sincerity. "I
ask no questions. What I bin told I believe. If it's good
enough for an educated gentleman like Mr. Walsden, it's
good enough for me. I take my sacrament along o' the rest,
an' I enjoy it."

"You may trust him, sir," said the brown-eyed young
man, again at Churchill's elbow. "I've never known a pack
of lies come out of the mouth of Mr. Philbrick."

"Yes," said the old chap, "Richard knows me right
enough. I'm pretty well known in these parts."

There was something very attractive m Mr. Philbrick,
and Churchill determined if possible to cultivate his acquaint-

During the course of the evening he talked with other con-
verts, young and old, and was struck in every case by the
astonishing effect upon them that had been made by hearing
the story of Christ's life and death. Most of them — ^in-
credible as that might seem — ^had heard it, or at any rate
really listened to it, for the first time from Walsden; and
they talked of the divine tragedy just as though it had hap-
pened only the other day. Speaking of Judas Iscariot, they
grew hot with indignation, calling him "dirty dog," and
saying, "The rope's too good for 'is sort, sir."

A fish porter in a tattered football jersey told Churchill
that his great pleasure was to go fishing in the River Lea on
Sunday, and this sport had clashed wititi his religious duties.
"I like to get off with my rod and tackle as early as I can
and make a day of it ; and when Mr. Walsden asked me to
go and take the bread and wine down at the church Sunday
morning he said, 'There's no reason you shouldn't come, and
then have your fishing after.' *But no,' I said, *that would
be acting Judiis. If I take it, I shall diuck the job for the
day. I shan't take it, and go a-fishing.' That's right, isn't it,
sir?"

"Did I 'ear you mention Judy 'Scariut ?" said some one
else. "'£ was a blighter, if you like, sir, wasn't 'e?"

"S'truth," said another, "he wanted to have it given him
in the neck if ever a bloke did. Dirty dog."

Churchill could not get away from Richard, the brown-
eyed young man, although disliking him as a hypocrite, and
at last almost explicitly stating ttiat no money would be

108 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

extracted. Indeed the unfavourable impression made by
Richard led to a rash generalisation that among these people
those with light or clear-coloured eyes appeared to be
trusting and trustworthy, whereas those with opaque-
coloured eyes were all humbugs, if not worse. Mr. Phil-
brick and the fish porter had transparently clear eyes, but
Richard's eyes were as impenetrable as bits of brown pebble.
"I 'ope/' said Richard, "I 'ave not offended you, sir,"
when closing time drew near. "You were so very kind
when you come in, but now you seem to turn against me.
I expect it's back-biters bin poisoning your ears against

me.

Churchill said no one had traduced Richard; and then,
having obtained permission from Walsden to do so, he stood
coffee and rock cakes to Richard and the rest of the com-
pany.

"This makes me very 'appy," said Richard, sidling up,
cup in hand; and until the club meeting terminated he
suffered no one to come between him and the new curate.

"I 'ope I shall never fall to be a cadger," he said ; "and I
scorn any one as should so accuse me. He wouldn't do it
twice — not if it was to my face. I b'long to a good f am'ly —
an' I often say it would make a book, would my fam'ly, if
written down in a truthful spirit. But the times are hard
against one, though you work till you sink by the wayside. I
sim to 'ave 'ad nothing except trouble and losses ;" and he
raised his hand to shield his mouth while speaking con-
fidentially. "I'm gettin' up a subscription in the fam'ly to
prervide me wiv a new barrer . . . My eldest sister sent me
five bob at Christmas. Very kind ov 'er, I'm sure ; but all
the same she can afford it. She's a cook in a lady's mansion
at Sevenoaks. I seen it pers'nally — ^five servants employed.
From me brothers I asked nothing — ^knowing that was what
I should get. Jack drinks — but, mind you, there's never
bin heavy drinkm' in our fam'ly. No, as I state, we've bin
a fine lot o' men. It's the girls that 'ave mostly disgraced us.

"Me two aunts finished as a burden on the rates. Me
mother is a proud woman, and felt it at the time — same as
she did when Mabel went to the Orspital. Me sister Mabel
was the prettiest piece o' goods at fourteen you ever set eyes
on. If you looked at 'er, you 'ad to kiss 'er. Fawther used

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

1{»

to say, 'Leave off. You growing lads must remember she's
yer sister/ . . . Mr. Yate^— he was a gas-fitter — fell in love
with her, and kep' her faithful in Ajax Buildings, deserting
his own wife and kids to do so, from her seventeenth birth-
day till he died.

"Then she went on the streets, an' never 'ad 'nother bit o'
luck. Mind you, Mabel felt her pride too. Wouldn't never
come and see 'er mother unless she could bring a present in
'er 'and. Mother never rightly knew 'ow she was faring,
till, as I tell you, they fetched 'er to the Orspital, an' she see
her laid in the bed dying and disfigured wiv the disease.
Mother said it give 'er a turn she'd carry to her grave — ^and
she rounded on fawther, accusing him of the vice of the
women of 'is family which he had transferred into the blood
of Mab.

"Mind you, mother give fawther trouble in his time,
though so respectable and proud in her old age. Fawther
has told me wiv 'is own lips that he couldn't have a lodger
in the house but what the usual annoyance followed; and
that when he chastised 'er it o'ny made 'er carry on the
worse. . . ."

Then Richard turned up his brown eyes and spoke sanc-
timoniously.

"But, sir, it is all the will of Gawd, as Mr. Walsden
teaches — an' if I can subscribe meself a new barrer by Lady-
day I'll bless 'is 'oly name."

XV

For a year while Churchill remained a deacon, and for
nearly half a year after he had received the priest's ccwn-
mission he worked as if at one of those crushingly impossible
tasks that torment sick men in their dreams. He was always
busy and always baffled. Each new day wiped out the last.
There was scarcely time to begin things, never time to finish
things.

After staying a little while at the vicarage he had secured
a room for himself in a block of model dwellings beyond the
southern boundary of the parish. In the parish itself not a
room was available. But here at Bentley House he succeeded
in obtaining decent accommodation, with quiet, peacable
neighbours of the highest class — ^permanent porters from the
London Docks, Corporation roadmen, van-drivers and fac-
tory hands — ^whose wives were willing to sweep and clean
for him, and would have cooked for him also, had he desired
it. Indeed, given leisure, he might have made himself suf-
ficiently comfortable here ; but, for want of it, the packing-
cases that contained his books had not yet been opened,
no additions had been made to the first sticks of furniture
hastily purchased, the floor still demanded the carpet he
had promised it, and the one solitary ornament was the
framed photograph of his mother that hung above the iron
bed. It did not matter. He could not have lolled in arm-
chairs or read books. Every morning early he used to go
up to the top landing of the house just to get a glimpse of
the open sky, to see the shadowy outline of Tower Bridge
across the forest of roofs, or the topmasts of ships on die
invisible river; then, wondering and thanking God that the
sun still shone in spite of human wickedness, he went slowly
down the long flights of stone steps and out into the smoke
and dirt and dra^toned misery. Late at night he returned
to lie down, glad that he was too tired to think, and yet
sighing when he felt that the btu-den of an overladen world

110

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 111

was about to slip from his shoulders, and that for a few
hours he would forget all the shame, the pain, the horror.

Three or four times a week he wrote home to St. Dun-
stan's, pouring out his heart freely, saying the things he
could only say to that dear one; but lack of time nearly
always drove his pen and made broken incoherent scrawls
of what would otherwise have been long thoughtful letters.

"Dearest and best of mothers, how I yearn to fly
down to you as fast as the fastest train can bring me.
But I must not yield to temptation. I must not go.

"To answer your two urgent questions: Yes, I am
very well in health, and Walsden does praise me — far
more than I deserve. But his praise is encouraging. • .*.

"• . • I feel that every day and all day long I am
eating of the fruit of the tree of Evil Knowledge. But
it is good to know. One cannot know too much ; and,
although I shrink and recoil, I pray that unconsciously
I am growing stronger all the while. I see that without
this experience I should have never been worth any-
thing in the higher work. And, my darling, it is not
going to last for ever. Soon you and I will be together
again, and I shall look back on all this as a hard lesson
that was well worth taking. Our separation will only
make our joy in union the greater.'^

She added to his trouble when now and then she spoke
of her loneliness, and he went about his work tortured by a
sense of divided duty. He felt that he was neglecting her,
and yet knew that he would not be truly worthy of her love
if he could not trust it to pardon such neglect She offered
to come to London to see him, to stay for a week or two at
Bentley House, if he would engage a nice bedroom and sit-
ting-room for her ; but he was forced to refuse these offers.
Dear soul, she imagined Bentley House as a modest but
well-managed private hotel, such as those that economical
folk patronise at crowded watering places. It would not
do to let her see the reality. Besides, her presence even for
a day would infallibly weaken him: he would want to go
straight home with her.

This, as he amderstood well enough, was the paramounl

t ;.■ ■u<^3V]^t<-..^—

112 .THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

temptation that has to be fought by all workers in places like
St. Bede's — ^the sudden and almost overwhelming climax of
a gradually accumulated desire to turn one's back and go.

"Forgive me, my dearest, if I say little about myself.
The reason is because there is really so little to say.
I go on learning, learning, tr}ring with all my might to
read the book of life and see the Master's message
stand out clear in every page I turn.

"As to money — ^well, I am spending it very care-
fully, and only under the advice of Walsden. As to
spending much on oneself — ^that is out of the question.
If one wished to do it, one could not. There are literally
no opportunities. I subscribe to all the church funds,
giving most where the need is greatest, and den^ng
myself the pleasure of obeying personal inclination.
That is a part of the lesson one has to learn, and it
seems easier to learn here than an3rwhere in the world.
One must giwe in order to do good and not to secure a
temporary joy."

Matters so well known to economists that they have long
since become trite commonplaces struck him with all the
force of a personal discovery; and then in his letters he
would have sudden outbursts against politicians and the
whole machinery of government.

"Why don't these so-called statesmen come and live
here as I am doing? All their laws and regulations
for the improvement of the common lot are an utter
failure. They could not be otherwise. They are made
by people who don't understand and enforced by peo-
ple who don't care. Evidences of private charity and
benevolence are conspicuous wherever you look, but it
is all of no use. All along the big roads, far out beyond
the East India Docks, there are innumerable institutions
founded by generous private enterprise; they jostle
one another, and more of them are always being built —
houses of every religious denomination, small hospitals,
nursing establishments, places of supervised entertain-

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 113

ment, sailors' homes, free libraries, eveiything con-
ceivable, but nothing of permanent value or in any way
capable of really lifting the unhappy mass of the peo-
ple. When I pass them I think of the scenic decorations
that we used to smile at in villa gardens in Italy — ^the
painted fagade of a sham palace put up to conceal some
eyesore that might shock too sensitive visitors. So here
the long lines of these philanthropic palliatives that are
made of smart red brick or pompous stone, and deco-
rated with marble slabs to commemorate a name, serve
to hide abomination from strangers who ride by in
trams or on top of buses. But horn us who know,
they hide nothing. We see through brick and stone
right into the abyss. . . .

"Thousands of streets with each house exactly like
any other, in every street a thousand people each leading
exactly the same life ; the heart beaten out of them by
monotonous labour^ the soul darkened by incessant
fear ; underpaid, underfed, mercilessly kept from clean-
liness and health, foolishly driven to sin or crime;
stunted during youth, crushed during their poor ma-
turity, and broken on the wheel of shame when old
age overtakes them, when they can work no longer,
when their children and their children's children have
pushed them from their places in the dock or the fac-
tory or the sweater's den. This is not a highly coloured
picture of one's excited imagination. It is what the
politicians — ^making some new law— call the undeniable
and regrettable state of affairs. Yes, it is the state of
affairs two thousand years after the message of peace
and goodwill to all men. And nothing can alter it,
nothing can ameliorate it, nothing can really touch it,
until mankind awakes to the impious wickedness of it.

"I talk to our spouting socialists, democrats, and
social anarchists, and I wonder they are not red-hot
revolutionaries. When they tell me of things actually
happening, they talk calmly and soberly; it is / who
bum and tremble, clench my fists beneath my cape,
and go away murmuring menaces of divine wrath. The
things that happen But they are what I cannot

:- F^''

114 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

speak of, even to yoiL I write them in my diary ao
that I may remember, and I dare not look at jthem
again/'

The first of three entries in the diary, made during the
course of a single week, related to a boy who in the presence
of his mother had been beaten by his stepfather. This
punishment resulted in serious injury to the child, and it
seemed probable that he would be a cripple for the remain-
der of his days. His offence had been the spending of a
penny for his own use (stale bread at a baker's shop) out
of the pennies received while begging. The mother and
her neighbours said the little rascal had been served quite
right, and the world was coming to a strange pass if parents
and guardians were to be prevented from teaching young
people how to behave.

A second entry described what Churchill saw one after-
noon in the Whitechapel Road not far from the London
Hospital, whither he had been to visit a sick parishioner.
There was a little crowd outside a draper's shop, and from
this suddenly burst a young woman of about twenty who
began to run as if for her life, hotly pursued by a shop-girl.
The crowd followed shouting "Stop thief." The thief ran
badly — as did the shop-girl--4)ut nevertheless it was a life-
and-death hunt. Soon the hunted one doubled, came across
the road, through the traffijc, then along the pavement —
with the large eyes, sobbing breath, and weakened gait of
a sinking stag. All the world laughed, men threw their
hats and caps at her, boys tried to trip her heels ; but two
big policemen were nmning now, and they presently cap-
tured her, marched her off, and all was over. Really a
pitiful thing to see when acted before your eyes.

Churchill went with her to the police station ; tried to bail
her out and failed ; tried to get her off when brought before
the magistrate and failed ; tried to save her from hard labour
and f aSed. When her imprisonment was over he stood at
the prison door, and they walked away hand in hand. With-
out asking Walsden's advice on this occasion, he spent a con-
siderable sum in transplanting the culprit to more hopeful
surroundings and startmg her on an honest road.

But the point of this entry lay in the exact reasons that

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP US

the young woman gave him for how and why she had
become a thief.

The third entry was about a girl who at the agt of four-
teen had been hired out by her aunt as domestic servant to
"a Chinese gentleman over Lime'us way," the aimt taking a
money payment in lieu of future wages. The girl remained
in the Chinese quarter for about two years, during which
no word was ever heard of her, and then she was brought
home and left squatting on the doorstep at night. When
Churchill saw her she had been back a good many hours,
and she was squatting in a comer of the room with her
back to the half-circle of women-neighbours who stood to
watch her monotonous antics. Churchill went rig^t into
the comer to get a good look at her. She was very tihin ; her
face had a dullish yellow hue without a sign of blood, as
of one who has been for a long time kept out of reach of
daylight ; her eyes were half-closed, with the outer comers
seeming to lift spasmodically ; and there she squatted, silent,
impassive, her hands on her thighs, while she regularly
swayed her body from side to side, and at intervals bowed
low into the comer, as though before an invisible shrine or
altar. "That's all she does," said the aunt. "She won't so
much as answer when spoken to. I don't know whatever
they've bin doing to her to turn her so stupid, and I wish
to goodness I'd never made the engagement for her. She
was a bright sensible girl and beginnin' to be of use to me
jabout the house — ^but you can see she isn't likely to be any
help to me now if she don't change her manners. . . . Ethel,
drop it. Why can't you drop it, and get up and speak to the
kind gentleman? . . . Oh, blast the girl, I shall lose my
temper with her before I've done. It makes one sick and
giddy to watch her."

Ediel was taken to the Union infirmary, thence drafted
on the morrow to a public asylum, where she died in three
days.

Conceming this case Churchill had the honour of writing
to the Home Secretary, and somebody at the Home Office
had the honour of acknowledging^ the receipt of Mr. Church-
ill's letter and of saying it should have attention. But then,
as the attention seemed too slow in manifesting itself,
Churchill wanted to write to the newspapers ^x\ii ^tX ^ioit

116 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

local M. P. to ask a question in the House. Mr. Walsden,
however, thought it unadvisable to do so. There was ap-
parently a movement on foot to inaugurate a Christian mis-
sion among the East End Chinese, and Walsden seemed to
think that its influence would be far more efficacious than a
fuss in the newspapers or chatter in Parliament. ''It is easy
to raise public interest," he said , ''but unhappily it is impos-
sible to sustain it. Everything is of the hour. You know,
the public are always being hammered at, and one nail drives
out another.'*

In this, as in nearly everything else, Churchill submitted
to the wisdom of his vicar. He was faithfully adhering to
his determination to treat Walsden as the comman^ng
officer, and obedience and deference were always becoming
easier. Nevertheless every check to inunediate action, when
the desire for action had been caused by righteous indigna-
tion, produced in him a most painful sense of impotence.
How can one steel oneself to wait patiently for remote and
doubtful methods of redress, if weakness cries for help and
cruelty struts defiantly? Fits of depression fell upon him,
and there were days on which the sense of being thrall to
a nightmare dream became well nigh unbearable.

At such times he seemed to see too clearly, to understand
too well, to generalise with a tormentingly rapid precision.
As he passed people in the streets, he seemed to be able to
read their unhappy thoughts, to be unable to prevent himself
from reading them. The droop of a bricklayer's shoulders,
a haggard glance of a factory hand, as he slouched by, the
feeble grin and drunken lurch of a docker stumbling away
from a gin-shop, told him stories of entire lives ; and he used
to think, "Yes, you are all types. You each of you represent
thousands and thousands of over-driven beasts who have
been given immortal souls but refused the chance of heaven."
This labourer is past fifty, and he is t)rpical of success ; he
has been lucky enough to keep in regular employment ; but
at any moment now he may lose his job. Then after a long
agony of fruitless efforts to save his home, that too may go.
He will have passed into the army of casual labour; in a
year or so it will be impossible to differentiate him from
the lifelong failures; the rapid descent will have begun, and
nothing wiYi ever stop it. The wife he once loved will be a

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 117

dirty bundle of rags sleeping under arches, his sons may be
thieves and his daughters something worse, and he himself
may drown in a dock basin or die of exhaustion in a ditch,
if, like that old fellow, Philbrick, he doesn't hurry to the
workhouse.

He thought of the patience, the enduring fortitude, the
incessant self-denial displayed by every married couple who,
rising above the normal quagmire level, contrived to guard
and rear a fairly decent family. Many unquestionably did
this, attaining to a fabulous respectability, washing them-
selves on week-days, coming to church on Sundays. But
how few they were — the total numbers of this aristocracy
— ^when compared with the myriads annually destroyed by
the precariousness of employment, the prevailing immoral-
ity, the diseases bred of dirt, the premature decay of
strength and vitality solely due to the vile conditions of their
existence. Could nothing be done for them? They them-
selves asked but one thing, the right to work, the inestimable
privilege of wearing themselves out in a merciless toil, so
that their more f ortimate brothers might eat rich food, ride
on the cushioned seats of carriages, and lie long in soft warm
beds ; and this was asking too much. The boon was denied
to them.

His depression used to grow deeper as, passing from the
slums, he crossed one of the arteries of traffic Here he
thought of the burden of government laid on top of all else.
It was visible wherever one looked — a squad of soldiers
marching down to the docks, a spick-and-span sailor to re-
mind one that large navies are not secured without paying
for them, stalwart municipal officials with immense horses
and newly-painted carts, firemen to prevent fire from cleans-
ing rookeries that ought to have been burnt amidst a nation's
rejoicing ; postmen to carry letters among those who had no
friends to write to them, policemen to move one on if one
rested too long against a wall or ventured to sit upon the
pavement ; tax-collectors in cabs, rate-collectors on bicycles,
and a procession of pair-horse wagonettes giving an airing
to the best-behaved lunatics from the nearest pauper asylum ;
— all this extra dead weight carried on the bent backs of the
people.

What hope ? None, except for the new geQeratioa^ that

lia THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

oome sweet and clean from their Creator's hands, each of
which in its turn is befouled and wasted. He thought of
boyt of fourteen like those who enrolled themselves in
Walsden's guilds or brigade, creatures as yet tmpoUuted, full
of courage, faith, and trustfulness, the sound material from
which good citizens could be made, but just brutally wasted,
converted in a few years to cadgers like Richard, or to
comer boys willing to cut a throat for a night's drunk. He
thought of girls of twelve with eyes like forget-me-nots, with
angel-faces; graceful flowers that the wind of heaven has
sown on a dunghill, and that soon will be broken, faded, and
trampled down into the filth.

And especially the sight of children tore at his heart-
strings. Tears came to his eyes, and he did not attempt to
restrain them, as he stood watching the children. The
street was their nursery, and in the midst of cold and
squalor, except when pinched with himger, they were happy
—asking so little of life, only a smile and a ray of sunshine ;
a little girl of six would be in charge of four younger ones ;
the baby, thirteen months old, wrapped in a sack as though
it were a fur pelisse, proudly riding in a wooden box that
was pulled along with a string by the three other mites.
When the box turned over in the gutter, the baby howled,
but was speedily hushed and taught to be happy again in the
loving arms of its deputy-mother. Churchill thought, "But
when the streets have ceased to be a nursery and become a
school, what will it make of these pupils in ten years ?"

After these periods of depression he felt an immense
longing for something lovely to look at. It was a craving of
the eyes and the mind together. Temptations whispered
themselves. It would do him good to take a day off, or at
least an afternoon ; he might go west and lounge throt^ the
National Gallery, soothing his eyes and resting his thoughts
by a panorama of lovely pictures. He knew that he must
not so pamper himself, and he knew also that he would not
yidd to the temptation. But about the circuit of his duty he
snatched at the enjoyment of regarding anything that was
not outwardly ugly and that had not a suggestion of hidden
ugliness.

He never went west, but, whenever he could do so with-
out wasting precious time, he went east and got a glimpse of

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP J19

pleasingly different from those that always sur-
rounded him — such as the Manor House in the East India
Docks Road, the stone tower of St. Ursula's church, or the
high garden wall and gabled roof of its pretty rectory. As
yet he had not gained the acquaintance of Mr. Verschoyle,
the rector, although he was constantly hearing about him,
and Walsden frequently promised that he wotSd make this
introduction.

Once or twice, too, on spring evenings, when the very air
seemed to murmur of pretty places it had passed before it
sank fainting in the slums, he roamed through limehouse,
staring at rare old house-fronts, at Norwegian ships with
strangely painted poops that stood high and light in the
Regent's basin, at comers of streets nearer the water that
had been seen and described by Dickens ; and, working his
way down to one of the landing stages, stood and watched
the broad flow of the river. It looked g^rand and mysterious
in the soft evening light, with big steamers looming duskily,
the piles of shipping melted and fused in shadow, and the
vast Western town filling the horizon with a golden glitter-
seeming an enchanted city that darkness and cold might
never enter.

At last he made a most unexpected discovery of something
that was not ugly, but almost beautiful, in the middle of his
own parish. He had passed close to it hundreds of times
and never guessed at the possibility of its existence. Not
three hundred yards from St. Bede's church there was a
turning out of Bevis Street that passed between the walls of
a small soap factory and some sheds or wardiouses occu-
pied by fishcurers, and he had always supposed that this
turning led only to the factory yard; but on exploration he
found, beyond the yard, an open space at the end of which
stood an old Georgian house.

It was high and narrow, delightful to look at, with iron
gate and stone steps before its front door, with the original
sash windows and wooden cornice—^ very shabby, ^dly
wanting paint, and generally neglected, but in essentials just
what it had been nearly two hundred years ago. It reminded
him of St. Dunstan's, of Oxford, of all that is old and dig-
nified. And at its side, in a strip of ground not bi|^ enou^
to be called a garden, there was a tree — a real growm^^ls^

. ■• -• -• ■» '

120 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

tree, whose green leaves gently touched the window panes,
stretched forth above a wall, and made the sunlight and
shadow play joyously upon the stone steps.

"Yes, said Mr. Walsden, when Churchill spoke of the
oasis he had found in the desert, "that is Denmark House.
It is the last one left of about a dozen similar houses that
made up what was called Denmark Square. They are shown
in all the old parish maps. The square was demolished
about forty years ago, I believe."

"And who lives in Denmark House?"

"The manager of Brown's soap works — Oliver by name.
He is a good, strenuous, but unlucky man. I talk to him
when I chance to meet him, although he is not of our way
of thinking. Wcsleyan !"

ChurchiU after this went often to look at the tree by
Denmark House. Whether the leaves were broad and
green or tawny and shrivelled, they did one good to look at —
they were so different from all other things in St. Bede's.

He longed for pleasant sights; he longed for pleasant
sounds. Even the tone of a voice, if refined and musical,
startled him and gave him relief. Thus his attention was
first called to Miss Vickers.

Gardiner, laid up with influenza, had asked him to receive
the visitors and discharged patients belonging to a recently
organised extension of the district nursing scheme, and he
was doing so to the best of his ability in the vicarage draw-
ing-room. Each visitor possessed a book for the record of
her cases, and the entries of outlay for medicaments, food,
etc., had to be written up in a diary and confirmed by a signed
statement of the patient. As Churchill knew nobody's name,
and was ignorant of every detail in the scheme, all this
proved to be a rather confusing task until intelligent aid pre-
sented itself.

He had noticed a tall, nicely-dressed young woman with
brown hair and thoughtful eyes, and presently she came for-
ward and assisted him. As soon as she stood by his side
and he observed the delicate refinement of her features, and
her modest silent demeanour when not speaking, he under-
stood that she must be to all intents and purposes a lady. It
would have been a shock had her voice sounded ugly and
common, but in fact it was charmingly gentle and sweet

"]

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 121

When all the business had been transacted, she asked him to
give her out a new nursing book for herself, and he did so,
first writing down her name.

'Let m^ see, what is your name?"

*Vickers — Lilian Vickers."

And he wrote it carefully— "Miss Lilian Vickers" — ^telling
himself the while that he must remember the name and in-
quire later who and what she was.

"Thank you."

She took her book and went away, he watching her medi-
tatively. Her face was pale, and you would not perhaps
call it pretty, but the slimness and gracefulness of her figure,
her quietly tasteful dress, and her easy movements, made her
extraordinarily conspicuous as she passed through the other
women who clustered about the drawing-room door.

Afterwards he saw her once or twice in church. Who
was she ? A West-ender ? The daughter of a doctor ? Any-
how she was different — like the tree in this, that a glimpse
of her was pleasant.

He saw her talking to Mrs. Walsden, and he ftiUy in-
tended to inquire about her; but he never did so. In the
hurry and stress of his life all trifles got brushed aside.
There was no time for an3rthing but solid work.

So the long months passed, and during eighteen of them
he was absent from St. Bede's only for two visits of a week-
end to the boys' seaside camp and for twenty-four hours
spent with his mother at St. Dunstan's.

And still, in spite of familiarity with its inexorable na-
ture, the burden of a people's pain lay upon him. He could
not bear it strongly, yet he might not put it down. Except
in sleep he was forced to try to carry it.

The only sustaining thought was his recognition of the
effects of religion. The living force of religion showed itself
I^inly day after day. But here again there was the same
sense of continually baffled endeavour.

St. Bede's parish contained about thirteen thousand inhab-
itants, and probably only thirteen hundred could be claimed
as in any way church-people. Ten per cent, of the massl
And in all neighbouring parishes, throughout the East
End, one might say that no higher percentage could be
found. Not more than one person in ten was really and

122 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

truly a Christian believer. Only the well-to-do could, as it
were, afford to be religious; religion was the final stamp
upon an unusual prosperity; in lives that knew no leisure
religion could not find a place. Or, in other words, those
who most needed it might never have it. This, too, was
denied them.

A terrible thought — the more terrible, the more clearly
one saw what religion can do and what it ought to mean.

One winter's afternoon he was in the office room at the
Institute, where Walsden sat at a table doling out relief
tickets, attending to applications for hospital aid, taking the
claimants each in turn. The room remained almost full, the
pressure at the table was great, and the beads of perspira-
tion on the vicar's forehead became little fountains that he
mopped up hastily with his bandana handkerchief. A young
girl on a chair wept plaintively, and Churchill pointed her
out to Walsden.

"Now, my dear," said Walsden, "don't snivel. Your
turn will come directly. What ticket was it you asked for?
.... Speak up. I can't hear. Really, whatever it is,
you must wait patiently."

"But father will be dead.*'

"What's that you say ?"

Churchill went over to the prl, brought her sobbing to the
table, and she explained that she wished a priest would come
to her dying father.

"Why didn't you tell me so at once?"

"I did, sir."

"Did you, my dear?" said Walsden, very kindly. •*Then
I fear I was not attending— or it has slipped my memory.
You see we are imusually busy. But now, when you say
Mying,' do you mean merely iU, or that he is on the point
of death?"

"Doctor said he'd be gone before dusk;" and the girl
moaned and rocked herself.

"What is your father's name?"

"Thomas Rinch."

"Oh, dear. I know him well Your father is an honest
godfearing man."

"Always bin to church rqfular," sobbed the girl.

Edward Churchill asked and detained leave to go with the

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 123

girl to her father's home, while Walsden went on ^trib-
uting the soup and coal tickets.

They were in time. The man was still alive. As always
on such occasions he had served as a little private exhibition
for the whole street ; from an early hour female neighbours
had been going in and out ; at mid-day men had come from
their work to have a peep at him, and now, in extremis, he
lay surrounded by curious and attentive spectators.

Churchill, not without difficulty, cleared the room of every-
body except the wife and the daughter, gave the last com-
forts of the Church, and stayed till all was over.

Then he came away, walking very slowly through the
streets and feeling a new and strange tranquillity of thought
At the Institute he b^ged to be excused from aU duties until
the morrow. He could work no more that day among the
living ; he must sorrow and be joyful for one who had been
here a little while and now again had gone.

Alone in his bare cold room at Bentley House he passed
the whole evening praying and meditating, except for half
an hour that he took for writing a letter to St. Dunstan's.
He said in this letter :—

"The face was lovely to look upon, lined and fur-
rowed, but with the pathetic dignity that only comes
after pain that has been bravely borne. ... I am
sure that he understood me, although he could not speak.
I watched hb eyes, and they were full of comprehen-
sion, and he made slight movements with his hand.

"But, mother, he spoke just before he died. He was
propped up high in the bed because of his trouble in
breathing, and all at once his head came forward, he
looked straight in front of him with widely opened
eyes, and his whole face lit up as if the light of a lamp
had been turned upon it And he spoke a single word —
'Wonderful !'

"And, mother dear, no one who saw this could have
doubted. The gates of heaven had opened for him, and
he was looking into the blessed abode. I went on pray-
ing with dread and joy ; for I felt that the spirit of God
had descended into the room, and I knew tnat the man
was saved. He said the word again, twict---'V^^TAtx-

124 THE MIRROR ANDf THE LAMP

ful, wonderful r Then he sank back, dead. When I
closed his eyes they were dull, like tarnished glass.
That did not matter. The visicHi of heaven was in
them.

"And, oh, mother, my own dear mother, is it not
wonderful f What other word could he have used ? Is
it not wonderful and glorious that the grave need have
no terrors, that what seems the end is but a beginning,
that soon we may be where there are no partings, no
r^[rets, nothing but infinite peace?"

XVI

Qp a sudden his burden had become less heavy. Perhaps
it was that deathbed scene which chahged the sombre drift
of all his thoughts. But certainly he was happier, and
scrutinising darkness could always now detect some gleams
of Ught.

^^en he looked at the distress and pain that lay on all
sides, he saw, too, the love and the self-sacrifice. If there
was much cruelty there was also much kindness. Among
the more fortunate there was immense generosity. They
lent one another their money, their goods, their service, and
they did it freely and ungrudgingly. The very poor went on
giving until they could give no more. As to the most miser-
able, the fallen and the wicked, the outcast and the rejected
— ^well, these were exactly like the people that Qirist chose
to live among. And the quite obvious thought came that
Christ never seemed to be really distressed by the material
grievance of their condition ; he founded a brotherhood of
love, but he sketched no plans for a socially comfortable
community; he accepted all the horrible inequality of rich
and poor ; he did not even try to free the slaves.

Christ accepted it all as it was — or at least showed no
passionate hurry to change it. He had brought the great
message from heaven, and henceforth the earUi could take
care of itself.

Churchill said to himself, ''I have been sinking into the
folly of unbelievers." And he thought again, but in an en-
tirely different manner, of the ceaseless attempts to amelio-
rate the existing state of affairs that are made by economists,
politicians, writers, and talkers. All that thev can do,
lavishly aided by the benevolent and the charitable, is but a
drop in the ocean. And knowing that it is so, many good men
cannot sleep at night because of the suffering of mankind.
The horror of it, together with their own impotence, haunts
them, and ultimately kills them perhaps.

He thought of these philanthropists and of their despair-

125

126 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

ing cry, feeling ashamed but scarcely now remembering if
he had ever echoed it. He knew it perhaps only because one
hears it so often : "The world is too ugly. The suflFering is
too much. Despair."

Yes, but the answer is simple. He marvelled at the folly
of the cry. These men must be tmbelievers. In truth one
might despair^ if it was a question of only one life here and
now. But as there is another life, to which this is only a
probation, why despair?

And even here below, we are not standing still. We are
not as we were two thousand years ago. Here below the
love is strengthening, spreading — ^nothing can stop the
progress. Christ sowed the seed in the heart of the world,
and the blossoming tree cannot die; it must spread, and
spring up higher and higher. There is hope on all sides.
No r^ despair is felt among those who are suffering. Only
the doubting lookers-on cannot bear it, and sometimes go
mad from the hideous sights.

The sense of being lost in the shifting crowd of strangers
passed away from him. He knew more and more people
personally. Sometimes, going through the costers' market,
he seemed to be acquainted with everybody there. Whole
streets talked to him — ^the church-folk as to a friend, the
others in genial recognition of a now familiar face. "After-
noon, guv'nor." "Fine day, sir." "I say, mister. 'Aj-f a
minute ago there was a young bloke looking f er you ; one o'
yer Brigade boys; carroty-'eaded boy that b'longs to
Brown's."

At the vicarage, where he generally took his evening meal,
he was quite at home; trustfully admiring Walsden, and not
only fond of Mrs. Walsden, Gardiner, and the servants, but
even fond of Mr. Smart. He had tried hard not to judge
Smart severely, and he had been rewarded. After hearing
things narrated by Walsden and observing other things for
himself, he would have been sorry indeed had he recklessly
condenmed this large, soft, and outwardly common man
because of his one constitutional or hereditary weakness.
Much, much good lay hid in Smart. Though poor, he was
not greedy of money ; if he loved case, he did not take it ;
if he shirked the battlefield, he was faithful and untiring

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 127

¥ritfa the wounded and the side. In his last curacy he might
have married a rich woman, but, although not bound by any
vows of celibacy, he refused marriage for the sake of the
priestly ideal. Soon he would be leaving St. Bede's, to take
up work just as arduous and unromantic in a provincial
town ; and Churchill felt genuinely sorry that his round face
and rather smug smile were about to vanish from the scene.

If either Smart or Gardiner had been capable of enter-
taining the pettiness of jealousy, both of them, ere this,
might perhaps have wished that Churchill himself would
sp^ily withdraw. People who used to go to them for
ghostly counsel now went to him. Women and boys in in-
creasing numbers, and many men, too, demanded preparation
from him before attending the Communion Service, and but
for the advice or explicit requests of Walsden, he would
have developed and expanded the practice of confession to
the utmost of his power. On this matter he and Walsden
had many talks. He did not agree with Walsden's views —
so far as this special matter was concerned— either with re-
gard to doctrine or policy ; he thought them wrong ; but he
submitted and obeyed.

Walsden was more grateful than Churchill guessed for
such acquiescence to the superior authority. Talking to his
wife, he once said, ''Emily, the best thing about Churchill
is that he doesn't like giving in — ^no, he hates it and yet he
does it."

"He is an extremely nice young man," said Mrs. Walsden.
"Quite the nicest we have ever had."

Walsden scratched his beard and laughed contentedly.
"Yes, and do you know, it is lucky that he bends to me,
because the time is not far off when he will be strong
enough to break me."

Henry, what do you mean?*' Mrs. Walsden was indig-
nant and puzzled.

I mean the hold he is getting on the parish."
Oh, that is nonsense," said Mrs. Walsden quite warmly.
No one can ever be anything here but you."

"You don't hear what I hear. It is all Mr. Churchill
nowadays. It is 'Mr. Churchill told me not to;' 'Mr.
Churchill wouldn't like it ;' 'Mr. Churchill said I was to pray
for my enemies.' . . • Emily, if he set himsell \.o Aa V^

in

u

128 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

he could take them all away from me. But he wcm't at-
tempt to do it."

''I should think not indeed;'' and Mrs. Walsden tossed
her head, and her mild e^es flashed fire.

''And he won't have hme to do it either. Emily, we can't
hope to keep him long. It would be too much to hope— but,
oh, my dear, how I shall miss him I"

*'I sh2Ln't — ^if he has such presumptuous ideas."

''He has none;" and Walsden spoke with most unusual
slowness and thoug^tfulness. "Emily, I see great things
ahead of Edward Churchill. Up to now I believe his life has
been a constant fight. It is a fip;ht that tells its story in his
face. I saw it was there direcdy I saw him, but I couldn't
read the story. I asked him why he looked older than his
years, and he said he did not know. Quite true. I don't
think he knows now."

"And now I don't know what you mean," said Mrs. Wals-
den, picking up a basket of socks.

"I mean But, never mind. You're busy, dear. I

too. There's something I had to attend to, and it has com-
pletely gone;" and Walsden roused himself and began to
bustle. "Yes, Churchill— only this. When a man of that
quality conquers himself, he can conquer all the world. He
becomes like iron — all it meets must bend or break. . . .
Tell Miss Lacy that the auditor's report will be ready
to-morrow."

In fact, although Edward Churchill did not as yet know
it, what had happened twice already — at school and at the
University — ^had happened again, and on a larger scale, at
St. Bede's. He was an influence.

This became patent to all but himself when he b^^n to
preach. He had prepared a series of sermons on the Efli-
cacy of Prayer, and he started delivering them at week-day
evening services. Gradually he filled the church. He told
the people to pray for one another ; he said it was an aid that
they could always give, and they were to give it always;
instead of coming to gape at the sick man and make a raree-
show of him, they were to pray for him while at their work.
They were to pray for those fliey loved and for those they
hated ; and the love would deepen and the hate would die.
"Pray for him who evilly entreats you, ask that he may be

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 129

redeemed from his wickedness and taught to act as a mem-
ber of the brotherhood of Christ. And listen to this, believe
it, because it is the truth : If your prayers do him no good,
they will do you good. Try it ; put it to the test, and tdl me
if it is not true. After such prayer you will feel that you
are better and stronger; the poison of angry thought will
have been driven out of your blood, your brains will seem
to have been washed in clean water, your hearts will beat
to a steadier measure ; you will be more like yourselves."

He took no pride but an immense pleasure in the success
of his sermons. When he went up into the pulpit and looked
down at the toil-worn faces, he found that all which once
seemed ugly had utterly gone. This place of simple wor-
ship seemed homely, friendly, congruous to its purpose and
its aims; the yellowish bricks and clumsy woodwork had
been rendered innocuous by familiarity, the tessellated pave-
ment glowed warmly and cheerfully in the gaslight, and by
day the gaudy crudeness of the painted glass no longer
afficted his eyes.

Soon Walsden came to him with an open letter, and, look-
ing at it rather ruefully, said, ''Father Halliday wants you
to go over and preach at Poplar. He'll send a man to take
your place. It's the first offer of the kind that has ever
reached us from that high and mighty quarter — and, well,
my immediate inclination was to ask him to keep his im-
pudence to polish his buckled shoes with. But, of course,
I should like you to go. It's the rig^t thing to do. Yes,
I wish to say yes."

Churchill preached at Poplar, and then with Walsden's
approval complied with requests for a sermon at Plaistow
and other parishes as far eastward as Leytonstone.

Amongst the churches that he preached in — ^the one to
which Walsden dispatched him wiUi the most cordial satis-
faction — ^was St. Ursula's ; and now at last he met that Mr.
and Mrs. Verschoyle of whom he had heard so much, and
was privileged to pass through the gate in the high garden
wall at which he had looked so often.

The rectory was more charming than he had imagined
when scrutinising its gabled roof and upper windows from
the top of a tram. Coming out of the roar of traffic, leaving
the mean shops, the sad crowd, the dirty ^vexoi^ciX.) ^^xA

130 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

passing through an enchanted wicket, you saw before you a
modest old-fashioned country house, with carriage drive,
wide porchf and well-treed garden, beyond which, and at a
considerably lower level, ran a stretch of water that con-
nected one of the many ship-basins with a neighbourii^
canal. Inside, the house was homelike, peaceful, pretty. But
more charming than all this were the people who lived in the
house.

Verschoyle was a tall thin man of perhaps fifty, and yet
when he laughed his clean-shaven face seemed that of a boy ;
he had soft liuninous eyes, and their expression changed
rapidly, now humorous, now grave, but never hard; in
manner he was easy, natural, but always priestlike. Mrs.
Verschoyle as a young girl must have been very beautiful,
and indeed she was still beautiful at the age of thirty-five : a
woman of the Italian t3rpe, with the nobly chiselled mask of
antique ideals, dark hair, and an olive comjdexion. When
in repose a fleeting sadness showed about her lips and eyes ;
when she talked the light and the life in her was glorious.
All the church-people of St. Ursula's loved her; she could
understand all, she forgave all ; she had a power of intuition
that is very rare, a power that first startles and then de-
lights. An attribute which she shared with her husband,
perhaps the strongest characteristic of both, was that with-
out delay and without question they seemed to givt one their
ripe friendship — ^yet, not as common people giving that
which they know is of little value and therefore need not
be withheld, but as if acting on a firm belief that the gift
would be deserved.

Thus they gave their friendship to Edward Churchill, and
he thought tluit it was of inestimable value. He came back
to the rectory again and again, and they always made him
welcome. They supplied nearly everythix^ for which he had
craved. All here were statmch Ca&olics, thinking exactly
as he did and able to express their thoughts without the least
reserve. It was a joy to snatch some brief respite, jump
upon a tram, and find himself in the rectory drawing-room.
Listening here was as pleasant as talking; just to watch
was pleasant. The young priests who lived here wore cas-
socks and birettas ; their faces were fine and mild, yet really
strong, like the rector's face; and in their intercourse with

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 131

him and his wife they seemed to be brothers. All were so
happy. The atmosphere was full of a glorious untroubled
faith into which fuss and hurry could not obtrude itself.
The whole thing was spiritual when compared with Wals-
den's harassed household, where the talk ran so much on
violent effort, bitter disappointment, and stem refusal to
admit defeat. Here, when they spoke of difficulties they
all seemed peacefully conscious of Uie irresistible force that
works behind our puny endeavours. Walsden's was a noble
ardour ; this was a splendid confidence.

"Now sit quietly," Mrs. Verschoyle used to say, smiling at
him. "Don't pull out your watch in that agitated way ; don't
frown and start, and jump up as if you had been shot. What-
ever you have to do, there will be time enough to do it."

And he noticed how slowly and thoughtfully one of the
young priests took his biretta from the piano, turned it round
and round in his white hands, lingered a little while chatting,
and then glided away. Most haste less speed perhaps. At
St. Ursula's contemplation and meditation seemed to be
possible. And if one got unduly rattled, one went into a
retreat. He heard them speak of retreats often. "Brother
Davenport is doing a retreat at Reigate." "Father Mathison
will have finished his retreat by Sunday.**

When here, he fell into their ways. He lived for the
moment, and the wish to be in two or three places at once
was forgotten.

So truly the rectory was for him a retreat He did a
retreat of an hour or an hour and a quarter at a time,
liking it best when he could sit alone with Mrs. Verschoyle
on smnmer afternoons. It was rest and enjo3rment to be in
this beautiful room — ^made beautiful by taste and not by
wealth ; to look at the chintz-covered sofas and chairs, the
pretty china, the flowers, and, through an open window and
under the branches of trees, at the garden sloping downward
to brown water dappled with patches of yellow sunlight.
And, oh, the sweet boon of silence! Here, at the back of
the house, all seemed so still. Not a murmur of the traffic
reached one, and the faint shouts of men passing with a
barge upon the water sounded but for a moment and then
like music.

He used to talk to her dreamily, of his mother, his am-

132 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

bitions, his ideas for new sermons ; and he loved to talk, he
loved to listen. Her voice, the mere sight of her, did him
good.

"Well, Christian," she would say, with a frank, kind smile,
as he came in, "how are you getting on with the g^ts?
You've left the Slough of Despond far behind you, anyhow."

Quite early in their friendship she and her husband had
begun to call him Christian, but they employed the name
only when there were no other people present He had
asked her why. "Is it because you think me faint-hearted
and easily frightened?"

"No," she said. "You are like Christian because you are
going a long journey, and you are going to suffer many
tilings, but you will get there in the end. But that's not the
reason," and she laughed pleasantly. "See for yourself."
Then she brought from her writing-table a print of Sher-
bum's fanciful picture of Christian dressed in armour.
"Have you ever seen that face? The first time you came
here my husband and I had the idea that we knew you, that
we had often seen you before. We racked our memories.
Then all at once Wilfrid jumped up and said» 'Christian!
Sherbum's Christian'!'*

Many other visitors came to the rectory; and, meeting
them, Churchill was unconsciously touching the fringe of a
circle of the most aristocratic Catholicism. These droppers-
in were for the most part priests — friends of St. Ursula's
curates, members of orders and wandering communities, or
representatives of austere brotherhoods who made excur-
sions into the world and then returned to the normally
severe discipline of their Houses ; but there were some lay-
men also, young men of easy address and polished manners,
who, except for their costume, were just like clerics. All
were celibates, and certainly most of the priests, if not the
laymen, too, had taken solemn vows of chastity. Mr. and
Mrs. Verschoyle not only approved of celibacy, but spoke
of it with enthusiasm, delightfully oblivious both of them
that they were always presenting it in its most attractive and
highest form, the bliss of married life.

These people talked often about the church of the Cruci-
fixion in Mdford Street, its eloquent vicar, Father Bryan,
its deserved popularity, and its varied offices. They ad*

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 133

vised Churchill to go there without delay, politely giving him
to understand that not to have attended High Mass at
Father Bryan's was at once the loss of a great pleasure and
an ignorance that verged on being a solecism.

Then somebody offered to procure tickets for Mrs.
Verschoyle, Churchill, and the youngest of St. Ursula's
curates; and one Sunday all three of them went together
and heard Schubert's Mass.

Churchill's delight and joyful emotion were intense. He
came away fortified. And thence onwards he went there
from time to time alone — ^making it his great treat, forcing
himself to work doubly hard in order to earn and deserve
the treat.

At this period Father Bryan's church was at the very
height of .its vogue. At ten o'clock — ^half an hour before
Matins began — carriages came rolling out of the stately
Mayfair squares to set down what the newspapers used
to call the highest representatives of rank and fashion, and
soon the courtyard gates in narrow little Melford Street
were as handsomely blocked as though the attraction had
been a dress rehearsal of some new opera. Many policemen
were required to regulate the traffic and help you through
the crowd of sightseers who had gathered to gape at the
nobs. Admission was by ticket only. In the courtyard
grave and courtly men of the world examined your creden-
tials ; then you were passed on into the church porch, where
you surrendered your cards of entry. In the church itself
pleasant debonair young gentlemen took charge of you,
dividing the two sexes, conducting women to one side and
men to the other, whispering, smiling, beckoning, and finally
giving you, somewhere among the tightly pa^ed throng,
your cane-seated chair and square praying-mat. There was
excitement and anxiety as closing time drew near; for no
mercy was ever shown to late-comers. At 10 '25 the church
doors shut, one heard the keys turn in the locks, and one
knew that outside, the courtyard was full of the disap-
pointed and the ticketless. After Matins the doors opened
again. A few people went out, but many more surged in,
packing eveiy available comer, exhausting every square
inch otstanding room, for the Mass.

The church, considered merely as a building, was "fhA

J34 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

last word" in ecclesiastical architecture and decoration.
Ousters of polished stone pillars with ornate capitals sup-
ported the unusually high roof; the wall on the women's
side was given over to a series of fresco pictures, while the
men's wall had narrow windows with low-toned glass ; there
was a small but rich little chapel snuggling behind the pulpit
and beneath the screened tubes of the organ — a very power-
ful and costly instrument. All this seemed fine enough, but
the real splendours had been reserved for the choir and
sanctuary. The altar stood high above its spacious wide
steps ; all columns, tracery, or screen work to either side of
the choir were gilded, with richly-glowing colour as a
background, and the entire eastern wall was a blaze of gold
mosaic. Windows, high up to the south and north, that
could not be seen from the body of the church, admitted a
white but delicately tempered light, but only at a level well
above the altar, so that it softened the fiery glow of decora-
tion, and made all that might seem heavy or solid change to
graceful, almost ethereal luminance.

At first Churchill noticed little of such matters. Thrilled
and captivated by the new experience, he could scarcely
observe anything outside the essential satisfaction furnished
by his surroundings. But now, during Matins at least, he
was fully cognisant of minor interests.

He noticed the congregation— even studied it attentively.
The sleek and robust young men who acted as vergers were
ccmfident, easy content with themselves and yet not self-
conscious. They seemed to be friends of everybody, they
stooped to tap people on the shoulders and murmur amicably ;
they sometimes kept one hand in a trousers pocket as they
showed people to seats — ^they were like the bridegroom's
chums helping at a wedding. On different occasions he
saw seven or eight men that he had known at Oxford, and,
talking to them afterwards in the courtyard, they made much
of him as one with whom they were glad to renew relations.
Amongst them was a man odled Richard Hayling, a man
much older than Qiurchill, who used to come to stay with a
fellow of All Souls, and did not then appear to be very relig-
ious. Now it was easy to see that, in spite of his smart
clothes and still worldly manner, religion had become the
main interest of his life. He was a handsome man^ with a

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 135

large bird-like nose, dark hair rapidly turning grey, and keen
inquiring eyes. Evidently a person of importance here, he
took Churdiill under his wing, introducing him to Father
Bryan, and promising him that he should have tickets when-
ever he wanted them. Hayling also said that some one had
told him of Churchill's gifts as a preacher. Another man
whom Churchill had never seen before, but whom he im-
mediately recognised, was the Duke of Danesborough. The
windows of Oxford photographers had been full of por-
traits of this celebrated tmdergrad, and, although he had
been down for some time, the talk still ran upon his rows
with dons, policemen, and bookmakers; his steeplechasers
and hunters, the coach on which he drove actresses, his
rooms by the archway at Christ Church where he gave fabu-
lously elaborate and painfully riotous luncheon parties. A
sun-burnt, strongly-built, even beefy nobleman, leaving tra-
ditions behind him to lead youth astray — and yet here he
was, Sunday after Sunday, taking round an offertory bag
and looking grave, dignified, princely, or kneeling on his
little mat, all his ducal pomp forgotten in humble and whole-
hearted devotion.

When Churchill glanced at the female part of the con-
gr^ation, he saw unmistakably the effects of wealth and
luxury upon outward aspect. In a sense, many of these
richly dressed, gracious, and graceful women were ex-
tremely beautiful. The faces of young and old all seemed
mature. Each seemed a complete, well-finished specimen,
with nothing pinched or stinted in colour, line, or size. They
were, of course, all of them very highly nourished; their
complexions, even when waxily pale, suggested a full supply
of blood, and the curves of their cheeks and the contours of
their figures, although so pretty, were very firm. To his eye
— ^perhaps merely from an association of ideas natural
enough — ^their charms were a little too earthly. Something
dull, lifeless, or inert marred the loveliness. He could see no
one with the spiritual beauty of Mrs. Verschoyle, nor one
with an expression and general air as interesting and subtly
attractive as had been shown by that Miss Vickers.

Thinking this, he remembered that Miss Vickers came
no more to St. Bede's church, and that he never met her at
the Institute or in the streets. She had vaxns\v^ m^Qoff^^sX.

136 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

his ever having asked those questions concerning her char-
acter, history, social status. She had been a pleasant ap-
parition and no more. He remembered, too, that he had not
for some time paid a visit to the tree by Denmark House.
He had forgotten the green leaves and the pale face together.

But however widely his mind wandered, it came back and
concentrated itself the moment the Mass began. As the first
chords of noble music struck one's ear, one became absorbed,
entranced. One thought of the great and glorious mystery,
and one thought of nothing else. Truly, however, as the
celebration continued, thought with most of the worshippers
was obliterated and they became purely receptive, storing
pleasure and peace through eyes and ears.

But with Churchill, up to a certain period, there was
always a strong mental acquiesence, a latent activity of
thought, that seized and sifted each incoming message from
the sense channels. Thus, while he listened and watched,
taking joy in the play of light and colour, the mauve and
amber and gold of the priests' vestments, the solemnity of
tall acolytes holding the immense candles, the bowings and
genuflexions, the advances and the withdrawals, the low
murmurs and the loud bursts of song, some deep inner voice
of the intellect seemed to heighten his joy by its sanction and
approval, as though it had been saying, ''This satisfies me.
This is what I desired. This is what I have been asking for
ever since I was a child and first began to think."

But after a point, as the apotheosis approached, he passed
swiftly into the realm of unreasoning emotion. The sound
of the bell thrilled him; the odour and smoke of the incense
was rolling towards him ; the eastern wall hegsin to flash and
tremble. Soft beams of sunlight made a heavenly radiance
high above the priestly heads and almost prostrate forms;
then down below all seemed to grow misty, a glittering of
gold seen through veils of many-tinted cloud, in which one
understood rather than really saw the Elevation of the Host.
And thence onward it was adoration and delight It was
the supreme ecstasy.

In the evening, seated at supper in the bare and shabby
dining-room of St. Bede's vicarage, he was b^ged to
describe what he had witnessed at the West End, and he

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 137

always did so freely. Mrs. Walsden, standing up before the
cold mutton, would stop carving and vaguely brandish the
big knife, so astonished did she feel; Walsden, engrossed,
inadvertently helped himself thrice to the Barking pickles ;
Gardiner sighed almost enviously; and Mr. Nape, die new
curate, who was a shy, tittering kind of person, gasped and
spluttered while he drank his gmger beer.

''As many men as wcnnenl How can he manage it?"

"Crowded for Matins too I Welir

Churchill used to hand round the church magazine that he
had brought with him from the marvellous West End estab-
lishment, and, as this passed from one to another, items
were read aloud to a chorus of ejaculation.

"They've made a Lec^e for the young ladies at three of
the fashionable drapers' shops," read out Gardiner.

"They get up dances for them," read Mr. Nape. "Oh I
They arrange theatricals for them. Fancy 1" And he
tittered.

"I see," said Mrs. Walsden, nursing the magazine, "that
he gave twenty guineas to Poplar. . . . And ten guineas to
the Canning Town fund. He didn't happen to think of us^

Walsden took the magazine from her, and, always ready
to ignore his food, read assiduously.

"Could one credit it? They take nearly three hundred
pounds at a single offertory. Why, think what that would
come to 1 . . . Stay — ^here it is in black and white. Their
offertories last year exceeded five thousand potmds." He
held the magazine above his head, as though to prevent Mrs.
Walsden from snatching it, and stared at her fixedly.
"Emily, do you hear ? Five thousand pounds I Positively,
it makes one's mouth water."

XVII

Some of the young men that Edward Churchill met in the
West had offered to visit him in the East. "We will," they
declared. "On my word, I mean it . . . You know,
Churchill has the worst slum of all. Isn't it sporting of him ?
We mean to look him up. . . . We will, old chap.
Hayling shall -fix a date with you. After dinner, of course.''

And one Saturday night tlu^ really did come to the club
— <i largish party of youthful bloods, personally conducted
by Richard Hayling.

The visit was not altogether successful. Walsden did not
take to the visitors, and soon grew huffy and standoffish with
them. Obviously they had merely come sightseeing. They
chattered gaily at the club, looking absurdly big and strong
and prosperous as they moved about among the undersized
East-enders, and inciting undue noise and laughter.

"Tell us some more. Go on— out with it. So you propped
him one in the eye — ^ripping !"

Edward heard their silly talk in all directions, but it could
not be checked. "Algy!" one of them cried excitedly.
"Come over here and talk to a delightful cove I've found.
He has just done time."

They had fastened upon a coster, an unworthy young man,
and Churchill heard them plying him with silly questions.
"Which is the rummiest street? Saturday! You have all
sorts of larks, don't you? Can't you show us the larks?"
Churchill tried in vain to get them away from their coster.
They went off with him — ^to see the sights, to look in at the
music-hall, to stand treat' at whelk stalls, buy hot potatoes,
and watch people eat hokey-pokey. "Show us your donahs
too. Trot out the gals. Bring the ladies. Let 'em alt

come."

Churchill looked round, and only Richard Hayling was
left He felt ashamed of his frivolous crew, and insisted on
staying at the club till nearly the end of the evening.

138

THE MIRROR ANH THE LAME 139

Walsden frowned, and going out to the pavement, stood
tiiere, as if the interior of his club had been spoilt for him.

But widiin a few days all the foolish visitors had sent
Churchill cheques to be used for any good purpose that he
pleased ; and when he handed this money to St. Bede's gen*
eral purposes fund, Walsden beamed, rubbed his hands
together, and was again well content.

A little while after this Churchill received an invitation
to preach an evening sermon at the Church of the Cruci-
fixion. Walsden again begged him to accept the invitation,
and talked much shont it at meals.

"Have you heard the news ? Our star preacher is required
in Mayfair now. We shall have him summoned to the
Chapel Royal or Buckingham Palace before we can look
round ;" and he spoke to Churchill facetiously and yet wist-
fully. "I fear me, this is the beginning of the end for poor
old St. Bede's. They won't let us keep you to ourselves;
they mean to get you away as soon as they can." And he
turned to his wife, "Emily, you must fetch out your best
bonnet and mantle, and go and hear him thunder at the
swells."

Mrs. Walsden said that she must wait for a new bonnet
before she dared to face Mayfair, and, moreover, she had
her sewing-club on the evening in question.

At this week-day evening service Father Bryan's congre-
gation was drawn from odier classes of society than those
that mustered in such strength on Sundays. The hour
clashed with dinner-time, and the fashionable world was
scarcely represented at all. In lieu of the smart young men
there were clerks, shop-assistants, business people from the
suburbs ; and the women's side of the church was sparsely
occupied by shop girls, typists, governesses, and — ^to Father
Bryan's great pride — a few chorus girls, or ballet dancers,
who would be presently pulling on silk tights and painting
their faces in the dressing-rooms of a popular theatre or
music-hall.

Churchill preached once more on prayer, and at first felt
nervous and uncertain of himself, finding the management
of his voice difiicult, seeming to baric or bellow each time
that he tried to give emphasis to a phrase, but getting cm
better as soon as he understood that, thanks lo ^^ ^«tV^

.«» . •.•■■ ■ — - i-f '

140 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

acoustic properties of the building, every word would carry
without effort to the furthest comer. After the service
Father Bryan thanked him warmly, assured him that he
had been quite a success, and begged him (o come into the
adjacent vicarage for some late dinner.

Churchill excused himself. He had to get back to St.
Bede's.

"Then good-night — or rather au revoir; for I count on
your coming again. I'll drop you a line. Yes, I'll write to
you to-morrow — or the day after."

The promised letter, duly arriving and being submitted for
consideration, made Mr. Walsden skip round his study,
shout, and wave his arms in jubilation. Father Bryan asked
Churchill to preach upon the efficacy of prayer on a Sunday
morning, and to accept the offertory for St. Bede's.

"When does he say ?" cried Walsden. "Fortnight. That
will be July the third. The height of the London season.
The cream of his offertories. Oh, where is that magazine ?
Churchill, how can we thank you ? My wife will sh^ tears
of joy," and he went shouting into the hall. "Emily, famous
news I Emily ! Where is Bryan's magazine ? I want to see
what they took the first Sunday in July last year."

It was the finest possible congregation that Churchill sur-
veyed from the low octagonal pulpit. Outside the sun shone,
the streets were clean and dry, kind people who did not wish
to bring out their horses and coachmen could safely walk
to church ; all might wear their best clothes without distress
of mind. That regular attendant^ the Duke of Danes-
borough, was in his place; Hayling had come; the yotmg
men were in great force ; the lacUes overflowed their aUotted
space, and a few of them had to be insinuated near the win-
dows on the men's side.

Churchill felt complete confidence. Beginning quietly he
immediately got the right pitch of voice, and was sustained
throughout tne sermon by a conviction, equivalent to cer-
tainty, that he held and interested his auditors. He wound
up by telling them that death-bed story of the man who said
"Wonderful I" ; and when be ceased speaking, there was a
sympathetic rustle, a wave of very slight movement that
seemed to come rolling towards him right through tlie

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 141

church until it broke against the stone of the pulpit — a mani-
festation that plainly represented the round after round of
applause which preachers can never hear while they renuun
in consecrated places. When he went back to his choir stall
he was glowing, excited, joyously proud. He did not really
need the friendly, aM>roving glance of Father Bryan to tefi
him that he had made a conq>lete, an unusualhr big success.
Presently, during the intervd between the offices, when he
and all the clergy were in the vestry, he listened to many
congratulations, and would have had more but for the fact
that Bryan was busily devoting himself to a young Colonial
bishop who had arrived for the Mass.

But he thought no more of himself after they had re-
entered the church; and at the end of the Mass he was
tranquil, normal, innocently happy. If glory there were, he
had given the glory where all glory is due.

Father Bryan had insisted that to-day he should stay for
luncheon, and, as he walked through a cloister leading from
the church to the adjacent vicarage, he thought how curi-
ously the ground plan and general arrangement of the build-
ings resembled St. Bede's, and yet how astoundingly differ-
ent everything was in all other respects. Most of the guests,
making their way through the open courtyard, had suready
gathered in a large soberly decorated room that might
be called a library if you looked at its book-cases, or a draw-
ing-room if you merely considered its luxuriousness. To-
day, as rarely happened, ladies were of the party, and Rich-
ard Hayling told Churchill confidently that he thought their
admission a mistake. Bryan's luncheon parties were de-
lightful informal affairs at which men talked freely, and the
presence of women, in his opinion, not only puts an iiic-
some restraint on one's choice of topics, but infallibly de*
stroys intelligent conversation on any subject. Having said
this, he at once introduced Churchill to a Lady Eliza Some-
body, her pretty daughter, and Miss Venning, the famous
actress.

Among the male guests, as well as one of Bryan's clergy
and the Colonial bishop, there were the Duke of Danes-
borough, the editor of a daily newspaper, a very well-known
Radical M. P., and old Lord Menston, revered in all Catho-
lic circles as the munificent patron, if not the actual otvfj.^

142 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

luitor, of the Bournemouth Fraternity ; and in regard to the
rest of the men one felt instinctively that each was without
question a personage of some importance, by reason of
wealth, rank, or individual power. If he had been nobody
and had never done anything remarkable, he could not
possibly be there.

Father Bryan took Qiurchill from the actress and Hayling
in order to present him to the bishop, and these three stood
for a little while talking together quite away from all the
others. After more compliments about the sermon Bryan
told the bishop he ought to have come at Matins. He had
missed something worth hearing. ''I think you are so
wise, Churchill in — — " Then he hastily moved oflF to re-
ceive another lady.

He came back directly. "What was I saying? Oh, yes,
half the bother with brilliant young men like yourself is that
they will address themselves to points of dogma instead of
to broad principles. Now that is a mistake."

Edward Churchill said it was what he himself had felt,
and indeed had told Walsden.

But at the name of Walsden Father Bryan made
something like a wry face. Then, with an effort, he spoke
genially. "I have never met Mr. Walsden. But you really
like him?"

"Oh, yes."

Father Bryan laughed. "Then 111 like him for your sake.
By the by, youll be wanting to know what the offertory
was. I must ask. You have immense poverty out there ?"

"Inmiense."

"Just so. . • . Ah, here is that naughty Lady Eva.
Always late! • • • Lady Eva, don't trouble to apologise:
because we have not been waiting for you. But now that
you have turned up, you can lead the way into the other

room."

At the luncheon table Churchill sat next to the Duke of
Danesborough, who was very amiable, and across whom the
actress leaned and talked volubly. She flashed her large
eyes, gasped, and laid both hands upon her heart in a pretty,
exaggerated, theatrical manner when speaking of the ser-
mon. On Churchill's other side the newspaper editor was
asldngr old Menston about a recent dd>ate of the Lords, and

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 143

in all directions there were light questions and answers,
gaiety and laughter.

Churchill did not notice how the ladies at the far end of
the table were looking at him, nor guess that they were
talking about him.

"Of course/' said one of them, ''it's how nice he looks
rather than what he says."

"Yes, with such a face——"

"But I liked his voice too."

And they all agreed that they greatly admired his vcke as
well as his appearance, and also his extraordinary self-
possession.

"Father Bryan says he is absurdly young. But something
has aged him. I am certain there is some tremendous
romance in that man's life. He had some great love affair,
and that sent him into the Church."

"Bosh," said Hayling. "If you want to know the ugly
truth, he is a confirmed woman-hater."

"Yes, now possibly," said the lady. "But that is since
his great disappointment," and she laughed gaily.

"Poor lamb," said Lady Eva. "I hope hell be consoled
one day. I'm quite sure he'll find people willing to try."

Hayling unobtrusively turned his shoulder and talked to
the man next him. He was more than ever persuaded that a
mistake had been made in admitting ladies.

They smoked at the end of the meal, and this was the
first time that Churchill had ever seen women with cigar-
ettes in their mouths.

He was not in the least shocked. He had dropped quite
easily into his place among these strange people and new
surroundings, and he felt conscious of the charm exercised
by the whole thing. Listening to the newspaper editor and
the Radical Member of Parliament as they held forth
about politics, or to the actress as she narrated the plot of a
forthcoming play, he thought, "These are the worldly 'lead-
ers. These are the unexpected but faithful allies splendidly
won by the Church."

He blew out little clouds of perfumed smoke, sipped the
delicious strong coffee, and seemed to be altogether at home
— ^in just the kind of home that he was destined later on to
occupy.

144 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

The brown paneling gave the room dignity, the low-
beamed ceiling made it picturesque ; on the long table^ amidst
the cut glass and piled fruit, there were great silver pots
filled widi pink tulips ; the latticed windows stood open, and
their short silk curtains flapped lazily, showing glimpses of
the railed court, the roadway, and fine carriages that passed
now and then. It seemed difficult to think that it was Sun-
day, and not easy to remember St. Bede's Institute, the rail-
way arches, or those huddled dwellings beside the canal.

After luncheon, when the guests were beginning to dis-
perse, he and Hayling found themselves together, and
Hayling called to the Duke of Danesborough to join them.

"Danesborough,'' said Hayling smilingly, "do something
for Churchill."

Danesborough laughed. "Only too delighted. But what
can your servant possibly do, except thank Mr. Churchill
for his sermon? I've done that already; but Tm sure I do
it again — and very sincerely."

"Oh, rats," said Hayling. "Churchill isn't a suitor or a
courtier — ^very much the reverse; and he'll probably slang
me for my interference afterwards ; — ^but we don't want him
to hide his light under a bushel much longer." And he
went on with emphasis. "It is a light that ought to shine
in its proper place**

"I've no doubt it ought," said the Duke, looking rather
puzzled.

"We think" — and Hayling put his hand on Churchill's
shoulder — ^"we think he has taken a wrong turning — or that
he is going down a lane that has no tummg — and we want
you to open out a real road for him."

All this made Churchill tmcomfortable, and he tried to
get away.

"Good-bye," said Danesborough. "Are you ever available
at the dinner hour? Could you dine with me at my club
one night this week ? You too, Hayling ?"

But Edward Churchill could not dine with the Duke. He
was never free between eight and ten o'clock at night.

In the hall, where the departing ladies still made chatter
and fun, Father Bryan shook hands with him hurriedly, and
then called after him.

"CburdnU ) It was three-seventeen, two and nine. They

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 145

will send you the cheque to-morrow. Au plaisir de vous
revoir,"

"Where do you say you'll get your omnibus?" asked
Hayling. "Oxford Street? All right. Ill walk with you ;"
and they strolled away together, through a wide square, by
huge porches of opulent houses where footmen yawned
vacuously at the sunlight and the sky.

"I'm glad," said Hayling, "that you've met Danesborough.
He's an old friend of mine. And, I say, it's a pity you didn't
agree to take just one night off when he asked you. If he
should make any further overtures, I hope you won't snub
him. Although so young, he is at this moment perhaps the
most important man in England."

"Really?"

"Yes. He is not yet fully aware of it himself. It is the
force of circumstances."

"But how do you mean ?"

Hayling explained that the Duke of Danesborough, by
reason of his position as a layman, had become the anS)assa-
dor or intermediary between the head of the Church and
the advanced party. "At this moment," he said, "we are
approaching a crisis. There is either going to be an accom-
modation or a most tremendous split. I need not tell you
that we stand firm as the rock. We do not sue hat in hand
for tolerance; we claim liberty as our right. To-day the
Church of the Crucifixion appears startingly conspicuous.
It is talked about, written about — ^people express wonder that
the Archbishop permits it. But all that we saw there this
morning will in twenty years be the practice of every
parish church. The Archbishop understands this as clearly
as you or I. He is for the time impotent — unable to support
us, unable to resist us. It is a gross injustice to say he trims
his sails to the wind. As a wise ruler he does what is pos-
sible, and does not attempt the impossible. In spirit he is
always with us, if in act he sometimes seems against us."

Hayling further enlarged upon the sort of confidential
n^[otiation» that were being carried on through the Dtike
and again dwelt upon the point that only a laymen could
be thus employed. "No cleric could safdy be received at
headquarters as our representative."

XVIII

Two cla3rs later a polite little note arrived from the Duke
of Danesborough, saying that he had some business to do at
Lambeth Palace on the following afternoon and he wished to
take this opportunity of making Churchill known to the
Primate.

Without hesitation Churchill availed himself of this kind
offer ; presenting himself at Hedwick House as he had been
directed, and almost immediately driving off with Danes-
borough in a small brougham attached to a very big horse.

It happened that he had never till now been given an
occasion for observing the gaiety and brightness that
London, at this end of it, can show early on a summer after-
noon when all the frivolous world has come out in search of
pleasure. A block of carriages delayed them in Piccadilly.
Girls dressed like fairies passed slowly by, silk hats were
shining, and all the brass harness flashed as if it had been
made of burnished gold. People smiled and nodded to one
another, and in every face there was an expression of com-
placency that seemed to say, ''Oh, it is nice to be rich and
idle and beautifully dressed."

They went fast down St. James's Street, past the stone
club-houses, by the gatehouse and cloisters of the palace,
and on beneath the green trees in the park. Here each
glance lighted on something charming — ^Ihe smooth grass,
the vivid flowers, the sparkle of the water, and through un-
expected vistas a mass of buildings with the towers of West-
minster high and grand beyond.

Danesborough talked in the easy jovial style of one under-
graduate speaking to another.

''Rather a redoubtable old party, you know. Not too easy
to get on with, they say, as a rule, but he's ahnrays very
decent to me."

And he said a few words about Oxford.

"When did you come down ? . . . Ah, then I was your
seoior by a lot • . . Tkere wms a rascal of a nifger who

146

iTHE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 147

played the banjo. A most impudent blackguard ;" and he
chuckled, as if amused by his recollections. ''Not a sooty-
face — a real negro. I can't remember what they called him.**

"Bandy Jack?'

''Yes. Bandy Jack ;" and Danesborougfa chuckled heart-
ily. "Oh, that fellow's impudence I I always used to have
hun at my rooms for breakfasts and luncheons."

Edward Churchill answered other questions automatically,
thinking the while how wonderful it all was. He was being
taken to see the English pontiff, the august successor to those
saints, Augustine and Dunstan, the last representative of the
long glorious line of priests that had held the supreme office.
A hundred memories of the old school days came to him.
He thought of the Martyr's Feast, of the Annual Letter ; and
also of an imagination or vision of the Archbishop standing
on the steps outside the great western door of the cathedral,
holding out his hands, and blessing the Pilgrim's road.

After they had crossed the river, and when they drew near
to the dark time-stained walls, he could not speak. He
could only move his head, trying to catch first glimpses of
the Lollards' Tower.

Churchill had been left in an ante-room while the Duke
transacted his business, whatever it might be, and when at
last he was summoned he felt his heart begin to beat tumul-
tuously. Reverence and awe had suddenly been stirred by
excitement. A chaplain and a secretary coming out passed
him as he went in.

He had a rapid impression of a large and unexpectedly
cold room, some logs of wood smouldering on the hearth,
and the sunlight seeming veiled and unnatural as one saw
vaguely through closed windows a stretch of lawn, blackened
buUdings, and the river. Danesborough stood by one of
several writing-tables ; and the Archbishop, with his hands
clasped behind his back, ambled about between another table
and the fire. He was old and big ; his bushy eyebrows had a
portentous frown ; there were deep wrinkles on each side of
his lips. Hit voice sounded harsh and grating, and there
were curious modulations in it that appeared to be beyond
his control, so that from a growl it rose almost to a squeak
and then abruptly deepened again ; but his sn^^^ ^^& YoA

148 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

and gentle. Seen thus, without the robes, and close to one, he
seemed absolutely different from the man Churchill had
watched from a distance at St. Dunstan's.

Smiling, he said that he was pleased to make Mr. Church-
ill's acquaintance. Then he growled.

"Tell me a little about yourself."

And Edward Churchill said that he was a St. Martyr's
boy.

•'What, are you one of my well-beloved?" and the Arch-
bishop laughed gratingly. ''No wonder people speak highly
of you. My Martyrites always do me credit. . . . Well,
what next ?"

Churchill was at a loss what to say. But then, very
modestly, he narrated how while at Oxu>rd he had enjoyed
the honour of receiving a letter from his Grace.

"Did you? What about?"

"A little paper that I wrote in a review."*

And finally the Archbishop remembered. 'TTes, I remem-
ber perfectly;" and he turned to Danesborough. "Your
friend can use his pen as well as his tongue."

Danesborough chuckled amiably, pleased that his protigi
was coming out in so favourable a light.

"Yes," said the Archbishop, frowning, "I distinctly re-
member. I was struck by it. People talked about it. It
was excellent."

And, listening to these words of praise, Edward Churchill
had a curious sensation of pride and pleasure that was
touched with sadness. Through the furthest window he
could see at a distance the river flowing by ; without seeing
them, he was aware of the towers, the gates, and courts, and
steps, the majesty of this ancient palace stretching its stone
lengths far and near ; and he thought, "How wonderful all
this is — ^that my dream is realising itself; that, as if by
some force over which I have no control, without making
the slightest effort, drifted like a cork upon that stream, or
moved like a pawn upon the vast chess-board of Church pol-
itics, I find myself here. Then this must be the great hour
of my life, the moment of crisis, the turning-point that
decides whither I go, what I become." Instinct, as well as
thought, told him tihat this was so, and that all he had hoped

"]

«1

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 149

for would now easily come to him. And yet he felt no ela-
tion, only increasing dullness or coldness.

The Archbishop went on speaking. "So I wrote to you?
What did I say r

"You were good enough to say that I might come and pay
my respects to you."

"And did you come ?"

"No, your Grace."

"Why didn't you ?" And the Archbishop frowned.

'I didn't venture."

'Didn't venture — ^when I told you? Didn't venture to
obey orders?" Then he turned to the Duke, and smiled.
"There. Rebellious, to a man! So young, but so full ol
defiance. Gm you be astonished at what they say in the
penny newspapers? Open revolt. . . . That was how
long ago, when I wrote to you, Mr. Churchill ?"

"Four years, your Grace."

"Now that you have come, what do you want of me?"

Edward Churchill felt a sudden assurance, a certainty of
voice and action that rendered hesitation impossible.

"I want your blessing ;" and he dropped upon his knees.

There was surprise as well as searching scrutiny in the
glance that shot down at him from puckered brows. Then
the old man smiled as kind people smile at little children,
half closed his eyes, and, looking upward again, very sol-
emnly blessed his young visitor.

Five minutes later, Churchill was driving away in Danes-
borough's brougham.

"That's all right," said the Duke cheerily. "He was
quite decent, wasn't he? I always find him jolly enough-^
and I don't know why people are so down on him. Anyhow,
he isn't a humbug."

Then, when Churchill thanked him for his kindness in
procuring the great privil^e of this interview, he altogether
refused to accept thanks. "Oh, no, not a bit. Only too
pleased — directly it was suggested to me. I'm sure I hope
something may come of it."

He was to drive Churchill as far as Westminster, having
himself to look in at the Lords for half an hour; but now he
offered to send his companion up to the Strangers' Gallery.

150 THE HIRROR ANQ THE LAMP

"The debate won't be worth listening to," he said **But it
may amuse you to have a peep at us— ^and, of coune, you
can go out directly vou are bored"

Soon then Churchill was seated in the gallery, leaning^ his
chin on his arms, and with intense interest staring down into
the famous assembly-hall. As just now at Lambeth, so here,
tiironging memories Of history, tradition, and sentiment
rushed into his mind. He had imagined it all so often, but
now for the first time he was really seeing the red benches
and gilded walls, the high painted windows, the open doors
of the Princes' Chamber, the woolsack, and the throne.
Listening to the languid voices of great peers, watching a
couple of bishops in lawn sleeves, studying the quiet pomp
and sober magnificence of ushers and officials, he felt a sat-
isfied approbation. Everything was as impressive as he had
ever pictured it in his imagination.

These were the time-honoured ruling classes. One could
catch the same note in every voice. They were so accus-
tomed to power that they exercised it as naturally as if it
had been an organic process, such as drawing one's breath ;
yet loving power, however languid they aj^eared; pleased
with themselves in an easy, dignified manner; seeming to
say : ''Yes, it is nice, as well as fitting and proper, that I was
bom to high rank suid large revenues, so that I do this sort
of thing between luncheon and dinner instead of perspir-
ing in manual toil on a half -penny stomach."

When he came out he stood on Westminster Bridge, look-
ing at the graceful sunlit bulk of the Houses of Parliament
and the dark grim towers of Lambeth Palace. Then he
walked eastward along the Embankment, past the new castle
of Scotland Yard, huge hotels that looked like fortresses, a
pile of flats as big as a granite mountain; past Somerset
House, the resting place of rich men's testaments, and the
Temple, home of the clever and well-paid lawyers who upset
one's death-bed wishes; past ofiices, institutions, more
hotels ; — and he was still among the ruling classes. Money-
making City-men came sweeping by in cabs and carriages
after their short successful day. No poverty was anywhere
visible. All seemed grand, fine, prosperous. And he had an
illusion that these contented, self-satisfied people all looked
Mtbim wjtb tnendly approval, greeting him, welcoming him.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 151

eonveying to him a universal message of good-will, as if
tbqr had said : '"Your probation is over. Now you may join
us. We admit you to our select community, and you too
shall rule and amass and grow fat."

At Bladcf riars he got into an underground train, and went
back through the darkness and foul atmosphere of many
tunnels to what are generally known as ''the slums.''

XIX

He had not long to wait before something came of that
afternoon spent with a duke in the West End.

Before the week was over he received a communication
from the Archbishop. It was formal, official, written by a
secretary, and it informed him that his Grace proposed to
appoint him to be one of his chaplains, that he might con-
sider this appointment as made pro tem. until the chance of
preferment should offer, when he would be passed on to
more important work. It further requested Mr. Churchill
to reply at once, and, in the event of the proposal being
agreeable to him, to say the earliest date whereon he could
conveniently take up his residence at Lambeth Palace.

Churchill sat as if spell-bound, folding and unfolding the
stiff white sheet of paper, reading and re-reading the mar-
vellous written words, seeming every instant to grow larger
and heavier. There was a massive feeling of satisfaction, a
notion of unquestionable power, a complete and absolute
confidence ; but then soon, marring these pleasurable sensa-
tions, there came a strange sort of fluttered excitement. He
could no longer sit still. It was necessary to move about
rapidly and continuously.

He hurried off to tell Walsden his news. Walsden heart-
ily congratulated him.

"To us it is a loss — I make no pretence about that. But
it is a loss I was always prepared for. I can see how glad
you are — ^my dear boy ;" and he took Churchill's hand and
squeezed it affectionately.

"I am only glad because it realises my ambition ; it is a
step forward on the path I had been vain enough to plan."

"No vanity — ^very proper and noble ambition," said
Walsden.

And a little later in the day, meeting Churchill again, he
said, "Of course you have written?"

"No, not yet. I want to think it over."

"What can you have to think over ?"

152

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 153

"Fm so sorry to leave you."

"Oh, you mustn't bother about thai. We who are left
may be sorry, but you who go must be glad. I should write
at once, if I were you. Any delay might seem not quite
respectful enough, you know."

"As to-day is Saturday, I thought I could safely wait till
Monday. There's no postal delivery to-morrow."

"Perhaps you ought to send your letter by a special mes-
senger. As you know, I am not up in these matters; but
I bdieve one cannot be too ceremonious."

For the remainder of the day Edward Churchill suffered
from an abominable restlessness. It was impossible to work,
because he couldn't attend for three minutes at a time to
what he was trying to do; his mind wandered off to more
important matters; in imagination he was miles away —
pacing through the halls or library of Lambeth Palace,
sitting in the Archbishop's room and writing a confidential
secret paper at his dictation, hurrying to the House of Lords
for a special interview with two or three bishops. He
wanted to write to his mother, but found that he could not
do it. He thought he would go to St. Ursula's for a talk
with the Verschoyles, and he could not do that either. He
could only wander about the streets aimlessly, enervating
himself with foolish excitement.

In the evening at the club he discovered that Walsden had
already announced his imminent departure. Everybody had
heard the news, and all regretted it. Old and young, they
crowded round him, overwhelming him by their kindness
and affection. He was especially touched by the eager out-
bursts of praise and gratitude that came from a cluster of
Brigade lads ; and when he looked at the opaque brown eyes,
like Richard's — ^the eyes that he once thought indicative of
baseness or greed — they seemed to be like tiie eyes of trust-
ful dogs sadly scrutinising the face of their master when he
meditates selling them, giving them away, or deserting them
in danger for the purpose of ensuring his own safety.

The restlessness increased. He could not sleep. He
dressed himself next morning much earlier than was neces*
sary for the first service at St. Bede's, and, going up to the
top landing of Bentley House, stood for a long time looking
out. On this the day of rest the whole house remained <^itt

154 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

until eight or nine o'clock ; behind all the closed doors men
and women were sleeping deeply after the week's work ; only
every now and then one heard faintly the voices of children
who had been awakened by the daylight On this day, too,
hundreds of factory chimneys had ceased to emit their ugly
smoke, so that the air was clean, and the sky seemed high and
dazzlingly bri^^t.

He looked across thousands of roofs at the firm outline of
the Tower Bridge, and thought of all that lay beyond it.
The line of the bridge, continued in either direction to north
and south, might be taken as a boundary between two worlds
— ^the grand small world of pride and pomp, and the immense
world of unrecognised pain and tmrewarded toil. Patches
of misery there were, of course, beyond the line to the south
of the water, but the great division between ease and dis-
tress was that of east and west. In thought he passed the
line ; followed the shining river beneath bridge after bridge,
by the now silent mart of the city, by the Temple and the
Houses of Parliament, to the black-walled palace of eccle-
siastical government — to the splendid, glorious home in
which a room stood waiting for him.

After an hour or so, when he was going out, he found a
little friend crying on the doorsteps and he stopped to com-
fort her. She had slipped on the pavement and grazed her
knees. Her mother, the wife of a dock porter, who presently
appeared and saw him kiss and soothe the child, praised him
and thanked him for his kindness.

"You make 'em so many favourites, sir. . . . Nellie,
where's your present what ypn was going to give Mr.
Churchill ?" And the woman laughed, telling Churchill how
the little girl had picked up an empty match-box two or ^ree
days ago, and had declared that she would present it to the
kind gentleman upstairs. "And so she would have done it,
sir, but her brother Tom went and took it from her and lost
it"

There was no mental calm for him throughout that Sun*
day. He could not think any more quietly inside the church
than outside it. The services seemed innumerable and inter-
minable.

When die last of them was over he took a long walk, and
a^ the time be thought of the misery here and tfie comfort

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 155

at the other end of the town. He thought of the palace that
was waiting for him — its grand library where all such sad
facts as he now looked at are neatly pigeon-holedi set forth
in statistical papers, shown in shaded maps, or lengthily
recited in blue books. For him, too, after a few years, they
would be merely written or printed notes : the life and reality
would begin to go out of them so soon as he occupied bis
mind with other and fairer things.

Working his way home again, he purposely came over the
canal bridge, so as to enter the parish on its very worst side.
The last glow of the sunset was fading out of the sky, and
all those bad streets were already dark and mysterious — a
place to make strangers tremble. But to him they were not
even ugly to-night. Familiarity, here as in the church, had
obliterated the ugliness. There was not a court or alley
that he had not visited many times; blindfolded, he could
have found his way through the labyrinth ; on all sides he had
succeeded in making acquaintances who welcomed him as he
passed by. They allied to him now from the dark entries.
"Good-night, sir. . . . Nice day it's bin, sir. . . .Good-
night."

As he drew nearer home, he met people that he knew really
well, and walked with thenL He said to each, "I'm afraid
I am going away."

"Yes, I hear talk of it. But you'll be coming back, sir."

"No, I— I fear not."

And they were all sorry.

He stood at a corner talking for five minutes to Mr. Phil-
brick, the old fellow who had preferred death to the work-
house. Churchill and Mr. Philbrick had grown to be very
close friends.

"Well," said Mr. Philbrick, "what's got to be has got to
be. But when a party first mentioned it to me, 1 said, 'Don't
ou go telling lies about Mr. Churchill.' That was because

didn't believe it, d'ye see, sir; but now you've had the
kindness to explain it me, well, I say 'Quite right';" and
he pointed his pipe and nodded. "Yes, 3rou have to think of
yourself, same as everybody else — and where's the use of
arguing? It was just foolish to suppose you'd stop here for
ever. And I say, good luck, sir— and may you always have
your heart's desire."

f

156 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

After that Edward Oiurchill walked on alone with his
thoughts; and suddenly, just as he turned the last corner
and saw the lamplit windows of the vicarage, he said to him-
self : "I cannot do it. These people are fond of me; they
seem to believe I help them — and I cannot leave them. It
would be like a betrayal. I will not do it."

Instantaneously all the conflict of thought was at an end.
The letter to the Archbishop that had seemed so difficult to
write could be written quite easily. He would not address
the secretary; he would write direct to his Grace, maricing
the letter private, and sealing it ; and its grateful words need
only be to this effect: "You gave me all when you g^ive me
your blessing. I asked for nothing else; I want nothing
else."

Entering the dining-room at the vicarage, he apologised
for his lateness and found that the meal was just over.
Nevertheless, they stayed with him a little while to keep him
company. He would at once have told them of his decision,
but W^sden was too preoccupied to listen attentively to
anything, and Mrs. Walsden wished to tell him how in the
most inexplicable manner she had allowed some oil to get
upon her fingers and thence into her mouth. It had made
her feel quite sick. Mr. Nape, corroborating with a titter,
said that for a minute she had looked as though she really
was going to be sick. Gardiner, however, had cleverly sug-
gested that she should drink a little vinegar, and she soon
felt better. Still the whole incident had been very upsetting
— and so inexplicable.

And Churchill, listening to this commonplace conversa-
tion and smiling at their simple friendly faces, felt alto-
gether happy. That restlessness was utterly gone. Every-
tfiing seemed bright and cheerful. He looked round the poor
room, at the distempered walls, and the bad engravings in
meretricious frames, the crinkly paper and wax flowers on
the chiffonier ; and he thought of a room like Father Bryan's,
with panelling, with cut glass, with tulips in silver pots, such
a room as he had hoped to have for his own. Thinking of
it he could see it, vivid and solid, absolutely real. But it
was here that he wanted to be, not there.

He ate a little bread and cheese, drank some water, and
ihea, when the others had left him, he lit his pipe and

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 157

smoked. Every minute he became more comfortable, more
delightfully at peace, more sure that his decision was right
and proper. One must do the thing nearest to one's hand
He was useful here, and he had no certainty that he could
ever be so useful elsewhere. The Archbishop cotdd find a
hundred men to take his place and occupy it admirably, but
perhaps St. Bede's might never find a man capable of filling
the little gap that he would leave behind him if he went now.
Later on, it might be all different. In a few years he
might be able to go with an easy conscience. And it might
be not too late, even then, to pick up the broken progress of
his career.

But if staying now meant the final abandonment of all
his ambitious dreams — ^well, nevertfieless, he must stay. He
said to himself, ''If need be, good-bye Ambition;" and again
he felt stronger and calmer. He thought of his philosophy,
those broad principles that, for him, seemed firmly estab*
lished. After all, the real ambition should be to still one's
restlessness of thought; internal peace must be the aim of
all who are wise; there cannot be any other goal that is
worth reaching. To gain mental quiet — that, philosophically,
is a man's lifework.

And he thought of the lamp that was his soul and the
mirror that was his mind, and knew with absolute certainty
of instinct that what he meant to do should make him peace-
fully happy, and that what he was giving up would but have
made him fretfully miserable. "I knew it all the time," he
thought. "I only seemed to deliberate; I was not truly de-
liberating. Whenever I turned my eyes inward, I could see
my guard. Now and always, O God give me strength to live
by the Mirror and the Lamp,"

XX

Walsden answered almost rudely when Edward Churchill
told him that he had refused the appointment.

'* Refused it? Why in the name of reason have you done
thatr

"I preferred to stay here. On reflection I felt that I could
not bring myself to leave you."

"Oh, now — that sounds to me far-fetched,*' said Walsden,
staring, and speaking abruptly. "Almost absurd. Yes, I
thing you're wrong. I advise you to change your mind"

"My mind is quite made up."

Walsden brought out his bandana handkerchief, blew his
nose violently, and moved away.

"I think," he said over his shoulder, "it's a pity. But
there — ^I can't stop talking about it;" and with a queer
flourish of the handkerchief, as though it had been a signal
flag he hurried off.

Next day little Mrs. Walsden got hold of Churchill alone
for a minute, and said that she desired to apologise for un-
kind thoughts that she had for a little while entertained, and
to explain that any oddness in her husband's manner was
certainly not caused by displeasure.

"Mr. Churchill, I want to thank you for sta)ring — and I
want you to forgive me for once wishing you would go.
I misjudged you. I thought you were too grand — ^inclined
to take too much on yourself. Please forgive me. I did
doubt your loyalty to Henry — ^but now, oh, now, I am so
ashamed of myself."

Then, after clasping ChurchiU's hand, she began to cry.
"You don't know what this means to my husband. He never
complains, but he has always felt it — ^the way he is treated
by the upper clergy. As if he wasn't good enough for them !
But he's good enough for you. When it came to choosing
them or him, you chose him, Mr. Churchill, he wept last
nigfatr— a thing I've never seen him do since our children
died."

15d

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 159

Edward Churchill had written to his mother, and he
anxiously awaited her reply. He had said: "A great chance
came, and I refused it. I don't know what you will think of
me for not consulting you; but it was something I had to
decide for myself." Then, giving a simple explanation of
the ideas that governed him, he begged her to let him know
without delay that she approved.

Mrs. Qiurchill allowed some little time to elapse before
writing, and when her letter arrived it did not altogether
satisfy him. It was not quite the letter that he had expected

She confessed that she could not understand all his mo-
tives ; but she allowed him what she thought ought to be al-
lowed to everybody— entire liberty of action. "I do not
therefore question your decision. Life is difEcult for all of
us, and each must meet its difficulties in his own way.''
Then she spoke of her loneliness, the loss of old friends, the
changes that were taking place at St. Dunstan's; and she
wound up with a gloomy little sketch of the present circunw
stances of that Mr. Barrett, the auctioneer. As Edward
knew, since she had already told him so several times, Mr.
Barrett, after losing his sick wife about a year ago, was left
absolutely alone in the world. His devotion to the poor in-
valid had been unparalleled ; for an immense time she had
ceased to be in any sense a companion to him ; and now that
death had come to her as a happy release, one might have
hoped that he could enjoy comfort and peace. But no, fate
had ordained otherwise. His business had almost collapsed,
some building speculations had gone wrong, and he saw
himself compelled to sell his commodious though not very
pretty house, together with the solid but rather ugly fumi«
ture. He was living in lodgings all alone. This and many
other things made Mrs. Churchill very sad when she thought
of them.

With Walsden's ready consent, Edward went down to
St. Dunstan's and spent one night there. His mother seemed
delighted to see him, but she showed nervousness, or agita-
tion ; she was somehow different in voice, manner, appear-
ance. For the first time he found an impalpable barrier be-
tween them, and all his efforts could not break through it
sufficiently to re-establish the old free intercourse of heart
with heart.

160 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

He thought that she secretly disapproved of his remaining
at St. Bede'Sf but when he spdce of this she said that it did
not matter.

"But, mother dearest, you feel perhaps that it was not
quite fair to you?"

"Oh, no, dear. You had to judge for yourself — ^we all
must do that : judge by our own conscience what is right or
wrong. No, it could not matter to me."

"But our dreams, mother. All the success and the
honour."

"Yes, of course — ^I was forgetting our dreams. But for
you — ^your part of them may still come true, mayn't it ?"

"Yes," he said ; "at any rate, the part I care most about.
Only, unhappily, I seem to be postponing that also."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean our living together — ^under one roof again."

"Edward! My own dear boy." She flung her arms
around him, kissed him, and sobbed hysterically.

"Edward dear," she went on presently, when she had dried
her eyes. "Isn't that just the part of the dream that was
most fatally impossible from the very beginning?"

"No— ^ thousand times no."

"Yes, dear. Perhaps I wasn't prepared — I didn't quite
ffuess— how lofty your ideals of priesthood were going to be,
now completely you would give yourself to the Church.
Don't you feel it yourself — ^that there is no room in your life
for other interests— certainly no room in it for a silly old
mother."

But he protested passionately that his love for her was,
as ever, the very main-spring of his existence. It did not
clash, it never could da^, with that other love. It would
not interfere with, it would aid him, strengthen him, ennoble
him in his priestly duties. And eagerly he begged her to
make the great sacrifice and come now and join him in the
good work.

It was, of course, impossible that she should live in St.
Bede's itself; but he would find some comparatively pleas-
ant house at Canning Town, or somewhere, from which he
could go to his work every morning and to which he would
return every night. Home! The place made lovely by love.
And she bersdf should work in St. Bede's ; all those poor

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 161

souls would adore her ; and they two, united, would be infi-
nitely happy.

"Mother dear, it is only what we planned first of all —
before the money came to give me vainglorious dreams.
Don't you remember? We were to end our days in some
obscure neighborhood among the very poor."

She listened to him silently, her hands clasped on her lap,
her eyes downcast. Then of a sudden she got up, walked
about the room, and spoke without looking at him.

"Edward, I don't know. I want to do what is right — ^but
it is all so difficult. If you really want to make yourself a
home, why, why don't you marry, and "

"Mother!"

"You — ^you've not taken any vows against marris^?"

"No. Not yet; but I think what I always thought. A
priest should remain unmarried. It is you I am longing for.
Mother, come to me."

Then she put her hands on his shoulder, stooped to kiss his
forehead, and spoke with extraordinary eagerness. "Yes,
ril come. I'll be true to the old promise. Arrange it at
once. The sooner I get away from here the better;" and
again she began to cry, telling him once more how lonely and
empty her life had been in these last years. Yet when he
reproached himself for neglecting her, she protested that it
was all her fault, not his. "I'm weak, dear — foolish. But
if you take me away, I shall be wise and good. Oh, how
could I count anything against my boy's faithful love?"

She was more like her old dear self now ; and yet the bar-
rier was still there — something inexplicable that made
her different. He noticed that she seemed to have difiiculty
in concentrating her mind ; after the tears, she laughed, and
in the midst of laughter she became grave and sad; while
talking, she went with unexpected rapidity from subject to
subject, and just when they were considering their most
intimate affairs she would obtrude some alien trivial topic.

Thus she passed instantaneously from her own loneliness
to the loneliness of Mr. Barrett, the auctioneer, and Edward
had to listen to a recital of the virtues and amiabilities of
this vulgar, Low Church person — the common intrusive
friend that he had so much disliked in his youth.

From Mr. Barrett she passed to their cAd sexN^x!X^^^x>a.^

162 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

now a pensioner, living comfortably at Hythe ; and then next
moment she was back to Mr. Barrett again.

''Before Maria left me, she had learnt to recognise what
a good kind friend he was, and how di^nterested he had
always been in his advice."

Then she spoke of her other sons. Tom was on his way
home to England. The health of Charles had broken down ;
he was in the south of France, and thought of going to Cali-
fornia. He had got rid of that dreadful woman ; but, as his
mother feared, he was entangled with some one else almost
as bad. She feared, too, that he had squandered nearly all
his money.

"Don't you correspond with him or Tom ?" she asked.

"No," said Edward. "I ought to; but they never write to
me. Still I ought to have kept in touch with them some-
how. It is want of time — ^and, to say the truth, want of
thought also. Mother— one must confess the truth — ^they
seem so completely strangers that, except here, where every-
thing reminds me, I scarcely ever remember their existence."

"I understand, dear. It could not be otherwise. You and
they are of different clay." And once more, for the third
time in half an hour, she returned to the subject of Mr.
Barrett. "They were always so contemptuous about him —
poor man, and unjust too. Charles never showed the slight-
est gratitude for all he did about that electric firm. . . .
Edward, will you go and see him to-morrow? Tust look in
on your way to the station, and say a kind word or two for
auld lang syne. I told him that you were coming down — ^and
he would be so glad to s^ you."

Of all people in St. Dunstan's, certainly Mr. Barrett was
the last that Edward would have thought of looking up. If
not pressed for time, he would have liked to go round the
school, find if any of the old masters were still Siere, go into
the gymnasitun and talk to the illustrious sergeant; with
further leisure he could have passed happy hours in the
cathedral, strolled upon the walls and taken long walks into
the country ; but, even with a week or more at his disposal,
he would not of his own accord have wasted five minutes on
Mr. Barrett. Nevertheless, he dutifully promised to do
what his mother wished. This poor widower and his dis-

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 163

tressed condition appeared to occupy a large place in her
always tender thought for other people.

The auctioneer's offices in Halberd Street had a woebegone
deserted air, as if the whole business world were turning its
broad back on them ; but Mr. Barrett did not seem to be at
all cast down. Although dressed in solemn black, he had a
flower at his button-hole; his tie-pin displayed a good-sized
pearl; his sandy hair was carefully brushed and plastered
with an odorous cosmetic above his bald forehead. Alto-
gether he looked prosperous, debonair, generally smarter,
younger and less flabby than he used to be years ago. In
other respects he was just the same Mr. Barrett.

He welcomed his visitor eflfusively.

"Come, now, this is very kind of you, Mr. Ted. Forgive
the liberty. But it's still Ted with your dear ma, and that's
how I always think of you." Then he shook hands again.
"Yes, I do take it as very kind — ^under the circumstances —
you dropping in like this, and showing me such a proof of
r^^ard." And he nodded his head and smiled at Edward
sentimentally. "G)ming at this conjuncture it is — ^well, it
really is more than kind."

Edward Churchill sat talking for a little while, trying to be
S3rmpathetic, but only achieving bare civility, and every
minute feeling his old childish .dislike revive itself more
completely.

He was made inwardly to boil by a few words about
religion, and a tactless reference to modem ritualism.

"You know my ways, Mr. Ted. I don't like it and I never
have. I joined in the public protest to the Dean when they
began screwing the cathedral services up to concert pitch.
Not that I trouble the cathedral. No, Holy Trinity is good
enough for me. That is where I always worshipped Him
who "

"Yes, I remember," said Edward, endeavouring to cut
him short

"I find at Holy Trinity what suits me. If other people
don't care for our ways they are free to stay away."

"Yes, exactly."

"But stop a bit. I must take care what I'm saying, or I

164 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

shall tread on your corns, Mr. Ted. Yes ;" and, nodding his
head and smiling, he went on in a tone of tolerance, or even
magnanimity : "Yes, a little bird has whispered to me that
you are right up there," and he made a gesture with his fat
hand. ''High is not the word— or so it has been hinted.
Well, if those are your conscientious views, it is not for me to
blame you. I follow your dear mamma's suit. I say Liberty
of Conscience for all of us. That's a favourite expression of
Mrs. C.'s. In our little chats it always crops up."

"My mother and I think alike, Mr. Barrett. Edward had
not intended to say this. It was not worth while; but the
words said themselves automatically.

"Well, in most things, I do believe you're right there, Mr.
Ted. Yes, you were always the apple. I used to venture
to name you so. It was, *Well, my dear Mrs. Churchill, how
is the Apple?' And we used to laugh. Yes — ^the Apple.
Ha-ha I How it all takes one back. You know the expres-
sion? I meant you were the apple of her eye — and so you

were."

Edward got up from his chair, and apologised for looking
at his watch. He must catch the 10:40 train.

"Then I won't detain you. But a little secret ;" and Mr.
Barrett beamed expansively. "You were not only Mamma's
favourite, you were everybody else's too. I've said it myself
hundreds of times. Of you three boys, you were the one for
my money — the flower of the flock."

In the act of going, Edward forced himself to speak with
actual and unaffected sympathy of Barrett's long period
of anxious solicitude and his recent crushing sorrow.

"I couldn't have gone through it," said Mr. Barrett fer-
vently, "if it hadn't been for Mrs. C. Oh, what a saint she
was, year in, year out, to pore Mrs. Barrett. As to myself,
in that endless trial — well, you probably know, and could
put it many times better than I can myself — she was my
unfailing support. More than mere comfort — sunshine,
hope, everything."

Edward unconsciously and instinctively drew himself up,

and turned a grave, cold face to Mr. Barrett. This outburst

of praise was extravagant, unnecessary, and vaguely but

strongly distasteful ; and an association of ideas evoked dim

pictures irom the past. He and his brothers did not mind

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

165

Mr. Barrett standing hat in hand on the pavement and treat-
ing Mrs. Churchill as a queen ; but they never liked it when
he came of an evening to talk of stocks or shares, and assume
an air of equality and intimacy that neither existed nor could
be suffered to exist.

''My mother's heart is always open to those in trouble,
Mr. Barrett. She and I well knew your devotion to your
wife, and we both regret your loss."

Then, on the outer doorstep, Edward mentioned that his
mother would very soon be leaving St. Dunstan's, and they
would be glad if Mr. Barrett would attend to any business
matter relating to their empty house.

"What's that?" said Mr. Barrett blankly. "Leaving?
When? Where for?"

"My mother is coming to live with me in London."

"With you — in London?" echoed Mr. Barrett slowly,
and almost incredulously. "Well, this is news — ^with a
vengeance. All very sudden — this idea — ^isn't it ?"

"It is an old plan ; but we finally settled it only yesterday.
Good'byc, Mr, Barrett"

XXI

"Why go outside the parish?" said Walsdcn, when
Edward Churchill was speaking of the home he wanted to
make for his mother. "Why don't you take your favourite
Denmark House? It seems just a lucky chance that it
should have come into the market."

Churchill could scarcely believe his ears. The thing
sounded too good to be true.

"Yes," said Walsden, "Mr. Oliver — ^you know, the man-
2^r at Brown's — ^told me all about it yesterday. He owns
the freehold. Poor fellow, he put all his savings into it, and
now that Brown's have come to grief "

"Brown's — the soap factory? Are they in trouble?"

"They're shut up. Didn't you hear? Half the girls
weren't paid last Saturday. And Monday morning the gates
never opened. A lot of the girls came round here. Then
they — ^and some men — ^went back and broke as much glass
as tfiey could. Poor souls — ^that didn't get them their money.
But I believe Mr. Oliver has paid tliem out of his own
pocket. He is a good man — ^I have always said it — although
a Wesleyan. I should see him at once, if I were you —
because a house like that won't go a-b^ging. It may be
snapped up any minute."

Edward hurried along Bevis Street and round the comer
past the silent factory, feeling dread lest already he might
be too late. But to-day all things seemed to smile at him.
Denmark House had not yet been snapped up; and in a
few minutes he was walking about it, being escorted as a
possible purchaser by the owner and the owner's wife.

It surpassed one's most excited anticipations, it was a
rare gem, a perfect oasis in the desert. The staircase had
shallow steps and a broad hand-rail ; the hall was paved with
black and white stone ; and nearly all the rooms had panelled
walls. Those on the first floor were quite lofty, and in the
biggest room there were low window seats from which one
looked straight into the heart of the plane tree.

166

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 167

The fireplaces were modem and detestable; evidently
beautiful old chimney-pieces had been ruthlessly torn away,
and the whole house showed sig^s of long-continued vandal-
ism. But nothing mattered ; everything could be restored ;
and Edward felt that if it might be his, he would be the
happiest house-owner in England.

He would not bargain, indeed one could not bargain with
a man who had come to trouble. Mr. Oliver did not intend
to let the house on lease ; he proposed to sell it at auction ;
but if he could dispose of his property by private treaty for
a sufficient price, he would cheerfully do so. Then only the
question of price remained to be settled, and Mr. Oliver
promised at once to seek expert advice and report the
restdt.

Edward went away in the highest spirits. Surely this was
more than a lucky chance ; it was a kindness of Providence
to gladden and cheer him on his rightly-chosen path. He
looked back at the house, and saw sunlight upon the iron
gate and the green leaves ; and in imagination saw it as his
home, all gay with fresh paint, the cornice white, the well-
cleaned window panes flashing like diamonds — and a loved
figure at the open door, waving her hand, following him with
her eyes. He kissed his fingers to that dear one.

And wherever he went, all the day, there seemed to be
sunshine and people smiling at him. He thought, "This is
the first of many such days. It is the turned page, the new
chapter of my life — ^no, of our life, which will be so tranquil
and so happy that from it there will come only one r^;rct :
that it may not go on for ever."

The entire parish was rejoicing because he was to stay
and not to go. He had a triumphal progress through the
streets. Men, women, and children hung alK)ut him and made
much of him.

Passing through Bevis Street late in the afternoon, he had
the pleasant surprise of suddenly meeting that nice young
woman, Miss Vickers. Although he had cmly once spoken to
her before this, he felt that she, too, was an old friend and he
told her how |lad it made him to see her again.

"I was afraid you had deserted us for good and all."

"Oh, no," she said. "But I am living over towards
Barking now, so I had to drop the district nvix^tOi^ W^« \

168 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

do what I can over there, but it's very little — ^and I come to
see Mrs. Walsden from time to time."

Then he took her round the comer to look at the outside
of the house that he hoped to buy, talking to her with the
expansive freedom that was bred of his happiness, taking it
for granted to-day that she and everybody else must be in-
terested in his private affairs, telling her all about his mother
and the perfect life that they were to lead together.

She responded amiably and sympathetically, delighting
him with her praise of Denmark House and her rapid com-
prdiension of his filial joy. Then as they came back to
the streets she said a word or two about herself, as though
purposely offering confidence in exchange for confidence.

She told him that she did not like the church at Barking.
She missed St. Bede's.

"But Fm busier now than I used to be, and I have very
little time for church or anything else. I teach music, you
know."

He did not know. Really he knew nothing about her;
but instinctively he seemed to have divined so much, and the
thought of her as a hard-worked music teacher exactly
matdied his preconceived ideas. Of course she was not a
West-ender or a doctor's daughter — that had been a foolish,
ill-considered notion, entertained only for a little while
because she dressed with taste and spoke charmingly. She
was alone in the world, self-maintaining, self-respecting; a
pure good girl, who did not fear poverty and was not too
proud to work.

They said good-bye at the comer of Bevis Street, and,
looking at him shyly, she said, "Mr. Churchill, I have heard
you preach. I heard you at Plaistow, and at Walthamstow."
Then she flushed faintly, stopped speaking, and held out her
hand. But he understood quite well that she had intended to
tdl him that she liked his sermons, and then at the last
moment had diffidently refrained.

"No, not good-bye," he said cordially. "As soon as
my mother arrives, I hope you will find time to come and

see us."

"I should like to very much."

He watched her as she walked away, seeming so graceful
aad fragile for the rough, coarse battle of life, and yet so

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 169

brave in her self-reliant loneliness ; and the thought came to
his mind that, although not in the least like Mrs. Verschoyle,
she resembled her in being the rare type of woman who
might make a possible wife for a priest.

This little meeting seemed to crown his happy, lucky day.
He felt extraordinarily glad that she had not altogether
disappeared from St. Bede's ; and in a pretty, fantastic man-
ner she again linked herself with the tree at Denmaiic
House — the thing that had soothed his eyes when first he
saw it amidst the arid desert of ugliness.

Three days later he was able to telegraph to his mother
that the tree belonged to him.

He had acquired the freehold of Denmark House at a
price that certainly did not wrong Mr. Oliver. Naturally
this implied an inroad on his capitsu — ^the first that he had so
far made ; but one might consider it as a reinvestment, by no
means an injudicious transaction up to a certain point.
Beyond that point, one might call it a grant in aid to a worthy
and unfortunate Wesleyan gentleman who was more in need
of hard cash than Edward Qiurchill.

He would not discuss pounds, shillings, and pence when
his solicitors demurred to what they termed an exorbitant
figure. It was truly of no consequence. He and his mother,
joining their resources, would be the Rothschilds of St.
Bede's — ^flagrantly too rich.

She, of course, would bring her furniture with her; any
more furnishing would be a slight affair; the only solid
expense would be thorough repairing and re-decoration. And
in this and every other regard, Mrs. Churchill gave him a
free hand. Whatever pleased him would please her. She had
no suggestions to offer ; she was barren of decorative ideas ;
indeed, the only thing that a little checked his rapture was
the want of enthusiasm that her letters betrayed. She wrote
meekly and staidly, saying that henceforth her life was to be
guided by her dear boy and that she would be tranquilly
acquiescent. She did not want to come to see the house for
herself; she had so much to do at St. Dunstan's; if he
absolutely required feminine advice, he cotdd not do better
than consult that very kind and considerate Mrs. Verschoyle.
She begged him to convey her sincere thanks for Mrs.
Verschoyle's most hospitable invitations.

170 THE MIRROR ANDi THE LAMP

''Well, Christian/' Mrs. Verscfaoyle had sai<l» when he
burst in upon her with his latest news, "how are you and
Vanity Fair getting on together?"

"I have done with Vanity Fair," he cried joyously. "I
have struck deep roots in what used to be the Slough of
Despond — and the marsh is drained, and flowers are growing
up, and it is all changing to a fairy garden."

''And what does that nonsense mean in plain English?"
she asked, laughing.

"It means that I am a permanent citizen of St. Bede's.
It means that I own a house almost as delightful as this —
the one I told you about — ^my lovely Denmark House. Oh,
do put on your hat and come and let me show it to you."

She went with him at once, answering gaily and hopefully
to all he said about the home life that he would henceforth
enjoy; but she was very grave and thoughtful when he told
her of Lambeth and the rejected offer.

"Don't try to pretend that I have done wrong," he urged
her. "I know I was right. I couldn't be so happy — ^if not."

Time passed now in a whirl of pleasant business. Every
minute that he could take from his parish duties he gave to
the house and to the workmen who were hard at work in it
Mrs. Verschoyle aided him and advised him throughout his
preparations for the mother who could not come even for a
day to choose curtains and carpets, or to decide upon the
situation of electric light brackets.

The allotment of the rooms was an easy task. On the
grotmd floor so much space was taken by the hall that there
were only two sitting-rooms, and these would be their dining-
room and Edward's study. The first floor would be entirely
devoted to Mrs, Churchill — ^her bedroom at the front, with a
boudoir at the side of it, and behind these the big room that
occupied the full width of the house would serve as her
drawing-room. Here she would sit enthroned, surrotmded
by all her old treasures, and doubtless with many pretty
things that he would add to them, interesting herself in
charitable schemes, reading, writing letters, receiving visi-
tors, being steadily, calmly happy. On the top floor there
were five small rooms, of which one would be her son's
bedroom. Two of the others would be absorbed by the nice

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 171

maidservants that Mrs. Churchill was to bring with her.
And the other two would stand waiting for Ms brothers,
whenever their mother wished to have them as visitors under
her roof. Beyond all this there was a bath-room, now being
fitted with the newest and most fashionable bath in lieu of the
dilapidated tank left by the outgoing proprietor.

Edward, going from room to room with Mrs. Verschoyle,
used to babble unceasingly about the beloved mistress of his
house.

"She will be as fond of that tree as I am. Doesn't it
look sweet from this window? Oh, I wish she could see it
before all the leaves are oflF. . . . You know, after her solitary
life during the last few years, I think she would be content
anywhere with me. But really, this house itself is a grand
exchange from our old home. It is only the neighbourhood
that may strike her as dull and depressing — ^just as it did me,
at first. But then I don't mean to keep her a prisoner here.
I shall arrange things. Yes, I shall insist on her going often
to theatres and concerts. I'll give her what she has never
enjoyed." And he laughed gaily. "She will be rather a
West-ender where pleasures are concerned."

Mrs. Verschoyle used to laugh too, amused and yet
touched by all this chatter. "I have heard of devoted sons,"
she said to him once ; "but I never heard of a son like you.
Do you know that you talk exactly as a man might when he
was going to be married and waiting the arrival of his
bride 1"

"She and I are all in all to each other," he answered
simply.

Nevertheless she did not hurry to him. Slow as workmen
must ever be, they had finished their work at last. By the
end of November the house was ready to receive its furni-
ture and its mistress. Braving the smell of paint, Edward
had moved into it weeks ago, and was camping in the boudoir
on the first floor, his unopened packing-cases all about the
little iron bed, a sheet spread out on the floor to guard the
freshness and bloom of the new carpet. He long^ for the
first instalment of the dear old f urmture ; he felt feverishly
anxious to see and put up the bedstead he had used as a
boy ; he burned to get everything in its iJace ; he pined for
the lady of his house.

172

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

But she did not come. She delayed, she made excuses;
she could not dispatch anything this week; she could not
herself hope to get on the move until the week after. Then
she sent him a brief note, begging him to come down to
St. Dunstan's at once, "and discuss the future.''

Discuss the future I But the future was all settled. What
could there be to discuss ?

XXII

He was sitting with her in the room that he used to think
of as a shrine, where she had first taught him to pray ; her
head was on his breast so that he looked down at her grey
hairs ; her whole body trembled ; her tears fell upon his hand
and burned it. He sat for a little while rigid and still, feeling
like a man who has received his death wound, and who dares
not move lest the blood which is slowly and surely draining
away should gush forth in a rapid stream of destruction.
Then he stooped and kissed her forehead.

"Mother dear, lode up. Let us talk quietly. Tell me
everything, so that I may understand."

But truly it was not understandable. It was abnormal,
monstrous, torturingly impossible. She had just told him
that she wanted to marry Mr. Barrett the auctioneer.

Now, taking courage from his gentle tone, she htgain to
explain the unexplainable, to defend the indefensible. From
the very beginning Mr. Barrett had intensely admired her,
and, as she phrased it, "in the most delicate way," had al-
lowed her to become aware of the fact. And this admiration
had expanded and ripened into a unique and beautiful senti-
ment on his part ; it was a perpetual worship that she herself
had always felt, but of course had never spoken of. It had
been an atmosphere of respectful mystery with which he had
surrounded her, and to which little by little she had grown
accustomed, breathing it year after year with peaceful pleas-
ure.

"Edward, my darling, don't judge me hardly. You can
scarcely know what this means to a woman. Such devotion
cannot be ignored. In itself it has a power to sustain and
support one. It made life easier for me. It seemed to give
me strength — and it never, never for a moment interfered
with my duty to you.**

And then she said, with great eagerness, that he must
not suppose she had ever given Mr. Barrett the very slightest
encouragement, or that a single affectionate word had ever

173

174 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

passed between them during the lifetime of Mrs. Barrett
No, it was only after his poor invalid had passed away that
he openly announced his love, and began to supplicate for its
reward.

"But I refused him, Edward — for your sake. I felt that
you would not like it, and I told him that it could not be."

Mr. Barrett, however, was not a person to take no for an
answer. Now that his suit was lawful, he had proved a
persistent suitor; and everything pleaded for him and
appealed to her softer feelings — his loneliness, his failure in
business, his patience and courage and chivalry. "It is not
given to many women," she said, "to arouse such a constant,
elevated passion in the heart of a really good man." So that
she had been on the point of yielding when Edward came
down and extracted her promise to join him in London.

And Edward Churchill, listening, thought that he must
be going mad. She was speaking like a rather vain and
very silly girl, fluttered and excited by a first love aflfair.
She talked of this common fellow, this coarse vulgarian, as
though he were one of the Knights of the Round Table.
She had forgotten all her old niceness of instinct, her respect
for good birth and breeding, her desire for the charms and
graces of life; and merely because an elderly, sandy, flabby,
impudent, half-bankrupt tradesman said he was fond of her,
she had become fond of him — so fond that she was willing to
make this preposterous marriage, incur the ridicule of all
sensible people, and break her son's heart.

"Ever since your visit," she went on, "it has been a most
dreadful struggle for me. I was afraid of you."

"Afraid I"

"I had given my promise, and I meant to keep it. I
told him that alignments were no use. I could not answer
his arguments — ^they seemed too just. He used to urge —
in his chaffing way — ^that at any rate I had reached years of
discretion, that I was a free agent, that I had a right to do
what I thought best. And he said no one could accuse me of
not having done my duty to you all. I had brought you up,
and one after another you had left me. He never said any-
thing disparaging of you, dear — far from it. He always
praises you — he sincerely admires you; but he said in this
^ou were asking too much of me. And he said — ^what I have

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 175

felt so often myself — ^that, supposing I went and set up house
with you, sooner or later you yourself would marry — ^and
then where should I be? The sacrifice would have been in
vain."

"The sacrifice!"

**! mean, I should have deprived him of happiness, and
really lost it myself — and all to no purpose. Edward, I am
only repeating his arguments. But they did not shake my
resolve to keep the promise to you. No, what moved me was
tlie sight of his misery. I saw plainly that I was driving him
to despair. I thought, 'What will my feelings be, if he goes
and commits suicide ?' Edward, you can't ever know what
I have been through in these last weeks. It has been one long
dreadful struggle. I wanted to do what was right — I had to
choose — I had to decide."

And Edward thought, with unspeakable bitterness of
spirit, "Grotesqueness is always an attribute that heightens
the effect of tragedy. If the man were other than he is, my
pain could not be so poisonously stinging. As she says, she
had to choose. Her choice lay plain before her : Mr. Barrett
and his love, or me and mine. And she has chosen Mr.
Barrett."

Then the thought, "I must not be selfish. I must not think
of myself; I must think only of her." He had not said a
single unkind word to her, and he did not fear that he would
say one ; but now he kissed her again, laid his hand very
softly on her grey hair, and tried to smile encouragingly.

"My own boy, tell me that you understand — that you
release me from my promise. I can't be happy unless I feel
that you forgive me. Listen, dear, I ought to have told you
this before. I wrote to Tom and Charles — and I have heard
from both of them. They approve — ^they don't mind. Let
me feel that you all three do not blame — or reproach me."

She had written to the other two — ^to the two that scarcely
loved her; but of him whose whole life had been spent in
loving her she was afraid.

"We want to get away from here. We think of Brighton.
He has always wished to end his days at Brighton. We have
heard of several houses — ^in fact, he has entered into treaty
for one of them — provisionally, of course. He wants to take
me down to look at it"

176 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

And Edward thought, "Yes, he and I have been rivals even
in that too. We have each been selecting a house for her;
but she is going to his house, not mine." Then once more
came the thought, "I must not think of myself ; I must think
only of her/'

She continued her story, pressing his hand affectionately,
speaking quite confidently and cheerfully now; and he felt
pity and shame. He felt as a father who listens to the tale
of a daughter's disgrace, like a friend learning of a friend's
secret sins, like a priest when a penitent confesses that he has
committed sacrilege.

But every now and then, in spite of all his efforts after
detachment from the point of view of self, there would come
a stab of memory.

"Yes, this is not just any woman who is disgracing her-
self, it is my mother. This is not merely another revelation
of foolishness where one hoped for wisdom ; it is the over-
throw of all my faith in womankind. The person who is
going to do a quite unworthy thing in a supremely foolish
manner, who will forfeit the respect of friends, and be
laughed at by strangers, is she from whom I drew life, and
then strength, and then hope."

He did not for a moment attempt to dissuade her from her
project. His knowledge of human nature, although it had
not been great enough to prepare him for this surprise, was
at least sufficient to make him sure that the catastrophe
could not be averted. She spoke of obtaining his consent ;
but, even if perhaps she did not admit it to herself, she was
quite determined. People did these things in the East End
as well as in quiet cathedral cities; widows of over fifty
married second, third, or fourth husbands. And, with an-
other lance-like throb of pain, he remembered much pleasant
fun at the Verschoyles' rectory about an elderly cook who
was unexpectedly leaving. Mrs. Verschoyle could not guess
why ; and the grey-haired cook, puckering her apron, at last
coyly confessed that she was leaving to get married.

"Mother," he said, interrupting her, "when is it to be?"

"Well, dear, we hope before Qiristmas. You know, poor
Mrs. Barrett died more than a year ago."

Then she began to thank him for his gentleness and for-
be^nmce, saying that he had proved true to his nature, and

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 177

reminding him that until these years of their enforced
separation she had looked only to him for comfort and sup-
port.

And finally she spoke about the furniture. That, she
said, was what now preyed upon her mind. "It is as though
I had cheated you, aear. I led you to expect it — and now I
am leaving you with an empty house. Of course, you have
been counting on the furniture."

He bowed his head, so that she should not see his eyes,
and there came a sound from his throat that was half a cough
and half a sob. He was stifling the words that had nearly
said themselves : "I was counting on you, mother, more than
on your furniture."

He returned to London almost immediately after this
interview, and in the train he sat with folded arms, scarcely
changing his attitude throughout the journey. It was dark
now, so that if he had looked back to catch that last pic-
turesque glim|>se of St. Dunstan's, he could have seen
nothing. But he had no wish to see it; he hoped that he
might never see it again. He thought dully of what is said
about people in his situation to describe their state. Writers,
using stereotyped phrases, say, "He felt stunned, confused,
as if he had received a blow on the head." Or they say,
"He felt paralysed." Or they say, "He felt like a man who
has undergone a severe surgical operation, and cannot shake
off the dreams of anaesthesia or recover stren|[th enough
even to lift his head." And Edward Churchill thought,
"Yes, I feel all that. But I feel more ;" and dully he sought
for another simile. "I feel like a small child who started in
the morning with its parents and guardians and other chil-
dren ; and then, after playing with them happily all day, at
dusk finds itself suddenly alone, and thinks. This is the
awful thing that has often been talked about. I am lost.
Yes, I am lostl"

He repeated the words aloud — ^"I am lost;" and then,
looking up, saw that his fellow-passengers were staring at
him questioningly.

He walked from the London terminus, and it was late
when he reached St. Bede's. Alone in his empty house he
wandered up and down, turning on all the lights, going in
and out of the rooms, looking at the blaoktut^^ ^xA ^^

178 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

emptiness. Whenever he paused, trivial little ironical words
suggested themselves, and sometimes he uttered them with a
feebly explanatory tone : such as, "This is a disappointment.
• . . Not at all what I counted on. . . . Quite a shock,
when I first had to face it."

Then would come big words, like great guns fired from a
distance and yet making noise enough to silence all the
adjacent splutter of musketry. Thus it seemed when he
thought : "Two things I have trusted— rGod and my mother.
And one of them has failed me."

XXIII

He was alone with his religion now, and subtly its char-
acter began to change. He lost his joy in the splendours of
ritual ; the significances of symbolism ceased to interest him ;
even the crowning mystery of sacrificial rites appeared to
him of less paramount importance. Only essentials mattered.

It was as if his grief, his disgust, his vicarious shame, had
driven him irrevocably from the realm of refined ideas and
forced him to take a firm standpoint on broad unshakable
principles. He could not think as hitherto of the quality of
things that are beautiful. When he looked at the bare
branches of the plane tree he did not remember the green
leaves they had borne such a little while ago. He had no
desire nowadays to go to the lovely Church of the Cruci-
fixion. Several times he saw that graceful young woman, the
sight of whom used to stir his mind with pretty fancies, and
now he hardly glanced at her pale face or brown hair, and
had not the slightest wish ever to hear her voice again. For
a long time he could not even bring himself to visit Mrs.
Verschoyle, although he knew well that she would not wound
him with a visible sign of the sympathy that she had so deli-
cately hidden in one or two letters after he told her of his
altered plans.

He just stuck to his ordinary work^ seeking nothing
outside it ; as though all dreams were finished, and, awaken-
ing, he had accepted the hard law of facts. Life is ugly,
and one must not shirk its ugliness.

Rising one morning, he said to himself, "This is my
mother's wedding day ;" and he repeated the words again and
again. He had asked to be excused from attending the
ceremony, and his request had been at once granted; but,
as soon as the happy pair should be well established in their
Brighton house, he was to visit thenL His mother could
not let him off this visit or permit him to postpone it
indefinitely, and he looked forward to it with shrinking dread
as the consummation of his pain. All through the wedding

179

180 THE MIRHOR AND THE LAMP

day he was haunted by pictures of the past and tHe future.
How could she bring herself to do it ? Oh, how could she so
forget her own legend? And he thought that this real
tragedy was more poignantly distressing than the fable of
Shakespeare's play. For to him the distress was far worse
than for Hamlet. Comparatively, Hamlet and the Queen had
been nothing to each other.

He could not sleep, he could not eat, the idea of what was
happening continued to be intolerable.

Nevertheless, while the new year was still young, he duti-
fully fulfilled his engagement, and went down to Brighton
to stay for a few days with Mr. and Mrs. Barrett.

Their house was situated on the East Qiff, in one of the
old terraces long since deserted by fashion, and Mr. Barrett,
exercising all his professional skill, had secured it as an
astounding bargain. It was small and neat — ^just the right
size for the St. Dunstan's furniture. Here, then, Edward
saw what was like the ghost of his childhood's home ; every
chair and table reminding him of vanished days, the pictures
on the walls seeming to whisper of his dead father; and
in the midst of it the base intruder and supplanter, spreading
himself out large, beaming with self-satisfaction, exuding
vulgar triumph. Here, too, Edward for the first time heard
the man call his mother Edith, watched her after dinner
while she fetched a pair of slippers, a tobacco jar, a pipe, and
suffered more acutely than he would have believed possible.

The greater must include the less. Since she had mairied
the man, one should have been prepared for all the rest.
Already she was altogether different. Her manner, her voice
had changed ; she even did her hair differently. Of course,
outwardly as well as inwardly, she must be different: she
was now the comrade, the obedient helpmate, the other half
of Mr. Barrett. Already, in a dull kind way, he had com-
pletely dominated her. The adoring slave had become the
tolerant master. Without the slightest harshness, merely
by the dead weight of companionship, he dictated her acts,
her words, her thoughts. He would do so always — ^he would
simply obliterate in her all that had made her what she was.
And yet — ^last incredible, prodigiously illogical truth — she
was quite contented.

While he talked, she listened appreciatively. His con-

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 181

versation — which for the main part consisted of a rapid
sequence of platitudinous nonsense — ^appeared to be all tfiat
she desire^ as an intellectual treat. When he thought he had
made a joke, he looked at her in a certain winking familiar
style, and she immediately also thought that he had made a
jc^e, and laughed with as much pleasure as if he had really
made one.

To Edward — of an evening, after she had gone to bed —
he was terrible, nerve-inflaming^ poisonously asphyxiating.
He sat rocking himself in the late Mr. Churchill's swing
chair, smoking and twaddling.

He called Brighton "London-by-the-Sea," spoke of it
also as "Doctor Brighton," and said that, althought the fact
might prove him to be an odd original sort of creature, he
must confess that the sound of the waves as they gently beat
upon the shore was very pleasant to him. He said, too, that
he firmly believed tobacco to be a blessing if used in modera-
tion. It soothed the brain. But tobacco, like many other
things, might be condemned as evil "when carried to excess."

"Moderation, Edward. That should be one's watchword."

Then he talked a little scandal about the lady who lived
next door. She was by herself during the week, but a gentle-
man appeared on Saturday. This week-end personage might
be her lawful wedded husband, but on the other hand he
might not.

"I have told your mamma to be on her guard, and not to
encourage advances from so doubtful a quarter. We shall
have no difficulty in building up our little circle of friends,
and we would like them to be of the right sort."

And then Mr. Barrett suggested "Bedfordshire." Cum-
brously getting out of the swing chair and stretching himself,
he took a last proud survey of the comfortable, nicely fur-
nished room, and said, "Now, isn't this better for both of
us than moping out our lives by ourselves ? You see it, now,
don't you, Ted? Mamma and I, in joining forces, did the
wise and proper thing, didn't we?"

Edward opened his bedroom window and filled his lungs
with the cold night air. He was almost suffocating. He
looked at the stars, and thought of their remoteness; he
listened to the waves, and to his ears their voices spoke only
of sadness. If any doubt or hope had lingered, he kn^vc uqhc.

182 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

that his mother had gone from him for ever. If she had
died, the separation would have seemed less crushingly final.

About a month after the Brighton excursion lie had a
meeting with his two brothers. By arrangement they all
three dined together at a restaurant near Piccadilly Circus,
and, going westward to this appointment, Edward felt a
rapid revival of brotherly affection and an immense longing
to renew a natural intercourse that had been too long
neglected.

But alas, it was impossible. Some glow of warmth there
was, a flare of instinct, and then numbness, coldness. In
truth they seemed to him utter strangers, two worldly com-
mon fellows, gross of mind and gross of tongue. Tom was
big and loud, and blustering — ^prosperous now, he declared—
the typical colonial wanderer, who romances about past
hardships and brags about future ease. Charles was lean,
rather seedy-looking in spite of raffish ornaments of attire ;
he said Europe was played-out, rotten, no longer the place
for a white man ; and he intended shortly to go back with
Tom to Australia. Meanwhile, both of them, evidently,
were enjoying all the pleasures of the town. Tom spoke
plainly of the temporary solace afforded by the opposite sex
to those fortunate enough to have plenty of money in their
pockets, and then, laughing, checked the flow of such revela-
tions. "I must respect the cloth, Ted, old boy." And almost
in the same breath he was talking of their mother.

Neither he nor Charles appeared to recollect that ancient
horror of the stepfather, or their contempt for Mr. Barrett.
The marriage had not ruffled them. They thought it foolish,
but they didn't care.

"Women are all the same," said Tom sententiously ; "and
I believe the older they get the sillier they get."

Charles looked sage : seeming to say without words that
in his varied experience of women wickedness rather than
silliness had been the trouble.

"But as to the dear mater," said Tom, "well, it means,
of course, that nothing will ever come our way now. Number
Two will see to that. I don't mind. I'm all right— on the
up-grade, going to wallow in it before I've done. And I
say, 'Long may she enjoy her own, and do what she likc3
HTith it afterwards.* Let's drink her health."

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 183

Edward left them drinking together. Ever afterwards,
when he thought of them, he had that farewell picture— of
the two unfamiliar-looking men seated at a disordered table
in the now empty dining-room, with flushed faces and stupid
eyes, talking garrulously, while a waiter yawned, furtively
read a newspaper, and pined for them to go away. The
strongest combined effort of memory and imagination could
not make this picture blend with the other one of two clean-
minded, frank-eyed, healthy boys, whom he had honoured
and loved. These two men did not want him; he could not
help them ; in thought he bade them good-bye.

Thus all ties of family had been broken, not a single per-
sonal affection was left to him. But the blank must be
somehow filled — that was a necessity. Mankind in the mass
was surely large enough to supply what had been withdrawn
by a few individuals.

Gradually he furnished his house, in a rough and ready
way, buying the things for room after rocMn as they were
wanted. This was home, and he was now settling down in
it. His housekeeper was a Mrs. Clough, the deserted wife
of a bricklayer who had gone to Canada. For years she had
worked at an Aldgate steam laundry, tramping to and fro
every day, and at last getting knocked down by a meat van.
Edward Churchill went to see her at the London Hospital,
and the kind doctors who had mended her broken thigh,
patched her perforated limg, and bulged out her crushed ribs,
told him that she could never again be up to the heavy work
of her laundry. H the laundry people took her back and let
her limp about for a week, they would infallibly sack her at
the end of it. She was, however, quite up to the light work
of Denmark House; her daughters, grown-up factory
women, came to stay with her when out of a job; she adored
her new master, and would have been perfectly happy but
for the fear that one day her bad husband might come back
from Canada and upset the apple-cart.

In the large, bare drawing-room some rough cupboards
had been fitted, and in these were piles of the Prayer-books
and Bibles used for classes, rolled maps of the Holy Land
and Syria that came out for lectures on the Passion or Paul's
voyages, coloured flags of the signalling section of the cadet
corps, and so on. Near the windows thext nv^ ^\as\gtNai(Si^

184 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

and desk, with a metal crucifix attached to the wall above it.
When the boudoir door stood open, one had a peep into
Churchill's bedroom — a painted chest of drawers, the narrow
iron bed, with another crucifix near it.

There were no curtains in either room, but in both the
richness and splendour of the carpet struck an incongruous
note. Those packing-cases had at last been opened, and the
books that they contained so long were bestowed on one side
of the big room in ranges of deal shelves as yet unpainted.
For the walls he had purchased some religious prints in black
frames. There were many wooden chairs for tiie bulk of his
visitors, and two wicker arm-chairs with red cloth cushions
for superior people. From the packing-cases had also
emerged some Indian clubs, boxing-gloves, a model oar, and
other modest trophies or mementos of his college boating
club ; and all these articles, together with small knicknacks
dating from Oxford days, made a scattered and untidy
decoration that Mrs. Clough assiduously dusted and greatly
cherished.

The bedroom that should have been Mrs. Churchill's was
permanently occupied by "the old gentleman." This was
Edward's friend, Mr. Philbrick. After a sharp attack of
sciatica, that danger of the workhouse had recurred; the
old chap's capacity for work had dwindled down to some-
thing very small indeed ; Edward told him in effect that he
must work no more, his future need not worry him, he might
take his ease at Denmark House.

Early of a morning the host used to go into the visitor's
room, sit on the edge of his bed, and enjoy a little chat.
However early the hour, Mr. Philbrick was always awake,
and generally smoking. He sat high in the bed, screwing up
his wrinkled face, winking his bright birdlike eyes, and
placidly puffing out tobacco clouds of almost overpowering
strengdi and rankness.

"This is my luckserry," he would say. "To lay here
before breakfast, knowing I don't have to get up till when I
dioose. I don't sleep much — ^we old fellers don't require
it, and I don't miss it. The rest is sufficient — ^the pleasure
of the bed itself — and what I call the luckserry."

Sometimes they read the collect of the day together.
Fanaal prayer, with kneeling out of bed or on the bed, would

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 185

naturally have interfered with the luxurious sensations, and
Churchill never suggested it. But Mr. Philbrick liked "a
bit of *oly readin'," cheerfully putting down his pipe, and
repeating the sacred names with unction and contentment.

"Thardc you very kindly, sir. I shall be up and about
before you're in from yer fust round. . . . Er, might I
respectfully ast you to 'and me the matches?"

Other guests, for long and short periods, were youi^
priests. Amongst them was a consumptive, and him Churchill
dispatched on a sea voyage. Another of them had broken
the vows of the brotherhood to which he belonged. Another
had got into dire disgrace by drink, and was in danger of
being inhibited. These were difficult cases sent to him by the
Verschoyles.

But generally he found the guests himself — honest workers
in their dire need, when no work was forthcoming ; offenders
just released from the clutches of the law and anxious to
start fair again, yet ready to return to crime ; feeble, helpless,
hopeless incompetents ; the wreckage thrown in his way by
the ocean of life. He took them in when they wanted shelter ;
he turned them out when they lingered because of mere
idleness. He was not softly kind to them. He liked their
company, but their room was so urgently needed. And thus,
little by little, Denmark House became recognised as a sort
of hostel or place of refuge instead of a strictly private
residence.

He was doing much for the parish in other ways. He had
provided funds for a new mission room on the southern
boundary, for a fourth curate, and for repairs to the fabric
of the church. That dividing line between capital and
income ceased to restrict his expenditure. Why should he
hoard any longer ? When money was wanted to gladden the
heart of Walsden, he sold out some stock and produced it.
But he spent freely now on his own account, without
Walsden's advice — gifts made from hand to hand, grants in
aid of young men who wished to emigrate, marriage por-
tions; donations to a foundlings' home at Barking; mainte-
nance of seaside camps, after the source of ordinary sub-
scriptions ran dry.

His position in the parish every week seemed to strengthen
itself. Money at St. Bede's went a long way, and v\& vcccccite-

186 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

diate effects were readily perceptible. The people rq^arded
him as an opulent prince, some one far above the vicar.
But Mr. Walsden never had the least jealousy in this regard ;
he gloried in the possession of his rich curate ; and, although
often rebuking greedy members of the flock for their out-
rageous claims, he told Churchill, "They love you for
yourself, not for your money."

And, indeed, he was greatly trusted. People came to him
in their trouble, asking spiritual comfort and desiring nothing
else. The women especially, of all ages, sought interviews
with Mr. Churchill. It was useless now to send them to the
vicarage, to Mr. Gardiner, or to Mr. Nape. They would
not go.

He used to let them talk to him, and he listened, saying
very little. Before they left he gave them a few words of
simple advice, telling them to be brave, to be clean, to take
care of themselves — ^their bodies as well as their souls.
**When everjrthing else goes wrong at home, don't go wrong
yourself" — ^and so on. Sometimes he lent them books:
health manuals, domestic treatises, tracts on the virtue of
self-respect.

Always that change of his estimates in regard to the rela-
tive importance of the spiritual and the material need was
continuing. More and more his interest was aroused in work
outside the Church world. He used to go to the London
Hospital and admire the marvellous organisation of the vast
establishment. He had made many friends among the
doctors there, and he enjoyed his long quiet talks with them
when he could catch them off duty. They told him so much
that he had never properly understood till now. He also
frequently visited a small hospital in the Poplar district;
and here he sat by the bedsides of sailors, hearing tales of the
sea — of perils bravely encountered, of avoidable sufferings
cheerfully borne, of the floating hell that a ship may become
when nature and men join hands in the work of pitiless
cruelty. Whenever he was able to do so he spent an afternoon
at the orphans' or waifs' institution that he had recently dis-
covered at Barking. He loved these boys who had never,
known a father's name. And, wherever he was, he thought
of the folly of mankind in still passively accepting evils

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 187

that ages and ages ago should for ever have been rendered
impossible.

Walsden saw the change in his curate's mental attitude,
and one day he frankly spoke of it. It was characteristic
of him that the place he chose for speaking was the open
street, and that he did not find time to finish what he wished
to say. They were standing in the narrow side street, by the
door of the southern mission room, and he began abruptly
about Churchill's sermons. "I wish," he said, "that you
would revert to your original line — ^the line, you know, that
made such a stir among us. Rub it into them again about
prayer. That lifted them. Last Sunday night I thought
you got a bit too business-like — ^too much like a lecture on
practical politics."

"Oh, is that so?"

"I thought so ;" and Walsden beamed, and gave Churchill
a friendly slap on the shoulder. "With any one else, I should
beat about the bush, perhaps — not that I'm good at round-
abouts — ^but with you, I know I'm safe. You've always
been too big to be touchy. . . , Good morning. Hope your
wife's better." He had interrupted himself to speak to a
workman who was slouching toward some other workmen
at an opposite comer of the street. "What was I saying?
Yes, tell 'em to pray. That was the line. Nowadays you've
got off it. It's all 'Help one another,' instead of Tray for
one another.' "

"Is it?" And Churchill promised that he would preach
again on prayer. His sermons seemed to be less important
than in the past, he did not prepare them so laboriously, he
had no personal pleasure in delivering them, and he refused
all invitations to hold forth beyond the confines of St. Bede's.

"Thanks. And in this connection there was a hint about
our old, little controversy — ^receiving confessions, you know.
Well "

But just then somebody spoke to Mr. Walsden from the
opposite pavement. It was a big, black-coated man with a
bowler hat on the back of his head, who came hurrying. As
he passed he made a gesture with his hand, as though waving
off the vicar, and spoke in a loud, self-important style.

"Good morning to you, I can't stop now." '

188 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Mr. Wahden had not desired this personage to stop, and
he muttered contemptuously. "Very good. Don't apologise.
We don't want you ;" and he stood looking after him.

A few doors farther down the street the pavement was
blocked by the little knot of workmen ; and the big man took
one of these by the shoulders, pushed him off the pavement,
and, having passed, called back truculently, "Tliatll teach
you manners. Get out of the light when you see people
coming."

"Yes," said Walsden, "but who'll teach yovt manners —
you pig?" And he turned to Edward Churchill. "Did you
see that ? Did you notice that man ? They say hell be sent
to Parliament. I'll tell you all about him some time. Thank
goodness, he has left the parish. I must fly. Ta-ta."

Whatever precepts on the subject of confession the vicar
had intended to repeat, they were probably not needed in
order to reinforce his well-known rules of conduct. Churchill
had always obeyed him, and now, perhaps not only as a
result from this habit of obedience, the difference of opinion
between them had almost vanished. The link in what
Churchill used to call his "straight sequence" had worn so
thin that he questioned if it were a link at all, or merely an
excrescence. If the chain of faith could hold together without
it, then knock it off or let it go. Since he and the vicar were
now of one mind in their struggle to hold fast to essentials,
they could scarcely be far apart in their method of dealing
with a surface difficulty. Churchill did not particularly
think of this question of confessicm; and perhaps, if he had
done so, he would have understood that he now considered
Walsden to be right. Perhaps no good ever came of men
confessing their sins to men. Let them open their hearts
to God — ^let them keep it all between God and themselves.

Certainly he felt no qualms in sending people to the Com-
munion Service without previous absolution. When the
women came to see him, he did not ask them to lay bare any
secret. He looked at them, and he seemed to tmderstand.
When, in every varied tone of hope or fear, they seemed to
ask him the one great question, "What shall I do to be
saved?" he told tnem to believe in Christ **BeUcve in
Him, and love Him. That is all."

He used to think so often, "If one does not steadfastly

THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP 189

believe in the glory to be achieved hereafter, then what a
hideous nightmare here and now!" And of all essential
duties of a priest the greatest must surely be to strengthen
faith. "It is not enough to make these people believe once,
and then leave them to their .own devices; one must always
be sustaining the belief. For belief, however strong, may
grow weak and quickly perish."

Some of the boys at that orphanage were fierce and wild,
requiring stem discipline ; but there were none that did not
show pleasure at the sight of Edward Churchill, and none
that he could not manage if entrusted to his charge. When
the summer drew near he used to present himself on half
holidays, and take about twenty orphans of all sizes for an
afternoon trip upon the river Lea. He had hired an immense
tub of a boat that held the whole party ; and he taught the
bigger lads how to row — ^three of them to an oar, bench after
bench, like Roman slaves, splashing and toiling. The little
ones were in the stem, all about him, chattering, gesticulat-
ing. A few perhaps he smiled at more than at the rest,
noticing their puny arms, wizened faces, abnormally devel-
oped intelligences, and remembering that they had but lately
been rescued from the streets.

"Oh, ain't this jolly ?" That was the treble chorus. The
peace and happiness changed them, elevated them, made
them sweeter, gladder, better in one afternoon.

Sometimes he sculled the whole barge alone, while all
rested and watched.

"1*11 take you as far as the white pier."

"Oh, Mr. Churchill, can you do it ? You must be strong
as a giant."

And very slowly he made the huge boat move — ^faster —
still on. The boys crowed, and dieered, and thought it
miraculous.

He rowed till the sweat poured off him, till his chest
seemed about to crack ; but he felt as if, for a time, he was
carrying their burdens, as if his effort had lifted tfie cruel
weight that the sins of the world had laid upon these inno-
cent ones. He yearned with love for the little souls, while
his muscles seemed to take fire, his lungs change to dry
paper, and his heart become a pump ^l ^t^ Viv& n€\tl^ ht^^

190

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

pain instead of blood — he was almost killing himself, but
would give his life and not regret its loss. Lightermen on
the baiScs watched also, their faces lit with friendly grins.
"Brayvo, guv'nor ! Well done, sir !" And still he plodded
cm, until the boat drew level with the white pier. Then he
stopped, came back to his seat in the stem, gasping, spas-
modically quivering, feeling as if he had been broken on the
wheel. But he was all right directly, able to joke and laugh.
''Hasn't it hurt you, sir?" And a small hand was placed
upon his aching knee.
"No, my dear boy, of course not I wanted to do it."
That was his paramount need — ^to give himself, to spend
himself, to gain the peace that comes from exhaustion. And
except when doing it, he was a profoundly unhappy maxL

XXIV

In obedience to the vicar's request, Edward Churchill had
prepared his new sermon on prayer. But before the time
came to deliver it he suffered another disillusionment, was
forced to relinquish another pretty idea, and once more expe-
rienced a deepened sense of loss and loneliness.

Walsden, after speaking of some members of a dock-
labourers' trade union, began to talk about the secretary
of the union, Mr. Robert Vickers, and explained that this
was the man they had seen pushing humble folk into the
gutter. "Yes, he is lord of the poor fellows — ^lives on their
pennies, and yet bullies them. But they believe in him, and
submit to anything. As I told you, he used to live here —
had offices for two societies that kept him going as long as
they lasted — and I couldn't persuade even our own people
that they were fools for letting him bleed them."

Walsden said this Vickers was a thorough bad lot He
drank, and he was viciously immoral. Some years ago he
had been charged with a criminal assault on one of his type-
writing girls, but the charge broke down. "Once I told
Mr. Vickers, to his face and before company, exactly what
I thought of him ; and yet— could you credit it? — ^he has had
the impudence to write asking me and the St. Bede's clergy
to go and hear him spout next Wednesday at the Red Ea^e
tavern."

"Vickers!" said Churchill. "There is a young woman

of that name. No connection of his, I suppose?"

"Yes, his wife."

Churchill at first thought this must be a mistake. His
Miss Vickers could not possibly be Walsden's Mrs, Vickers.
Nevertheless she was. "Yes, yes," said Walsden — ^"very
nice girl, friend of my wife's. She couldn't really have told
you she was single. You've got hold of the wrong end of the
stick."

'Why did she marry such a brute?"

'Ah. Who can say? Found him attractive, one must
guess. Women are so curious — ^in these affairs. She must
r^fret it by now, I should think."

191

it

192 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

It was a shock to find that such a girl — ^not coarse and
common, apparently altogether the reverse — should care for
such a man. And beyond the discomfort caused by the shat-
tered ideal, there was something repellent in the notion that
she was married at all — ^that she belonged to anybody whom-
soever. He had woven his fable about her, thinking of her
always as solitary, virginally mysterious and aloof, bravely
isolated from all commonplace dependences or supports.
Then he felt indignant with her herself. Why had she
allowed him to persist in a foolish error? Why had she
posed as a single girl merely because he imagined her to be
one? Perhaps she had not consciously done this; perhaps
the misunderstanding had been entirely of his own making
and fostering. When he searched his memory of their first
meeting, he seemed to recall that she had merely told him
her name was Lilian Vickers, and he, jumping to conclu-
sions, had written her down as Miss. Probably, or at least
possibly, he had never in their subsequent meetings addressed
her as Miss Vickers. Or if he had, perhaps she did not
notice— or, noticing, perhaps she thought the mistake was
not worth correcting. She might have thought that, as
they were practically strangers, it could not in the least
matter. The whole thing would appear a trifle to her. But
it did not appear a trifle to him.

He could not get it out of his mind.

He thought of her so much that he put himself to the
trouble of obtaining further information about her husband.
From Mrs. Walsden and others he gathered that Vickers had
risen in the world and now rather sunk again. He was a
socialist, an agitator, a tub-thumper. The dockers' union,
started and practically governed by himself, was as yet small,
but he boastfully declared that it would develop into some-
thing tremendous, and he counted on its force to thrust him
into Parliament. He was Church of England. He always
made a point of this in his public utterances, and tried to
keep in with church-folk, although never himself seen in
church. His wife Lilian taught French as well as the piano,
and was truly religious. Perhaps Vickers encouraged her to
go to church, to attend classes and lectures, and thus save
him the performance of an irksome duty. Anyhow, it was

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 193

plain that he clung to the church connection as something
that might be useful to him politically.

From humble friends Churchill learned that if people
trusted Mr. Vickers, many were afraid of him.

"Why afraid?"

"Well, natch'rally, because of all them union chaps of his/*
said Dance, the greengrocer. "It's ev'dent. He'd think
nothing of setting on a dozen of his roughs to slip into you
with their fists. He did do it. Man he'd had a row with,
was set upon and precious near killed."

But not content with hearsay evidence, Churchill took an
opportunity of studying the man himself. He sat among the
audience at the back of the room when Mr. Vickers gave his
Red Eagle oration.

Evidently not a gentleman, Vickers seemed, however, to
be well educated; at any rate, he showed all the surface
signs of education, and apparently he had been at pains to
learn how to speak in public. The matter of the discourse
was nonsense — the usual diatribes against the upper classes,
fulsome praise of all homey-handed toilers, and promises of
the Utopia that might be expected as soon as Labour orga-
nised itself and was able to secure adequate representation
in the House of Commons. But his manner — ^when con-
sidered only in regard to the purposes of the occasion — ^waa
good. He had a swaggering confidence and a spurious bon-
homie that imposed on ignorant hearers. One moment he
overawed them by his learning, and the next moment flattered
them by an assumption of entire equality. He frowned,
bellowed, made violent gestures, and then treated them to a
joke and helped it with a loud iand affectedly jovial laugh.
Churchill instinctively detested him, and felt that the worst
that could be said of him must be true.

Physically, he was a big, powerful-looking man, with a
broad chest, heavy shoulders, and perhaps rather poor l^s.
Standing on the platform, he looked very tall, and in fact
was probably an inch or two over six feet. He seemed to be
about thirty-five years of age ; he had dark, closely cropped
hair and a reddish moustache ; and there was a fatness and
looseness about the lower parts of his cheeks, as well as a
baggy fullness beneath the chin, that suggested sensuality

194 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

and self-indulgence. He was just a pig and a brute. Yet
Churchill could see in him a sort of blackguardly hand-
someness that, allowing for the deterioration of years, might
attract — and even greatly attract — ^vulgar silly women.

Then he thought of the delicate prettiness and slim grace
of the man's wife. Could there be truth in what was said by
his brother Tom, by Walsden, by everybody else — ^that all
women are alike?

When Sunday evening came and he preached his sermon
on prayer, it happened that Mrs. Vickers was in the church.
He saw her at once, but he would not look at her again. He
thought, "If I look at her, I shall be reminded of ugly things ;
my mind will wander, and I shall lose the thread of what I
am to say. Walsden wants me to tell them to pray for
one another, and I must do it as forcibly as I can."

In the vestry after the service Walsden declared that he
had done it magnificently. The handkerchiefs had come out
in all directions, and Walsden himself had counted five peo-
ple weeping at one time. "You really did warm them up —
quite in the old style — ^when you said that bit about unhappi-
ness. What was it again ? Tray for those who are unhappy,
whether you love them or whether you hate them/ That
was it, wasn't it ? Capital !"

Churchill was not going to sup at the vicarage to-night,
and when presently he went down the empty church to the
main door the lights were turned out except in the western
gallery. Mr. White leaned over the balustrade by the organ
curtains, and told him that the doors had not yet been
locked.

Beyond the swing doors the porch was quite dark, the
outer door standing ajar and admitting a little light from the
street lamps to guide one. As he passed, there came a sound
frcwi somewhere near the foot of the gallery stairs that
startled him. It was like a suppressed sobbing.

"Who is it? What is it?"

And out of the darkness somebody spoke to him.

"Mr. Churchill, will you pray for me? I am very
unhappy."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I will pray for you — Mrs. Vickers.
... It is Mrs. Vickers, is it not ? . . . Good-night."

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 199

And he went out of the porch. She did not follow him,
and after a few moments he came back again.

"Mrs. Vickers" — and he spdce now more gently and with
greater friendliness than before, "would you care to come
and see me at Denmaiic House some dav, and let us talk
about your troubles — ^whatever they are?*

"I don't kiK>w. . . . Yes, I would like — ^if you are sure
you don't mind. I've no right to bother you. I'm not in
the parish."

"Send me a line to say when you are coming."

"May I come to-morrow afternoon?"

"Yes. What time?"

"Six o'clock — if that would suit you."

"Yes." And again he bade her good-night.

He walked home, thinking, "This is very strange. It is
as though she had answered my secret thoughts.'

i»

She did regret her marriage, bitterly and desperately. In
their long quiet talk together, although she never once said
it explicitly, Churchill assured himself of the obvious fact in
a dozen different ways. And before their talk was over she
had entirely re-established herself in his mind. She was
truly what she had seemed.

She was dreadfully shy and nervous at first, making apolo-
gies for wasting his time and explaining that she had no
justification. She said that yesterday had been a long and
tiring day for her; it had been difficult to get away from
home ; she was late in starting for St. Bede's, and then the
trams were full and she walked most of the distance, hurry-
ing. So that when she reached the church she was perhaps
rather overwrought, and the sermon moving her greatly, she
broke down in a silly manner of which she was now ashamed.
This morning she had intended to write to say that she
would not trouble him to receive her, but then she had
thought he might not understand. So she had come.

And Churchill perfectly understood that she had come
because she wanted to come. She, like so many other of his
visitors, was impelled by the most simple and direct motives,
although to her they might seem obscure. Life had rendered
her piteously sad ; she longed to speak of her sadness ; she
craved for human sympathy, and as yet could not find it.

196 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Divine aid she possessed ; but, although her faith disclosed
itself as beautiful and steadfast, this was not quite enough.
She desired, she needed to hear the voice of a fellow-
creature telling that others are bearing their sadness bravely ;
that she, too, must be brave and fear nothing.

This, in effect, was what Edward Churchill told her; and
he saw that he had succeeded in comforting her, strengthen-
ing her, and giving her fresh courage.

He begged her to come and see him again whenever she
desired to do so; and from time to time she repeatd her
visits. Rapidly they became able to talk freely, as though
they had known eadi other for a long time ; but she always
maintained her reticence in regard to the actual causes of her
misery. She hinted at them, but never stated them. It did
not matter : he could guess them all, and, thinking of them,
his heart melted in pity.

He knew her history now. Her parents died while she was
still a child ; she had eaten the bread of charity during her
last three years at school; then, as governess in a country
house, she had met Vickers, and married him a month after
their first meeting. Churchill could imagine it — ^the man
coming with his swagger, his flashy rhetoric, his affected en-
thusiasms, and the poor little lonely girl thinking, ''This is
the grand chivalrous knight who is going to rescue me." And
instead of a courtly knight, he had proved a brutal jailer.
He had been systematically unkind, depriving her of love,
and yet not allowing her freedom from the ugly manifesta-
tions that only loved wives should know. Like a hog, he
had trampled on the pretty flower that he had snatched at
and uprooted.

There had been a baby, who died ; and the young mother's
grief had almost broken her heart. Yet Churchfll instinc-
tively understood that she wished for no other child to take
the place of her lost one. It was bad to be childless; it
was worse to have children of such a father.

One night, during an illness of the St. Bede's organist, she
came over to play the organ instead of Mrs. Walsden. It
seemed to Churchill that she played splendidly, not only
better than poor Mrs. Walsden, but as well as any one he
had ever heard playing ; she made their organ seem as grand
an instrument as Father Bryan's ; she filled the church with

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 197

rolling, swelling melody. Afterwards he walked with her as
far as the tram-lines, and it chanced that, as an escort, he
proved of some slight service. Outside a public-house three
drunken men were indisposed to let them pass, and, had she
been by herself, they would unquestionably have caused her
annoyance.

At sight of these drunken reeling men and at the sound of
their thick, loud voices, Lilian Vidkers betrayed a feeling of
horror unusual in anybody accustomed to the East End;
and Churchill thought, "Yes, that is the sort of thing she has
to face at home sometimes."

He put her into her tram, and stood looking after it, think-
ing of what she was going back to.

Why should a sweet, good, patient creature like that be
so sorely tried? It was a question — ^if she ever put it fairly
to herself — so difficult to answer that it might shake the
very foundations of her faith. He thought of this peril. If
she lost her faith, what would become of her? Then in-
deed one might call her miserable. This thought preyed
upon his mind fearfully, and he determined to discuss her
case in all its aspects with the vicar. Walsden had great
natural wisdom, as well as endless experience; he might
be able to suggest how best one could help her.

But Walsden on this occasion was both uns3rmpathetic
and stupid. His general view of the situation seemed to
be that, having made her bed, Mrs. Vickers must lie on it;
and he said, as his only special advice, ''I should drop it, if
I were you. Yes, just leave it alone."

Edward Churchill could not, of course, leave it alone.
Implicitly, she was asking him for assistance; he could
not fold his hands, and altogether disregard the appeal.

"You see," said Walsden reflectively, "as I found out
years ago, when a married woman comes like this, and
makes her confession "

"Mrs. Vickers," said Churchill, almost warmly, "has
made no confession to me. Obviously not, or I shouldn't
be talking about it to you. No, I have had several inter-
views with her, and we discussed nothing but broad prin-
ciples. Nevertheless, I can see that she is utterly wretched
with that man. You know what he is, yourself,"

198 iTHE HIEROR AND THE LAMP

"Yes, quite so. But he is her husband. She married
him for better, for worse."

And, unnecessarily, stupidly, Walsden harked back to
confessions. "There's the trouble — ^these women. It was
that which first put me against it. I saw so much of it in
the Midlands. I used to say, *If it's anything you could talk
over with your elder brother — anything he could put right
for you— come and tell me all about it. Just consider I'm
your brother.' And to make them understand, I called
them Sister. 'Well, now' — Sister Alice— or Sister Kate — if
I knew their Christian name, 'what's the little rumpus?*
I found the wisdom of following this line, because "

"Yes, no doubt," said Churchill, "but all that does not
in the least apply to the present case."

"No, no," said Walsden, "I am merely talking in the air —
defending my theories, which, I well know, you have loyally
respected, although opposed to your own. No, I'd for-
gotten all about poor Mrs. Vickers. As to her case, I've
given you my opinion. . . . When young Nape joined
us, I said just the same to him, and so I did to Grevil. I
told them, "Beware of the women who come to a clergy-
man in their domestic and private troubles.' Why, at
Qackhaven," and Walsden laughed good-humouredly, "the
mill-girls would try to 'take on the parson' — give him 'a
teasing,' as they called it — ^and leave their sweethearts wait-
ing outside in the street to make them jealous. Yes, and
the matrons too — ^who ought to know better — getting
spoony on the curate I Human nature is the same all the
world over. Women are all one. If I found any nonsense
—of any sort — I made some excuse and got my wife into
the room — ^to break off. They understock It reminded
them."

Then Walsden laughed again, and spoke enthusiastically.
"But Africa was the place!" And he said a few words
about dusky belles who disturbed his tent by their artlessly
improper advances.

All this was extraordinarily distasteful to Churchill. It
was ugly, gross. Unpleasing mental pictures rose unbidden
of a missionary's temptations. Never before had he felt
such repulsion when the vicar displayed his characteristic

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 199

bluntness or coarseness of speech. In the present connec-
tion—or rather as a transition from the subject that had
started their conversation — such talk had been distressingly
out of place. He went away feeling disgusted with
Walsden.

He must do something. From one or another, he was
always hearing further facts about the hardship of her life.
The man made her work hard at teaching, he was greedy to
make engagements for her at schools, he did not mind how
far he sent her afield; and all her earnings went straight
into his pocket. He doled out to her a few coins, grudg-
ingly, for immediate needs.

It chanced that a dock labourer who had belonged to his
Union and wanted to rejoin it stayed for a few nights at
Denmark House, and from him Churchill heard still more.
Vickers was notoriously unfaithful to her; he would take
up with any trash, and leave her by herself for days and
weeks at a time. At their home, the servant was a feeble
old woman who let the mistress do most of the woric. They
used to have proper, vigorous young servants once ; but he
made it impossible for any decent girl to remain there
long.

Churchill suddenly had an idea, and it seemed so excel-
lent that he wondered it had not occurred to him before.
Mrs. Verschoyle was the person to advise. If he could
gain her friendship for Lilian Vickers, she would be the
person to bring real aid.

But for the very first time Mrs. Verschoyle disappcnnted
him. She talked kindly and finely; she was not uns)rmpa-
thetic, as Walsden had been, and yet her advice was almost
an exact echo of his. She advised Edward Churchill to
drop it.

She knew nothing of Mrs. Vickers personally; she had
never even heard of her ; and she showed a disinclination to
make her acquaintance, pleading that she had already so
many people who required perpetual attention, reminding
him of the local calls upon her time. Of course she knew
Vickers by reputation. She had never heard any good of
him; but she sincerely trusted he was not quite so bad as
Churchill thought.

200 THE MIRROR AND THE IjVMP

"He IS— every bit. Oh, surely one can do something for
this innocent creature, who is daily suffering because of his
wickedness !"

"Is she a believer?" asked Mrs. Verschoyle.

"Yes, a fervent believer."

"A good Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Then it ought not to be so difficult for her," and Mrs.
Verschoyle's handsome face hardened a little. "She knows
her duty. She must do it."

"How can I help her in doing her duty?"

"You can't help her more than I suppose you have
already."

"But some practical step."

"Christian, you can't help her. If it is practical aid you
think of, the only chance would be to get at the husband.
Influence him, if you can,"

XXV

Churchill detennined to seek the friendship of Robert
Vickers, and, if it were possible, lead him in the direction
of better things.

An excuse for paying an initial call readily presented
itself: he could talk to Mr. Vickers about his visitor, the
dock labourer. Accordingly he set forth to carry this new
idea into effect on the afternoon that followed his unsatis-
factory discussion with Mrs. Verschoyle.

It was a long tram ride, far out, past Poplar Station;
and then he had a little exploring walk to the north of the
main road before he found the house. About this particu-
lar neighbourhood there had been of late considerable de-
molitions and reconstructions ; the new streets seemed of a
fair pattern; here and there narrow passages connected
street to street, and there were many turnings that led one
to short and abrupt no-thoroughfares. In one of these,
approached both by a passage and a street, stood the resi-
dence of Mr. Vickers. On one side of it there was a hoard-
ing that hid a patch of vacant ground, on the other side a
high wall surmounted by broken glass. The house itself
— a lowish building of two floors — ^looked as if it must
originally have been occupied as a place of business and
then converted to private use. Judged by East End stand-
ards, it appeared more than respectable, quite imposing in
regard to its size, and dignified because of its isolated posi-
tion. It had an ornamental knocker and an electric push-
bell, and, fixed to the brickwork beside the door, there were
brass plates that announced Mr. Vickers's association with
the trade union and other societies.

It was Mrs. Vickers who came to open the door, and she
flushed with surprise. Churchill himself was struck with
sudden embarrassment. He had never before seen her
without her hat, and he stood staring at her rather stupidly
before he began to explain that he was a visitor for her hus-
band. He was thinking, 'This is what she is at home;''

201

202 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

and she seemed to him prettier, sweeter, more pathetically
interesting, than under any aspect that had hitherto been
familiar to him.

The voice of the master of the house, sounding from a
little distance, roused him to give all his attention to the
business in hand.

"Who the devil's that out there ?" said the voice loudly.

"I am Edward Churchill— of St. Bede's," said the visitor,
entering the small hall, and speaking sufficiently loudly to
be sure that he was heard. "M^y I come in? Can you
spare me a few minutes?"

"Oh, yes, of course."

Then Mrs. Vickers conducted the visitor through the
open doorway to the right of the hall, down two steps, into
an unexpectedly large room.

"Well, Mr. Churchill," said Vickers, shaking hands, and
speaking politely enough; "I am sure I'm very glad to
see you. Sit down. Lilian, move your rubbish, can't you ?"
and he pointed to a chair.

Lilian Vickers picked up a leather case and some school
books that encumbered the seat of the chair, and carried
them to a side table.

"Yes, glad to meet you," said Vickers, with the note of
forced joviality in his voice. "I've heard enough about
you — and your wonderful works. But, as they say in the
plays. To what do I owe the honour?" and he gave his
affected laugh.

Then Churchill spoke about the dock-fabourer. Vickers
listened, but soon broke in curtly.

"Anyhow, what is it? The fellow was kicked out be-
cause he defaulted in his subscriptions. Does he make
that a quarrel ?"

"No, but he wants to be reinstated."

"Can he clear off his arrears, and pay up — ^to date?"

"Yes, I think he will be able to do that."

"Then I don't see that there need be any difficulty. I
suppose you mean to pay the money for him yourself."

"Yes. I believe him to be an honest, straightforward
worker, who has simply had bad luck."

"Oh, they're all angels," said Vickers, with another laugh,
"when th^ get among you black-coated gentlemen, and

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 203

see you fingering your purse-strings— especiaDy when it is
such a long purse as yours."

"I am not by any means a rich man. All that is a
tradition."

"Is it ? They talk of you as if you were Croesus — ^and I
expect the beggars sponge on you unconscionably." And
Vickers launched forth in a tirade very different from his
platform utterances. He spoke with supreme contempt of
the dense stupidity exhibited on all occasions by the work-
ing classes. He said that if you wanted to do anything for
them, you must rule them» not pamper them. Soft heart-
edness caused more harm than good. You had to let them
hear the crack of the whip; for they were always dogs
ready to round on you, if you didn't keep them in order.
"We have all found it out. We give our lives to their
service ; we fight their battles for them, we gain grotmd inch
by inch, we reach the point when, if they would stand firm
behind us, we could win nearly all we've been struggling for
— and then, at the crucial moment, confound them, they'll
go over to the enemy, leave you in the lurch, and chuck
away the fruits of the victory for which you have been
bleeding and sweating. And ingratitude 1 Personally, I
don't look for it; so I don't whine about the absence of it,
like George Radley and Vyvian Yates. But they're blackly
ungrateful. You church-people won't believe it. You're
always astonished when they bite the hand that feeds them ;"
and he laughed once more. "Look here, this is entre nous.
Masonic — ^what Wemmick called his Walworth sentiments.
I dare say I'm shocking you."

Churchill was merely glad that his host went on talking,
however odiously. He was so interested by other matters.
Everything in this room interested him absorbingly. It was
her prison, the place to which he had sent her back, bulging
her to suffer there patiently, to do her duty, to comfort her-
self with thoughts of a deliverance that could come cmly
with death.

It was really quite a large room, so large that unques-
tionably it must have been planned for an office or perhap6
a store-place, such as small builders and plumbers require.
The central table, and a dresser with plates, dishes, jugs,
and a cupboard underneath it, gave evideact \3ca1 ^^ t^^ocsl

204 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

was dining-room as well as drawing-room. And place of
business too — rfor diere was a safe let into the walls at a
comer, there were piles of red leather account bodes, and
an American desk covered with paper, stood beside the
cottage piano. Vickers received the rank and file of his
union here, extracted their continuous subscriptions, counted
out rare sick allowances; and he would pose as a person
who was content with a single living room, saying, ''You
see for yourselves. Nothing of the swell about me. This
is what the missis and I have to put up with.''

Churchill had the intuition of such a purpose, and thought
that, but for it, the room would have been finer and more
comfortable. The whitewashed ceiling and chimneypiece,
the boarded floor and loose mats, the common coal-scuttle
and fire-irons, were intended to indicate honest and un-
ashamed poverty; but in less salient objects Churchiirs
practised eye detected a freedom of expenditure only pos-
sible to those who are comparatively affluent. The oil lamps
were solid and of good design; they had cost big money.
There was a leather arm-chair with book-rest and foot-rest
that must have come from some luxurious West End shop.
A few water-colours on a screen showed distinct merit and
had not been presented to Vickers by the artists ; moreover, a
litter of illustrated weekly journals, monthly magazines, and
quarterly reviews were proof of something amounting to
extravagance.

Beyond all these significant details, Edward Churchill
was interested by signs here and there of feminine occupa-
tion of the room. The flowers in pots before the two win-
dows had been put there by Lilian Vickers. The cheap
little books — reprints of the poets — ^belonged to her. On
the top of the piano he saw her hat, her black gloves, and
a purple-coloured neck-scarf. His eyes returned to them,
and, moving on, rested on her herself. She stood near the
piano, lingering — ^turning a sheet of music in her long
white fingers, but listening and watching. That delicate
pink flush had not yet gone from her cheeks, her lips were
just open and she breathed quickly, as if still agitated by
the surprise she had felt at seeing the unexpected visitor
on the doorstep.
^^Vau know, I'm staunch Church of Et^land/' said

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 205

Vickers impressively. "I don't believe in any form of
socialism that leaves religion out of the programme. That's
where I speedily broke away from V)rvian Yates. I saw
that if you knock down Christianity, youVe got to build up
something better to take the place of it — and it's a deuced
clever fellow who's going to try. No, in all my public
career, I've never said a disrespectful word of the Church,
No one who has heard me speak, year after year, can hon-
estly pretend that I am destructive on that side, at any rate."

"I have only had the opportunity of hearing you speak
once," said Churchill.

"When was that?"

*'I went to your meeting at the Red Eagle tavern."

"Well done," cried Vickers cordially. "Sporting of you!"

It was the first time that he had been really cordial ; but
now he seemed to be genuinely gratified and his manner be-
came expansive. "Yes," he repeated, "you acted like a
sportsman. Old broad-toes — ^what's-his-name ? — ^Walsden
— ^hates me like the devil. I wish Fd known you were there.
I'd have paid you a compliment for your liberality of mind.
Have a cigar?"

"No, thank you."

Mr. Vickers had moved towards the dresser cupboard,
and, passing his wife, he said something to her in an under-
tone. Immediately she picked up her hat, and went out of
the room. Doubtless she had been ordered to go. Now
that Mr. Vickers was beginning to feel rather pleased with
his new acquaintance he thought that two are company and
three are none.

"Have a whisky-and-soda ?"

"No, I'm obliged to you, but I won't have anything, thank
you."

"But you'll forgive me if I do. Talking's dry work — and
I shall enjoy a chat with you, if you aren't in a hurry. As
I dare say you've found out, it's a treat to meet a man of
education and ideas in these parts. One's intellect goes
rusty for the want of intercourse with one's own kind."

All this was just what Edward Churchill had desired
might happen, and yet now it was almost intolerably un-
pleasant. The more amiable the man grew, the more
Churchill disliked him. Everything conceminig I^msl ^^^^^

206 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

pellent ; all that one had heard of him, all that one now saw
of him, alike caused one to regret that one need ever again
have anything to do with him. He was vulgar, conceited,
innately brutal. The big yellowish teeth that showed
beneath his red moustache, the russet tone of his badly-
shaven jowl, the ill-tempered glitter that came into his eyes
every time that he spoke forcibly or c)mically as he had
done a minute ago, his g^eat shoulders, his swaggering
gestures, and clumsy lolling attitudes— each of these things
assisted in strengthening the instinct of repulsion.

But Churchill was struggling hard to beat down the in-
stinct: He thought, "This is purely selfish, and must be
ignored, then forgotten. Self should not dare to obtrude
itself. What I am attempting is for her sake, not for my
own; and if I am to succeed I must gain the man's con-
fidence, establish an influence by more or less binding him
to me. And if he is to like me, I must like him."

Soon, therefore, Churchill managed to control merely
personal inclination to welcome every advance, however
tactless or unconventionally familiar, to rejoice quite sin-
cerely that matters so far had worked out easily. He re-
sponded to a mood made jovial by stimulants in which he
did not share. He gravely and courteously smiled at com-
monplace, often-quoted jokes. By his whole manner, if not
by any explicit statements, he offered Mr. Vickers his
friendship.

And Vickers seemed to accept the offer freely, indeed
with gratification. When it was suggested that he might
possibly be able to drop in of an evening now and then and
smoke his cigar or pipe at Denmark House, he said he
would do so with much pleasure. The evening often hung
heavy on his hands.

"But I say," he said, laughing, "you won't mind if I
bring a flask of whisky in my pocket. I can't plead doctor's
orders ; but, much as I admire teetotalism as a theory, I've
never been able to practise it for long at a time."

Churchill courteously assured him that the flask would
not be necessary. He would be careful to provide some
whisky.

And at this Vickers slapped him on the shoulder. "Yes,
^u're a sportsman. Live and let live, eh ? You and I will

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

207

hit it off together — ^I can see that. No disrespect— but you
aren't by any means the cut-and-dried cleric *You wear
your rue with a diflference/ "

They were in the little hall now, and Churchill, as he
glanced up the stairs, wondered if Lilian Vickers was with-
in hearing. No doubt she was up there in a cold, fireless
room, meekly waiting for her master's permission to creep
down and again enjoy the warmth and comfort of his hearth.

"Good-bye, Churchill— or au revoir/* Vickers stood on
the threshold, calling after him cheerily. "Turn to your
left. That passage to your right would take you into my
sheepfold — the streets where my lambs are to be found— •
and you might lose your way. By-by."

Churchill, looking back just before he turned the comer,
directed his eyes not at Vickers and the front door but at
the upper floor. He fancied, but was not sure, that he saw
Lilian at one of the windowSt

XXVI
The first evening that Vickers came to Denmark House

he stayed about three hours, and they seemed to Churchill
three years. They nearly wore out his patience.

Vickers, perhaps a little because of a mistaken idea of
politeness and more because of a stupid curiosity about
facts which in no way concerned him, began by behaving
as if he had been a reporter and Churchill a person to be
conscientiously interviewed for the newspapers. During
one of those diree hours he scarcely for a moment desisted
from asking questions.

"I see you burn a wood fire. Where do you get your
wood?"

Churchill told him that he had got it from a well-known
charitable organisation.

"What do fliey make you give for it ?"

Churchill told him.

"Thirty per cent, above market price. Oh, I know Cur-
tice's scheme inside out — to help the unemployed — ^pinch of
winter — and all that. It's a mistake. But you believe in
this direct kind of assistance?"

"Yes, to a certain extent."

"You aren't afraid of pauperising them?"

"No. Providence has done that for them already."

"Now look here, your wood was brought by two chaps
— ^two chaps, weren't there ?"

"Yes."

"And you paid 'em what they asked; you gave 'em the
full amount written down on the Societ)r's invoice, and
perhaps a little something for themselves over and above?
Isn't that so?"

"Yes."

"But they didn't go away smiling and pleased. No, they
began to whine and cadge. I put it to you, didn't they
ask for more?"

"Er — ^yes, I don't remember whether they exactly asked ;
but I did give them something else."

208

"]

««1

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 209

''Ha, ha/' and Vickers laughed, truculently triumphant.
*7 know nay gentleman. What did you give them?"

Churchill confessed that, as the poor fellows were un-
questionably underclad, standing in the February blast,
themselves hot and exhausted — ^two weaklings who had
pushed the laden barrow for miles — he gave them food and
a couple of old suits of clothes.

"Suits of clothes! By Jupiter — ^that was doing them
proud. Your own clothes?'

'No — some things I had bought."

'But you don't buy old clothes, do you?"

**Yes, I do sometimes," and Churchill explained that he
kept a wardrobe modestly stocked against such emergencies.

"No wonder they say you're a Croesus I But I think you
mentioned the other day that the prevailing idea was
erroneous ?"

"Yes, altogether so."

"But you have done a lot here in the way of outlay,
haven't you?"

"I have put my drop into the ocean."

"This house belongs to you ?"

''Yes, it does at the present moment."

"What, are you leaving? Going to part with the house?"

"No. But I am making it over to trustees for the
parish."

"Now there I think you're wrong. You'd much better
remain cock of your own castle. Once it's theirs, you'll find
they won't be really grateful. You hand them the title
deeds, they hand you an illuminated address — and 'Thank
you, Mr. Churchill, but now please remember that we are
the masters, and not you.' "

"I have great confidence in our vicar. He would never
treat me shabbily."

Then Mr. Vickers continued his examination until he had
satisfied himself as to all the principal items of Churchill's
expenditure at St. Bede's. He approved of the good inten-
tions displayed, but was more than doubtful as to ultimate
results. Then he harangued in a gassy, inconsecutive style
about what he would have done himself had he beeq
Churchill and with Churchill's funds at his disposal. This
general address was followed by a iio\^\V^ cx^Jc^v^sSos^

210 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

sketch of the great Labor Party now slowly forming itself.
Then he wandered about the room, picked up and swung an
Indian club, assuring Churchill that once upon a time he
had been "rather useful" in the athletic line. And then he
settled down in one of the red-cushioned wicker chairs, and
devoted himsdf to the whisky bottle and siphon of soda on
the table at his elbow.

The whisky made him mellow, confidential, terrible; and
Churchill, suffering for two more hours, thought off and on
of the creature's wife, and only from these thoughts derived
courage and patience to support the ordeal.

Lilian had sat in that very chair, and every detail of the
picture she had made could be vividly recalled — ^her
thoughtful eyes looking at him appealingly, her hands in
the well-worn black gloves, the slight droop of her neck —
her gracefulness, her gentleness, the spiritual charm of her
fragile beauty. What a contrast to the picture before him
now — ^the gross, self-indulgent lout who possessed but did
not value her! Churchill endeavoured not to study so at-
tentively the fat lobes of those ears, the swollen and yet
ceasing flesh of the chin— or the insolent redness and stub-
biness of the moustache, the protruded lips and the dog-like
teeth that were rolling and chewing the oily brown stump
of a cigar. He must forget himself. He must think only
of her— of her; of the sweet, refined, unhappy woman that
this brute, this great sweltering hog, had the inalienable
right to fondle and caress.

After a few days Vickers came again, and then again.
He evidently liked coming ; he made himself more and more
at home; and he was utterly odious: familiar, impudent,
even overbearing, eversrthing beastly. He pounced upon
favourite old books of Churchill's, twirled their leaves, and
tossed them away contemptuously; he talked philosophy;
chattered of classical literature, mispronouncing his silly
little scraps of Latin and Greek; but believed that he was
"showing off" successfully. He said, as indeed was obvious,
that he was not "a 'Varsity man."

"Is it any good? I often ask myself the question — ^Have
I missed anything?" And he gave his platform laugh.
'^Between you and me and the post, I don't think sa"

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 211

Churchill hated htm. It was wrong, it was unchristian,
it was inevitable. But he had begun a delicate, difficult task,
and he intended to go through with it to the best of his
ability. On this third evening he really set to woiic. He
tackled Vickers about the evils of drink, opening his attack
on the broadest possible lines.

"Oh, yes," said Vickers, "I myself used to drink too much
—sometimes."

"You do still, don't you — sometimes ?"

Vickers stared. Then he said, "Yes, I do," and gave one
of his hateful tirades— composed of hypocrisy, vulgarity,
bravado, mock-heroics — ^very difficult to listen to patiently
and answer gently. "I make no secret," he said in conclu-
sion. "I'm a man — all through — ^with a man's faults. I
belong to the Church — only I never set up for being one of
its saints. But I came for a smdce and chat — ^not for a
sermon."

"Sit down. Fill your pipe again. I am not trying to
preach."

"That's all right," said Vickers, after a moment or two.
"No, you're a man yourself. You can understand. We
can't all be perfect. You know, some of these curates —
well, I think they must have had an operation performed to
keep them mild and meek for the rest of their lives ;" and
he spat. "Fellows like that bleating round a parish don't
do any good. You're not that sort;" and he nodded his
head towards the Indian clubs, and the little collie trophies.
"We're both of us men. We can understand each other."

"Then as between men, may I ask a question?"

"Fire ahead."

"Can't you be kinder to your wife?"

Vickers sprang from the chair, his eyes glittering, and his
cheeks puffed out in anger.

"Don't go. Sit down — smoke your pipe. I speak in
friendliness. I want to be your friend."

But Vickers blustered for a while. He said he could not
allow any one to come between him and his wife. She was
the best of wives ; and he was a good husband — all that a
man should be.

Presently, however, he became mollified, resumed hU
seat, and, helping himself to mort NvVd^, s^^^ us&r

212 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

mentally, "Poor little Lil 1 I beg you not to get it into your
head that I'm not fond of her. Bless her heart, of course
I am. Dear little Lil. She's had a roughish time of it — ^but
thafs not my fault. She knows I'm always ready to work
tiU I burst."

He grew maudlin on the subject later, punishing the
whisky, emptying the bottle.

"Churchill, do you admire her? Don't mind saying No.
Of course I like people to admire her, but I can't jump
down their throats if they don't. / still see her as she was —
and she's nothing to what she was. She had more flesh on
her — bright complexion — ^just a little country maid." And
he went on about her charms with a brutal sort of relish —
as of a man who has had a splendid banquet and is grateful,
who looks back on his feast and is now content with plain
fare. "She's all the world to me still — I swear it Never
unfaithful to her in my thoughts — ^but a man. When
tempted — ^well 1 I've told you fairly, I'm not a saint."

He did not appear again for a week, and then his man-
ner showed a very perceptible change. He was more on his
guard; the joviality was altogether forced; and in repose
his face had a surly aspect. He did not stay long, and when
going he spoke abruptly, and with something of that blus-
tering tone that he had employed once before.

"You like straight talk, Qiurchill. If you've got any-
thing to say, you say it. I'll take the same liberty; for
there's something I wish to know."

"What is it you wish to know ?"

"Are you trying to draw my wife away from me?"

"No. I am trying to draw )rour wife back to you. You
are driving her away yourself."

"Has she been doing confessional to you?"

"No. I have given her advice. Do you object to her
coming here?"

"No. Why should I? I've nothing to be ashamed of.
No. Go on. I didn't mean anything by that. You gave
her advice?"

"I spoke to her of a wife's duty — she knew it. But duty
is not all on one side, so I have reminded you of a husband's
duty."

''But was this a put-up job between you?"

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 213

"How do you mean?"

"Why, did she turn you loose at me — as advocate of
women's rights in general and hers in particular?"

"No, it was my own initiative. She knew nothing about
it."

"She knows now."

"Being aware that you and I were seeing each other, she
would guess that I might speak of such things. Vickers, I
thought you would take it from me in a friendly spirit.
I thought I could not do harm — because your treatment of
her is common talk."

"Is it ?" And Vickers cursed all busybodies and slander-
ers. "If I catch any one who has been cackling slander
about me Fll make him sorry he didn't think twice before
he began that game." Then he pulled himself together and
vaguely indicated an apology for violent language in the
presence of a clergyman. "You can make allowances—
naturally I felt strongly. Anyhow, youVe given me a
direct answer. There was no little plot hatched between
you for clerical interference. All right, Churchill. I be-
lieve you. You're straight enough. But something is up-
setting her. She's always fretful and complaining;" and
he continued grumblingly. "What does she want? No
one can say I don't work. I can't coin money, and give
her a carriage and a pair of her own instead of the omni-
bus."

"No, you can't do that! but there are other things you
could do." And Churchill spoke with emotion of the sanc-
tity of marriage and the meaning of its vows. It was not
enough to love a wife, if one insulted her by occasional
preferences for chance female companions. Wives wanted
more than mere food and shelter. Women's nature de-
manded and could not safely be deprived of kindness,
tenderness, sympathy.

"Yes," said Vickers, with a very unmirthful laugh; *T)ut
you're a bachelor. I don't deny a word that you've said
about married life. I merely remark you've never tried it
yourself."

"No, but I think that the conditions under which you
have tried it have not been difficult."

Vickers came only once again, and then it was but to sa.^

214 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

that his engagements would not permit him to stop for
more than five minutes. During the five minutes they talked
on indifiPerent topics ; and Churchill had the feeling that this
last visit was made from motives of politeness or policy.
Vickers desired to show that their recent intimate conversa-
tk)ns had not spoilt the progress of a ripening friendship.
He had taken Qiurchill's domestic hints in a jolly spirit ; he
had not been offended ; and not a drop of bad blood was left
between them.

Next day or the day after Churchill received a brief note
from Lilian Vickers, in which she thanked him for the ex-
traordinarily kind effort that he had been making on her
behalf. She said that she would never forget his kindness,
but as she added no expressions of hopefulness as to the
future, he understood that the whole attempt had been a
failure.

Except in St. Bede's church he did not see her again for
some time. He was touched by the fact that she came there
on nearly every occasion that he was to preach ; for from
Mrs. Walsden he learned how, in spite of all difficulties, she
endeavoured not to miss a single one of his sermons. As he
went into the pulpit he thought of her courage, endurance,
and abiding sadness; and he often modified what he had
intended to say, abandoned the plan of his notes, preached
as it were especially to her, trying to send her a plain mes-
sage of comfort, even though it should be enigmatical to
all others.

It had become a haunting idea with him that people's
faith needed constant reinforcement, lest of a sudden it
should desert them. Nowadays, when Philbrick and other
of Walsden's humble converts asked their startingly naive
questions on points of belief, he took immense trouble in
framing his answers. He would seek out such questioners
again, and strive further to fortify them. "When you
spoke to me yesterday, did my reply make everything clear
to you? If not, don't hesitate to ask me other questions.
You know, we are not called upon always to understand.
We must believe. But the belief itself is so easy to explain.
It is entirely my fault, if I left any doubt in your mind."
He felt that, with the staunchest of them, there was always
the terrible danger of losing heart when trouble or sorrow

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 21S

forced them to a recognition of the world-wide incongruity
between purposeless pain and beneficent design. This was
the growing fear that he felt in regard to everybody, but it
centralised itself and was strongest when he brooded oa
the case of Lilian Vickers.

He would have liked to be with her every day, stimulating
her faith from hour to hour, clothing her in a ghostly
armour that nothing material could ever pierce. But since
she had ceased to come to him for help, he could scarcely go
unasked to offer it.

He hoped that perhaps, after all, he had influenced her
jailer, and that life within the prison walls was not so unen-
durable as of old.

It was a hope that he could not long enjoy.

At dusk one evening towards the end of March when he
returned to Denmark House, Mrs. Clough told him that a
lady was waiting for him upstairs. He guessed at once who
it was that he would find in the twilight of the back room.
They sat together while the darkness deepened round them ;
and, sobbing and wringing her hands, she told him the brutal
truth that till now she had kept back. The man knocked her
about. Quite soon after marriage she had felt the weight
of his hand. He had fits of semi-dnmken fury during which
she was never safe from blows. After such outrages he
seemed sorry, ashamed of himself, and promised that they
should never be repeated. But he broke all promises. The
vile ill-usage recommenced; it happened again and again;
it had happened to-day, and she could not go on supporting
it.

And to Edward Churchill it was as if for the first time in
his existence he had heard of a husband beating a wife, as
if the outrage had never been committed before in the whole
history of human kind. He blazed with anger, he turned
faint with disgust ; he throbbed and ached and trembled.

He wanted to go straight to the man, tell him he had learnt
the full extent of his villainy, and dare him ever to touch her
again; but he knew really that this was impossible, even
before she herself said so. Any further direct interference
on his part would injure her and not benefit her.

Then, still sobbing, she told him once more that she Had
reached the end of her strength. Sh^ must ii«t VL«t^\. Vxcsoob.

216 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

this life of torment. She had no money, she could get no
money ; so an action for divorce was out of the question. But
she meant to divorce herself by running away, by hiding In
some remote part of England where she could live under
another name, work for daily bread, perhaps obtain some-
thing that approached to happiness — and she wanted
Churchill to tell her that as a Christian woman she was
justified in thus breaking the marriage bond.

Edward Churchill fell silent. His heart was beating fast,
the blood throbbed in the veins of his forehead, his whole
head seemed on fire. What was he to say? He got up and
walked about the room, turning on the electric light at each
switch that he passed.

"I am thinking," he said, without looking at her. '"I am
endeavouring to think.*'

Would she not be justified? Slowly he recovered self-
composure. Mechanically his brain was working in its accus-
tomed manner; the thoughts, like obedient streams, flowed
along the deep channels that habit had formed for them ; the
storm of emotion, fierce as it was, could not smash the dykes
and make a wild, ungovemed flood where for so many years
all had been peaceful order.

He looked at her now. The light shone brightly on her
tear-stained face, her drooping arms, and her limp hands.
Darkness and light — ^we must not fear the darkness ; we must
turn our eyes to the light. And looking at her and thinking
of her his pity was like physical fatigue. It made him feel
numb, dull, like a man who has overtired himself and imper-
atively needs rest. There was none of that contentment
after extreme effort experienced by him when he pitied and
laboured for those boys in the boat. But he now knew what
he ought to say to her, what he must necessarily say to her,
if he would keep true to his character as a priest.

He said it dully, yet with convincing firmness. As a
Christian she must bear her cross. Divorce courts possessed
no real power to set her free ; those whom God has joined
together no man can sunder. Marriage is a sacrament, and
its effective term is till death. In that sacrament all is
promised, and all must be given. Nor may we fly and hide
from pain that God has ordained we are patiently to bear.
He who could have evaded the slightest touch of pain

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 217

accepted its bitterest pangs. That was a lesson, an example,
and a promise.

He told her that earthly grief and earthly joy are alike so
small and trivial that soon they are utterly forgotten; the
greatness, the wonder, the ineffable bliss that are surely
coming should make the happiest life, even in the spending
of it, seem merely a delay or hindrance, and the cruellest,
longest life less dreadful than a rapid, troubled dream.

"So be brave, my sister," and he held his hand above her
head. "Follow in Christ's footsteps, and suffer for His
sake."

"I'll try," she said at last. "Yes, I'll go on trying ,•*'
and meekly and sadly she went away.

He did not close his eyes throughout the night. Thoughts
of Lilian Vickers made a long, waking nightmare of the
hours. He had done nothing for her. In sight of such tears
as would melt a heart of stone, he had been impotently di-
dactic, preaching instead of protecting, thrilling with indig-
nation and then sending her back to blows.

On the following afternoon he went to St. Ursula's
rectory, determined to enlist Mrs. Verschoyle's sympathy,
and confident that now there would no longer be any diffi-
culty in doing so.

Mrs. Verschoyle was in the garden behind the house, busy
with strings and feathers that she was setting up across a
bed of crocuses to guard them from the ravages of sparrows
or cats. She showed Churchill the first purple and white
blossoms, began to talk about the lilac bushes which already
had green buds, and asked how the famous plane tree was
looking after all the trials of winter. But Churchill could
talk of nothing except Lilian Vickers. "You know," he said
eagerly, "that poor woman — Mrs. Vickers. I have more to
tell you. I want to tell you much more."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Verschoyle, without the least en-
thusiasm. "Then we had better go indoors ;" and after a
regretful glance at the strings and feathers, she led the way
back to the house and into her pretty drawing-room.

Here, Edward Churchill walked to and fro, waved his
arms, stood before her, sat on the sofa by her side, jumped
up and sat down again, while he excitedly s^kt. kA^^^ax

218 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

victim who now occupied all his mind. What was to be done
for her? He fully explained his fear lest the abominable
injustice of fate should eventually shake her faith ; and Mrs.
Verschoyle sat quite still on the sofa, listening to his words,
watching his face, and once or twice, although he did not
notice it, looking quite distinctly bored.

But when he suggested that he should bring Mrs. Vickers
to the rectory, and as it were solemnly place her in charge of
the rector's wife, all signs of ennui immediately disappeared.
She spoke kindly, but in a brisk businesslike tone, and gave
Churchill at least six excellently valid reasons why his sug-
gestion was one that could not be adopted. She was thor-
oughly interested at last, and indeed from now to the end of
the interview her interest was always increasing. She
watched Churchill far more closely than before, and every
minute the tone of her voice became kinder and the expres-
sion of her face more meditative.

"This is all very difficult, Christian," she said, gently and
soothingly. "What sort of a woman is she — I mean in her
general life?"

"She is as good as gold — patient and sweet."

"Yes. What aged woman?"

"I don't know. But very young. I should think about
twenty-two— or twenty-three."

'So young as that ! Is she pretty ?"

1 think her very pretty — ^but I don't know if everybody
would think her so. She's extraordinarily graceful — and her
voice is quite beautiful. That I'm sure any one would say."

"Describe her so that I can imagine what she is like.
Tall?"

"Yes, fairly taU."

"Dark?"

"No." And assuring Mrs. Verschoyle that his word-
picture would give but the feeblest, vaguest ideas, he at-
temped a description. "She's the sort of person you don't
notice much at first, but who quickly grows on you. All I
noticed— at the very first — ^was her voice. She is slender
and pale — scarcely any colour in her face ; her nose is rather
large, but quite straight and thin ; I suppose you would call
her ^cs grey— they're nothing, but they are full of thought.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 219

Yes, I f ot^ot that. It was the second thing I noticed— the
thoughtfulness of her eyes.''

Mrs. Verschoyle smiled. "I wonder what you mean by
thoughtful eyes. Artists say there's no expression in the
eyes themselves."

''I don't believe it. Anyhow, I mean the effect produced.
When she looks at one, one feels the thought behind the eyes,
and if one does not read it, one knows that it is good and
pure."

"Yes," said Mrs. Verschoyle quietly, "all that you say
helps me to imagine her — and it makes me very sorry for
her. Only" — and she hesitated — ^"only, Christian, you have
done all you can for her. You cannot do any more."

"I have done nothing. And, at least, can't you do any-
thing?"

"No, really and truly, I can't do anything either."

"You'll disappoint me grievously if you wiU not even try."

"Christian" — she had got up from the sofa, and she put
her hand upon his arm — ^"you mustn't think me wanting in
proper feeling. Believe me, I am very sorry for her. But
all this that seems so monstrous to you is the fate of thou-
sands and thousands of women " and she opened her

arms in a wide, comprehensive gesture. "At this moment —
all round us — to north, east, south, and west— fwomen are
weeping because men are cruel."

XXVII

The first week of April brought a little warmth and sun*
shine, but Edward Churchill could take no personal pleasure
in the signs of advancing spring. For the sake of others he
vras glad that the hard time had passed, but for himself
nothing mattered. He felt listless, wretched, with so strange
a decrease of his natural energy that the temptation to shirk
the full round of each day's work became almost irresistible.

Then a chance put him into contact with Lilian Vickers
again, and the slight relief of mind that he thereby obtained
served immediately to restore his confidence and power.
There had been no recurrence of that unspeakable wicked*
ness, and she spoke with hope of the future. She was show-
ing a splendid courage; she had read, and benefited by
reading, some books he had sent her; she meant to follow
the narrow, difficult path that eventually must lead upwards
to the sunlit heights. Moreover, she was now enjoying
respites from the possibility of persecution. Her husband
was away on a political campaign, a tour of oratory in the
north of England ; and when he came back he would go away
again to begin a similar tour in the south. He would be much
away from home tmtil the middle of June.

Chance, the unaided hazard of the streets, gave Edward
Churchill this long, pleasant, reassuring talk with her; but
after that lucky encounter he began to meet her designedly.
He asked for no appointment, and he did not invite her to
Denmark House. He knew now, more or less exactly, the
usual programme of her week's labours ; so that in imagina-
tion he could trace her movements about the labyrinth,
thinking of her at particular hours as she passed along a
street miles and miles away, or drew nearer to him in a
swiftly-gliding tram. Eleven o'clock — she was going to
those grocery stores at Poplar to give the grocer's little girls
their music lesson. Twelve-thirty — shA was on her way to
Shoreditch for a lesson in French. Earljjr in the afternoon on
three days a wedc the tram brought tier right through St.

220 /'

I

«1

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 221

Bede's and half a mile westwards, for two hours at a Jewish
school close by the Commercial Road. He could find her
easily on those days — either going or returning.

One bright afternoon — ^the brightest that as yet had come
— ^he was standing on the pavement when she got out of her
tram, and he walked with her round the comer and for the
two or three hundred yards that still separated her from the
Jewish school. He wished that the distance had been greater
so that the walk might have lasted longer, and at the school
door he offered to come back after her two hours' work and
escort her all the way home. But this offer she refused; she
could not think of so troubling him, and quite unnecessarily.
1 should like to, if you would let me," he said simply.

'Oh, no," she said, "you're very kind ; but really I couldn't
let you waste your time. I know very well how busy you
always are."

"I don't think I have anything particular to do to-day,"
he said, rather vaguely. "And it's so fine."

"Yes, isn't it? But I am not quite sure whether I shall
go home when I leave here. There's a call that perhaps I
ought to make — yes," and she looked at him. "But thank
you very much for thinking^of it. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

He returned to Denmark House, and sat down to read.
His idea of taking leisure for the purpose of going out east-
ward with her had driven away all inclination to occupy the
afternoon in an ordinary manner. It had given him that
peculiar, unsettling, holiday feeling which is apt to attack
the steadiest workers when once 3iey have decided on an
interruption of work. After an hour he found it impossible
even to read.

He looked at his watch, and thought, "In thirty-five
minutes she will have finished with that class." A little
later he thought, "She will soon leave the building; but if I
started now there would be still just time. Yes, if I went
now I should see her."

He snatched his hat, ran downstairs, and hurried through
the streets.

All the Jewish children were trooping out of the schod
doors ; and she, when she came, looked neither to the right
nor to the left. He fancied that she ^a\kt)& ^o^V^ « ^icaX\aftx

222 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

whole aspect suggested weariness, and he saw that her face
was white and grave and sad. But when he stepped forward
and spoke to her she was pleased that he had come back. One
could not doubt it She showed that little flush of surprise,
fading again directly, and then her face was full of quiet
pleasure and contentment.

They went away together in the tram, and when they
alighted near her home she consented to go for a ride with
him outside an omnibus — simply and solely for the treat of
remaining out in the pleasant air. They went as far as the
omnibus would take them, then straight back on another
omnibus; and all the way to and fro they were talking
merely of the things they passed — ^the gradient of the bridge
across the water, the excavations for the new tunnel, the
steamships in the East India Docks — but rejoicing because
of this rest in the midst of motion, forgetting trouble and
care, feeling as unconstrained and satisfied in each other's
company as though they were life-long friends, cousins who
had shared the same nursery, or a brother and sister come
together after many years.

The sun was down, but the sky still lit with golden flame,
when he left her at the door with those ugly brass plates that
bore her husband's name. The house looked dark and cold
after the door had dosed upon her; a sinister, ominous
dwelling, made more prison-like by the blank dreariness of
the wooden hoarding on one side and the high brick wall on
the other.

But Churchill walked away briskly, his mind at peace,
indeed with cheerful, hopeful thoughts in it. He had loved
his little outing, and was well satisfied now with the whole
afternoon.

He met her, then, as often as he could manage to do so.
And the days he saw her were full, and all other days were
empty.

He knew her engagements on ordinary days, but he had
never inquired if she worked at all at her teaching on Satur-
day afternoons. He supposed not: she would probably
remain at home, sewing, niaking her cloth jackets and serge
skirts, putting new flowers on an old hat, or perhaps even
scrubbing and cleaning the house. He tlK)ugbt of Uiis one

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 223

Saturday as he strolled along the main thoroughfare after his
frugal mid-day meal.

Tlie week-end festival was beginning; the barrows and
stalls had taken up their positions, all wagons and carts had
disappeared, only the crowded trams and buses rolled by in
a narrowed fair-way, and the broad pavements were
thronged from the kerb to the shop fronts. He thought,
"Suppose she happened to come this way/' In imagination
he could instantaneously see her. He would recognise her
at a considerable distance — ^just somebody taller thsn other
people, somebody different; then, as she threaded her way
through the crowd, the strikingly individual characteristics
would become evident — ^her slimness, the neat costume, that
pretty, soft, flowing neck-scarf ; and then his eyes would be
charmed and his tender pity stirred by the full close vision
of her herself. And at that final moment, no matter how
dense the crowd, she would seem to be walking or standing
quite alone, a creature from another world crowned with a
spiritual loveliness that is not, that cannot be, describable in
conunon terms.

But she did not come. No happy unexpected chance had
set her footsteps westwards. She was sitting behind closed
doors in that far-off house. Then, strong and definite, came
the wish to go right out there at once to see her. Yes, why
not? That was what he would do. But then he had a
sudden revulsion of mind, so that within a mcnnent of time
the wish was completely frustrated, if not destroyed. Utterly
impossible. What would she say of such an extraordinary
proceeding? What would she think f

He walked on in the same direction — eastwards, meaning
to turn off presently to the river, or perhaps go as far as
St. Ursula's rectory and call upon Mrs. Verschoyle. She had
written reproaching him for recent neglect and begging him
to come. He might look in on her now. But then he under-
stood that he could not be bothered to do it. He still felt a
slight bitterness or indignation against Mrs. Verschoyle. He
had been forced to readjust his established estimates both of
her nature and her intelligence. She was so good — but with
such limitations. If she had comprehended the essential, the
pressing needs of the case, she would have made friends with
Lilian Vickers ; and he might now have becsx ^m^^x.^ xsftxx

224 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Lilian Vickcrs at the rectory, quite naturally. Under those
conditions Lilian could not have thought it odd.

Then he had another revulsion of mind. She would never
think such nonsense, anywhere or at any time. If he went
to see her now, it would seem to her perfectly natural. He
quickened his pace, crossed the road, and jumped upcHi the
foot-board of a moving tram.

It being Saturday afternoon, those new streets were full of
people, women talking in groups, children playing, and men
in shirt-sleeves on the doorsteps — ^among them, no doubt,
many members of Vickers's union ; but when Churchill went
through the little passage it was like passing into a small
backwater of life, and not a soul any longer observed his
movements. Yet he had a queer and of course baseless fancy
that he was still being watched, that there were people in
hiding, waiting to see what he would do, peeping through
chinks of the wooden hoarding or furtively peering over the
brick wall. Not a gleam of sunlight fell upon the house
itself; the front was all in shadow; and it looked dark,
wicked, mysterious. He hesitated; then went to the door,
rang gently, and knocked lightly.

No one came to the door. Dead silence. His heart sank.
She was not at home. He rang again and again, as loudly as
he could, and presently he believed that he heard sounds
within. If so, they were sounds made by that old crone of a
servant; and he battered with the knocker as though he
wanted to smash the door. At last the old woman opened
the door, and looked out suspiciously until she saw his black
clothes and Roman collar.

"Er— is Mr. Vickers in?'

•'No.*'

•'Nor Mrs. Vickers r

•*No— she went out ten minutes ago."

"Do you know where she has gone? Or when she is
coming back ?" And he was aware tiiat he flushed while he
spoke.

"You might find her at the Poplar Institoot,'* said the old
woman. "She does go there Saturdays, and she had her
leather case along with her." And then the old woman,
becoming interested and (^ficious, made many suggestions.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 225

•*If you want to find her particular, try the Institoot first.
If she isn't there, go on to the Carnegie Free Library. She
fetches her books there. Or, stop a minute, she might be
at Price's Stores. If not, you may be sure, she's gone on
tihe tram, and I couldn't tell you where she mightn't be.
Qiurch, p'raps. She'll go right off to St. Bede's sometimes
for the church services. '

He went away feeling guilty. He hardly knew why, but
he knew that he was ashamed of himself. And it was a
sensation that he must get rid of. He said to himself, "I am
glad she was not there ; and I certainly will not follow her
to the Institute or the Library. I must go straight home and
think about all this."

But once more there came that violent revulsion of
thought. It was like an interference by an external force, an
arrest, a shock, and a reversal : as though his brain had been
a machine hard at work as usual, until with foolish abrupt-
ness its driving power was shut off, its gear altered, and die
power turned on again — ^to send every wheel and band spin-
ning in an opposite direction. What a moment ago he had
considered advisable he now felt to be altogether wrong.

It seemed that something of great seriousness was happen-
ing, so far as he was concerned ; and that he must deal with
himself sternly and boldly, and not timorously. He thought,
"The sooner I find her the better. Directly I am with her,
it will all be over. Just the sight of her will conquer the
sentimental self-conscious nonsense. Whereas if I go and
hide and think, everything will begin again. This won't bear
thinking over; the less I think about it the better."

He went fast from place to place, thinking no more, only
knowing that he wanted to find her, and feeling sick with
disappointment when he could not do so. She had been
at the Institute, but was gone. At the Library he was advised
to go to a school in Limehouse. At limehouse they sent him
back to Poplar. He spent the afternoon in a fruitless pur-
suit.

When he fell asleep that nig^t he dreamed of her. The
dream was a reflection of the afternoon's pursuit. He was
always near her, yet always prevented by vague obstacles
from getting quite close to her ; he yearned and strove, pour-

226

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

ing out waves of will power to sweep away each indefinite
barrier of difficulty ; and at last, as rarely happens in such
dreams of frustrated effort, he came up with her, took her
hand in his; and side by side they walked on, floated on,
swam through space, in ethereal joy. The contact seemed
to spiritualise his whole frame; it was a taste of ecstatic,
heavenly, pure delight ; and then he woke.
And he went to sleep longing to dream again.

XXVIII

In the morning he felt tired and heavy, and his first clear
thought was, "Then this is sin."

"Sin has come into my life, and the real battle now begins"
Happily, it would be a battle unshared by her. The battle-
field was one man's mind. And he made his vows : to fight
and conquer. He did not pray, did not even think of praying;
but he summoned all his brain power. Let self conquer self.

He made plans for the immediate future. He must avoid
her, of course. He must occupy his mind continuously; for,
as he had proved, bodily fatigue was not enough.

Meditating on the events of the last year, his many dis-
tressful hours, his great sadness or depression of spirit, he
believed that he could trace a steadily weakening process, and
also that he could recognise various warnings or premoni-
tions of a danger that every day had drawn a little nearer.
Looking back thus, he thought, "Yes, that sense of lessened
sunshine, the twilight at high noon, the darkness that I
seemed to fear, was the shadow of approaching sin."

Then, before the day was over, he thought. But why is it
sin? I have done nothing. I am not going to do anything.
It is not even a temptation. Only she could tempt me, and
she will never even know. It is iust a thought.

"But it is an evil thought. She is another man's wife.
Therefore I may not think of her."

Yet his thoughts of her hitherto had been so entirely inno-
cent. He had admired her at first just as he had admired
Mrs. Verschoyle — only very much less; he had been sorry
for her as he would have been sorry for anybody else simi-
larly situated; when he learned the full extent of her un-
happiness he had felt immense pity for her. Why not ? But
the pity had been perhaps abnormal — ^too violent, too inces-
sant, too overwhelmingly strong. He liked being with her.
He forgot his own sadness when sitting by her side, watching
her face, listening to her voice ; and he forgot her sadness
also.

227

'imp MX m* '' " ■ 1 1 1 ■ ■ iim I iidB> Ji

' Jivetv. -«. _

228 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

He did not trifle with the truth. He meant to fight, and
he wanted to know what he was fighting; he knew he was
going to suffer, and he wanted to know how much. Retro-
spectively, he could see that the sentimental interest, the silli*
ness and softness had manifested themselves a long way back
in the progress of this episode ; but on Lilian's side there had
been nothing whatever of the sort. Thinking herself weak
and believing him strong, she had leaned upon him for
support. And so far he had not failed her: she would
never guess that he was weaker than water. No harm had
come to her, and as yet he could not be permanently injured.
It would be quite absurd to suppose so.

G>nstitutionally and temperamentally, he was a man over
whom women — in this relation — ^had never exercised any
great power. In his youth there had been none of those
phases of what is called calf-love to foretell the later advent
of real passion. No impure desires had ever assailed him.
He had passed from youth into manhood clean and undis^
turbed. And the naturally noble dreams that stimulate the
best of men to seek a life-long comrade with a pretty face
and charming form had also been most strangely absent.
He did not desire women's company, he did not like it;
their glowing beauty left him cold, their instinctive search
for wooing glance in all male eyes repelled him. He had
neither desired a wife, nor even missed a sister. In all
the scheme of his existence there had been only one woman,
his mother.

It was not, therefore, likely now that all should change
with him. But while he reasoned thus calmly, reason itself
seemed to answer. The voice of the logic he had evoked to
console him inexorably threatened him. It said : You merely
renounced what you had never possessed ; you looked with
contempt at what you couldn't comprehend ; you denied the
existence of the highest joy on earth because you knew
nothing about anything except heaven.

Then he ceased to argue with himself, or hunt for causes,
or belittle their effects. He was desperately, appallingly fond
of this woman. There was the truth, and the more sternly
he faced it the more tremendous it became ; and his thoughts,
rapidly expanding, grew so big that no words were big
enough for their adequate expression. It seemed to him that

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 229

no living man since the world began had so loved a woman.
It seemed to him that all the love that he had felt throughout
his life, though apparently dissipated, wasted, gone, was in
truth stored like energy ; that, slowly collected again, how-
ever widely dispersed, it was ready now to be released ; that
his love of his mother and his love of the whole of mankind
and his love of the Creator of mankind were pouring out of
him in the concentrated, overwhelming stream that made up
his love for Lilian.

That was the truth. A terrible danger — and yet not really
a danger, because she remained untouched. The danger
would not be real, unless some little stream of love, a rivulet
compared with his, began to flow from her.

Then came the thought that she did care for him — ^uncon-
sciously perhaps. If she had been Miss Vickers instead of
Mrs. Vickers, her manner towards him would have proved
what people call inclination, and all the rest would have
followed naturally. He could not in such circumstances have
doubted the feelings that she entertained. Nor did he doubt
now. With a thrill of pleasure that was more poignantly
distressing than pain, he recognised this other aspect of the
truth.

And he thought, "Why am I so played with ? This torment
is too ingenious — it is like an imagination of a devil, not like
a test by which a beneficent Power tries faithful servants.
And why go on testing me ? I have already passed through
the furnace, I have been put to many proofs, I have borne
much. Besides, if she is to be involved — ^if she feels for me
one millionth part of what I feel for her — ^where is the sense
or justice, however inscrutably it is said to work? Why
should she be tortured? Is not the hell of her married life-
enough ?"

And now at last he had a full understanding of the intoler*
able test. He said to himself : "I have been tricked into
loving her. I was made to believe her free, and I gave her
my heart in innocence. She is the only woman on earth I
have wanted, or could want. If she might have been my wife,
I should have come close to heaven. For heaven and earth
would have been one.''

.jyA»«rtfetfaMWMW^«MHkair««a4l

XXIX

He went on with his work.

As much as possible he kept in the society of Walsden,
following him about, clinging to him, as though hoping that
safety could be found in the atmosphere of simple faith,
dogged perseverance, and almost brutal commcm-sense that
habitually surrotmded the honest vicar wherever he chanced
to be at the mcxnent. The vicar disapproved of the manner
in which his favourite curate was spending money at this
time ; but he allowed himself to be overborne, and the various
business arrangements relating to tiie outlay made it neces-
sary that the two men should be much together.

The transfer of Denmark House had been completed; it
now belonged to the parish of St. Bede's, and Churchill was
a guest where he had been host — an honoured visitor who
would never be disturbed, and who earned his welcome by
saving the salary of a superintendent. But a hostel without
funds to keep it going is but half a gift, so he poured funds
into the strong-box of the trustees. Then, too, he had a
feverish anxiety to render the future of several humble
dependents quite secure. For instance, old Philbrick. He
had made it a condition of the trust that the poor old chap
was to be treated as a permanent inmate ; but, having hitherto
allowed him a small pension, he now capitalised the pension.
The day should not come for Philbridc when he searched
his pockets and found no coins to buy tobacco or a new
pipe. And so it was with others. Those who had confidently
relied on Mr. Churchill must not be at the mercy of fresh
guardians, however good and kind. Churchill felt that all
these matters must be attended to without a moment's delay.
He used to think, 'T can't rest until I am sure that these
people are safe, whatever happens to me."

Struggling to find some effectual means of occupying his

mind during the long hours when the day's work was done,

and yet, in spite of fatigue, it was useless to think of sleep,

he bit upon the idea of again attempting some kind of Uterary

230

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 231

composition. Since his Oxford days he had made no such
attempt. Except in writing sermons his pen had been idle.
Now it should get some more eager, hurried practice.

He started with notes for a novels and for two or three
evenings the entirely unaccustomed task absorbed him. He
was making a framework, to be filled in at some subsequent
period. His fable was the life-history of a young man who
rubbed along in a very comfortable humdrum fashion until
circumstances led to his falling in love with a charming and
accomplished young lady. For his opening or exposition he
jotted down disjointed scenes, character sketches, descrip-
tions, and much dialogue that consisted chiefly of ethical
arguments; and then he dashed ahead, to get at the love
interest. But with his first sentence about this interest, it
was as though he had set himself on fire.

All the thoughts that he had regarded as cold, inert refuse
burst into vigorous flame; all the words that he had never
spoken crackled explosively at the point of his pen. This
form of literary exercise would not do. He btmdled the novel
notes together, put them away in a drawer, and went out
for a walk — walked until the night was nearly past, until his
legs could scarcely carry him, until he was almost dead from
fatigue.

On the following evening he essayed a different form of
composition. At Oxford he had written on religious subjects,
and, as he remembered well, had of set purpose concerned
himsdf with what he wished to say, caring little for the
manner in which it was said. He fetched out a batch of
manuscripts that had survived from that time, and thought
he would glance through them. Builders on Sand — ^yes,
this was the title of a series of papers that were one day to
make a published volume. They were a confutation of all
the arguments of doubters. He changed his mind about
looking at them, and put them back in his desk without
untying the string that held them together. He did not
propose to write on religion now, but to give a turn to phil-
osophical thought — ^the philosophy of everyday life, ethics
of the conunonplace.

And this he did, reversing his old plan, and striving now
for graces of expression, trying to write really well, labour-
ing at every phrase. He cancelled, re-wrote, wo^sLd ^^V Vi^

iliMIHtarfrifeiaiBi«MBi^aM*M*aA'>ah<^MahAAi

232 .THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

satisfied until^ to his mental ear, the words had music. He
thought of Addison, Ruskin, Flaubert— of all the stylists;
and, with all his might, struggled to have a style himself.

This task succe^ed better than the novel notes. He
found real solace in it, and filled sad waking hours with it.

But his nights were now terrible. As soon as he slept
he began to dream^ and the dreams drew their source from
that carnal side of human nature which, though controlled,
ignored, rendered impotent for active evil, still inexorably
exists. It is our inheritance from a dim past, the fading
instinct that once played its useful part in the scheme of our
descent and the fierce unceasing struggle for the continuance
of the race ; it is the afterglow of battle, lust, and rape that
lurks like a hot memory in each of the myriad cells whereof
our organisms are composed.

In dreams he was at the mercy of sensual desires. Things
that he had always recoiled from allured and delighted him.
He craved for forbidden joys, beckoned to the vicious ser-
vants of such infamy, imagined a luxurious feast of sin and
called upon life to provide it. He was like one of the
tempted Fathers about whom he used to read, but, unlike
them, greedily yielding to temptation ; he was like a wanderer
in the Arabian Nights, a sailor in Limehouse Causeway, a
debauchee student of the Quartier Latin; he was like a
profligate as coarse and brutal as the man he hated.

An abominable ordeal that made sleep itself torture instead
of relief. It was as though Nature, offended 1^ rebellion
against her laws, were treating him with unusual severity
in order to prove herself supreme. He had ventured to hie
abnormal, she was bringing him back into line — as if, because
he had escaped the stress and storm of adolescence, he was
now in these dreams being galloped at break-neck speed
through all those emotional experiences or mental states
that should have been leng^ly suffered and got rid of at
their appointed time.

Yet; however vile the character of a dream, it changed
at once if Lilian came into it. Then in a moment all became
pure and sweet. Desire was more intense, but absolutely
devoid of gross passion. He longed, as in his first dream of
her, to take her hand and pass on, they two together, happy
and alone. That was all. At sight of her evil was exorcised.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 233

But there were many nights on which he did not see her,
and in the morning after these he awoke feeling exhausted,
shattered, robbed of all the hope that can sustain life: as
one who, having passed through a dangerous illness, begins
to understand that although he may go on living he will
never really be himself again. He did not want to dress, to
eat, or to leave the house. His was a misery that should not
go stalking through the streets for all the world to gape at.
He could scarcely bear to meet the eyes of that old man
Philbrick. He was ashamed of, terrified by the wild beast
inside him that was tearing him to pieces in these nocturnal
rages.

Nevertheless he went on with his woric; and this new
phase passed, and was as if it had never been. The unwhole-
some fires had burned themselves out, or the breath of the
spirit of evil had ceased to fan them. He no longer dreaded
the moment when, sinking into unconsciousness, he unlocked
the lower mechanism of his brain and opened every dark
recess for the nerve currents to enter and come pouring out
charged with wickedness.

The dreams had gone ; but sleep had gone with them. He
lay awake thinking, the higher brain centres hard at work
now, making for him still another torment. Whether he
wished it or not, he was forced to think argumentatively ; to
pass in review all his opinions, surmises, or convictions : to
weigh them and test them. He felt a pressing necessity to be
logical and exact in the process of his thoughts ; and as the
sleepless hours wore on, this need grew heavier and his
ability to meet it less and less. It seemed to him — ^and the
idea filled him with the alarm and horror that are the first
fruits of insomnia — ^that he had lost the power of reasoning
about even the simplest things, as well as about those that
are greatest and most important.

Still he went on with his work ; not sparing himself, toiling
through the long, dull, meaningless days; incessantly,
feverishly active, but in a confused vague manner, and some-
times having slips of memory that increased his labour and
made the confusion worse. Thus he sent instructions to his
bankers to sell a security that they had sold already, two
months ago. He could not believe this possible. He had
never had direct dealings with a stockbrokfti^ ^Ya^^Xsossc-

234 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

ness had been omducted for him by the bank, and he now
wrote to the bank manager for a full and detailed statement
in regard to his financial position. Receiving this, he muddled
away two or three mommgs in tardy accountancy, verifying
or trying to verify everything by comparing the entries with
his own notes and jottings of letters. The bank, of course,
proved right, and he wrong. Fetching out more and more
of his private papers, he established the correctness of the
bank statement, and ascertained by the aid of a very simple
arithmetic exactly how he now stood as a person of inde-
pendent means. He had nearly run through his fortune;
of invested capital there remained to him only so much as
might be relied upon for an annual income of one hundred
and three or four odd potmds.

He was astonished, but he did not care. He said to himself,
''Then I have shot my bolt I must stick to this money,
or I shall lose my freedom. I can do no more now for
Walsden or for anybody else." And he felt relief in recogni-
tion of the obvious fact^ that his benevolent schemes had,
as it were, automatically come to an end ; thinking again that
he was thoroughly justified in guarding what was left to
make his own future secure. ''It is just enough," he thought,
"to make me absolutely free — and personal freedom no man
is called upon to sacrifice." Two potmds a week — that was
his old figure. Ample. It was the sum he had allotted to
himself years ago as all that portion of his fortune that
really belonged to him ; and curiously, without steadily pur-
sued calculations, he had reached the pre-ordained limit

XXX

Robert Vickers had come back from the first of the two
political tours ; his name was on bills that announced a public
meeting; and one day Churchill passed him in the Com-
mercial Road. They nodded to each other, but did not stop
to talk. While he remained in London Churchill was haunted
by thoughts of him.

Then, after he had gone again, Churchill had a letter from
his wife. He trembled as he sat looking at her handwriting;
he trembled more as he opened the envelope. What had
she to say to him? She apologised for detaining a book
that he had lent her, and promised to return it before long;
and she further said, "I am going to the vicarage to-morrow
afternoon to help at Mrs. Walsden's sewing class. May I
come to Denmark House afterwards? I want to ask you
one or two questions.*'

Churchill raised the letter to his lips, kissed it again and
again. Then very slowly he tore it into almost microscopic
pieces, and let them fall through his open fingers to the floor,
whispering to himself the while. "Yes, my dear one, my
sweet one, come to me to-morrow, come to me every day,
stay with me and comfort me, even if I can never bring
comfort to you.*' That was the answer that he wished to
send, the only answer that would truly speak his thought.

He did not send it.

Walking about his room, he continued to whisper, "So
now we are in the very thick of the fight. It is 'Fight now,
Edward Churchill, or lay down your arms.*** And he
laughed, once more remembering those Lives of the Fathers,
the naive and direct narrations of tricky turns that the Devil
can play when he tempts saintly men to destruction ; visions
in stone cells, wantons dressed in nuns' clothing; innocent
birds, that sing like heaven's choristers, win one's heart,
make one glad, and then change their clear note to pipe a
message from hell. "Yes, quite a good trick of the Devil,
this," and he laughed again — ^"to msJce it seem now that she

235

rfW^j^bfcMM^fh— *iifcl«*» I I ICTi^Jia*^

236 .THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

caimot do without me ; that when I avoid her, she follows
me ; that if I won't devise chances for wooing her, she will
herself give me the occasion."

He knew with absolute certainty that, whatever unacknowl-
edged tenderness might lie hidden in her thoughts of him,
she had written not as a woman to a man but as a devout
disciple to a priest. The book he had b^ged her to read and
study was Father Bastian Upway's treatise on the Sacrament
of Marriage. It is full of the most beautiful passages, in
which mystery is made easier to understand than common
fact, and faith seems to issue triumphantly from the printed
words ; but there are pages of abstruse analysis and subtle
definition of which the drift or purpose is extremely difficult
to follow. Edward Churchill had no doubt but that Lilian's
questions would relate to the difficulties she had encountered
while reading the book, and in imagination he went through
the scene that would take place here to-morrow — if he al-
lowed her to come. They would sit side by side at his desk
over there ; he would read aloud to her, pausing to expound
and elucidate, but not thinking of what he said, merely
absorbing happiness from her proximity — drinking joy, re-
covering nerve-force, beginning to live again after the death
in life that these wedcs of separation had truly been for him.

Thinking thus, he sat down at the desk and wrote to her.

"Dear Mrs* Vickers,

"Unless the matter you wished to discuss is really
urgent, I fear I must beg you to excuse me to-morrow.
The fact is, I am so dreadfully busy just now that I
have not a disengaged minute at my disposal. Of course,
were it some matter in which you believed I could give
you effectual help, I would put everything aside in order
to receive you. But if I do not hear from you to the
contrary, I shall assume that this is not the case and
will consider the appointment postponed for the present.

"Yours sincerely,

Edward Churchill."

He sat staring at his finished letter, thinking it the most

atrocious thing that pen and paper had ever made. To send

tlat kiherl The odious formal phrases filled him with dis*

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 23?:

gust — it was like the letter of a doctor to a troublesome
patient, of a tradesman to a customer whose custom had
ceased to be worth retaining. But, so far as the wording
went, it was also quite the usual letter of a busy priest to
one of his congregation.

He posted it with his own hand, and ascertained from the
tablet on the pillar box that it woidd go by a post sufficiently
early to ensure its delivery before nightfall. If, therefore,
she wanted to see him very much indeed, there would be
time for her to write and say so. Perhaps he would hear
from her to-morrow morning. Perhaps she would come
after all.

But next morning he looked for her handwriting in vaixL
And all that afternoon he sat indoors, manfully fighting
temptation. He could not trust himself to go out of the
house, he scarcely dared to move from his chair, so severe
was the battle and so imminent the danger of yielding once
for all, and confessing himself beaten.

He thought, "Now she is on her way to the vicarage. I
could easily meet her before she gets there. Now she has
arrived. The dass has assembled. They are all together in
the drawing-room. I could go there, just open the drawing-
room door, and see her face. I could say I had come to
speak to Mrs. Walsden. It would be perfectly natural and
proper ; for in sober truth I do want to speak to her."

The ready excuse of a businesslike communication to be
made to the vicar's wife added force to the longings that
tempted him. Still he was strong enough to resist them.
What he had to say to Mrs. Walsden wotild keep: there was
no need for any hurry about it.

But the hour when he thought of Lilian leaving the vicar-
age, passing at a distance of three hundred yards, going
slowly through the streets alone — ^then the temptation was
agony. The calm May evening, the softening light, the faint
rustle of the plane tree leaves— all things seemed to aid in
tempting him, seemed to call him and to deride him. Why
was he lurking in this room, shrinking back among the
shadows, asking for darkness and emptiness, when destiny
offered colour and light and joy? Not because he was a
saint, but because he was a coward — mocking voices
seemed to dare him, Only cowards bidi^ ^s^ ^iixifiBLOS^

:— "iM* d- •

— - ^1 - -v'-.r^

238 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

this: brave men arc not afraid of life: they go forth and
meet it bravely.

As always now, concentrated thought about her created
a vivid mental vision of her. He saw her looking towards
him — just a glance in the direction of Denmark House,
before she turned down Vaughan Street. And he saw her
walking away from him, pale, sad, alone.

He moved to one of the window seats, as the farthest
possible point from the door through which he would
pass if he rushed to overtake her; and sitting here, looking
down into the green branches and the little patch of
walled garden, he clenched his fists, writhed, and groaned
in agony.

He waited until it was dark, until all chance of seeing
her had long since gone, and then he went round to the
vicarage and gave his message to Mrs. Walsden. This
small parochial duty accomplished, he had no further bus-
iness at the vicarage; but he lingered, hoping that Mrs.
Walsden would speak of her sewing class and the people
who had attended it. She did not do so, and before he
could tear himself away he was compelled to ask a ques-
tion.

"Was Mrs. Vickers here this afternoon?"

"Yes, she was. How ill she's looking I"

"111 !" The notion of her being ill appalled him ; and he
asked more questions, eagerly, almost breathlessly. How
ill? Did Mrs. Walsden mean anything serious, or merely
some slight indisposition ?

Mrs. Walsden, answering rather carelessly but quite
kindly and reassuringly, said she only meant that Mrs.-
Vickers appeared "pasty and peeky, unhealthily pale, and
with nasty bilious-looking circles round her eyes."

"I told her that if she felt as seedy as she looked, she
ought not to have troubled to come all this way on my
account. But she said she enjoyed it. She is a kind crea-
ture — always glad to lend one a helping hand."

If she were to fall ill — ^if she were to die. It would be

the end of the world to him — ^nothing less. Large as the

earth is, he would never be able to find a pleasant place

on it when once she had ceased to be numbered among its

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 23Q

inhabitants. Heaven would not be heaven if he could not
meet her in it. Hell would not be hell if he might go there
with her hand in hand.

Wild thoughts swept through his mind as he walked
away from the vicarage. If she were really ill he must go
straight to her. But he knew that she was not really ill:
she was only tired and unhappy.

He thought with astonishment, but with no anger, of
the preposterous adjectives that Mrs. Walsden had used
when speaking of the pallor that made her so touchingly
beautiful, of those shadows that gave such splendour to
her eyes, and indeed to the whole of her delicate face,
making it mysterious, pathetic, unforgettable. To Mrs.
Walsden, perhaps, she was scarcely pretty, and not in the
least fascinating. How marvellous! No one saw her as
he saw her. He fully realised the individual appeal of this
woman. To him it was terrific and overpowering: while
perhaps no one else could even perceive it. And he
thought, "Yes, that is love."

Reaching the lamps and noise of the main thoroughfare,
he suddenly found himself in the midst of a crowd. A
man had been seized with a fit, had fallen, and was now
rolling and bouncing about the pavement in convulsions.
A policeman stooping over him was tripped up and fell;
Churchill tried to help and went down also; half a dozen
other people were endeavouring to hold the poor fellow;
for a little while it was like a football scrimmage. Then
the sufferer, stretched upon his back, was secured by many
hands; and presently he lay quite still, foaming at the
mouth and groaning.

He was a fine-looking man of forty or so, respectably
dressed in black clothes^ and with a strong, handsome face
that Churchill felt sure he had seen before. The police-
man had sent for an ambulance, and he was now busy
with the crowd, who would not go away, although ob-
viously all amusement or entertainment was over.

*'Now, pass along," said the policeman. "Stand back,
can't you? Give him air. What's the sense of trying to
suffocate him?"

Churchill asked that when the ambulance arrived the
man might be taken to Denmark House, instead ^i \.^ ^^

riM

240

;THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

hospital or the police station. He undertook to look after
the man and provide medical treatment and nursing.

He knew the man ; he and the man had met before — but
where? He remembered the face, and, when presently the
eyelids blinked and lifted, he remembered the eyes. They
stared glassily up at him. He knew that he had seen that
glassy stare and had been uncomfortably affected by it
men as now; and when this happened there had been
lajbiplight on iht face as at present.

The ambulance came, the man was lifted upon it, and at
the same moment he b^fan to talk mutteringly. Churchill,
stooping down to replace a dangling arm, heard what he
said and was strangely startled.

"Heaven or hell. Which is it to be? Are you going to
heaven or going to hell ?"

Churchill remembered then when he had met the man.
It was the mad preacher, seen and heard by him on his
first Saturday night at St. Bede's, who stood at the lamp-lit
comer with the crowd jostling him but taking no notice of
him while he talked unceasingly of heaven and hell.

He went on talking about them now, as the ambulance
began to move, raising his voice to a laboured shout.

"Heaven and hell. Oh, my friends, do you understand
it is the one place or the other ? Which is it to be ? Heaven
or bell? . • • Heaven or hell? . . . Heaven or hell?''

XXXI

The man's name was Elvey, and until quite recently he
had been in receipt of a good salary as an engineer's
draughtsman at one of the Thames ironworks. Then, fall*
ing ill, he had lost his employment. He had taken up
his "mission" eight years ago, after a "summons" that
came to him in the form of "nocturnal voices, the echo of
lamentation, and the sound of a rushing mighty wind;"
and from that period till now he had been regularly preach-
ing. If he possessed any friends or relations, he appeared
to have forgotten all about them. Earthly ties were not
worth attention in presence of the eternal danger and the
eternal hope.

He imparted this much of his story to Churchill, who
often sat by his bedside during the first day or two after
his arrival at Denmark House. He offered no thanks for
Qiurchiirs hospitality; nor did he make any inquiries as
to the nature of the establishment in which he found him-
self; he lay with his hands clasped behind his head,
staring at the walls or ceiling of the bedroom as though
he could see through them and hundreds of miles beyond
them.

^ The doctor said that he was sufferine from the exhaus*
tion of nervous energy that invariably follows such a
seizure as his. He might require a good many weeks'
rest, but in a greater or less tmie his strength would be
restored and then he would be all right again — ^that is to
say, as right as he would ever be.

According to the doctor he was a very ordinary type
of the religious epileptic. He was not mad enough as yet
to shut up ; for although his views of religion plainly indi-
cated aberration, still they were views which in a less
violent or extreme form were held by large numbers of
people; and with regard to the everyday matters of life
he was sufficiently sane to conduct himself with propriety.
For instance, be had heea able to retain his enn)loyment

241

242 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

as a highly skilled workman. As to the prognosis of the
case — ^well, it was not favourable. He would probably
have many attacks, and die mad, really mad, ravingly mad.

"Can I do anything else for him than what is being
doner

"No," said the doctor, "let him rest as long as he likes,
and then he will go away."

"But ought I to allow him to go?*'

"You could not prevent his going if you tried. It would
be just the same if we had him at our shop. When he
made up his mind to get up and go, our whole staff
wouldn't be able to stop him."

Truly Churchill felt no desire to detain poor Elvey.
Never before had there been a guest at Denmark House
so strangely inexplicably unwelcome to him. Had he rec-
ognised the mad street preacher a little earlier, certainly
had he heard him mutter those words about heaven and
hell, he could not have overcome his disinclination; he
might still have wished to do so, and thought that duty
told him to do it, but he could not have brought the man
here into the same house with himself.

This kind doctor, who attended to Denmark House pa-
tients gratuitously, was one of Churchill's friends from the
London Hospital, and he spoke of other friends or ac-
quaintances at that noble and nobly conducted institution.
Talking with him, Churchill heard the latest news of their
physiological research work, brilliant feats of curative
surgery, patient toil producing marvels in the laboratory.
As he knew, the place was a hive of industry. And Ws
friend gave him a particularly striking example of the
perils that such industry sometimes entails — ^perils so
great, it would seem, that no one could be justified in
facing them, unless sure of some splendid inpalpable re-
ward alike for failure and for success. No material re-
ward do they either expect or receive.

A young, highly esteemed bacteriologist, pursuing a
special and very hopeful line in the cultivation of pes-
tilential germs, had fatally poisoned himself. He and
everybody else in the hospital knew that he was done for.
He might live for three years, and the last of those three
^ears would be most dreadful. But he was perfectly

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 243

cheerful and jolly, going on with his investigation, pur-
suing the happy line, otSy perhaps working longer hours
and with greater ardour since now time was so short.
His one anxiety had been lest he should become a source
of danger to others; once satisfied that with certain pre-
cautions he would be a safe companion, he worried no
more. But an immediate stoppage of the woric and
banishment from the only place in which the work was
possible would have broken his heart.

And Edward Churchill thought, "Yet he is almost cer-
tainly an unbeliever. None of these men are believers in
our sense of the word. They are not Christians in their
faith, though most Christian in their actions. They sacri-
fice themselves for others, they live for others, they die
for others. But they ask nothing for themselves. They
do not believe that God came down from heaven and dwelt
upon earth, showing the hard way but promising the bliss-
ful ease."

All that evening he thought about the countless people
who do not hold the Christian faith. The world is peo-
pled with unbelievers. More ancient religions have con-
tinued, newer religions have been inaugurated; agnos-
ticism, vague speculation, sheer indiflFerence, have proved
as formidable rivals to Christianity as any of the formu-
lated creeds. Musingly, he considered not only the ninety
per cent, of non-Christians that dwelt all round him, and
the vast hordes of untutored heathen beloved by Wals-
den, but the great civilised races — the wise Chinese, the
brave Japs, the fiery, far-spreading Turks.

He wrote a little ; thought again, wrote again. Then he
began to turn the leaves of Whitaker's Almanac, reading
the estimated populations of Buddhist nations, looking
for the total set down for the followers of Mohammedanism,
wondering if he would presently find a table that gave the
proportionate aggregates and showed how many Christians
there were altogether — ^pretended Christians ; for of course
any such stated number would include all who professed
to belong, or had ever professed to belong, to the Chris-
tian Church.

Presently he raised his head, and listened. He fancied
that he had heard a voice — somebody calltoig to V&cci Vtwcv

244 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

a distance. It was late now; every one had come in long
ago. For a minute, while he sat listening, the silence re-
mained unbroken ; then he heard the voice again.

He went out of his room, to the first floor landing, and
turned on an electric lamp. He could hear the voice dis-
tinctly now. It was Elvey's. He went upstairs to Elvey's
room and opened the door.

"You were talking, weren't you? Do you want any-
thing?*'

"No, thank you," said Elvey. "I was only talking to
myself. I often do at night. It refreshes me. But Fm
sorry I disturbed you. I didn't think I'd be overheard."

"Oh, that's no consequence — so long as you don't disturb
the others. Good-night."

Churchill closed the bedroom door, and stood for a little
while outside it. Elvey began talking again almost imme-
diately, but in a lower voice.

"Heaven or hell. I have chosen heaven. It is there
that I fix my eyes. . . ."

Churchill went downstairs, unbolted the front door, and
left the house in order to get a breath of air. Returning
after half an hour he stood in the hall and listened. Faint
and distant, coming to him from the top of the house, that
same monotonous recitation grew audible. He ascended
the stairs, past his own room, as if drawn upward by the
voice ; then when he was high enough to catch each word,
he paused and sat upon a stair-step, holding his head in
his hands.

"I say unto you, except ye believe, ye shall not inherit
the kingdom of heaven" — ^the voice went on monotonously.
You are all in danger of hell fire. It is heaven or hell.

"xui

9f

And Edward Churchill thought: "Yes, a madman — a
madman lying all alone in the darkness, and talking of
things that no living eye has ever seen."

The presence of this guest in the house worried him, and
had a bad effect on his nerves ; but the visit did not last long.
One morning quite early Elvey got up, washed, carefully
brushed his clothes^ and dressed himself; then^ having

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 245

gone out and got shaved^ he tapped at Churchiirs door and
said good-bye.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"I must go to Glasgow," said Elvey. "I have read about
it in the newspapers. It is a wicked city. I must go
there at once and warn them. I have warned London for
eight years. Glasgow is the next biggest place. I must go
to Glasgow now."

"How do you propose to travel there?"

"I shaU walk."

"Elvey, I don't think you're quite up to that yet. Let
me give you your rail fare."

"No, thank you. I prefer to walk. There is great
wickedness in the country villages of England, and I mean
to warn them as I pass. Good-bye;" and disregarding
Churchill's outstretched hand, he turned and went out of
the room. Nothing could have prevented him from go-
ing; no one could materially affect the future that lay
before him. He had his mission and his doom: he would
fulfil both.

A day or two after Elvey's departure Mrs. Clough, the
housekeeper, opened the door of Churchill's sitting-room,
and, looking in, saw him busy at his desk.

"Ah, you o/re there," said the housekeeper. "I thought
you was, but wasn't sure. It's Mrs. Vickers would like to
speak to you, if you can spare her a minute."

"Oh, Mrs. Vickers 1" And he hesitated. "Yes, I will
come down to her."

"You won't see her in here? Very good," said Mrs.
Qough. "I've brought her upstairs with me, but 111 take
her down again."

"No, of course not. I didn't understand;" and he
hastily rose from his chair. "Mrs. Vickers, please come
m.

The door had remained open, and obviou^ anybody
outside must have heard all that he and Mrs. Clough were
saying. That this had indeed happened was made still
further evident by the extreme embarrassment of Lilian
Vickers's manner.

246 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"Mr. Churchill, I'm so very sorry to disturb you. Please
forgive me,"

"Oh, not at all," he said feebly.

"I have brought you back The Sacrament of Marriage.
Thank you for lending it to me."

"Er — ^not in the least. Did you read it?"

"Yes, I really studied it carefully — and as I was passing,
I thought I would bring it myself ;" and she put the book
on the comer of his desk. It was neatly tied up in
brown paper, as though something precious that must not
run any risks of getting soiled when carried about in
trams. "I thought," she said, looking down at the parcel
— '"I hoped that perhaps "

"Yes, he said, divining her thought, "I know — I under-
stand. For us to talk about it! For me to tell you any-
thing that I— that L

g uiai 1 — uiai 1 "

xc

'Yes, if you could have spared time — that is what I
hoped.*

He had not asked her to sit down. They stood looking
at each other, she ^t the comer of the big desk, he stand-
ing behind his chair with his hands tightly gripping the
back of it

"I guessed that immediately," he said. "But it is un-
fortunate — ^you find me at the moment " and he stopped

short and coughed. She was looking at him inquiringly,
anxiously, and, as it seemed, reproachfully. She wore no
veil, so that the pallor of her face, those dusky circles
round her eyes, and the slight trembling of her lips, were
fully visible to him. "Mrs. Vickers," he said abruptly,
"how are you — ^in your health?"

"Oh, I am quite well, thank you."

"Some one told me you looked ill — it was Mrs. Walsden.
But you have not been ill realljr?"

"Oh, no. I did feel the banning of the warm weather.
It gave me headaches."

"Is your head aching now ?"

"No, not at all."

"'I — I am glad to hear that. I hope you will take care
of yourself. . . . But about the book — ^yes, I ventured—
when I wrote — ^to explain that I am unusually harassed,
and thereiore to excuse myself from "

"]

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 247

'Tfcs, I got your letter/'

'I hope you understood. You — ^you weren't offended?"
7 offended? How could I bc?^' Then suddenly her
face flushed. "But, Mr. Churchill, I couldn't help think-
ing that perhaps — for some reason — you were rather
offended with me!*

"No — ^most certainly not. Why? How did you get
such an utterly mistaken idea?"

"I wouldn't have had it if I'd been quite sure that it was
really because you were so busy that you didn't want to
see me. But you have been so kind — and then I began to
think you might fancy that all your trouble had been
wasted, and that I wasn't even tr3ring to do what you'd
said," and her voice broke.

"I did not fancy it for a moment. No, on my honour,
it was no reason of that sort."

"Then I won't think so. But truly this is why I have
come troubling you now. I felt that I must come and tell
you that no word of yours had been lost — ^that I have
obeyed you — ^that I have been much braver — ^that I — ^that
I don't mean to do any of the things I spoke of."

"No, you must be brave — ^you must just be brave."

"And, Mr. Churchill, if I haven't understood all Father
Upway says, I see that it is all of it true."

"Yes, that is it. Never mind the rest. Essentials — stick
to essentials. Don't go too deep. Be satisfied with the
main principle." He was speaking hurriedly and incon-
secutively ; and when she turned as though about to go, he
abruptly asked her to sit down for a few minutes. "The
fact is — as I tried to explain — ^you catch me unprepared —
at an unlucky time — ^that is, for m^, personally. Nothing
to do with you— of course ;" and he walked across to one
of the windows and looked out. "You have shown such
confidence, such frankness in dealing with me, Mrs. Vick-
ers — and I assure you I am touched by it — ^that I feel
bound to be frank myself. Well, then, I wish to explain."
He had said this in the same hurried tone, and without
looking at her. Now he faced round from the window,
clasped his hands behind his back, and spoke slowly, gently,
as one struggling to choose the words that may best serve
his purpose. "Because of various circutastMaK«&^ xsa

\^y!F^.'Ji!i'ji' ■ ».. . ■ .■•■^■CT-.-W-.rrf Tr^-^jiaii

"]

«1

248 THE MIRROR AND; THE LAMP

marks of mine about Upway's teaching could possess the
slightest value. Indeed, I could not trust myself to dis-
cuss it. For some weeks I have been excessively harassed.
Moreover, frankly — returning confidence for confidence —
I too am not happy. Mrs. Vickers, I am very unhappy.
And my present state of mind — the egoism one cannot
escape from unquestionably warps, even destroys one's
power to think as one should of other people's ideas.
This being so, I feel that I can no longer speak to you as a
priest. I — I can not hope to help you further."
1 am sorry."

'No, don't be sorry. You see, I have told you your
duty. That is, I have put before you — very severely, yet
not more severely than any priest would have done— the
religious view — ^the er — ^the — ^the view of the Catholic
Church."

"Yes — ^and I humbly submit."

"You do. You are brave and good. That again proves
that I cannot help you further. So that is why — taking
everything into consideration — ^I think it better you should
not come back here again — ^that I ask you not to come back
unless you are in pressing trouble;" and, unconsciously
perhaps, he used a turn of phrase that he had heard on
Walsden's lips. "You know: the sort of trouble in which
a brother — and not a priest — ^might help you."

Lilian Vickers had got up from her chair. She was
flushing again ; but she grew white in a moment as he came
towards her.

"You do understand, don't you?" he said, as he shook
hands with her.

"Oh, quite."

"You know that I am deeply interested — and shall always
be — ^in all that concerns you."

"Yes, thank you. You are very kind. . . . No, please
don't come downstairs with me. Good-bye."

And as he stood at the door holding it open for her, he
noticed her tallness, her unusually erect carriage, and some-
thing about her more dignified and self-reliant than he had
ever observed before.

He watched her go down the stairs ; then went into one
of the front rooms and watched her from the window. She

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

249

seemed now to walk sadly, but still proudly. And then
just before she disappeared, she seemed to droop, to move
languidly, wearily ; and he wanted to rush out of the house,
to follow her, to implore her to forget what he had said,
to come back again and again and again.

Once more he conquered a violent impulse; but the
effort that successfully inhibited action was followed by a
reflex of fierce revolt in the realm of thought

Why not have 3delded? Why preach that doctrine of
blind submission? Why might she not escape from her
bondage, divorce the brutal tyrant, and find a mate who, if
not worthy of her, would at least love her more devotedly
than any woman has ever yet been loved?

He thought of the only possible answer to these ques-
tions. "Because by so doing we should break the divine
law." And then came more questions. "But do I mysdf
believe in the law? Does any divine law exist?"

-. — — ». ^'•■.r"4<*-t«"

XXXII

It was late at night I no distant, monotonous voice now
disturbed the silence of the house as Churchill sat reading
those manuscript notes that he had put together years ago
at C^ford.

Builders on Sand — ^that was the title he had intended to
give them if they ever appeared in print. TTiey were a vin-
dication of the Christian faith, a demolition of the specious
arguments of its enemies, and he remembered his feelings
while writing them: the pleasure derived from the exer-
cise of intellectual power, the satisfied thrill that comes in
moments of triumphant success, the quieter contentment
derived from a task fairly started and smoothly proceed-
ing to a workman-like completion. He remembered that
in the act of scribbling certain passages he had felt rather
sorry for the scientific doubters with whom he dealt.
They deserved punishment, but he was perhaps belabour-
ing them a little too heavily when they no longer had a 1^
to stand on.

He read the notes very carefully, and they seemed to
him childish nonsense. He read with equal care his ex-
tracts from the impious, unbelieving books, and they
seemed to him sober direct statements of irrefutable facts.

Then he sat quietly musing; for a little while quite calm,
pleasantly interested, enjoying this leisurely meditation.
He thought of that first deathbed scene, of his ecstasy of
prayer, of his rapture when the dying man had a vision of
high heaven. He himself felt the nearness of God — some
transcendental presence that swept into the sordid little
room, instantaneously filling it with glory. And the man's
last flicker of consciousness was a certainty of salvation;
80 that he died not as a person who slips or trips in front
of an express train and with aronised terror struggles to
escape from approaching annihiliation, but as a happy
child who enters the train itself to take the swift easy jour-
ney to the promised land of long and joyous holiday. Yes,
hut all that was illusion.

250

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 251

The illusion had worn thinner and thinner at subse-
quent deathbeds, when Churchill knelt pra3ring but not
really believing. He had not understood why and how
the glamour had faded. He knew now. Again and again
of late he had been tortured by the cruelty of such scenes,
when the doomed ones clung to life and craved for nothing
except a reprieve from the grave. He had thought: Why
tell these people that they are going to die? Poor
wretches! The wives and mothers prepare them for the
parson. Why not concentrate all efforts on making them
oblivious of danger in their last hours?

That pleasant pause of mental calm passed away, and
the hot revolt that had begun this afternoon, when with
cut-and-dried phrases he drove from him the woman he
adored, burst into renewed activity. He got up, walked
about the room, talking aloud to himself. "Am I to con*
fess, then, that I have simply been the slave of supersti-
tion? At first I was its abject and unquestioning slave.
Then I must truly have known that my state was slavery,
but I would not attempt to free myself. I became the
slave of habit."

Doubtless his belief had been gone for a considerable
time; that dread lest others should waver in their faith
had probably been symptomatic of what was happening to
himself, but this was the shock of recognition of the fact.
For him the whole Christian legend had tumbled into dust.
He saw it as futile, childish nonsense. The questions of
those poor costermongers about "The Son of uawd" were
unanswerable, had always been unanswerable. The story
of the divine atonement was utter bosh from the first word
to the last.

Yet even now he was struggling against the acceptance
of such terrible thoughts as these. If he could not dirow
them off, it would mean an admission of idiotic failure;
it would mean that all his youth and the better p^art of his
manhood had been wasted; it would mean that instead of
permitting the natural g^wth of his intellect, he had
starved it and distorted it so abominably that all the fruit
it bore was rotten and unsound.

Then he ceased to struggle, saying to himself, ''This was

252 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

inevitable. And if it is the truth I must face it. Little by
little everything has been taken from me — ^my mother's
love, the anchorage of home, all hope of happiness in mar-
ried life; I have been slowly and inexorably forced back
upon myself ; at last I stand absolutely alone. My mind is
all that I possess. Why should I be afraid of it?*'

And all through the night he raged and reasoned, driven
by a wild anger against himself and everybody else;
against the generations of fools who had handed down all
the cumbrous machinery of mental servitude; against the
State that aided and supported medieval folly and trampled
on those who tried to emancipate mankind; against the
teachers who darken the eyes and burden the spirits of
poor little innocent children; against schools like St
Martyr's, towns like St. Dunstan's, imiversities like Ox-
ford — against ever3rthing great and small that had had
its share in befogging, benighting, and befooling him. He
worked himself to a fury that was akin to delirium ; know-
ing that his thoughts were wickedly unjust, and yet giving
them full scope, stimulating them, flogging them to in-
creased activity.

Nothing in the legend I It is shattered by historical
research, by the revelations of science, by common sense.

He thought of all the ridiculous new sects that year after
year had split away from the Church and set up business
on their own account — ^himdreds of them, here in England
alone. Well, the fault is not theirs, but that of the ortho-
dox faith — ^a religion for children. How, unaltered, should
it retain grown men?

He thought of the great mass of modem clergymen. If
they are strong men — real men — ^they revolt against it.
But for pride's sake — rather than own themselves fools
from the beginning — they build up something from the
crashing ruin of the thought- fabric ; desperately toiling, as
black ants when the storm has washed away their city,
they strive to make order in chaos.

Christ was a man like themselves. We can all be
Christ. God is in us. God, the great creating thought, is
the spirit that quickens the universe. The highest mani-
festation of God, the living force, is in the mind of men.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 253

God's favourite abode or resting-place is to be found in
that grey cerebral matter of a centralised nervous system
*— of man, and of the higher mammals^ perhaps, also. For
you can't shut the animals out of it all — ^you can't keep
the other worlds out of it either. There may be beings not
enormously dissimilar to men, higher inteUigences even,
on Mars, on planets of other stms — ^in millions of worlds,
if you like. It is really a frenzied effort to patch together
something that will somehow hold water.

Thus you get from these strong unhappy men the Gospel
according to the Rev. J. Snooks, Revelations by Mr.
Brown, The Law and the Prophets as interpreted by
Thomas Nathaniel Tones, D.D. Most unorthodox! But
the bishops are tmable, unwilling to interfere; sympathis-
ing rather than persecuting, because they too are in secret
revolt.

And he said to himself, "That old archbishop was an
unbeliever. He scarcely troubled to conceal tne secret.
One could read it in his smile when, behaving like a hys-
terical schoolgirl, I flopped down on my knees and made
him bless me. If the blessing hasn't had much effect, at
least I needn't blame him. He didn't palm it off on me as
something valuable."

He thought: People like Walsden, Vcrschoyle, that
ancient of days at Sittingboume, and all down the scale
to epileptics like Elvey, are simply monomaniacs. But for
the rest, not one clergyman in ten really believes. "Never-
theless, it is comforting for old ladies — ^it can do no harm."
In the temple of their own hearts the veil has been rent.
"Notwithstanding, on its merely human side, we still con-
sider it extremely beautiful." They could not say mofe
than that — ^not if they examined their deepest convictions
and dared faithfully to utter them.

Lashing himself to almost delirious fury, he said, "Only
cowards can pretend to themselves to believe. Only cow-
ards can refuse the light of truth that glimmers in every
man's brain."

As he thought of these things, Edward Churchill felt
that he would go mad, unless quickly he broke with it all
and began to forget

254 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Next morning he was absolutely worn out It had been
the most dreadful night that he had ever passed. When he
looked back at its hot rages, its brutal violences, its sweep-
ingly cruel accusations against numberless tmknown men
whose single-heartedness he had always hitherto respected
and could not now logically or sanely question, it seemed
to him more like a demoniac possession tfian any explicable
nerve storm. It reminded him again of the biographical
fables of early monastic literature. Just such a night, hun-
dreds of years ago, might have served for the culminating
description of a sorely tempted monk in his stone cell. He
has withstood all the temptations of the senses, minor de-
mons with their visions of female seductiveness can make
nothing of him; starved, flogged, drained of blood, he
defies the lures that appeal oniy to matter, and his spirit
remains triumphant. So then the Devil himself enters
into his mind, tears and daws at the very foundations of
his strength, shakes him with remorseless frenzy from sun-
down to sunrise.

He stayed indoors all day, and on the following night he
was able to sleep. On the day after he felt calm, but
unspeakably sad.

He thought, ''If my loss of faith is to be a permanent
loss, I have lost all that made life worth living. I am too
old to begin again. I can never readjust myself to the new
conditions. I shall commit suicide, and save all further
bother. No one will miss me ; no one will r^pret me. But,
oh, how futile I shall have proved myself."

But the faith might return. As he knew, many priests

SI through periods of disbelief, and then believe again,
en who caU themselves atheists during long stretches of
years become devout and statmch Christians. Scientists
who spend their lives in explaining everything find at last
that they have explained nothing, cease to dodcet and labd
their incomprehensible mysteries, cease to inquire, cease to
expect any answers, and with empty receptive minds take
back the peaceful hope of knowing all in God's good time.
Perhaps he, too, would recover his belief. He deter-
mined to say nothing as yet to Walsden, to continue work-

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 255

ing as long as possible, and to trust that another mental
change might come. But his confidence was weak.

Late on Sunday evening he went out to St. Ursula's
rectory to see the Verschoyles. Both of them had been
writing to him of late, urging him not to desert them, and
Mrs. Verschoyle had especially begged him to pay them a
visit this afternoon.

It was a dark, airless night, and as he slowly made his
way from the rectory gate through the darkness towards
the lighted window of the porch he felt the oppression of
the atmosphere as well as the dull weight on his mind. He
paused irresolute, and was more inclined to prowl about
the dark garden all alone with his sad thoughts than to
enter a brightly-lighted room and laugh and talk.

He found several people in the drawing-room, and the
conversation ran so freely that he was not called upon to
take any large part in it. He sat there thinking of what this
room had been to him such a little while ago — ^his harbour
of refuge, his place of beauty, the pleasant dwelling-house
of faith and hope. All was as it had been. Only he had
changed. Verschoyle and the young curates made him sit
in the biggest arm-chair; he was told to smoke; and the
friendly simple talk went on. He was glad that no con-
fidences or brotherly confessions were possible; but Mrs.
Verschoyle looked at him from time to time with quick,
searching glances.

When he left, it was she and not Verschoyle who came
out, and through the hall with him.

"Tell me," she said, putting her hand on his arm, "what's
the matter. Are you still worrying yourself about that
poor woman?"

"No," he said. And this was true, for in these last few
days he had scarcely remembered Lilian's existence. He
had been thinking only of himself.

"Christian," she said, "tell me — ^trust me." He went
down the steps, and she stood above him in the light of the
porch. "Won't you tell me?"

He looked at her, but did not speak.

"Christian, what is it? What is there in the pathway
now?"

S^SEft- Ijif #1' -^js^j^t:i

256

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"It is the Giant Despair ; and this time I shall not escs^
from hint"

And he turned and went towards the gate.

"Stay. I can't let you go like this, Christian," she called
after him, but he would not answer. She heard his foot-
steps in tfie darkness, the gate opened and shut, and she
knew that he had gone.

XXXIII

Throughout this week the weather grew warmer and
enervating; thunder was always threatening, but never
came; even Walsden complained that he felt slack, and
made many disparaging comparisons between the climate
of England and that of Africa. Mrs. Walsden one after-
noon at tea had a sudden and ardent fancy for lettuces,
which unfortunately could not be procured ; for Mr. Grevill
and Mr. Nape, going round the parish in haste, found that
not a sprig of green food remained uneaten. The lettuces
had been devoured, and indeed the "hokey-pokey" was
nearly all gone too. The ice merchants could not supply it
quick enough or in sufficient bulk to meet the demand.
The whole parish of St. Bede's seemed to be either moist-
ening its lips or gasping for breath.

Edward Churchill still attended to his work in a hope-
less mechanical manner like a sleep-walker who walks
safely on a well-known round. But his Roman collar
galled him, his cossack stifled him, his biretta was as un-
comfortable as a merry-andrew's cap and bells.

Twice Mrs. Verschoyle wrote to him, and once her hus-
band tried in vain to see him ; but he took no notice either
of the letters or the visit. He could not act on their well-
meant advice. Mrs. Verschoyle implored him to do a re-
treat. "Go first," she wrote, "to Father Bryan, and ask
if they can receive^ you at their Roehampton House. You
know they would be glad to have you there, if the place is
not full. But of course the summer retreats are now on.
If not to Roehampton, go somewhere else. Father Bryan
will guide you. Go at once. I pray you, don't let any-
thing stop you. This is more important than parish work,
however pressing that may appear."

No Verschoyles, no Bryans, no retreats could help him.
He had passed beyond the reach of such kindly aid. It
mattered not where he went, for everywhere he would
carry the same thoughts with him.

257

258 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

So the weeks dragged by, and it was again Sunday. He
felt an immense lassitude after the morning service; but
fortunately the heaviest part of the day's work was now
finished, and he had nothing more to do till Evensong. One
small duty might be performed in the afternoon, and for
this purpose he relinquished the quiet and repose of Den-
mark House. He wanted to see if three children who had
promised to attend the children's service were keeping
their promise; but he did not want to be seen himself, lest
he should distract the attention of these and other young
people, and put out Mr. Nape. Mr. Nape conducted the
children's services remarkably well, but he was easily flus-
tered, and had told Walsden that the presence of his more
experienced colleagues made him nervous and self-con-
scious.

Churchill intended, therefore, to go to the organ gallery
over the west door, and take a peep at things from there.
As he went up the stairs to the gallery the first hymn be-
gan, and he thought that poor old Mrs. Walsden was roll-
ing out the music very decently. It was the hymn about
faith, hope, and charity — ^"Therefore give us love."

There were only two rows of seats in this western gal-
lery, and curtains on brass rods hung in front of the sec-
ond row, which was level with the organist's seat. Churchill
gently opened a space between two curtains; then seated
himself, and leaning his chin on his hands, looked down
into the church.

The three children were there — ^three little faithful
hearts proving true to the promise. He was touched by
their fidelity, when he thought of what they had sacrificed
— the open air, a street game, freedom. And the h)rmn, too
— always a favourite — afifected him, as sung by all these
young voices in the dull, severe church. Moved by the
force of habit, he prayed for his three. . . . "Oh, there-
fore give them love."

The music of the hymn sounded grandly, and when it
ceased he turned to look at Mrs. Walsden. But the player
was not Mrs. Walsden. It was Lilian.

She had seen him — ^he knew that instinctively. She was
stooping over the keys, showing him only her profile; her
h^nds like white lilies fluttering up and down while she

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 259

worked the stops, and her whole drooping pose as of a
flower that has been beaten by cruel storms. She was
playing the responses; pausing, listening, glancing at the
reflection in the slanted looking-glass, then playing again.

H he had not yet fully measured the extent of her power
over him, he must do so now. In a moment the world had
changed. The church became glorious as a cathedral. She
was filling it with heavenly music; waves of beauty were
pouring out from her ; floods of sunlight that she had sud-
denly released fell upon flaxen heads, and made the chil-
dren angels. And he thought: "'Therefore give us love.
. . . Yes, this love and no other. . . . Take heaven
and the endless ages, and the bliss and the rising scale of
supernatural power when our souls shall be endued with
divine force ; take all hope of hereafter, but while we are
here and now, oh, give us love."

His emotion overwhelmed him, so that he sat limply as
he had settled down under the shock of surprise and de^
light at seeing her.

When she had done playing the responses she looked af
him, and he immediately moved along the seat to the edge
of the keyboard, and they talked in a low voice.

"Why are you here?"

"Mrs. Walsden said it would be convenient to her."

"Yes, you are always kind. I quite understand. You
came instead of her."

"Yes, I came instead."

"Have you all the music there? Or can I fetch anything
for you?"

"No, it is all here."

She pla}red again; and he sat watchine her hands, the
delicate fingers meekly, sweetly toiling, hurrying oflf the
keys to the stops and back to their labour. Then he looked
at her face — ^the lips just open, the long eyelashes half
raised, and the steady patient eyes never shifting from
their study of the music sheet, the whole expression pains-
taking. Yes, painstaking. Pain had been her portion. He
looked once more at her hands — ^they fascinated him;
never still, now here, now there, untiring.

While playing the last verse of a second hymn ^<t %^^ic9il^^

' ■'■ r -%.

260 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

but without shifting her eyes. "Don't watch my hands,
please. You are making me nervous."

And presently she turned and smiled. And her smile
was like a sunbeam that changed to a knife as it entered
his breast — seeming to make his heart bleed and the hot
stifling blood fill his lungs, and rise to his throat to chdce
him. So exquisitely pathetic, in its trembling, flickering
beauty, and its piteous appeal : saying to him, "You see, I
am long-suffering ; but I am weak. Be merciful and kind."

It was his own thought that had made all the pain really.
He had thought, "Perhaps that is how she looks at her
husband, when his rage is breaking loose because her weak-
ness tempts him ; when she says, TU do anything you like.
Oh, don't, don't beat me.' "

At the conclusion of the service he asked her what she
had to do next.

"I am going home."

"Shall I come with you — some of the way?"

"No."

"Are you expected home?"

"No."

"Is your husband away?"

"Yes."

"When does he return?"

"Not for three days. He only left yesterday."

"Then there's no hurry for you to get back, since 3rou
are alone. Come in to tea at the vicarage."

"No, I won't do that."

"They would love to see you."

"Yes, but I am rather tired. I don't feel up to talking."

"Come to Denmark House, and let me give )rou some tea
there. You can sit and rest — ^and it will be cooler there."

"It has been very hot to-day."

"Yes. Will you do what I ask?"

"You told me not to go there again."

"I know. But now I ask you to come. Yes, you must
please do that. You can lie down and rest after tea, if you
like. Mrs. Clough will be there to look after you."

She did not make any reply. She was fingering the
sUent keys.

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 261

"Yes," he said, "well wait here until every one has gone
out. Then we will go."

They remained, talking of things about which neither
was greatly interested — Mr. Nape's excellent manner with
the children, the rusty condition of the curtain rods, the
weather. Then they went side by side through the horrid,
airless street to his house, where he led her up to the sit-
ting-room, procured tea, and waited upon her.

Then they sat in the window seat above the plane tree
branches, talking quietly, with long intervals of silence.

At last she spoke of her husband, saying that he was
dissatisfied with the results of his tour in the south of
England. He had been there in London throughout the
past week ; and after his return next Wednesday he would
probably be here for the rest of the summer.

"Won't he take you— or arrange for you to have some
sort of holiday?"

"I don't think so;" and she turned away her head. **I
am not complaining. Truly I have obeyed you. I am
bearing everything in — in the spirit of submission."

He knew that he ought not to ask her even indirectly
how she had been treated during this week, yet knew also
that he would do so.

"Apart from all that — ^the religious part, is life better
with you?"

"No, just as difficult as ever;" and there was a little sob
in her voice. She got up at once. "I must go now ;" and
she stood looking at him.

"Lilian."

He had put his arms rotmd her, and he drew her down
upon his knees.

"My bruised lily. My poor darling. Oh, what are we
to do?"

So they remained, silent, clinging, locked in each other's
arms ; she with eyelids closed upon her tears and a cold wet
face that did not warm to his kisses ; he half fainting with
pity and love. It was like an embrace of despair, and not
the strong passionate grasping at joy or hope of two lovers
who kiss for the first time. They were both so miserable
that they could no longer resist betraying their misery. The
paramount need of each was the forgetting of pain; they^

,.-»Jlii»l..-- --■ . ,r.-^^ripg3.*....^.ifi

<(1

262 .THE MIIIROR AND THE LAMP

wanted to destroy the past and had no thought of opening
the future; they were as innocent of base desire as un-
happy children who are left alone in a darkened room after
suffering a cruel punishment, and who instinctively link
hands and try to comfort each other.

But soon she became ashamed, and struggled to release
herself. He set her free at once, and they sat side by side
in the window seat for a long time without speaking.
1 had better go."

'No/' he said. "Wait. Let me think a little;" and he
took her hand, and held it.

"I had better go," she said again. "I ought not to have

come. It is why you told me not to You were afraid

of this happening."

''Yes. . . . And now it has happened, nothing can
undo it. It is the end of all pretences. You feel that your-
self, don't you?"

She sat with her head drooping, and never lifted her
eyes. Her hand lay passive in his.

"It is wicked and dreadful," she said.

"I don't know. I don't thiiJc it is. It would be dreadful
if we treated it lightly. Just now I feel stunned, and I
cannot think connectedly. By to-morrow I shall know how
we ought to act."

"It is my fault. It is always the woman who is to
blame."

"No, a million times no. If there is blame, it is all
mine ;" and again he put his arms round her, and held her
close against his heart.

Time passed, and the clanging bell of St. Bede's began
to sound its ugly note for Evensong. The faithful were
being summoned to worship, but one of God's messengers
had lost himself. It seemed as if there might be a congre-
gation waiting for a sermon, and no one ready to preach
it. Nape would have to read something to them, or
Walsden could get up and gossip about the jungle.

But then finally Churchill heard the bell, and sprang to
his feet.

"I must leave you now, Lilian. You will hear from mc
— ^I will see you — some time to-morrow— or next day at
the latest. I'll arrange — ^I'll plan — ^I'U decide what is best.

ITHE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 263

And don't fear, n^ darling. Be brave now in ianotfaer
way."

And he ran through the streets to the place of his pro-
fessional duty.

He was just in time to pull on his surplice and to follow
[N^^'alsden and the choir as they marched out of the vestry.

He performed his part of the service without knowing
what he said and scarcely knowing where he was. Then
came the sermon, and he had to pull himself together. He
tried to conceal all signs of internal trouble and perhaps
succeeded. But the words that even remotely implied
faith stuck in his throat, and made him stammer and
cough. The crisis was over now. He knew that he did
not believe; and he seemed to know also, with absolute
certainty that he would never believe again on this side of
the tomb.

He went straight home to his rooms, and, walking back-
wards and forwards between the bedroom and the sitting-
room, he took off his black coat, then the black waistcoat,
then the Roman collar. Beneath there was a grey flannel
shirt, and he opened this widely at the neck, as though the
stiff white collar had still been there oppressing and chafing
him. Then he put on a shabby old Norfolk jacket, and
stood looking at the discarded garments as they lay where
he had tossed them.

He thought. "They formed the modem, up-to-date garb
of slavery and superstitution. In that sense they are the
Devil's livery, and I vow and swear that I will never wear
It agam.

Mrs. Qough presently brought him his bread-and-cheese
supper, and he ate with appetite. When he went to bed he
slept quietly and profoundly. Indeed he had not enjoyed
such dreamless, refreshing slumber since that night years
and years ago after he had just vowed to givt his life to
all those things which he had now abandoned for ever.

XXXIV

Churchill was up betimes, and after a hearty breakfast
he went into what was called "the old gentleman's room."
Mr. Philbrick, who was sitting up in bed and smoking,
looked at him with surprise and spoke with affectionate
interest.

"I awmost took you for a stranger, sir. Never seen
you in that costume before."

Qiurchill was wearing the homespun jacket and a pair
of grey flannel trousers, with an old college scarf tied
loosely round his neck and a straw hat on the back of his
head.

"I'm off for a da/s tramp," he said, smiling. "I want
to leave the pavements behind me for a few hours, and get
among some open fields where one can sit down and
think quietly."

"Very nice, too."

"And how are you, Mr. Philbrick ?"

"All the better for seeing you, sir. You haven't hon-
oured me much latterly."

"No, I have been very neglectful — but really I couldn't
help it."

"Good gracious, no, sir, how could you? I knew that
well enough. I says to meself, 'He's, up to his eyes in 'is
'oly duties, or he'd give me the pleasure same as he used.'
All I meant to say was I've missed our bits of prayer, an'
the readin's of them collicks. An' if you felt disposed to
favour me now with a minnit or two of it, well '*

"Philbrick, I can't pray with you. I can never pray with
you again."

"Is that so?" And Mr. Philbrick took his pipe from his
mouth. "Always so busy 'enceforth, sir?"

"No. I may as well tell you the truth. You'd hear it
soon enough, anyhow ;" and Churchill put his hand on Mr.
Philbrick's shoulder and spoke with great earnestness. "I
ask, I beg — ^and I honestly advise that you won't allow this

264

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 26S

thing to make the slightest difference to you. But I can't
pray, because the truth is I don't believe in it any more."

"Don't believe no more! Well, I'm blowed. What
next? Why not?"

"To me it's unbelievable."

"Too thick, eh? Well, you know that's what I always
said. Wants a bit of swallowing! But you was fo sure
as if you'd been there and seen it all done." The old fel-
low smoked reflectively; then pointed with the mouthpiece
of his pipe and went on talking. "I'm sorry you should
be so upset, sir. Dessay it weighs on your mind like.
Bound to do, sir;" and as he looked at Churchill his eyes
were screwed up so small that they almost disappeared.
"Yes, I'm more'n sorry you should be upset."

The old chap was not upset himself. Really, either way,
what did it matter? As he used to say, "I like these relig-
ious people. They're right. Right all through. Never
served you a dirty trick." But he liked the people them-
selves — for their humanity, polite manners, kindness — and
just took their creed on trust. Judge of a tree by its fruit.
If the thing was good enough for Mr. Walsden and all
the other kind gentlemen, it was good enough for him.

Churchill, rejoicing that his announcement had left Mr.
Philbrick so philosophically calm, started on the day's
outing. Life and love seemed to call him; all that he had
denied to himself seemed to be waiting for him; but he
must make plans for the future soberly and methodically.
In that smiling future there were two people, and one of
them was of infinitely greater importance than the other.
He himself felt safe and content; but she was made of
more delicate stuff, and happiness that came to her tainted
with disgrace might for a time, even for a long time, be
only a loosening of the chains and not their bre^dng. He
must act very wisely and cautiously for her sake. Oh,
what an idiotic fancy it had been that a beneficent God
could take pleasure in priests tormenting themselves and
in women remaining wives in homes from which love has
long since fled.

He struck northwards, riding on an omnibus as far as
it went, then taking a train, eager to shake off the smoke
and dust and noise of the town as quickly as he co>33A\'^:cA

iiMivr" ^- '^""

266 raE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

all the way he thou^t of the weakness of Christ's recorded
teaching in relation to life and to love. The preposterous
altruism tool If a man takes your coat, give him your
doak. Resist not evil. It is an insane immolation of self
— as bad intrinsically as fakirs stabbing themselves or
anchorites warping their spines in caves scarcely large
enough for a fair-sized dog.

And yet he had preached it to Lilian. There could be
no escape from her brute-beast; she was to go badk and
turn the other cheek to his merciless hand; she was to
solace him in his drunkenness, be a submissive slave be-
neath his cruel blows and his nauseating embraces.
Churchill's heart turned sick with pity for her and scorn of
himself for telling her to drain the cup of bitterness to the
dregs. When she appealed for his aid he had played at
being St, Anthony — ^not tempted of the devil, but driving
away an angel who had come to him. To act so was to
f otget that he was a man. No man would let her go on
suffering.

He got out of the train at a roadside station, and, al-
though still only ten or a dozen miles from St. Bede's,
found himself apparently in the depths of the country. The
sky was dean and high, the odour of the earth was pene-
tratingly sweet, the landscape ddighted and refreshed his
eyes; and he fdt like a man who, after being condemned
by his doctors as a hopeless case, is miraculously restored
to health and energy.

He lay sunning himself by green hedgerows, strolled
through little woods where the light and shadow mingled
and made an atmosphere like limpid water, crossed wide
commons where the gorse made waves of yellow flame;
he listened to the song of larks, watched rabbits playing
on the nibbled grass, saturated himself with air and sun-
light and incessantly changing beauty. All round him,
near and far, life both visible and invisible was active, the
whole world was in motion, and heaven swung serenely to its
glorious, undeviating rhythm. And all that he saw, all that he
imagined of Nature's magnificent panorama — these peaceful
summer fields, or winter's darkness or storm, the march of
the seasons with seed-time and harvest, black thunderdouds
1^ rainbow arcs, growth, ripeness, and decay— all, all

THE MIRROR AND: THE LAMP 26^:

seemed to say to him, ''This is, has been, and ever will be
the only manifestation made to humankind by what they call
God."

The health-g^iving hours glided by; it was afternoon,
and he heard the sound of church bells, rung gaily. Pres-
ently he saw the church, a delightful little toy, with a
wooden cupola on its squat tower and a mantle of un-
trimmed ivy hiding its walls. He went down slopix^
ground towards it, and found a rural scene as pretty as
anything in a book or a picture. On one side of the
churchyard there were the stretching park-lands of some
nobleman's seat, cattle dotted among hawthorns, distant
copses, and a ridge of hills all vague and melting in the
sunlight; on the other side one had a glimpse of a quite
adorable village, with old houses and gardens set far
back from a white roadway that culminated in an open
green. And across the green and along the dusty road
came villagers in their Stmday best, two and two, carry-
ing nosegays, like the chorus people of a comic opera. It
was a rustic wedding.

Churchill went into the church and watched the cere-
mony.

Only the bride believed really. No one else ih all the
church. You could hear it in their voices. Tlje parson, a
nice old fellow, had humanity and infinite kindness in his
tone as he talked to them, speaking the sacred words; but
no belief. Neither he nor any one else believed. Only in
the bride's eyes and her shy whisper was there the true
childlike belief; and Qiurchill thought, "She is a child.
This crowning of her love is to her of such infinite im-
portance that there is nothing unbelievable in the notion
of God Himself desiring to be present at the ceremony.
She takes the whole thing with desperate seriousness. But
the others are all easy and jovial — thinking about the
good fare that is soon to be eaten, about the hired fly,
about anj^ing."

And indeed, he thought, as he studied the faces, would
it not be absurd to expect any sign of real belief? How
could they come trooping in so comfortably, if for a mo-
ment they believed that it was God's house; that here, in
this frail structure, was lodged the mysterious force that

268 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

governs and controls surrounding nature, that created the
universe and supplies the power that keeps it in motion?
He thought of such people in an electric power-house, the
engine-room of an Atlantic liner, or even in a small vil-
lage saw-mill. Look at them now, and as a contrast im-
agine their aspect and demeanour under those other con-
ditions, when they do believe in the power — when they
know that, hidden but terribly near, the death-dealing force
is really there. They would scarcely venture in at the
door; they would not budge, they would not dare to
breathe freely, because of their fear and awe and wonder.
And that is just how they would act here, in this power-
house, if for a moment they believed.

His mind steadied itself during the long silent day. He
ate a little food towards evening, when sadness had re-
turned to the air; and as he walked home, already — like
the busy insect that must build again each time that its
stronghold is destroyed — ^he was shaping sc»nething from
the wreck of the old thoughts.

Altruism — ^yes, but rational altruism. Pity for others;
much love for others ; the golden rule — ^with manly limita-
tions. Do as you would be done by. Don't ask too much
from others, or want others to do more than as a respon-
sible man you ought to ask ; and be sure that you need not
do it yourself, should they ask you.

Not materialism. That is impossible. We have lived
beyond it. The lamp and the mirror in each man render
it impossible. Till die mirror showed one one's spiritual
self, selfishness as of the beasts that do not know them-
selves was still possible. But when the lamp-flame began
to be fed with thought and memory made the mirror, in-
tangible things were not less real than solid substance;
to-day could no longer wipe out yesterday; remorse be-
came as deadly as death itself. What the mirror shows
must be fair to look on, or we cannot be happy.

He had been upon his feet for many hours, but he
walked without any sense of fatigue. He was strong and
free. He was a sick man come to life again; he had
burst the death shrouds of superstition, escaped from the
thought-tomb, and returned to the light of day. He felt no
fear and no regret ; he was troubled by no doubt even. He

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 269

would never feel that in abandoning his religious faith
he had also lost his ethical guide ; he needed nothing beyond
that which was left to him; he oould trust to the Mirror
and the Lamp.

The evening wore on, and it was as dark as it would be
between now and dawn. Nothing in the landscape was
hidden, but all objects had changed; greyness and mys-
tery threw veils upon the commonest things and made them
fine. As he climbed over high ground and a wide view
opened out before him, he was struck by the fantastic
aspect of this northward approach to London. He looked
down upon strangely-shaped mounds and holes that one
might have imagined to be the work of giants; and soon
the giants' pla3rthings could be vaguely distinguished — the
black round entrance of a tunnel, little trains with red
tail-lights, viaducts, signal lanterns. Further on there
were gasometers, water towers, a network of broadening
railways; all beautiful and fantastic in the summer night,
with white smoke like fallen clouds that flashed into flame
and faded; while deep down in shadowy roadways the
trams resembled lamplit houses rolling away from their
foundations, or if one saw their dorsal fin, reminded one
of golden fish gliding in black water. Far ahead the vast
town illuminated the sky — a sleepless, flaming city over
which night itself may not hover. And above the wide-
spread fiery glow, to be felt rather than seen, an illimitable
void — ^the pathless tracts of space; worlds without end,
purposely scattered with ordered plan, or brushed like seed
pearls and never missed from the embroidered skirts of
measureless majesty ; solar systems mightier than our own,
millions of them, each narrowed to one small speck of
feeble radiance, to serve as guiding points by which our
mortal souls may wing their way towards the heavenly
home? Is it not palpably childish?

And once more he thought of the doctrine of the Atone-
ment Ants might have entertained some such vainglori-
ous dream — say the biggest of ant-heaps eating the flesh
from the bones of a dead man, with their tiny myriad teeth
picking a skeleton bare and white in the sunshine, and
thinking, ''This god came down on earth amongst us and

270 'THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

we devoured him." But that men — not ants — should thus
vaingloriously dream!

After another mile or two he had reached the outskirts
of the town ; and here he got into a tram and rode for the
rest of the way home. It was not yet eleven o'clock, and
before going to bed he determined to write to his vicar.

"My Dear Walsden :

"For some time I have ceased to believe in Ac
Christian revelation, and now I have no choice but to
tell you that, etc., etc."

A difficult communication — because he knew that it would
cause pain to a man of whom he was genuinely fcmd; but
it had to be made now without further delay ; and soon he
had finished writing, and had sealed the envelope that
contained it. He thought he would carry it round to the
vicarage and leave it there — a bombshell for poor old
Walsden's breakfast-table to-morrow morning; and he
would have done this, had not the housekeeper come up-
stairs to ask if he had seen the letter from Mrs. Vickers
that was waiting for him on the mantelpiece.

"You came in so quiet I didn't hear you," said Mrs.
Cough. "There it is. She said you was to have it at

once."

'How long ago?"

'About an hour. She came nud-day, and I told her you
was gone for the day. Then she was here again this even-
ing and seemed dreadful upset at not finding you — so I let
her write at your desk. I asked her if it was anything I
could do— with the tickets or what not; but she said it
was you she wanted to speak to."

"AH right. I'U attend to it."

The letter was simply a cry for help. She said that her
htisband returned unexpectedly yesterday afternoon. He
was displeased by her absence; he forced her to confess
that she had been with Churchill; he became angry — and
he had ill-treated her worse than ever.

CburcbiO rushed downstairs and out of the house. He

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

271

did not have another thought of Walsden, of his deter-
mination to conduct matters cautiously, of the necessity of
avoiding scandal. He was wild with rage; and ii he
thought at all, it was of how most swiftly he could reach
that far-off house that held the woman he loved and the
man who had been knocking her about.

.■^^.,^ ..^, _. ,., ^. ,. . . ^.,.-. ^ . , , —

XXXV

Lamplight showed from the two windows of their liv-
ing-room. Churchill, who had run for the last half-mile,
stood close to the windows listening while he recovered
breath. He heard the man's voice, a deep-toned growl at
intervals, and he felt sure that Lilian was there also.

"My sweetheart," he said to himself, "did you think I
had deserted you?"

Then he rang the door-bell, keeping his finger on the
button so that the bell rang unceasing^ till the door was
opened

"Hullo," said the master of the house angrily. "What
the deuce do you mean? — Oh, it's you, is it? This is a
queer hour to **

"Where's your wife ?" said Qiurchill. Pushing back the
door, he had entered the hall, and he turned to the two
steps that led down to the large room. "Lilian, are you
there? Lilian, I have come to you."

Vickers gave an oath and followed him. "Who the devil
authorised 3rou to call her Lilian? Look here, my friend,
you and I will have to understand each other. Yes, by
God — and about time too."

"I'll talk to you directly," said Churchill. "We'll have
an understanding. Yes, I'll tell you what I want of you
directly." He spoke in a curiously artificial manner, his
tone rather high-pitched and hurried, finding it difficult to
select his words, and so preoccupied with thought of Lilian
that ever3rthing said by her husband seemed for the mo-
ment worrying and irrelevant.

There was a lamp on the piano, and another on the cen-
tral table. The table was covered with account books
and papers, and here Lilian had been sitting, hard at work,
it seemed, as secretary or amanuensis for her husband. She
stood now close to the table, trembling, with her hands
pressed to her bosom.

Churchill went straight to her, put his arm rotmd her

272

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 273

waist, and gently drew her from the table towards the door.
"Get your hat and jacket/' he whispered, "and wait for
me in the hall. I couldn't come before. My darling, I
was late — ^yom* letter was waiting for me. It's all right
now. I have come — ^at last. Just get your hat, and wait
for me out there."

But she clung to him, terrified. Her husband barred
the way.

Stand aside," said Churchill.
Are you mad?" said Vickers.

"Let her pass, I tell you ;" and Churchill began to stam-
mer. "I — ^I — ^suppose you, you, don't think it necessary
for her to hear all I — I'm going to say to you."

"No," said Vickers, with another oath, and he stood
aside. "Lilian, you may go. Yes, you are to go up-
stairs to bed. Go to bed at once;" and he put his hands
in his pockets, moved across to die table, and sat down.

"Of course you're not to go to bed," said Churchill.
"Go up and fetch your hat if it's up there, Lilian. Then
wait outside the door." And then he saw her face in the
full light that fell upon it from the lamp on the piano. Her
eyelids were swollen by much weeping, her lips quivered
and twitched, and it seemed to him that he saw a tell-tale
mark — sl broad reddened patch on the white face. The
man had hit her perhaps with his open hand— or the back
of his hand — as they sat at the table, while she was humbly
slaving for him. Obviously it had not been a blow from
the fist. No, just a buffet, a smack on the cheek — ^a hint
or reminder of more serious punishment.

And, at the sight of this mark, Churchill was swept
over the final outermost boundaries of reasoned thought,
and dropped far down into the region of simple primitive
instinct. He did not know what next he would say or do.
Hence onward for some time the words and the acts bub-
bled forth spontaneously. His voice was another person's,
and he heard it with a deep throb of satisfaction. What
the voice said was fine, exactly what he would have wished
it to say had he been prompting it with the utmost cane.

"Yes, now for our little understanding." He had swung
round on his heel and was back near the table, stooping

274 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

down that he might stare into the wrathful glitter of his
enemy's eyes.

"Well, what do you want of me?"

"I want your wife of you ; and I mean to take her."

"I'll not let any — ^parson come between me and my wife."

"I'm not a — ^parson. Fm a man, and I'm going to sec
which is the better man, you or I."

Lilian had not left the room. She stood on the upper
step of the doorway, looking at them, talking to them,
uttering implorations that were like cries. So far as
Churchill was concerned, she had temporarily ceased to
exist; he did not hear her, he was not aware that she
remained within sight and sound; but now, terrified, des-
perate, she came down the steps and clung to him again.

"Take me away before he prevents you. For God's
sake don't stay any longer. You don't know what he is.
He'll kill you. Oh, come now."

Churchill shook his arm free, dragged her with him to
the door, and pushed her through it into the hall. Then
he shut the door in her face, and bolted it. Finding the
bolt ready on the door was relief and joy. She was feebly
beating against the other side of the door and wailing
and calling; but she could not interrupt him. Once more
she ceased to exist. He and his enemy were alone.

He stood in front of Vickers, looking at his eyes, his
great neck and shoulders, and the stubble on his ugly glis-
tening jowl; feeling an ecstasy of anger and hatred, and
rejoicing in these sensations ; glad that he hated with such
intensity, drawing comfort and ease from the fiery rage.

"Look here," said Vickers, without moving from his
chair, "I thiric you must have gone mad."

"No, I have come to my senses."

"Well, I'm not going to fight with you — ^unless you force
me ; but, so help me, if I do "

"Yes, you'll fight," said Churchill. "I'll force you—
you dirty blackguard." And there was keen delight, an
exaltation as of strong drink, in the words — ^the words of
that common voice of instinct that needs no prompting.
'Tfou can hit jrour wife. Well, hit me. You hit her face
just now. You dog — like that;" and he hit him with his
Open hand. "Like that," and he hit him again across the

\

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 275

lips. The fed of the man's gjoss flesh beneath his hand
sent thrills of delight through and through his brain.

Next instant they were at it hammer and tongs, blind
with fury, not guarding or dodging, giving themselves to
the rapture of battle as completely as two wild beasts could
have done.

Thus they fought, fiercely and badly, in such a hunger
to get at each other closer and closer that neither allowed
himself a chance of doing real work. The room was
large, and yet they seemed to be using the whole floor
space as alternately they pressed their attacks; furniture
was being knocked over, though they still kept on their
feet ; a fallen chair was a danger that both understood and
automatically avoided. And throughout the noise of these
first rough bouts the woman outside the door continued
to wail and beat the panels. They did not hear her: she
might have been a thousand miles away. Her turn was
not yet. She had set two males to fight for her, and she
must wait until it should be decided to which of the two
she would henceforth belong.

But soon the fight improved in quality ; the wildness had
begun to spend itself; they were introducing a little more
method, and shaping for better things. Churchill still
slogged away rather wildly, craving always for the face,
neglecting easy openings to the body, in his excitement not
feeling any of the blows that he himself received ; and of
a sudden he was sent staggering, would have fallen but
for the table.

The lamp, too, was nearly knocked down, and Churchill,
getting round the table, lifted it from its perilous situation
and carried it to a window ledge. Vickers did not inter-
fere with him, and suffered him also to pull away the
table unmolested. He stood panting a bit, but meaning
much mischief, and perhaps thinking that Churchill had
had almost enough.

"Yes," he growled, *1)Ut you don't go — now. I've not
done with you."

"No, I've not done with you either."

And they went for each other again.

The man was much heavier, as well as two inches taller ;

'_£> ■!•■-.■■'.=

isa

276 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

whenever he could turn his weight and power to account
at the same time he would be terribly dangerous; but
Churchill was hitting fast and hard, he was younger, he
was certainly better on his legs. He had begun to use his
feet properly ; every time he landed on the face now it was
a stinger. And Vickers was feeling the sting. His lower
lip was bleeding and bothering him, an eye blinked spas*
modically, and his right ear had been nastily wiped. Stung
again and more acutely, he gave a roar of rage, rushed in,
grappled Churchill tightly and overbore him. Down they
both went, Churchill underneath.

They were on the floor for minutes, Churchill under-
neath all the time. There was no referee, no seconds, no
audience of amateurs, no ring to be broken into by indig-
nant partisans ; the lamps burned clearly and steadily ; and
the woman outside the door, more frightened by the si-
lence than by the noise, made pitiful cries. Just what one
might expect in the circumstances was happening. Vickers
tried to finish there and then; he pounded as hard as he
could at such close range, raised himself and dropped
again with all his weight, wanted to smother, crush, and
mangle. And Churchill suffered the most deadly anxiety
for as long as it lasted, thinking coherently throughout his
helpless struggles, but never losing courage even when
most exhausted. "This is my own fault," he thought:
"but I'll lick him all the same. . . . Ah, you'd like to
crack my skull, wouldn't you? Only I know how to tuck
in my twopenny, old boy." But he felt as if his ribs were
broken, his neck dislocated, and his heart being beaten on
with a red-hot hammer. Perhaps because Vickers tired,
perhaps because he thought the game was all his own, he
unexpectedly found the position reversed. Churchill was
on top of him, was getting free, and next moment a bent
arm blow on the jaw won complete release.

Churchill was on his feet again, out of breath, waiting.
Vickers, up again, allowed no pauses, went for him with
another rush. But he was weaker, much weaker; it was
fierceness of intention with very little else behind it; and
Churchill felt certain that it would be all right now. He
htgaLTi to spar for wind-— dodging away, slipping by and
crossing the room, tiring his man, leading him a devil's

THE MIRROR ANQ THE LAMP 277

dance. And almost subconsciously, at any rate without
loss of concentrated attention, he continued to think. Old
days in the gjminasium at St. Martyr's, the priceless wis-
dom of Sergeant Miller, readings and broodings on his-
torical prize-fights — ^all available mental matenal seemed
to be aiding him, without hampering or confusing him. As
once before, many years ago — ^but in play, not in earnest
that time — ^thought and action blended, "and the whole
force of his mind entered into the smallest movements of
his body. So that when rapidly and cautiously he steered
clear of a loose mat that perhaps might have slid upon the
floor, his very feet seemed to applaud and approve, saying
to him, "That's right. You can't be too careful. Just
take your time. If you don't slip, or otherwise make a fool
of yourself, this man is beat to the world."

Then, with recovered wind, he began really hitting once
more; patiently waiting his chance, and taking it with all
his strength ; glorying in the shock of the good blow as his
fist landed full on the face and the man went down beneath
it — went down again and again. It was becoming easy
now. The man got up and came on, but only for another
dose of similar efScacy. The mail's face was like a large
grotesque mask that he had put on to frighten children at
a tea-party; the injured eye had nearly closed in a per-
manent wink; the red moustache protruded ridiculously
over the cut and swollen lips, and these nasty side fang^
displayed themselves in what appeared to be an unchang-
ing villainous grin. And the huge loutish wearer of the
mask cut sorry capers, as if to make the grown-up people
laugh, pirouetting absurdly, stumbling, sitting down hur-
riedly, getting up slowly.

Churchill talked to him. "Take that. This is our
understanding. Do you understand? There I Understand
thatr

It was easier and easier. No need for hurry now. A
few more minutes — ^why hurry them through? The man
was bleeding, snorting, helpless — groaning under his pun-
ishment. His breath came with a whistling sigh each time
you hit him on the body, with a gasping sob when you hit
him in the face. At last he was down and could not ^t
up. After a lapse of consciousness he slowly and pam-

■a^MMi^ ^ " • • • -^^^^—"^-^^^

278 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

fully scrambled to his knees ; then he sank again, subsided
on his face, moaning, and feebly guarding his head against
the boot work that he dreaded might now begin.

Churchill, satisfied, stood looking down at him with
exultant smiling scorn, and did not feel one touch of pity,
although absolutely all the hatred had gone. "Long has he
asked for it," said that terrible voice of unflinching in-
stinct, "and now the most captious critics would admit he
has had it."

Then with a shrug and a laugh he turned away, and
went to unbolt the door.

"Lilian, it's all right"

She was half fainting, almost distraught, and at sight of
him she recoiled with such horror in her eyes that one
might have believed that the opened door showed her a
destiny she had been praying to avoid, that the wrong man
had won, that she preferred the tyrant to the rescuer. In
truth Edward Churchill was not pretty to see. He, too,
was blood-stained, battered.

"Lilian, take heart. What's the matter? Oh, you
haven't got your hat. Get your hat, dear. We'll be off

now."

Then he went into the kitchen behind the hall, carrying
one of the lamps with him. Out there he washed his face
and hands in the sink, and dried them on a roller towel.

**Now," he said, "perhaps it will be safer to put out the
lamps. We can't be far off daylight."

Lilian had crept down the steps. She was supporting
herself against the piano, looking at the prostrate form,
with wild eyes, her teeth chattering, her whole body
shaking.

"Come," said Churchill.

"Is he dying?"

"Dying? No;" and he laughed contemptuously. 'Tie
has had the thrashing he deserved — ^that's all."

"But I can't leave him lying there like that."

"Rubbish. He's as well there as anywhere else. . . .
He can find his way upstairs when he pleases. . . . Why
haven't you fetched your hat? Never mind."

Then he put out Uie lamps, took her by the hand, and
led her away.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

279

The night trams had ceased running, the morning trams
had not yet started; but outside Poplar railway station he
begged a lift in a dock wagon, and so they rode for a part
of their journey. When they reached St. Bede's the
streets were grey and silver with the light of dawn, and
they walked slowly side by side, he holding her hand as
in the dream. The dream had come true. He had got her
now, and neither God, the world, nor the devil should ever
take her away from him.

At Denmark House he asked her if he should rouse the
housekeeper, but she said no.

"Very well," he said. "This, of course, is a shock to
you. But it is perfectly all right. It saves endless bother
and delay. I am very glad it has woxiced out just as it
has. You will be glad too. Now act sensibly. Lie down
on the bed and try to sleep for a few hours." He had
led her into his bedroom, and was arranging the bed for
her with a traveling rug and the counterpane to keep her
warm. "I shall be close by in the other room — quite near
you — guarding you. If you are frightened — ^if you want
anjrthing— call to me." Then he took her cold white face
between his bruised hands, and tenderly, reverently, kissed
her forehead. "Good-night, my darling. To-morrow we
will go away, To-morrow our life b^ms."

iUHM

"•*-■■ ^ ■*■ if . . T..j,^

XXXVI

Next morning he took her a little way westward to
shops where they were able to procure all the things that
were necessary, her trousseau, as he called it, and a bride-
groom's suit of blue serge for himself. She was crushed in
spirit, still horror-stricken by the fight, but he told her to
be of good heart, that love knows no law; and the busi-
ness of shopping lightened her sense of woe.

"You like this, Lilian? It's fun, isn't it?"

"I like it," she said, "because it makes me feel that I am
with you for ever."

"Oh, yes," he said. "It's for ever — so long as we both
shall live."

Then in the afternoon they went by train from King's
Cross to the village he had visited yesterday. Only yes-
terday, yet it seemed years ago. He had noticed a cottage
with a board inviting lodgers, and he went straight from
the station to this cottage. It was all so easy. Rooms for
his wife and himself? Oh, yes, why not? Twenty min-
utes after their arrival they were sitting at tea in the
parlour, looking through the open window, watching the
daughter of the house, aged six, drive three rebellious cows
into a paddock across the white road, and laughing because
two old ladies — Londoners obviously — ^were terrified by
the cows, and ran for shelter to a garden gate. When
they strolled out after tea they met their luggage in a
farm cart, the little cow-driving child sedately established
by the farm labourer's side. She had been sent to the
station to fetch the new lodgers' brand new cane boxes.
She assisted her mother in house, stable, and garden,
Lilian soon made the child's acquaintance. By supper
time they both felt that the village was their home.

Here, then, for a few days they were perfectly, idyllic-
ally happy. The clean air filled their lungs, the kind sun
warmed their veins, the soft nights brought them dream-
less sleep. All that there is in love — ^the peace of love that

280

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 281

passes all understanding — Edward Churchill tasted then.
They were the days which never return, the days for
which so many wait a lifetime in vain.

Once they wandered into the churchyard, and he told
her of the wedding party he had seen there. Presently
they entered the church, and she stood with him at the chan-
cel steps looking at the altar. Then she gave him a little
ring that he knew had been her mother's and asked him to
put it on her finger, where till now she had worn her wed-
ding ring.

"Say it," she whispered. "Say it here, before God, that
it is for ever."

. He said it, and, looking at her, saw that her eyes were
full of tears.

"As long as we both shall live. . . . Say it."

And he said this also.

She whispered more words from the marriage service —
whispered them to herself rather than to him, and then she
went back to the front -pew, knelt, and prayed.

He went out into the churchyard and waited for her.
After a considerable time she came out, her face bright,
with the sunlight on it, as she threaded her way through
the graves to the low wall where he was sitting; and he
saw in her eyes the same look that had been in the eyes
of the bride. She, too, believed that God was in the church
listening to all those words.

They sat on the wall, and, while he remained content
with the present golden hours, she already spoke of the
future — of the time when Robert Vickers should have set
her free and the Church could bless their union.

"Lilian, do such thoughts spoil your happiness ?"

"Oh, no, but I shall be happier when there is no need
for the thoughts. ... It will save difficulties. . . . Suppose
we ever had a child."

"I hope we shall."

"So do I, when we are really married. How long will it
take — at the quickest — for him to divorce me?"

"A long time. A year — I dare say."

"You had some more letters this morning?"

"Yes, from Walsden, from Gardiner, and the others —
they are all writing to me." He got up and stretched him-

^■ ■ I JLM WW ■ i» ■■i H Mii m .M» T I ■■■■II II III u mmmmtMrnmiSSSA

282 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

self. "I am to be excommunicated, put outside the pale,"
and he laughed rather bitterly. "But Walsden will try to
let me down as lightly as he can."

"He did not say what Robert is doing— or what he in-
tends to do?"

"No. We shall hear soon enough from Mr. Robert
Vickers himself. He knows where I am."

Lilian looked frightened.

"How can he have found out?"

"I wrote and told him."

Before leaving London Churchill had written a second
letter to Walsden, a supplement to his disclosure of loss
of faith. He stated his conviction that in rescuing Lilian
from the brute who misused her he had followed tfie only
course open to him. He added an expression of his hope
that Vickers would at once institute proceedings for a
divorce; he should not, of course, ofiFer any defence; he
was ready to pay damages to his last farthing. Naturally,
his paramount desire now was to regularise the position
of Lilian by making her his legal wife.

Walsden, replying, said very simply that he would rather
have suffered the loss of a leg or an arm than that this
thing should have happened. However, he could never
forget all that Churchill had done for the parish; he him-
self felt, and he believed that the authorities would feel,
that as far as possible Churchill's disastrous escapade
should be passed over in silence. For the good of the
many, as well as for the good of the few, scandal should
be avoided. Much harm, perhaps irreparable harm, would
be wrought if the affair became a public scandal.

As Churchill foretold, they had not long to wait before
hearing from Vickers. He wrote asking Churchill to go
to see him at noon on the morrow for the purpose of talk-
ing things over. He said that he had so far done nothing;
he would do nothing until he had seen Churchill.

"But you won't go?"

"Oh, yes, I must go. Ill telegraph at once to say I'll be
with him at twelve.

Liliin was afraid— terrified. She implored Edward to

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 283

refuse the interview. It was not safe. He did not know
the wickedness of the man.

"He doesn't mean to release me," she sobbed. "He
will try to get me back. Don't go near him — ^never see him
again."

But Edward was determined to keep the appointment.
She could not dissuade him, and after a while she ceased
to try. She insisted, however, on going to London with
him next day, and, pale and trembling, was left to wait
for him at King's Cross Station.

"How long do you think you will be ?"

"Three hours — at the outside."

He told her to fill in the time with a little more shopping,
and then meet him in the Station Refreshment Room.
"Wait for me there — if I am late. Get something to eat.
I'm sure to be back by two o'clock."

He did not return. She waited for him, but he did not
come at two o'clock or three o'clock. The cruel hours
passed, and still he did not come. Then, in an agony of
dread, but with love conquering all fear for herself, she
set out towards the east, towards her husband's house.

Edward Churchill, as he approached the house, had
noticed some men of the dock-labourer class standing idly
in the street; a knot of them were in the passage by the
hoarding, and one moved away from Vickers's front door
as he drew near. It was a little before noon. The door
stood open, and Vickers himself was on the threshold of
the inner room.

"Come in here. You're up to time — so much the better."

The blinds were drawn, and Vickers seated himself at
the table with his back towards the windows, so that one
could scarcely see his hated face. Edward guessed that
the man was trying to hide the traces of the punishment
he had received, and he attributed the change in the man's
voice — ^a grumbling mufHed tone — to the swollen state of
his injured lips. He had moved slowly and heavily, as if
still very stiff.

"Now," he said, "you'll be good enough to hear my
views, and then you can go— the sooner, the better I shall
be pleased. First, about my wife "

.JOi

284 THE HIRROR AND THE LAME

"She's my wife now, Vickers.**

"Oh, no, my friend — ^and what's more, she never will be
your wife." In spite of the semi-darkness of the room, or
as one grew more accustomed to it, one could now see the
vindictive passion of the man's whole aspect. He spoke
slowly, endeavouring to give each word its full weight, as
though reciting words that he had prepared and learnt
beforehand.

"I have not charged you for assault in a police court,
but you shall pay me for all. I shan't go for divorce — as
your late parson-friends advise me. She is my wife, and
I'll have her back. Yes, whether you like it or not, that's
how it's going to be. Tell her so from me, and lay your
own plans accordingly. . . . That's what I've had you
here to tell you."

"Vickers, you'll change your mind."

"Never."

"Yes, youll think things over, and come to a wiser
frame of mind. If you like, I'll own I have wronged you
to this extent, that "

"Oh, how condescending — ^how like a parson I But I
thought you had given up the preaching game."

"I say, I own I have robbed you of your wife. You
didn't value her. She didn't love you. You didn't care
for her. You had forfeited all claim upon her. Then
why try to make her sufiFer? She, at any rate, is not to
blame for "

"I have told you what I mean to do and what I don't
mean to do. That's all. You can go."

"Very well," said Churchill. "But I am sure 3rou will
change your mind. You are sore and angry now. Just
think it out quietly. It's for your own comfort as well
as ours. Give us freedom and take freedom yourself.
You'll easily get another wife to bully and knock about
again."

"Have you finished?"

"Yes. I have finished with you. But remember my
advice. And remember this too. If you dare to molest
her, if you ever venture to interfere with her in the very
slightest degree, I'm ready and eager to protect her."

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 285

He had come close and he stood looking down at Vidc-
ersy who sat quite still looking up at him.

"All right," said Vickers. Vvt listened to you patientiy.
But when all's said and done, I'll have her bade. Yes,
m have her back in my own way, at my own time."

Churchill went out into the sunlight from the darkened
room ; and Vickers, following him to the front door, stood
there, to watch his visitor till he disappeared round the
comer of the narrow side street, and then to listen. He
saw no more; but in a moment confused shoutings told
him that the trap he had laid was working propeHy.
Churchill had fallen into the hands of the Union men,
who might be trusted to avenge the outraged honour of
their secretary.

There were eighteen or twenty of them, and they fell
upon the victim with savage fury, using sticks and bars,
fists and feet, all together, in the best style ; giving him no
shadow of a chance ; almost killing him, when once they got
him down, kicking him like a football. It was all over in
a minute. Then some one took alarm, some one thou^t
he heard a whistle, a cry arose that the police were coming;
and the men ran tliis way, that way, through the passages,
along the streets. One heard their footsteps; then the
whole place was empty and silent.

Robert Vickers went back into his house and dosed the
door behind him.

When after a little while two policemen came through
the passage by the hoarding, they found Churchill lying
on his back, bleeding, insensible, battered, with outstretched
arms like St. Stephen or another of the martyrs. He was
picked up, put upon a wheeled stretcher, and taken to the
small hospital at Poplar — 2l bad case, three ribs and one
forearm broken, dreadful head wounds — a really bad case,
the doctors said. Horrible to see, even when the doctors
and nurses had set' him, trussed him, bound him, plastered
him — a bundle picked up from the battle^fidd, with faint
life still showing.

Lilian found him in the evening, and was allowed to
remain at the hospital all through the night.

Before reaching her husband's house she had heard from

286

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

people in the neighbourhood of ''the accident/' and did not
for a moment doubt who was its victim. A tall, nicely
dressed gentleman, they said, had been "done in" and
taken away on an ambulance, but no one could say to what
hospital. "Prob'ly the London. . . . Yes, you may be
sure, the London. . . . Anyways try the London fust"
From the London she was sent to St. Catherine's, and then
back to Poplar.

XXXVII

•

He was between life and death for a fortnight; then it
was said that he would certainly recover, and soon he was
making good progress. But the progress seemed very
slow.

This time was most dreadful for Lilian. Thrown on
her own resources and almost penniless, she maintained
herself and paid the rent of a wretched room near the
hospital by working as a charwoman, sempstress, any-
thing. In a moment she had dropped to the level of the
casual labourer. At the hospital people were kind to her,
but they were unable to help her, and it was painfully
obvious that they did not approve of her. Outside in the
open streets she went in deadly apprehension. Her hus-
band lay in wait for her, stopped her and harangued her.
He came to the hospital itself and gave the authorities his
version of her history, posed as the injured but magnani-
mous husband, willing still to forgive and take her back to
the desolated home. He had no fear now of her pro-
tector.

Gently but firmly the good folk tackled her. They tried
to persuade her to return to the man she had wronged.
Now was the time, while her lover lay unconscious; or
now when he had been pronounced as out of immediate
danger. They could all detect the hand of God visibly
working. It was a judgment on Edward Churchill— and
on her too.

Each time that she went to Edward's bedside she ran
the gauntlet of such advice and admonition.

The hospital nurses were divided in opinion as to
whether she ought or ought not to adopt the advice, and
they enjoyed discussion of the question either with her or
merely among themselves; but most of them were agreed
that it would be a good thing for their patient if she could
be definitely shaken off before he got upon his legs again.

'1 can't see anything in her to justify making such a
fuss about."

287

288 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"You don't think her pretty? No, on the whole, I
don't think I do either. She's what you'd call an elegant
woman, if she was properly dressed; but she's too pasty-
faced for my fancy."

This criticism was offered by a fine, bouncing, full-
blooded nurse.

"But she's a good plucked one," said another nurse. "Yes,
I do give her that credit. She hasn't played the fine lady.
Sister says she works all day at the boot place in Green
Street."

Edward did not know till later of the ordeal through
which she had passed; but, gradually gaining strength, he
began to understand some of her difficulties with regard to
money, and soon was able to remove them. He was the
proud possessor of an income of two pounds a week, but
he had by recent expenditure forestalled this. His bank-
ing account was overdrawn. Nevertheless, with Lilian's
aid, he sent a letter to the Bank asking to be allowed to
overdraw a little more; and the Bank said. Yes, a very
little more. He also sent a letter to his mother, explaining
that he was rather ill, and appealing for a loan of a hun-
dred pounds.

Mrs. Churchill sent him fifty pounds, with apologies for
only going half way to meet his wishes, but life at Brigh-
ton was not cheap, and she had so many unexpected claims.
She herself was not in very good health, and she hoped
that her "ever dear Edward" would soon be better.

Anyhow the money difficulty was at an end. Lilian need
work no more at the boot place; she could take some of
her wardrobe out of pawn, and sit by his bedside as long
as the nurses would allow her. And there would be suffi-
cient funds to take them to the seaside for his convales-
cence, before they started life again in earnest.

When the patient grew stronger the good folk tackled
him in his turn, and, as his state improved, their pressure
became heavier and heavier.

He must not dream of living with her again. If her
husband refused to set her free, he must renounce all com-
panionship with her. If the husband decided to divorce
her, then he must wait until the decree was made absolute.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 289

He could not possibly intend to set up housekeeping with
another man's wife.

"I consider her as my wife," he said feebly. "She is my
wife."

"How can you say that ?"

"I believe it. It is common sense."

"She is not your wife in the eyes of God."

"She is in the eyes of all sensible people."

"Will you read a little book I have brought for you?
See, I am leaving it here within reach. Will you, later on,
just stretch out your hand, open the book, and read it
quietly?"

"I can't promise."

"Oh, do promise. Promise me at least to glance through
it. I am sure it will arrest your attention."

"All right. Til try."

"Thank you. Now I must be going. But 111 come back
again. Thursday is my regular day."

It was terrible to him to be thus tackled by a large strange
lady — an opulent middle-aged lady, an influential supporter
and regular visitor of the hospital. He who had taught
and then renounced teaching now lay at the mercy of any
of the most preposterous of teachers.

Walsden had hoped that scandal might be avoided, but,
alas, the scandal was rampant. Everybody here knew
everything about it. It was a subject for debate upstairs,
downstairs, in the wash-house ana the yard. Their poor
little drama was explained and published to all-comers.
They themselves had become public property; the whole
ward owned them; each bed and each bed's visitors had
the right to look at them, think about them, talk about
them. They would have been more to themselves if they
had camped on the platform of a big London terminus.
Very irksome to an innately, a shrinkingly modest woman
and a high-spirited but woefully sick man.

Yet everybody was kind to them, everybody meant to be
kind. Mr. and Mrs. Walsden came often to see him; Mr.
and Mrs. Verschoyle came ; Gardiner and Nape came alter-
nately. They brought him sad smiles, friendly pats on the
shoulder, gentle squeezes of the hand; they brought him

290 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

flowers, and biscuits and fruit till the hospital forbade this
extra diet; they brought him news of the old parish, illus-
trated papers, and a miniature chess board — above all else,
they brought him counsel, spoken and implied. They were
all so kind, but they nearly killed him with their kindness.

Representatives of the police often came to see him. The
police had the whole tale at their fingers' ends, and they
said they were almost ready to pounce on the miscreants
who had attacked him, if only he would assist them prop-
erly. They and his other friends were most anxious that
these men should be punished.

But he would not help by supplying information which
might be of use in fixing the guilt on the right men. He
said, ''No. It was one man really. That is, I gave one
man a thrashing, and he got twenty men to thrash me.
Well, we are quits now. I am content to leave it at that."

The police — and especially an inspector who had known
and liked Churchill for three years — were distressed by
this attitude of mind. Crime is crime, and it is against the
public interest that criminals should go unpunished. They
thought that Churchill should sacrifice any fantastic pri-
vate inclinations and help them to get ahead with their busi-
ness. They promised to bring Vickers to book when they
had polished off his gang of bravoes.

Vickers — as the inspector reported — ^was carrying things
with a high hand. He boldly asserted that he knew noth-
ing whatever about the assault. Mr. Churchill left his
house, and he shut the door and saw no more. He did not
pretend to be sorry — far from it; he said he wished the
assailants had killed Mr. Churchill; but it was absurd to
suggest that they had been egged on by him, or to attempt
to create any link between them and him. They did not
belong to his union; they were in no way connected with
his union. They were just a lot of "rough customers,"
who no doubt went for Churchill in order to snatch his
watch or purse, but were startled before they could take
tht booty. "Rubbish/* ssud Vickers truculently, in reply
to police innuendoes.

]But the inspector, for his part, said he knew such things
about the shady antecedents of Vickers that he could bring
the gcDtleman up with a romid turn at any minute.

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 291

'Teave it alone," Churchill repeated wearily.

However, the disappointed police inspector proved a use-
ful friend eventually. A month and a half had passed, it
was towards the end of July, when a sadly cruel scene was
enacted in the ward.

One afternoon Vickers came to the hospital and de-
manded an interview with his wife. He would take no
refusal ; he knew that his wife was in the building, for he
had followed her and seen her enter it; he had come to
claim her once for all and to take her away with him.
Perhaps he had been drinking, but, at any rate, he was
loud of voice and resolute of air, somewhat scaring the ma-
tron, and only consenting to remain in a waiting-room
for five minutes, during which time his wife must be sent
down to him.

Upstairs in the ward there were several visitors, and
when Lilian was beckoned away from Churchill's bed two
or three of them took her in hand, urged her to go at once
to her husband and listen patiently to his appeal. It was,
of course, her true duty to depart with him, wherever he
might wish to lead her; but it would be downright wick-
edness to decline to see him.

She, poor soul, worn out and overwrought, wept, wrung
her hands, begged them to get rid of Vickers by any means
and prevent Edward from knowing that he had come. Then
from below came suddenly the sound of the brute's voice.
Five minutes had elapsed, and he was stormin|^ and blus-
tering to a couple of doctors. And Lilian, temiied, losing
her head, ran back to Edward, flung herself down at the
bedside, imploring all to protect her.

"Don't take me from him. For God's sake have pity and
let me stay with him."

Edward Churchill struggled up in his bed, burst a
bandage, and the blood gushed forth from his wounds.

This episode was the climax of the scandal. It caused
a stoppage of work in the hospital for quite half an hour;
the staircase and the hall were full of excited talk long
after the doctors i.ad persuaded Mr. Vickers to go. **0h,
he if a beast. . . . No, I don't blame her now. . . •
Yes, she's right to stick to the other, now she's got him."
The adverse nurses changed their opinion after a ^Ums^si^

292 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

of the deserted husband, and henceforth had more sym-
pathetic thoughts for Lilian.

After this a strong, kind doctor interposed his authority,
and made the case his own. He obliterated the good folk
altogether, telling them in effect : "I cannot discuss moral-
ity or conventions. The woman is necessary for the case.
I cannot answer for the recovery of my patient if he is
worried by the absence of the woman."

He talked, too, to Edward Qiurchill, advising him not
to be foolish, but to turn the police on to the husband.
''They'll draw his teeth or muzzle him somehow.'*

So the inspector was sent for, and the three of them
debated the matter. The inspector was delighted. He
would see the man, frighten him, and offer him a bargain.
He would say, unofficially, "We have a grand old rod in
pickle for you, and we wiU use it. We will go for you if
you give us any more of your nonsense. But if youll let
us alone, we'll let you alone. You have your remedy in
the Divorce Court, and if you're sensible you'll take your
remedy."

Churchill did not like it, but he was too weak to oppose
it, and the doctor and the inspector both said it was abso^
lutely quite all right

The inspector was successful. Vickers swore vengeance
still, but he attempted no further molestation. Week after
wedc slipped by, and there was something like comfort at
the sick bed. Lilian sat there, holding her loved one's hand
in hers, and often they talked hopefully of the future.

The world was wide and open before them. All this
fuss and talk might be considered as purely local; outside
the slightly larger circle of life touched by the small circle
of St. Bede's parish, nobody had heard of their adventures
or would care twopence how the adventures ended.
Edward Churchill, an obscure priest, had been inhibited,
unfrocked, turned out of the Church, however unflatter-
ingly the fact might be described. But the fact itself was
without importance, so completely devoid of general in-
terest that it would not justify a small t)rpe paragraph in
an evening paper. Truly, as Lilian said so hopefully, they
could make a fresh start and drop all the past behind them.

Nevertheless, probably because his weakness induced

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 293

depression of spirits, he had bitter thoughts sometimes in
regard to their present position and the failure that he had
made of his Ufe. His friends had all wanted to let him
down lightly. This he understood, and too plainly he
could put himself at their point of view. Deprived of the
help of palliative phrases, he was just a clergyman who had
disgraced himself and brought disgrace on those connected
with him by chucking everything and running oflf with an-
other man's wife. And in consequence he had been kicked
out by the ruling body of his profession. What's the good
of talking about high aims when a solicitor gets struck off
the rolls, a soldier forfeits his commission, or a tavern-
keeper has his license taken away? He thought with great
bitterness that no one could be expected ever properiy to
comprehend how and why he had reached this catastrophe.
Even those who loved him best must lose all trust in him.
The harm of his example would not only render more
difficult the work of Walsden on the religious side, it had
fatally shown to those lads of the brigade and the dub
how a strong man can give up the struggle and abandon
all self-control. Better, far better, that they had never
seen his face.

At these times he felt a great remorse. But his love for
Lilian, deeper and purer now than it had ever been, came
as a guiding and sustaining thought. For the rest of life,
here was his task : to cherish Lilian. Yet here, too, what
a hideous failure I Instead of rescuing her and giving her
peace, he had dragged her down into the mud with him.
Instead of guarding her, he was a charge upon her — ^weak,
crippled, helpless.

Indeed he was wretchedly weak. When they told him
that he might get out of bed, he could not stand without
assistance. They had said he would be able to go away
before the August Bank holiday; but August was nearly
over, and still he could scarcely walk the length of the
ward without fainting. He hobbled with a stick, his arm
remained slung in its cradle, he was the wreck of a man.
Nevertheless his own particular nurse seemed well pleased
with him. "See," she said proudly, after he had been
shaved and trimmed by the hospital hair-dresser, "see for
yourself how nicely we have patched yoM u^, "Sl^>aL -^twc^x.

294 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

a bit disfigured, and I think we deserve a lot of credit
. . . Now look at yourself in the glass."

He sat on the edge of the bed, supporting the glass on
his knees, and studied the reflection of his face. It seemed
to him to be the face of another man.

Surely it had undergone a startling change. Surely he
used not to have this face. There was a contemptuous ex-
pression about the lips, a hardness of outlook, almost a
dare-devil air — ^reminding him of types among the costers,
the something aggressive or dangerous that tells one, "It is
all right while things go smoothly with this fellow; but if
trouble comes he is the sort to turn nasty, to go for people
with his fists or with worse weapons if available" — ^an
untrustworthy look.

All this was in his imagination only. To those who had
known him in the past he was just the same. And people
who had never seen him till recently found no fault with
him. The nurses talked of his smile, and would have
trusted him to any extent His own nurse described him
as a beautiful man. She asked him for his photograph,
and was rather huffed when he said he did not possess
one, and could not promise to be photographed at the first
opportunity.

"I shall think it very mean of you if you don't. I shall
ask your — ^your friend — Mrs. Qiurchill that is to be — to get
you taken down at Sidmouth."

His friend was going to take him to Devonshire — the
country that she loved — as soon as she could move him.
She made all arrangements, she did ever3rthing for him,
she was his prop and his guide. She came to him this
evening, and he asked her if she thought he was different
from what he used to be.

''No, of course not. What makes you ask such a ques-
tion?"

"I don't know," and he laughed. "Perhaps it is because
I have been excommunicated. It's absurd, but I feel like
the Jackdaw of Rheims."

She winced and bowed her head. Each time that he*
spoke flippantly of the Church he caused her pain. She
was ineradicably religious and her religion remained quite

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 295

unchanged; all the things that he had abandoned were to
her as sacred as ever.

Once or twice, lying awake at night, he tried to think of
the Mirror and the I^mp.

Yes, they were there still, very faint and pale, because
of his weakness, but still unshaken, undisturbed. The lamp
is one's innermost self, and the mirror is one's mind. The
lamp is not the soul, although you may call it that if you
please. There is no immortal individual soul; but there is
something implanted, imperishable, in one's self of selfs,
and it has power to light the mirror and show one what
is fair or foul.

The Mirror and the Lamp ; in the wreck of all else they
stood as the one thing firm, indestructible— at once symbol
and reality.

XXXVIII

Tbey left London on a glorious September day. It was
80 hot in the crowded third-class carriage of the Exeter
train that Edward Churchill nearly fainted; and a clergy-
man, who had been diligently reading a sixpenny novel and
chudding at all the funny passages, saw his distress and
made him change seats.

"Yes, I insist. Take my place. Youll be more comfort-
able in the comer. . . . Your husband will get some air
here."

And unobtrusively the clergyman played the part of the
good Samaritan, opening an old leather bag and fishing out
a flask of brandy.

"Just take a nip of this. . • . There."

Then he resumed his novel, glancing at Edward from
time to time to see if he was all right, showing a kindly
solicitude. He talked to both of them at intervals, in a
friendly, pleasant way, asking questions, but without any
impertment curiosity, and always breaking off the conver-
sation suddenly and burying himself in the novel.

"Forgive me — I shall fatigue you with my chatter."

Before the journey was over he had asked if he might
come to see them at Sidmouth. He said that he lived at a
place not very far away. "I'll give you my address. My
name is Gates — ^AUan Gates. I haven't a visiting card, but
I'll write it down;" and he scribbled his address on one
of the advertisement pages at the back of the novel, and
was about to tear out the page. But then he checked his
hand and offered the whole book to Edward.

"I want you to read this. It will amuse you. It is
exceedingly clever."

Edward said he could not think of thus robbing Mr.
Gates of the amusement that he had provided for himself.

"No, I beg of you. I insist I am near the end — ^well,
sufficiently near to guess how it all works out;" and he
gently laid the book on Lilian's lap. "Don't let your hus-

296

THE MIRROR AND: THE LAMP 297

band be obstinate. You may like to read it aloud to him

of an eveniHg."

"Thank you," said Churchill, "you are very kind."
And indeed he thought that an unusually kind action had

been performed. It was, as he felt quite sure, a dreadfully

bad novel, but Mr. Gates believed it to be one of the best

novels ever written.

They were fortunate in having secured cheap and com-
fortable rooms near the sea-front, and Lilian s belief in
the healing property of her native air was justified by the
rapid progress made by the invalid. Soon now he would
be quite well. He could already dispense with the arm
sling, he walked farther and farther every day ; but his joy
was to lounge about the beach, to loll upon soft banks of
sand and watch the sea-gulls swim above the lazily break-
ing waves, observe the sunlight on their wings, and think
and dream. His eyes brightened always at sight of his
dear companion as she came towards him among the boats
and nets, with her scarf blowing loose — ^looking such a
graceful slender rirl, carrying herself so easily and freely.
She had more colour in her cheeks now ; she seemed quite
happy.

Allan Gates had come to see them two or three times,
and they both liked him. He was so cheerful and friendly.
He asked Edward what he proposed to do with himself
when his cure was complete.

"Well, I must look out for work."

"I wonder what sort of work.'*

"I scarcely know myself. Anything to turn an honest
penny."

They were drawing slowly but steadily towards the end
of their fifty pounds; the blue serge suit began to look
shabby; life must soon be attacked again. When they
talked of their future plans they foresaw some worry and
annoyance.

In this connection Lilian had tentatively suggested that
he should change his name ; but he at once refused to adopt
such a suggestion. It was not to be thought of for a
moment.

"What — ^take an alias, as though we were criminals? It

298 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

would be to admit that we had done wrong. And we have
done no wrong."

"No," she said sadly ; "but we can't hope that the world
will ever take that view."

And she pleaded that their new start should be truly a
fair start, with no handicap of preconceived prejudice to
contend against, no weight of suspicion for her to carry.
"If people find out, well, we can't help it; but don't tdl
them before hand. It's not fair to me. I can't face other
women if they know."

"Very well," he said, "If you wish it — ^but it will be
difficult."

He did not like the idea of deception; but truly when
he pondered it there seemed to be no alternative. He could
not go about the world announcing that they were not a
legally married couple. He must speak of her as his wife,
because he considered her his wife. People could be left
to find out the truth for themselves. But he would utter
no lies.

She made him promise also that he would not inform
people that he had been inhibited. No one need know that
he had been in the Church and had left it

"But Lilian — ^for instance — ^Allan Gates I Am I to say
nothing to him?"

"No, why should you ?"

"I — ^I feel a great attraction to him. Without explicit
words, he is offering us his friendship. I think he is a
friend that I should value."

"If he became a friend — if you were forced to tell him
anything say that it is our secret. He would respect the
secret."

"Yes, but about religion. I couldn't pretend with him."

"There will be no need. He hasn't talked about religion,
has he?"

"No, not yet."

Allan Gates was in charge of a church at Lipsford Val-
ley, a village over the hills ten miles away, where the cloth
miUs, cottages, the church, and everything else belonged
to a most respectable family of the name of Bumage. He
had a charming parsonage with a nice garden, "And I love
it/' he said, rubbing his hands together. "I am too fond of

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 299

it — ^much fonder than I ought to be." He told them all
about himself. He was a bachelor, alone in the world
For a long time he had been curate at a big northern town,
and he might have obtained preferment, but he possessed
no ambition. "Lipsford is just a backwater. Life leads
nowhere there. Perhaps I am wrong to be so contented."

He used to come to Sidmouth sometimes by train, and
then he wore the orthodox black; and sometimes on his
bicycle, in which case he wore grey flannels and a straw
hat: but whether dressed as a priest or a tourist, he was
looked out for by Churchill and welcomed with pleasure.
He came often.

He was about forty years of age, a fairly tall man, strong
and wiry; with a healthy olive complexion, hard features,
and a lowish forehead which seemed high because of his
baldness. He had a short stubby beard that had been black
and was now turning grey; his eyebrows were thick and
bushy, almost meeting over brownish eyes — ^not opaquely
brown eyes, but of a speckled colour, with plenty of light
in them. His voice was hearty, full of tone, most pleasant v
to the ear.

To Churchill, looking deeper than the surface aspect, he
seemed to be the typical perfect Christian; tolerant, brave
and cheerful; simple and happy of mind; sorry for and
anxious to alleviate the suffering in the world, but quite
sure of the good things waiting for everybody in heaven.

He invited Lilian and Edward to visit him at Lipsford
Valley, and after considerable persuasion they SLgreed to
go. They both enjoyed their outing. Lilian, especially, fell
in love with the place, saying it was so restful, so little
spoilt by modem innovation, so truly Devonian.

The manufacturing settlement lay along the edge of a
stream about a mile further down the valley than the
ancient village, which they had passed coming from the
station, and, in spite of its purely utilitarian character, it
did not mar the natural beauty of the landscape. Even the
cloth mills themselves, built of fair stone, and of no great
height, were not unsightly; around them clustered many
buildings of irregular shape, while here and there a farm-
house had been converted to industrial purposes, and its
gables and ridged bams rose above the lower roofs that

300 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

closed it in. Some of the work-people's cottages were
ranged in cliff terraces on the abrupt hillside and had a
most picturesque effect. The dwellings of overseers,
managers, and so forth, the superiors of the small com-
munity, stood on the roadside beyond Allan Gates's church
and parsonage, a tributary of the stream running in front
of them, with little stone bridges at the garden gates.
Across the main stream and a flat space of rich meadows,
the ground on the other side of the valley sloped gently up-
ward, and here was the principal seat of the Bumage fam-
ily, a white Georgian house with a portico, and the woods
and hills behind it to keep it snug and warm. It looked at
once grand and peaceful in the mellow sunlight. Autumn
had not yet touched the foliage of the beech woods ; cotton
gardens were full of flowers ; the fruit still hung on orchard
trees; the smoke from peat fires seemed to mingle in the
soft air with the perfume of newly-turned earth and the
sound of bells calling the work-'people to their easy labour.

Lilian, looking backward from the porch of the par-
sonage, sighed. It was all so pretty, so very different from
Poplar and Barking.

After luncheon their host showed them with innocent
pride the amenities and conveniences of his house — the
**book-room," which one had to search carefully before one
could discover any books, the tiny kitchen, the pantry, the
cupboards where he kept gardening implements, fishing-
rods, and his big pair of foul-weather boots.

"Yes, very convenient, isn't it ?" And he repeated some-
thing that he hjd said before. "My conscience often
pricks me. Perhaps I ought not to be so contented."

"Anybody would be contented here," said Lilian.

Time did not permit of their making further explora-
tions, but on their way back to the railway station they had
the privilege of seeing old Mrs. Bumage drive past in her
fine carriage, and they met another of the family, Mr.
Gordon Bumage, on foot. Gates introduced them to him,
and they stood talking for two or three minutes.

He told Edward that his great-great-grandfather used
to take the cloth in bales on pack animals to the market at
Exeter, and the track over the hills was called "Pack walk"
to this day. He was obviously gratified when Lilian, shyly

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 301

making conversation, said that Devonshire had always been
her favourite county.

One afternoon, soon after this visit, as Churchill and
Gates sat on the Sidmouth beach together, Gates gave a full
and minute account of all that had not been inspected or de-
scribed at Lipsford Valley. Churchill loved to hear him
talk. Although neither dever nor intellectual, he never
bored one. Interested himself in all he spoke of, he made
it interesting to others. So Churchill listened attentively
to long character sketches of old Mrs. Bumage, the grand
chieftain of the clan; of Miss Adela, her great-niece; as
well as of Mr. Gordon Bumage and Mr. Edrick Bumage,
who were managing directors of the three cloth mills. As
Mr. Gordon had said, the whole place had belonged to the
family for generations. In a sense it was a unique indus-
trial community. All the work-people were very well
cared for. They had the use of baths, libraries, recreation
rooms; there was an excellent institute; there was even a
scheme of secondary education with courses of lectures,
and so on — ^all mn by the family. "They do everything,"
said Gates. "Mr. Edrick always speaks of us as a re-
public, but, between you and me, we are really an absolute
monarchy. But it is a beneficent rule. There is nothing
to rub one the wrong way — no tyranny of any sort"

Edward sat with his back against the stem of a boat,
his hands clasped behind his neck, watching the animated
face of the speaker, listening to the kind friendly voice, en-
joying every trivial detail of the discourse, but not in the
least guessing its drift.

"Our Institute has not been too successful of late. We
had a person who looked after it — ^very badly. Now I am
glacl to say he has gone. We want an altogether superior
class of man who could attend to the library also, arrange
things instead of waiting to be told what to do. What we
want — ^if we could only get them — is a really well-educated
couple — ^the wife to supervise various small matters and
perhaps do something in the music line. Our music has
been a weak point," and he paused, smiled, and scratched
his beard.

"We are asking for a lot, aren't we? Mr. Gordon Bur-
nage offers as mmuneration only thirty shillings a. ni^rifc —

302 THE MIRROR AN1> THE LAMP

for the two— the man and his wfe. It is very little. But
there is the cottage-— quite a nice cottage, with fuel and
light — a furnished cottage. Living, too, is cheap. How
does it sound ?** and he teamed at Edward. "For a man of
your gifts and power, it is ridiculous; but still, if you are
at a loose end, will you come and give us a trial?'*

"Gates, you — ^you quite overwhelm me. But I fear it is
impossible."

"Why? You can't guess how I want you to come. Self-
ishly — ^because it will mean so much to me. Mr. Gordon
Bumage instructs me to make you the offer definitely — to
come and see how you get on;" and Allan Gates pleaded
strenuously in favour of the peaceful, happy life of his
backwater. "It will suit you — for a time, at any rate, till
you find something better. Your wife liked the look of it.
I'm sure your wife would like to come."

"Yes," said Churchill, "Lilian would like it I, too. But
I don't know if I have the right to accept. There are things
about me — about both of us — ^tha^ you don't know." He
was looking out across the water, at the sails of a distant
ship that glittered whitely in the haze where sky and sun
melted into one. "I should warn you — ^I must tell you
that I am not a believer." He unclasped his hands, shifted
his position, and played with the sand, picking up as much
of it as one hand would hold and letting it drift through
his fingers. "I don't believe."

"You don't believe?" said Allan Gates, without the
slightest surprise in his tone, smiling, beaming in friendli-
ness.

"No, I used to. But now I don't"

"Well, what can one say ? Don't let's talk about it," and
Gates stretched himself, as though about to get up. Then
he behaved in a manner that moved Churchill strangely. "I
don't mind, if you don't mind." He had taken Churchill's
hand, and he pressed it affectionately. "Leave it all as it is.
You once believed. You have ceased to believe. But you
will believe again."

And Edward Churchill, looking at him, saw his face all
lit up with love, and his eyes soft and glowing; and he
thought, '^This man is my brother**
Th^ both rose to their feet and walked away together

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 303

along the water's edge, Churchill feeling that, though quite
unworthy, he had gained something of great value. He
thought, ''Except for Lilian, who means and is the uni-
verse, this is the grandest thing that has come to me."

They walked for a little way without speaking, and it
was Churchill who broke the silence of happy thought.

"You don't understand. I could not teach the orthodox
faith even by implication.''

"That doesn't matter, if you don't want to teach in-
fidelity."

"No, on my honour."

"Then that's all right. Besides, you won't be required
to teach."

"But still you don't understand. For certain reasons,
because of things that have happened, I feel myself an out-
cast. I am rejected now by everybody;" and he quoted
the Psalm, " *I became a reproof among all mine enemies,
but especially among my neighbours; and they of mine
acquaintance were afraid of me.' "

"Look!" said Allan Gates, pointing to the play of light
and shadow on the water. "Small clouds in the sunshine —
how quickly they pass, how soon all is bright again I Your
trouble, whatever it has been, will pass away."

"Allan, why are you so good to me? Why should you
care for me?"

"I don't know. Perhaps because I am a very lonely man
— ^perhaps just because I took to you at first sight. But I
have never cared for anybody as much as I do for you."

"I am not worthy. I don't trust myself. I may repay
you badly."

"I'll run the risk," said Allan Gates. "If you don't
trust yourself, / trust you."

XXXIX

There were perhaps twelve hundred hands, men and
women, boys and girls, employed at the mills, and truly
they had no cause to complain of the conditions under
which they worked. They were well nourished, well clad;
they received a sufficient wage. They dwelt perhaps in the
midst of an artificial prosperity; for it seemed doubtful if
the cloth-making was any longer an enterprise that could be
justified on strict business principles. But the Bumages,
having amassed fortune by making cloth, having made
cloth for so long a period, went on making it instinctively,
or as almost a pious family custom. Their mills and the
small social domain gave occupation to their minds, filled
their lives with a wholesome, orderly routine of easy eflFort
and readily observable result. They had fought hard in
keeping out Board Schools, they needed no Government
aid, they liked to do everything themselves, and in their
own way.

If anybody was not pleased with their way» he had liis
alternative. He need not stay in Lipsford Valley. Mr.
Edrick Bumage would quickly suggest change of scene to
young fellows who seemed disposed to cause trouble by
looking discontented, by running after the girls, or by air-
ing foolish ideas at the works. ''My lad, don't you think
you are wasted here? A fine strong young man like you
would be useful in her Majesty's forces;" and he spared
no pains in putting him into uniform — ^the Navy and Army
still being considered as an extremely useful institution
for getting rid of undesirables. Heaven knows they cost
enough: it was a pity if one could never find a use for
them. He also in the kindest manner eliminated Non-
conformists, although a great stickler for liberty of con-
science and by no means a bigoted Churchman ; but he used
to say, "We happen always to have been Church of Eng-
land, and we are so small a society that we cannot be happy
unless of one mind." In all this he was actuated by hon-
estly good motives.

304

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 305

The rule was parental, in certain respects almost grand-
motherly. Water-troughs, drinking-fountains, the dock-
tower, even the benches on the paths beneath the trees, bore
tablets saying that they were presented by James Hacking
Bumage, Esq., or erected to the memory of Emily Kate
Burnage, as the case might be; and little notice boards
primly recommended passers-by to "Do as you would be
done by. Why destroy what has been arranged for the
pleasure of others as well as yourself?" "Hease close this
gate," said one side of a board. "Thank you," said the
other side of the board — a nasty little ironical d^'g, this
"Thank you," if you had left the gate open. Nothing was
too small to receive attention, if a supervising eye could
suggest improvements likely to conduce to the common wel-
fare. Mr. Gordon Bumage, for instance, personally vis-
ited dust-bins and back premises, accompanied by a sort
of village bailiff, going his round like a commanding officer
doing billets.

He complimented Lilian on the state of her dust-bin
when he paid his first visit to the Churchills' cottage. "That
is right — ^the lid on. It is so important to keep the lids
on. . . . If you only knew how often I say that, and
how little heed is pven to my words!"

He offered domestic hints about meat safes and the
preservation of food, and praised the curtains that Lilian
had hung in the windows of the living-room. "May I come
in? Thank you. How neat and nice everything is. And
your garden, too — ^very tidy. It is well to be careful to
see that the culvert does not get choked with dead leaves
or vegetable matter," and he pointed through the window
to the little bridge from the road. "Now have you all that
you require in the way of furniture? Don't scruple to ask
for anything you want. We are always anxious to make
every one comfortable."

As newcomers the Qiurchills were ceremoniously bid-
den one Sunday afternoon to see the glasshouses and drink
tea at the Bumage mansion, and on their arrival they
were plunged immediately into a large family gathering.
The wives of Mr. Gordon and Mr. Exlrick Bumage had
come from their respective houses; there was Miss Adela
Burnage, a pretty girl of twenty; and outside the vivsadaw^

306 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

of the drawing-room one saw girls and boys of various
ages playing on the terrace with their governess. These
were the children of a Bumage who had become a bar-
rister in London — sl talented young man who had turned
his back on cloth and caused grief thereby, but had now
been forgiven. A large, silent man and two small, soberly
dressed women were probably not blood relations; they
had merely joined the party for luncheon, but they pos-
sessed solid interest in the works; they had always be-
longed to the place, and might be counted Bumages by
adoption. There was also a tall languishing lady of thirty,
a Bumage by birth, who, one somehow gathered, had been
unhappy in her marriage and had returned to the family.
She had airs and graces and intense glances, and was differ-
ent from all the others. People addressed her as "Daphne"
or "Mrs. William," and when everybody was passing through
the dining-room — an impressive chamber with fluted coltmms
and family portraits — on their way to the hothouses,
Churchill heard her g^ve a loud sigh. In the hall she handed
him a purple velvet cloak with an ermine collar, and when
he had assisted her to drape herself in the garment she
smiled and half closed her large dark eyes, but, unlike the
notice-boards, did not say "Thank yoii."

Mrs. Burnage, senior, headed the procession. She was a
resolute, white-haired, ruddy-cheeked old lady, and all
followed her as their natural chieftain and leader. On the
terrace she called for her scissors, and immediately the
children flocked round her, asking if she intended to cut a
nosegay.

"Yes, I will cut a nosegay."

And a chorus took up her words. "Aunt Lucy is going to
cut a nosegay. . . . Yes, of course, dear. Auntie will cut a
nosegay." It appeared to be a sort of rite, this cutting of a
nosegay, understood by all.

"Aimtie, may I help you?" asked a little boy.

"No," said the old lady, "Mrs. Churchill will help me ;"
and she kept Lilian at her side, as they entered the range of
glasshouses and slowly passed through them, sometimes
telling the visitor which flower to gather, sometimes snipping
off the flowers herself.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 307

"There, my dear. That sprig of verbena, if you please.
Can you reach it? . . . Yes, that will do nicely."

In one of the houses Churchill found himself again close to
the tall, ermine-clad Daphne, and she startled him by speak-
ing to him while she stooped over some pot plants.

"I suppose, Mr. Churchill, this all seems to you very small,
very narrow."

"Oh, no," he said, looking round vaguely at the long
shelves, the hot-water piping, and the metal stanchions.
"They seem to me very fine houses — ^room for so much."

Mrs. William raised her large eyes, and smiled at him
wearily.

"I didn't mean this little prison of glass and iron, but the
larger prison outside. I meant Lipsford, your present em-
ployment, us." And she closed her eyes and opened them
widely. "I should have thought you felt like an eagle in
a cage."

"Oh, no," said Edward, very blankly.

"I was a bird once," said Daphne; "but they broke
my wings on the wheel of life."

Just then Mr. Edrick Bumage came and put his hand on
her shoulder, and Edward was pleased to have his company.
The lady struck him as so very strange.

"Well, Mrs. William," said Mr. Edrick prosaically, "were
you glad to find that the dividend on those Brewery shares
was all right?"

At the far end of the houses the head gardener stood
waiting for his mistress, and he gave her strips of bass to tie
up her nosegay. This she did slowly and laboriously, with
knuckly old fingers that shook. Then she handed the nose-
gay to Lilian.

"Yes, for you, my dear."

Lilian was surprised, overcome by the honour done her;
but everybody else had, of course, known what was coming.
This appeared to be the invariable conclusion of the rite:
the nosegay was always for the visitor.

There was great pomp at the tea-making and tea-drinking
— an immense silver kettle that only Mr. Gordon coula
manage, and servants very busy laying out tables with food.
Old Mrs. Bumage sat in a large chair at a little distance,
and every one waited on her.

308 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

"Aunt Lucy, will you have a sandwich ?^

"Do try this cake, Auntie."

"No, my dear, I do not wish anything more." She called
all young women and children "my dear."

Suddenly somebody missed Daphne, and somebody else
discovered that she had retired to her room with a headache.
A good deal of commiseration was expressed, rntil it was
observed that old Mrs. Bumage was grumbling to herself
and drumming on the arm of her chair. Immediately, with
ready tact, Mr. Gordon changed the conversation, and one
understood instinctively that Daphne's airs and graces and
headaches often got upon the nerves of the sturdy old dame.

They talked of contemporary art, literature, and politics.
Speaking of the last exhibition at the Royal Academy, all
agreed that it had been inferior to that of the previous year.
"But, Uncle, didn't you admire Mr. Leader's pictured*
Yes, Mr. Leader was admirable as usual. So was Sir Frede-
rick Leighton ; and of course the same encomitmi was due to
Sir John Millais and Mr. Alma Tadema. One could rely on
the old favourites; it was the yotmger school that disap-
pointed.

Certainly there was sententiousness in the tone of their
talk; but they were very courteous, refusing the snare of
argument, sa3ring, "Forgive me if I interrupt you, Gordon.
I point this out in illustration of the truth of your lemark,'*
or "As my brother has well said."

Speaking of a play, an adaptation from the work of Mon-
sieur Alexandre Dumas Fils, they said they thought nothing
had been gained by bringing such a topic upon the stage.

"No, I regard it as a mistake."

"Yes, it was, in my opinion also, a mistake."

And the large silent man shook his head affirmatively for
quite a long while, seeming to say, more forcibly than if he
had spoken aloud, that it was a thundering mistake.

Talking of Lord Salisbury, Mr. Balfour, and other lights
of the political arena, they quoted a recent speech delivered
at Birmingham, and passed on to the always increasing perils
of trade unionism and the new wild notion of securing special
representations for labour.

"Mr. Churchill, I am sure you agree with me,'* said Mr.
Edrick, very courteously, and not waiting for an answer.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

"Is not labour, like every other interest, already represented?
What more can reasonably be demanded? Such proposals
cannot but have an unsettling effect."

"There," said Mr. Gordon, "I concur heartily.^ I verily
believe this ferment of discontent among the industrisd
classes which is being fostered by a small minority — ^happily
a very small minority— of our public men, will eventually
cause great trouble, if not checked promptly. It is to my
mind the great danger of the times."

But old Mrs. Bumage was bristling and muttering in her
chair, apparently very angry at the mere thought of any one
daring to unsettle her little labour realm at Lipsford, and
Mr. Gordon was about to change the conversation again
when the large man interposed. It was the first time that
he had spoken. He had a deep rolling voice, and he said
he thought the whole social fabric of England was going
to pieces. One thing alone was holding it together — ^the
Queen upon her throne. When she went, he would not be
surprised if all fell "like a house of cards."

The ladies, including Miss Adela, assented eagerly.

"The rf^or Queen!"

"Ah, yes, I don't like to think of what will happen when
she is taken from us."

Old Mrs. Bumage said, rather testily, "Creaking doors
hang long;" but whether she was thinking of the Queen,
the fabric of society, or herself, nobody dearly gathered.

Such was the family — ^perhaps, not very original in their
views, but kindly and polite, thinking well of themselves,
but honestly meaning well by others. Edward and Lilian,
except in the way of business, saw little of them. This
invitation of the early days was not repeated. The visit
was like going to Court. It showed that they were accepted.
The wives of Mr. Gordon and Mr. Edrick did not ask them
to their houses, but Mrs. William called upon them once or
twice.

They had come on approbation, but they were now firmly
established. Although there had been talk of producing
testimonials, nothing further was said. Allan Gates had
chosen them for the appointment, and every one had confi-
dence in his judgment.

Churchiirs work, always expanding undet tici^ ^vc^sc^v^tl ^V

310 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

Gates, was entirely secular ; but he did many things that in
the past had occupied his friend. Beyond his duties as
custodian of the library, he had evening classes with three
or four pupils at a time, and he often lectured at the
Institute on historical and literary subjects. All that he did
was well done, and for the lectures especially he took in-
ordinate pains, writing and re-writing them, weighing every
sentence. But the work, no matter how conscientiously he
performed it, was child's play after his experience at St.
Bede's, and he had leisure for reading.

He read at this period with avid pleasure, thinking deeply
of all he read, examining the change in his receptive faculties
that had been caused by his altered mental attitude, seeking
even in the most unlikely materials all that should help to
consolidate his philosophy of life and confirm his idea of his
personal relation to the universe. For, as he knew well,
when a man frees himself from the trammels of time-
honoured error, he must walk warily on the untrodden paths
he has opened out.

No questions had been asked as to why he never went to
church. The rule, although grandmotherly, was beneficent.
If he had attended the Wesle)ran chapel up the valley, he
might doubtless have been called to account by Mr. Edrick
Burnage; but, as it was, nobody seemed even to remark
his absence from the commodious edifice that had been built
and maintained by the family, and the freedom of Sunday
mornings was very pleasant to him. Lilian, of course, regu-
larly listened to Allan's weekly sermon, and she often re-
lieved the organist at the evening services. She said that
Allan preached with great fervour.

She was at first perhaps more conspicuously successful
than Edward in these new surroundings. Her musical gifts
found high estimation. The young prls and the older
women loved her, and, whether she wished it or not, her
influence over them became strong. They came to her when
in trouble, to tell her of quarrels with their young men or of
pain caused by the harshly critical tongues of their husbands,
and they learned from her many pretty little arts of home
management. She had a genius for home, and not till now
had she been permitted to g^ve it the least scope.
As time passed she seemed to make their cottage prettier

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 311

every day. Their servant-maid adored her, aided her with
a loyal delight. Her great treat was when after long
economy they felt themselves justified in taking a trip to
Exeter for the purchase of some modest decoration — ^Uunp-
shade, table-cover, flower-vase. She came back radiant,
installed the new object, linked her hands through Edward's
arm, and stood before it admiring.

"See," she used to say, ''doesn't it make the whole room
different?"

Yet was she quite happy? Edward sometimes asked
himself the question. It was for her sake that he had come
here. Nothing else really mattered to him. Her happiness
was all he asked from fate, and he himself had been given
so much in the friendship of Allan Gates.

This indeed was wonderful and precious— the thing that
he had never before enjoyed. It was comradeship and
brotherhood. Allan was what his brothers should have been
to him. With Allan he could feel always very young, able
to snatch joys that usually belong only to youth; when to
walk about with the boy one loves is sufficient for enter-
tainment, and to break from a walk to a run, to get hot from
efforts that have no goal, to p;et cold by halts prolonged
without reason, to mdce meaningless discoveries in a bam
or loft, are more satisfying than the highly organised festi-
vals supplied by elders in the company of those one does
not care for.

In so much Allan was childlike. Not only in his unques-
tioning faith, but in his tricks and mannerisms. He was
clever with his hands, ingenious at devices of simple car-
pentry; and at such work he used to whistle and sing, or,
if alone, talk to inanimate objects, addressinc^ a nail as ''my
friend." "There, my friend, one on the head for you. Yes,
we'll knock you on the head, like that . . . and like that"
When puzzled, or for a moment baffled by some small diffi-
culty, he had a trick of rubbing his nose with a forefinger,
and puckering his brows, giving himself the rueful expression
of a child who is in disgrace or affliction. Then after a
moment he would laugh, snap his fingers, and shrug his
shoulders, saying, "Never mind. Ill get round it before
bed-time. Difficulties are only made to be surmounted,"
or some other cheerful aphorism.

312 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

He was never so well contented as when engaged on a
carpenter's job for Lilian. At all times he held himself in
readiness as her handy man, and would hurry to the cottage
to put up a shelf, hang a curtain rod, mend a chair badL
Indeed, had she allowed him, he would have cleared the
dust-bin, scoured the culvert, dug in the garden for her. He
did not pay her compliments or say she was pretty — ^perhaps
was not even aware of the fact ; but he wrapped her round
with admiration and regard, declaring that everything she
did was right, that there had never been any one like her.

At all times, too, he showed a great care and delicacy in
not intruding on their love as husband and wife, or in the
slightest degree challenging her right to Edward's society.
"No," he used to say, "I cannot join you this evening.
I have a task that I must not neglect. . . . No, thank you
very much, but leave me out of your plot to-morrow. Go
there by yourselves. Two are company — ^three are none."
Then you and Edward can go," Lilian replied; "and 111
stay at Home." Truly he need not have been so careful ; for
Lilian also was very fond of him, and these three made the
best company in the world.

There was only one thought that ever troubled Edward
with regard to this friendship, a cloud upon its splendour,
and that for him dimmed what otherwise would have been
perfectly bright hours. He hated the tacit deception which
he ought never to have practised and which still continued.
But at last this cloud passed and all was clear between them.

One Saturday Lilian told him that she was going to the
early Celebration next morning.

"It is a great relief to me," she said, "to be able to go.
So long has passed since I participated — not since you and
I have been together. But, Edward, to enable me to do
so, I had to tell Allan everything about myself."

"I am very glad," and he took her clasped hands, held
them to his breast, and kissed them. " Wliat did Allan say ?"

"He said that I might come. It is good of him. Many
priests would have refused."

The same evening Edward spoke to his friend of this.
They were alone in Allan's '1>ook-room," going through
some accounts.

«1

THE MIRROR AND! THE LAME 313

'^Lilian has made a confession to you, Allan, and she
says you will receive her as a communicant''

"Of course."

"Thank you. It is what I would have expected, Allan.
I knew how broad-minded you are. But I am none the
less grateful"

Then in the open talk for which he had pined he told
Allan all about the man Vickers. He had little hope now
that Vickers would ever help them by getting a divorce.
Indeed he had been advised that from the l^;al point of
view Vickers by the ^lapse of time had condoned the
offence. He had sat down on his wrongs too long. More-
over, he had notoriously consoled himself in a brutal
profligate manner ; he could not go to the Court with even
technically clean hands.

'So there we are," said Allan, rubbing his nose.

'Now that you kaow the worst, are you sorry that we
came ?"

"Of course not."

"It has wei^^hed upon my mind I ought to have told
you at the begmning."

"No, I stopped you. I wouldn't let you tell me."

"You didn't guess the truth?"

"No," said AUan, and he rubbed his nose rather ruefully.
"I did not guess that part of it."

"If you had known, would you have acted differently?"

"I scarcely know what to say. It is all over and done
with."

'Do you feel that you ought now to tell the authorities ?"

'No — that's impossible. Certainly not," and Allan be-
came quite cheerful again, rubbing his hands together, and
smiling contentedly. "But," he went on, "is there any-
thing else you want to say now we are about it?" and he
looked at Edward almost archly. "We have opened the
cupboard. If there's more than one skeleton, shall we have
them out, and put them back, and close the cupboard door?"

Then Edward told him that he was a priest of the Church
of England who had been inhibited.

"Ha, ha," said Allan, jumping up from his chair. "Look
here I" He seemed quite triumjSiant, as he opened a Qeigy

"]

314 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

List, turned the pages, and pointed to the entry of Churchill's
name. "Look. Dk) you see the note of interrogation? I
made that pencil mark — that large query — three days after
we first met. There must be several Edward Churchills,
though only one has been ordained, but I thought you were
that man. Something you said set me thinking. Yes» I
guessed that all right — ^but I didn't guess the other half of
the mystery," and again, for a moment, he had a rueful look.
Then he shut the book with a decisive action and laughed
gaily. "Rather clever of me, Edward. A detective couldn't
have spotted you quicker. But you set me thinking." As
he said this his eyes grew tender. "I thought of you a
great deal."

"What did you think?"

"I thought then exactly what I think now. You'll come
back to us. Dear old fellow, all your doubt will pass. God
will bring you home in His own good time."

"I can't let you count on that, Allan."

Allan shrugged his shoulders good-humouredly. He
counted on it as surely as he counted on to-morrow's
sunrise. The same power that lit the wide world would light
the small dark places in his friend's heart. But why talk
about it any more?

The cloud upon their friendship had gone; but there
followed now a time in which Edward Churchill suffered
greatly from a return of the sensation of failure. In his
highest desire he felt frustrated. What was wrong with
Lilian? What more could he do for her?

Sometimes he thought of the natural crown of a woman's
life — motherhood. She who was so good and sweet, with a
bounty of tender sympathy that flowed out to these work-
girls, to all children, should not herself be childless. If
only they had a child, she would be happier. Yef when he
spoke of this hope, she shook her head sadly.

"I want no one but you."

'Tfou would have me still. We should be bound closer
together."

"Oh, no," and she shivered, "I pray that may not happen.
A child to which we could not give a name!"

Then she spoke so sweetly of their love that he could have
wept in ifratitude and sorrow.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAME 315

''Lilian, my dearest girl. My own true girl."

''I am so poor a thing for you to love/' she said. ^So
dreadfully beneath you — and I can never, never tell you
what I feel. I can't wish that you had never seen me.
Edward, I can't, can't wish that ; but I know it might have
been better for you in many ways. I have dragged you
down."

He said she would break his heart if she ever said that
again. It was he who had brought her low.

"No, you have raised me up— Idmost to heaven."

And she told him that she no longer cared or worried
about what people might think of her. She cared for nothing,
if they two could be together always.

"What can ever separate us?"

On winter evenings they used to walk along the road to
the old village, away from the lighted windows and the work
and the voices. The sunset glow faded from the hills, dusk
crept upward, darkness filled the valley, and they were quite
alone. She clung closer to his arm, and in the darkness said
things she would scarcely have dared to whisper if he could
see her face.

For her those words, "As long as we both shall live,"
meant life after death also. "Till death us do part" carried
the logical addition, "and until we are united again." The
stronger their love, the more she craved for the certainty
that they need face no real separation. She tried to make
him say, "Yes, it is possible." She asked him if he himself
could not believe even so much as that— or if not now,
might he not one day believe it ?

But he said No. He could not believe it.

His tone was sad and reluctant. He had seemed so glad
when again she participated in the blessed Sacrament. He
showed such tenderness for her religion. Except in their
first days — ^their hone}rmoon — ^when he poured out all his
thoughts, he had never scoffed at religion. He never spoke
of it. But when she forced him to speak, it seemed to her
that he became hard and cold as a rock. He spoke, when
she compelled him, with terrible plainness.

"I do not believe. If you mean survival after death,
I do not believe that is true. I believe that death is extinc-
tion of the individual— utter annihilation. Something ths^

316 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

was and is not. I believe in the sotd only in the sense of the
spiritual forces that are implanted m each one of us. I
do not believe in the immortality of the soul in any other
sense than that life similar to the life in us will be seen in
others. I do not believe in the soul, or indeed in life, as
something that issued from a god and to him will return.
It is a b^utiful idea. I wish it were true. I do not believe
it is true. I do not believe in immortality at all, except as a
metaphor for the chain of life that passes from parent to
child, on and on, and always upwards in its curve, ?eeming a
chain, but in truth with each link severed by the great shears
of death. That is what I believe."

His voice, so level and so calm, sounding in the darkness,
filled her with awe. The words were terrible. They crushed
her spirit, struck heavy and cold upon her heart. She walked
by his side with bowed head.

And he, pressing the hand upon his arm, went on as though
to justify what he had said. He explained that it was a
matter of conscience with him to say what he believed to
be true. He could be silent; but if he spoke at all of his
private convictions, he must testify to the truth. The truth
IS sacred — that is, what a man honestly believes the truth
must be sacred to him, the man. It is of no value to any one
else, of course. But it is all important to him, and he cannot
palter with his deep-rooted conviction. Self-respect, self-
reliance, all fails if you refuse to maintain the right to your
own reasoned thoughts.

And she was thinking, ''It is my fault. It is I who am to
blame. But for me, he would have remained true to the
Church; he would have continued his noble work, beloved
and honoured by all. I have ruined his life. I am the first
cause of his atheism.''

These thoughts for a time made her more and more
unhappy.

It was Allan Gates who brought her comfort. He saw
her trouble, understood it, drove it away almost forever with
his cheerful, unshaking confidence. "Never worry about
him," he told her. "Just give him time. He is passing
through a phase; but he will come back to us. Trust me
for that. I know I am right."
AUaa spoke of her to Edward, startling him with a straofe

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 317

echo of something that happened a long time ago, when two
men — not friends, as he and Allan, but enemies by instinct
— sat alone in a room not unlike this room, and one said to
the other: "Can't you be kinder to your wife?" It was
Lilian then as now.

"Dear old boy," said Allan, "forgive me if I have
wounded you. Shut me up like a box if I have said too
much. I only meant that unconsciously you have forgotten
how your lightest words may cause immense consequences
— ^with her. If you even touch her faith, if you break what
she most leans on, if you don't allow her to think her own
thoughts "

But this was too much.. Edward, greatly agitated, pro-
tested that it was all the other way round. He had never
tried to rob her of her faith. It was she who would not
leave him his thoughts.

"But need you tell her your thoughts?" asked Allan
deprecatingly.

"No, not unless she makes me. Then I cannot deny
them." And he went over the ground again. Self-respect,
the barest dignity of manhood, prevented one from abro-
gating the privilege to think for oneself. He reminded
Allan of how religionists refused to sign confessions of faith
alien to their own.

"Allan, they refused their lives on such terms. And
they were right. They called it refusing to deny God;
but it was really refusing to deny themselves. That was
the logical basis of their refusal. . . . Take my life,
take everything from me ; but don't take the reasoned dig-
nity that lifts me above the brutes— don't trample out the
right to think for myself."

Allan smiled. "In conversation," he said cheerily, "as
in everything else, you are my intellectual superior."

"Rubbish," said Edward, and the excitement under
which he had spoken instantly subsided.

"Yes, you carry too many guns for me."

"Not a bit of it. Fire back."

"Well, I think you just put everything upside down."

"How?"

"You speak of martyrs who sacrificed self, and you
draw the lesson that it is right to exalt self."

318 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"No— far from it— I don't say C3calt self, but give self
its just due. Allan, we all are governed by self — ^we must
be — it is in the nature of things."

"Yet you have never acted on such a theory. Your
work, nearly all your life, has proved you to be something
of an altruist."

"Any altruism I have practised has been in a selfish
search for happiness — ^merely to appease self. Where
altruism fails is where the logical reason for it is forgot-
ten."

"Have it your own way," said Allan with the utmost
good-humour. "But, dear old boy, do remember to play
light in your wonderful logic when dealing with those who
are not so strong as you."

"Yes," said Edward, "FlI play light. I'U remember.
Thank you, Allan — for thinking of Lilian. Henceforth 111
manage to evade discussion. Skilfully or clumsily, as best
I can, I'll build a wall and hide myself behind it. . . .
Yet if she, or any one else, breaks down my wall, they
must see me as I am."

He was firm in the importance of his point — the right to
one's own thought, because, as it seemea to him, it had its
place in the new code of ethics that was to be his standard.
His code was now formed.

He thought: "Of course every intelligent person must
be something of an altruist ; for how else can he hope for
mental peace? But the altruism must be rational — ^the
golden rule with strict limitations. Give to others, give
freely, largely, more than you can spare ; make sacrifices of
much that you desire ; but do not run the risk of obliterat-
ing yourself altogether. Self has rights, and in certain
cases must fight for them. It is weak and disloyal to one-
self, the race, and the established scheme of natural prog-
ress, not to study self, when one is quite sure that is only
asking one's due. The strongest man has only one life,
and his work to do in it. Such a man, believing that he
has a task to accomplish, must not allow himself to be
turned from it.

"And I," he thought humbly, "am the weakest of men,
with no task, and no direction; but still I must abide by

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

319

the law, fighting for myself, refusing to obliterate myself,
guarding myself and those I love from unceasing care, be-
cause I am myself, and beyond myself there is nothing that
I can truly know."

This was to be the code. His philosophy of life had car-
ried him no further. As it chanced, his code was soon and
for a long time to be put to the test.

XL

Something utterly unexpected had happened. It was
too fantastically absurd, but Robert Vickers had written
asking them for aid.

Walsden sent on the letter. The oater envelope was
addressed to Edward Qiurchill, Esquire, and inside this
there was an envelope inscribed, "For Lilian." Edward
handed it to her across the breakfast table, and at sight of
the handwriting she trembled. She read the letter slowly,
and gave it back to Edward without a word.

Vickers told her that he had lost his emplo)rment, the
world had turned against him, and, as he phrased it, he had
"regularly gone to pot." He said, "I cannot but lay it to
your door. But let bygones be bygones. You are my wife
still, and I appeal to you for help."

As Churchill read the letter his face hardened. Bygones
were to bfe bygones, and, as Christians forgetting and for-
giving, they were to help their enemy. So likely I

Vickers said further, "I am not what I was. I have been
ill and am still very weak ;" and he described other misfor-
tunes. "I had to part with our old house, and sell every
stick of the furniture. As you will see, I am living at
Vernon Buildings. You will remember, the block beyond
Emanuel's, by the railway. • . . You know me well
enough to be sure that I would not ask you this if things
were not very bad with me." It was an odious letter.
Plainly enough, Vickers had set himself the task of writing
such a letter as would achieve his immediate end — ^to get
money.

"So very likely," thought Churchill, and he smiled con-
temptuously.

"What shall I reply r asked Lilian.

"Don't reply at all. If any one replied, I would. But no
reply is needed."

Lilian picked up the letter and re-read it.

"Let me have it," said Edward, and he folded the letter

320

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 321

and put It in his breast pocket. "Don't give it another
thought. His troubles and his sickness and all the rest of
it are probably inventions. He wants cash to buy one of
your successors a new bonnet perhaps, and it has occurred
to him that it would be rather a humorous notion to make
you pay for it."

''Oh, I don't think that what he says is untrue. If he
had not fallen into real distress, he would not have written.
His pride must be completely broken, or he could not have
made such an appeal — an appeal for pity."

"Then he'll get no pity from me," said Qiurchill firmly.

Nevertheless, scarcely knowing why he troubled to do so,
he wrote to Walsden to inquire as to the actual state of the
man's circumstances; and during the next three days he
thought often of the man himself. Lilian was thinking
about him too. She asked to look at the letter again on
two occasions.

"You must almost know it by heart," said Edward rather
querulously. In fact, he himself knew it quite by heart:
he had looked at it so often. ^

"I wanted to see what he says about Vernon Buildings.
Yes, I know the place he means. Edward, it is a dreadful
place. He must have fallen very low to go there."

Edward shrugged his shoulders, took the letter from her
again, and went out for a stroll.

As he walked in the crisp night air he thought of his first
meeting with Vickers, remembering with extraordinary
clearness that early impression — ^the big, loud-voiced fellow,
swinging his shoulders, pushing men off the pavement,
shouting at them truculently — just a hulking brute. Think-
ing of later impressions, the details were less clear; no
strong mental picture came. He remembered the ugly
laugh, the swagger, amid the streams of words when
Vickers inveighed against the ingratitude of the men who
— as he now declared — ^had cast off their allegiance to him ;
but the rest seemed colourless, almost vague. Then he
began to imagine what Vickers had been like as a young
man before his frame grew heavy, his face coarsened, and
his teeth turned yellow — or as a boy, when he was slender,
clean, with eyes that looked out frankly at a world full of

322 THE HIRROR ANDi THE LAME

decent hopes and innocent pleasures. Even as a boy, oould
he have been like that ?

When Churchill returned to the cottage Lilian was putting
last touches to the table for their evening meal. It was afi
snug and bright in lamplight and firelight ; her pretty face,
pale as it was, lit up the room more than the lamp or the
fire ; she welcomed him as always with a smile, and suddenly,
unbidden, an ugly mental picture presented itself to him —
a picture of darkness and coldness, of squalor and want, of a
sick man who once had been strong but was now weak.

Towards the end of the meal Lilian asked him a question.

*'If Mr. Walsden says it is true, will you send him
anything?"

"No. . . . Lilian, how can we?"

"No, I suppose not. In any case, we can't afford it."

"It is not that."

"If it was for somebody else — and one was certain he
needed help— would you try to help him ?"

"Yes, if it was anybody else — anybody worth helping —
I would say yes, we ought to help him, as far as we could
without detriment to ourselves."

"That is what I feel," said Lilian. "It seems so hard to
turn a deaf ear to a call of that kind — ^a cry of distress. Not
even to answer the letter I"

"The only answer he wants is some ready money. If we
don't send that, no other answer is worth sending."

That night Churchill thought of Vickers waiting for the
answer that would never come. He would anxiously expect
it— calculating on the pity he had aroused, estimating their
weakness perhaps, hoping that some trick of conscience
would render them impotent to refuse. He would taste all
the bitterness of disappointment then. If he was truly weak
and ill, he would lie on his wretched bed, all alone perhaps,
waiting and listening until some one passed on the stairs,
and then he would call hoarsely and feebly, begging the
passer-by to go down and find out at the caretakePs room
if the postman had brought him a letter.

And Churchill thought of him as if in truth he had been
somebody else, a stranger, any man, worthy or unworthy,
who had been strong but was now weak, and who uttered a
cry of distress, calling upon his fellow-men to help him.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 323

Next morning they heard from Walsden. It was true that
Vickcrs had severed his connection with the Trade Union,
and after an ilhiess had left the house where he had lived
for so long. That was all that Walsden could tell them.

They sent Vickers some money, and from time to time
they sent him a little more. This first time they had to do
it, and Lilian said it made her easier in her mind, and
Churchill said that, wrong or right, it must be done, but the
first time should be the last time.

Lilian dreaded the horrid letters. The call came sometimes
just when she was going to Exeter to buy something pretty
or useful for the cottage or for herself. Answering the call
meant the renunciation of a small desire, the sacrifice of per-
sonal comfort; but, after all, what did it matter? Only they
had still further complicated their relations with the man.
He on his side would be careful now not to publish the
facts of the position, since if he brought scandal upon them
he could scarcely hope to extract further Post Office orders.
They on their side might seem to be paying him blackmail,
buying his silence. Anyhow, if any hope had lingered as to
the possibility of a divorce, it was now small indeed.

They should have been affluent at this period. Edward
had long since cleared off all obligations to the bank and
other creditors, making it his first care to repay the loan
from his mother and doing this as speedily as possible, yet
not speedily enough to escape a reminder from his step-
father, Mr. Barrett. Once out of debt, he came into the
enjoyment of his full private income of a hundred per
annum, in addition to uie annual seventy-eight pounds of
their joint emoluments. This was more than ample; but
now, in the twelve months that followed, the secret drain
upon their resources swamped the margin of ease.

The first summer at Lipsford they had been for a week's
holiday on Dartmoor with Allan Gates. This year they could
not go. Allan was taking a fortnight's holiday, and he was
disappointed that they could not spend even half of it with
him. He delicately hinted that if the question of expense
prevented them, he would like them to come as his guests.
They refused ; and Allan thought that their real reason for
refusing was because they wished to be bv themselves, and
ceased to complain, going away very cheerfully, noddim^^sxd

324 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

smiling at them from the railway carriage, waving a hand*
kerchief till the train carried him out of sight.

Edward Churchill knew his thought, had read it at once,
but he could not bear that it should continue. There must
be no more deception, however slight. So he wrote to his
friend at the jolly little moor-side inn, telling him the truth,
saying how much they missed him, and how glad they would
be to see him once more at the end of the fortnight.

Next day Allan returned, and he spent his holiday with
them at home at Lipsf ord, fishing with Edward in the stream,
teaching Lilian to throw a fly, carrying their improvised tea-
basket up the Pack Walk to the tamely pretty hilltops. The
landscape might not be as grand as Dartmoor, nor the air so
keen and invigorating, but he said it was the best holiday
of his life. He maintained that nothing had given him the
true holiday feeling in such full measure as to potter about
the parsonage garden in his shirt-sleeves, knowing that he
need not put on his jacket until he chose to do so; and the
greatest treat of all was when he went to church to hear his
substitute preach and found that the good man preached no
better than he did himself — ^if so well.

xu

They had been a little more than two years at Upsford
when Edward's mother died. He had not even known that
she was ill, and the letter from Mr. Barrett that announced
her death allowed him only just enough time to get to Brigh-
ton for the funeral. "I am prostrat^ with grief," said Mr.
Barrett, in his letter, "and shall be glad of your support.
You will tmderstand that I cannot extend the invitation
I beyond yourself."

He bought a suit of black clothes in London, where he was
obliged to spend a night, and next morning early he travelled
down to Brighton. The putting on of these mourning gar-
ments, the journey, its cause and purpose, seemed to him
dreamlike and tmreal. In the train he listened to the talk
of fellow-passengers, watched the flying landscape, for some
time could neither meditate nor reflect. Then he found him-
self thinking, "She is dead — the mother that bore me — and I
used to pray that I might die when she died. And now I am
going to her funeral, and it is as though it were a stranger's.
I am not even able to think of it — ^my mind is thronged
with quite trivial matters — ^the most stupid fancy seems as
important as the gloomy business that has brought me here.
How is that possible?"

Then he thought, "Yes, but the mother I loved died years
ago. My true mother was taken from me when she broke
our compact, and forsook me for another."

But immediately he felt the hard ^oism of this thought,
its unworthiness, its cruelty — ^judging the dead, condemning
her, forgetting benefits and tender care, because at last she
ceased to live only for him. Could it be possible that even
for a moment he had been guilty of such a thought ? And
there came rushing back on him memories of St. Dunstan's.
He thought of her only as she was then — the friend, the com-
forter, the guardian saint. All the years rolled away, and
it seemed to him that in spirit they were made one again.
He could remember now nothing that was not sweet and
good. Sadness, and still deeper sadness, filled his heart.

325

326 iTHE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

At the house on the East Oiff Mr. Barrett welcomed him,

i)ressed his hand, thanked him for coming. Mr. Barrett
ooked old and feeble. A nurse in hospital tmiform helped
him to put on his black overcoat, and at intervals he gave
a sob. The nurse felt in the breast pocket of the overcoat
and told him he had another handkerchief there.

"Thank you," said Mr. Barrett, meekly and forlornly.
**Ted, you will come in the first coach with me. Next to me,
you are the principal mourner."

The funeral party gathered in a room that looked out upon
the cliff. Outside all was bright and pleasant to the eye,
sunlight and movement, people walking briskly, carriages
rattling past. Edward was looking at well-remembered ob-
jects in the room itself — the very desk at which he had sat
with her at his "preparation," when she used to help him ;
the old swing-chair ; a water colour drawing of the cathedral
cloisters. He felt like some one in a haunted house, among
ghosts that no others could see, seeing them himself and
hearing their voices. He could see his mother quite plainly
as she used to be.

Then he was alone again with Mr. Barrett, in the mourn-
ing coach, driving down the hill, past the Pavilion, and
along the level road towards the lofty viaduct.

"Everybody respected her," said Mr. Barrett, "and looked
up to her. Did you see the flowers? Everybody has sent a
wreath — ^and some very costly ones too — last marie of re-
spect. We had made our circle — always the best sort of
people;" and he began to cry, catching his breath, and
stiflinpf noisy sobs. "There, I must be patient under my
affliction. I humbly thank Him who ordained that her
last days were easy. I never left her, Ted, except to get a
little air when Dr. Fry made me.''

*1 am sure you were good to her.**

"I did my best," said Mr. Barrett humbly. *7 made her
happy. Pore soul, she'd had a rough time with you boys.
Ted, I am not meaning to cast a stone. You were the kind
one — ^the one she valued and built on, until — ^well," and he
shook his head sorrowfully. "Ah me, that was a terrible
blow to her. Couldn't be otherwise."

"You mean my leaving the Church?"

"Yes, the whole affair. It came to my ears first of all

THE MIRROR ANB THE LAMP 127,

through a side wind, and I tried to soften the Uow. I told
her we couldn't at a distance judge the facts."

"I would have come to her to explain them, had she
wished it."

"Ted, she did not wish it. And, frankly, no more did I.
Nothing would have been gained — and I could not urge her
to receive the lady."

"Please leave her out of it."

"There, let's say no more. I never have judged you, Ted
— and this I tell you because I know your naturally kind
heart. The grief over your affair did not hasten her end."

"Indeed I hope not."

"No, you have not that to lay on your conscience. She!
was ill for a long time."

"I wish you could have let me come to see her then."

"She never suggested it, Ted."

The phrases of the Burial Service, recited by Edward
Churchill himself so many, many times, struck upon his ear
with a force and beauty that he had not recognised till now.
Resurrection, and the life of the world to come — ^yes, if only
one could believe it. How beautiful the words, how splendid
if there lay beneath them even half a truth to justify such
hope. For him they held no gleam of hope; they were
merely beautiful words. He stood at the grave side, tears
streaming down his face, torn with sorrow and regret. An
immense sadness and pity welled up and possessed him — ^pity
for his poor mother that she might not a little longer go
about in the sunlight ; pity for Mr. Barrett, the broken old
man, who had wounded or insulted him always, and even
just now, but who had tried to do his best for her; pity for
all who in this little transitory life try hard and fail ; pity,
above all, for those who miss or mock the higher joys of
human love, and blandly stretch weak hands that close upon
a shadow.

When all was over he lingered to say a few kind words to
Mr. Barrett, who cltmg to his arm and thanked him again
for having come.

"Your presence has supported me, Ted. I almost feel aa
if I couldn't have gone through it without you. ... Ah me,
what shall I do? I've lost my companion, and I'm too old
to find another."

328 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

Edward went away full of sorrow ; but it was as if some
poison that for a long time had tainted his blood had been
washed away from him in his tears.

The feelings aroused by the death of his mother did not
quickly fade. Sadness remained with him, and yet inwardly
he felt calmer, more at rest. Perhaps of late he had found
life in the quiet valley too narrow, and, unconsciously grow-
ing weary of its stagnant contentment, had begun to suffer
mentally because he could not satisfy that old craving for
the ideal existence in which action blends with and guides
the stream of thought ; but, if so, the phase had now passed.
He took greater interest in his humble task, and gave to it
more of himself.

He had been prompt with sympathy and practical advice,
but now in helping others he attempted the great lesson of
teaching them how to help themselves. Young men with
aspirations and older men with regrets began to trust him as
a friend who never failed. All this had begun at the Library
when they found what infinite trouble he was ready to take
on their behalf, and again at his evening classes when a
pupil shyly led him from the realm of generalities to some
small concrete difficulty of everyday life. This quality of
helpfulness in him was recognised more and more widely;
so that it came to be talked of by the men at their work.

Thus, one day, Mr. Edrick Bumage heard an old hand in
the fulling mill speak of it.

"Yes," said the old fellow, "Mr. Gates, he's the one to
hearten yn up with what he says. But if yu wa'ant help,
go to Mr. Qiurchill. Go and tell un yu'm be got in a fix.
He'll put down what he's a-doing, he'll quit his food or his
bed, but he wun't leave )ru till he's helped yu through."

Mr. Burnage was well pleased in overhearing this compli-
ment to a useful official, and he thought, not by any means
for the first time, that the family had obtained a very service-
able article at a very low cost. Indeed, he talked of him with
high approval in the family circle, and as a result of one
such conversation he put some strange questions to Allan
Gates.

"Tell me, Gates, so far as you have observed, do the
Churchills get on well together ?"

"]

THE MIRROR 'AND THE LAMP 329

**Yes, of course.**

"They are really a united couple— fond of each other and
all that, not merely keeping up appearances?"

The blood had flushed Allan's olive-toned chedcs, and he
spoke almost angrily. "No. But why do you ask?"

"Well, not from any wish to pry into people's private
affairs, but just to ascertain the fact. I should think nothing
of it either way, except for their peculiar position here in
our society. For the sake of example one could not very
well countenance in our midst a divided household, or the
spectacle of a man and wife who sustained an outward show
of affection, but secretly squabbled and "

"They do not squabble," said Allan warmly.

"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Edrick. "I was quite
ready to believe it. I suspected that my informant was in
error."

1 wonder who was your informant"

It was Mrs. William. She entertains a good opinion of
Churchill, and is anxious for his welfare, but her observation
has misled her. Between you and me, Gates, Mrs. William
is not the wisest of people. She often misunderstands
things."

"Edward Churchill is not easy to understand." Allan's
indignation had gone, and he spoke of his friend with a quiet
seriousness. "He is a very beautiful character. The love
between him and — ^and — and his wife — is most beautiful.
Nothing could ever disturb it; nothing will ever make it
change."

Relieved in mind, Mr. Edrick then praised Churchill
cordially. Churchill was a valuable asset to the community.
Gates could be congratulated on having found a person of
such superior qualifications.

'How did you first hit upon him. Gates ?*'

'By accident."

'By accident! Well, Gates, many valuable discoveries
are made by accident, if the truth were known. My great-
grandfather discovered what we call the Bumage process of
lustering by accident. But, with regard to Churchill, I hope
he knows that we are well satisfied — and, between you and
me, I hope we shan't ever lose him. My brother Gordon
expresses wonder that he should be contented to stay, and

"]

k^pWfttf^Pvar^ia-nMM

333 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP

believes he would easily find scope for his talents in a more
enlar|[ed sphere/'

"I think he is like me in one respect, he and I have botb
done with ambition."

"Well, that is as it may be. Still for Churchill, who has

the advantage of you in years My brother Gordon has

gone so far as to say that we might wisely raise Mr.
Churchill's salary, rather than run the risk of losing him
after our relations have subsisted on such a pleasant footing
for so long. That is a matter that I shall be quite prepared
to consider, although I do not think we are justified in
welcoming increased expense in any direction at the present
time."

Mr. Edrick*s hint as to the possibility of increased emolu-
ment did not lead to any action; but an addition to their
means came to the Churchills from another source.

His mother had bequeathed a hundred a year in trust for
her "dear son Edward," with power of appointment — ^as was
recited by a copy of the clause in the will sent to him by a
Brighton solicitor — to his legal wife or any child or children
lawfully begotten in holy wedlock. Failing such appoint*
ment, the money at Edward's death would return to Mrs.
Churchill's widower or his heirs and assigns.

Edward surmised that these provisions had been dictated
by the avarice of Mr. Barrett. His poor mother would
scarcely have discriminated so nicely, or looked so very far
ahead, if she had not been assisted by some one who was,
as well as a strictly orthodox moralist, a trained man of
business ; but Edward bore no malice to anybody. He had
expected nothing. He accepted the bequest with gratitude.

Thus, once again they had enough for personal comfort,
enough too to meet the hidden drain upon their purse, and
these calls, moreover, for a little while had ceased.

But their renewed affluence was soon threatened. There
came another call from Vickers ; a cry of distress louder,
sharper, more definite than any he had raised before. He
was desperately ill, helpless — ^hopeless, if they did not listen
to his cry. For the moment he had been taken into a hospital
at Chelsea; but he would not be allowed to remain there,
because of the almost permanently incurable nature of his

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 331

case. Soon he might be alone, deserted, abandoned to a
miserable death. He wanted a lot of money for nursing and
doctoring, to give him a chance of recovery. He sent with
his pencilled letter a certificate from the Jtiospital, and the
certificate seemed to confirm his statement that he was
grievously ill.

"What are we to do?" asked Lilian.

They looked at each other blankly, and Edward sat
thinking. Then he said, "Lilian, I had l)ettcr go to him.
I'll go to London and see for myself what can be done."

"It is what I would have wished — ^that some one should
go. But we might ask Allan to go. Edward, let Allan go
instead."

"No, rU go myself."

He obtained leave of absence, provided himself with ready
money, and went up to London. He was away four days,
and on his return he looked tired and worried.

He said that Vickers was suffering from heart trouble and
lung trouble, with some complications of intestinal derange-
ment that he did not pretend to understand. But the doctors
thoroughly understood, and he believed implicity in their
judgment as to the case. Vickers was dying, or would die
unless well treated. There was only one chance to save him.
He could receive special treatment at a place in Staffordshire.
It was an establishment known to and recommended by the
London doctors. At this place Vickers would be given every
chance that science and skill could devise. The chance would
be a good one that he might be patched up and kept alive
for many years. In any event he would be comfortable, safe,
well cared for, at this Staffordshire establishment. But the
cost of the cure would be considerable. The doctors said
that the charges would amount to quite £200 a year.

That was the state of affairs.

"Now let us have supper," said Churchill. •'Ill tell you
more about it after supper."

Then, after their meal, they sat side by side in front of the
fire. Their hands were linked, and Edward stared into the
heart of the fire, as if seeing there the things he spoke of,
while he told her about the pitiful state of Vickers, his thin-
ness, his shrunken face and changed voice. He described bow
Vickers had pleaded for life, praying ChurduH 1^ xcsw^

,332 THE MIRROR AND: THE LAME

I

heaven and earth to get him the mone^ — to put an iadvertise-
ment in the newspapers, to visit charitable organisations, to
go to his old societies and the trade union. And Churdiill
had done all this. "But, Lilian, the advertisement isn't
likely to bring any response. The charities can't help him.
The others won't help him. They do not like him. They
have no sympathy with him. I followed all his directions,
but it was no use. So then I came back to tell you;'' and
he raised his eyes and looked at her.

She sat silent, her hand squeezing his spasmodically, her
lip drooping and quivering.

Then he spoke again of the man's prayer for life. ''Lilian,
it was very painful to hear."

Lilian was perturbed. She hid her face in her hands, and
it was some time before she spoke.

"Edward, is there no one?"

'Tfes," he said, "ourselves. There is no one else."

But the thing was too big for her ; she shrank from it in
dread. Why were they so tormented? Help him — ^yes, as
much as was reasonable, more perhaps than was reasonable,
but not in such a gigantic way as this.

"Edward, we haven't the money."

"Yes, just the money," he said ; and he put the circum-
stances of their situation before her in plain terms. They
had just two hundred a year of their own, in addition to their
pay here at Lipsford. If they gave away their income and
then happened to lose the pay, they might starve or go to the
workhouse. But they were still young — ^that is, fairly young ;
they had no children ; at the worst he should be able to earn
their daily bread by manual labour. "I think," he went
on, "that probably we ought not do it. Anybody would
probably say so— that it would be the act of fools. I seem to
feel myself that it would not be right. It is true that if it
were only once, for one year, and he died, then we might look
back on it with satisfaction. But he may live for many years.
He'll never be worth anything, and we shall feel bound to go
on with it as long as we can. The doctors say that if the cure
proved a success, he might last twenty years perhaps; but
there would be no work in him ; he would always be a burden
and an expense."

Here before them were the logical facts, so obvious that

THE MIRROR AND! THE LAMP 333

one could not avoid seeing them plainly. Here was a man
that they had every reason to wish dead. Then surely in the
name of reason let him die. Can they denude themselves in
order to keep him alive?

Churchill said, "I can only do it if you consent. That's
clear anyhow."

Lilian would not answer. She lay awake all night, and
once she said, "You wish to do it. You wouldn't have told
me in this manner unless you wished it."

But now it was he who would not answer, although, as she
knew, he too was sleepless.

He could not sleep; he was harassed by doubts, and yet
he felt the call to do it. It had been strong upon him in
London this morning ; it had been weaker in the train, and
weaker still this evening as they sat by the fire talking and
thinking rationally. But again now in the silence of night
it was very strong. All the past had gone. He had been
conscious of this when he entered the hospital room for the
first time and saw the man lying in bed. It was impossible
to link him with the past, impossible to remember the fierce,
gasping brute with whom he had fought. This sick man was
nothing to him — 3, stranger — ^and it was because of this, per-
haps, that the appeal proved so overwhelming. It was the
irresistible cry of weakness to strength — "Aid me" — ^filling
one with pity and discomfort, taking possession of one,
giving one no respite until one can shaJce off the thoughts it
has aroused and again be at peace.

He tried to evoke clear memories of the man as he used to
be, in his brutal force and rage ; to stimulate a revival of his
own sensations of implacable hatred ; but he could not do so.
There was no touch of rancour in the recollection of how he
had been set upon and beaten in accordance with the sick
man's treacherous plan. Even at the time he had thought
that this was merely tit for tat, cleaning the slate, cr)ring
quits between them. Vickers had been hated only because
of the pain he had caused to Lilian. Except for his sense-
less vindictiveness, they would now have been married for
nearly two years ; they would have been able to go where
they pleased ; Lilian would have suffered no discomfort when
meeting other women. But that was all over and done with.
She herself had ceased to care.

334 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

How can one nourish resentment against one's enemies,
when one thinks of one's failure in regard to those one pas-
sionately loves? If where one strives most one yet fails,
how should one hope for satisfaction under the more feeble
impulse of hate? For hatred is so feeble when compared
with love. It was never strong when it seemed strongest;
when men faithfully obeyed it, worshipped it, made it their
ruling god. It is a fire that must always be fed and watched ;
if for such a little while one forgets it, the fire dies down
and fades. It is dying now in the hearts of mankind, and
some day must be gone forever, whether we will or no. With
the breath of a whole world fanning it, it cannot bum for
long.

How can one go on hating ? It is not worth while. Even
to try to do so is futile. One must be sorry for all men;
because no man lives who does not merit pity, if we believe
that this life is all.

We must feel compassion for others each time that we
read our own hearts truly. We are so infinitely small, so
completely forgotten, so utterly lost except to ourselves ; in
the vastness of the imiverse we are only just large enough to
hold a little love.

Next morning Lilian said, "Yes, do it. I want you to do
it — say for my sake, if you like. Yes, I ask you to do it, for
my s^e."

And Edward, glowing with enthusiasm, took her in his
arms and pressed her to his heart.

"Lilian, my brave darling, you are better than I am,
stronger than I am, and I know it is right."

"I don't know," she said stoutly, "whether it is right or
wrong. But I know we had better do it. From the moment
that we have thought it all out, we should never be happy,
unless we did it."

He kissed her and smiled at her, and said that in these
words she had summed up the whole logical theory of
altruism.

Then she went about her household work, thinking with a
dull despair of what it meant to her. It was the final renun-
Idation of her hope for the peace of marriage, with a settled

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

335

home and children at her knee. She must not hope now,
because that would be hoping for the man's death.

And Edward Churchill returned to London, made all
arrangements and carried them through, taking his invalid
to the Home in Staffordshire and there safely establishing
him. Then he came back again to Devonshire, and felt that
he had been a fool.

XLII

There were no more trips to Exeter to buy those graceful
little ornaments with which women love to make a pret^
home still prettier. Much that tends to solid comfort, as weU
as decoration, was no longer attainable ; the friendly apple-
cheeked maidservant had been dismissed; Mrs. Churchill
was her own servant now, and Mr. Churchill did the heavier
housework while rtuninating philosophical theses or turning
neat periods for his lectures on Eighteenth Century
Essayists.

In due course all noticed or heard of their changed mode
of life, and many demanded its explanation. Naturally, the
first to do so was Allan Gates, and to him Edward was com-
pelled, however unwillingly, to tell the whole truth and
nothing but the truth. To others it was merely necessary
to state that their private means had been imexpectedly
reduced.

Allan Gates, extorting a rather reluctant confession of
what had happened, seemed to be staggered by the idea of
remote, if not immediate, consequences. He rubbed his nose
with unusual vigour, and when Lilian came in and out the
room, he glanced at her ruefully.

"I almost wish," he said, "that you had consulted m©
about it."

"Yes," said Edward, "I think perhaps I ought to have
done so. I consulted her, of course. I have acted with her
approval."

"Of course."

'You think — ^you don't approve, Allan?"
'My dear old boy, I don't know what to think. It does
seem rather a tall order for both of you."

But Allan knew what to think in a day or two, and by
that time the order had ceased to be too tall for him.

He said, "It is fine. It is a gloriously Christian sacrifice.
Edward, if you had honoured me by asking my advice, I
should have urged you to do it."

336

.THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 337

•^ou would really, Allan?"

"Yes, but I should have clahned then what I claim now—*
to take my share in it. You can't refuse."

And with much eagerness he tried to prevail on his friend
to permit him to carry some part of the burden that they had
taken up. He said that he had put by money, not much,
but a nice little hoard, nearly a hundred pounds, and for this
he had no possible use. Why, then, might it not go towards
the maintenance of Mr. Vickers?

"I have no relatives, nobody with any claim on me ; the
money is quite my own. I have every right to do what I
please with it, and nothing will please me so much as this."

But when Edward said that Allan must keep his small
capital intact for some emergency personal to himself, he
was forced to own that he had no private income of any
sort.

"Why should I want money? I have never given money
a thought. As I say, there is no one dependent on me. My
stipend here is bigger than I require. That's the reason why
I have made savings ; and I shall go on making them."

He was genuinely grieved by his friend's obdurate refusal.

One of the people who asked troublesome questions and
offered an active sympathy that had not been invited was a
member of the Bumage family, Mrs. Draycott. This was the
tall lady with large eyes, spoken of by her relatives indiffer-
ently as Mrs. William and Daphne. One could not help
being sorry for Daphne, because obviously, as Mr. Edrick
had said, she was not very wise, and, as she said herself, she
was unhappy ; but, suffering from the vapid, empty character
of a life that her money, her fine garments, and even her
headaches, could not fill, she allowed herself to lean heavily
on others, and, if the truth must be told, to bore them
excessively. She had leant upon Edward Churchill, and,
sorry as he felt for her, he could not escape from feeling
bored also. Indeed Daphne developed from being a bore
until she was an absolute worry to hint

Struck by one of his lectures, she asked for help about
books. She visited the Men's Library at inconvenient hours,
she marked the margins of pages and underlined long pas-
sages, she wrote him little notes telling him to bring more
books to the Bumage mansion and discuss them there with

sans

338 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

her quietly. He would have thus assisted anybody, and of
course he must hold his leisure at the disposal of Daphne as
a member of the family ; requests from such a quarter were
somewhat in the nature of orders. He obeyed the orders as
far and as punctually as he could.

When he carried the books to the big house, she wasted a
lot of time by talking of everything except the books them-
selves, although that was what he had come for. She used to
receive him in a small boudoir which appeared to be her own
special retreat, although that jolly, healthy Miss Adela some-
times came prancing in and out, seeming to bring a breath of
fresh air with her and making Mrs. William close her eyes
wearily. Mrs. William was so woefully tired of all common-
place phenomena. She would rise from some deep chair or
couch to welcome the visitor, and then subside into a grace-
ful attitude, seated on the arm of a chair or reclining against
a piano. At home she wore loose hanging robes, and she
herself was floppy. She would hold a bunch of roses to her
long nose, and raise her dark eyes above them, and tell
him that flowers were the most beautiful things in a very
ugly world. He agreed, and promptly unstrapped his par-
cel of books.

"Thank you ;" and she gave him the roses to smell, and
then laid them on her lap.

She desired his help. What she wanted to know was, Did
he think it was too late for her to open her mind ? She her-
self thought that literature might be a solace. She might
become an author. She said that if she wrote the story of
her own life, it would be the most wonderful book ever
written. "One day I shall have to tell you my life. You will
understand it. I knew from the beginning that you were
sympathetic."

With gentle tact Churchill postponed the day on which he
was to hear the story of Mrs. William's life. In fact that day
was never coming. If she really had need of disburdening
herself in this manner, he must refer her to Allan Gates.
Confessions belonged to his department.

But Daphne was fond of confidences, and if she might not
herself confide, she asked other people to confide in her.
Soon she invited Edward to a friendly confidential exercise.
With a prelude of apology, she asked him if he was happy in

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 339

his married life. When he replied that he was absolutdy
happy she said she was ver^ glad.

"It has been on my mind. I don't know why. My
own bitter experience, perhaps, makes me look for that
explanation whenever I think people are not happy."

She accepted his assurance, and yet, at a later period, this
strange idea must have come upon her mind again, because
she passed it on to Mr. Edrick.

She told Churchill she felt sure there had been a tragedy
in his life. "Tell me what it is. Trust me."

He parried all such questions. "I am thirty-four," he said,
smiling. "It would be odd if there had been no trouble or
sorrow in my life, but there is nothing of the least interest
From an ordinary point of view, my life has been unevent-
ful."

"Ah," she said, wearily dosing her eyes, *'yovL won't trust
me. I think you are wrong."

And she sent him a copy of verses on the subject of Trust-
fulness, and seemed willing that he should suppose they were
her own composition. He did not suppose it ; because, bad
as the verses were, they would have been worse if they had
come, as children say, out of Mrs. William's own head.

She soon gave up the notion of becoming an author, but
she did not abandon her new interest in literature, and she
presently asked Edward for some volumes on metaphysics,
and was disappointed when he said there were none in the
Library. She said he must make a list of very superior
books, and she would buy them next time she went to
London and present them to the Library.

She was often away from Lipsford, going to London for
relaxation, or to Harrogate and Buxton for the good of her
health. She said she adored London. "To me it is so
wonderful, so different from anywhere else. But I feel alone
there — alone in a crowd. I take Mrs. Prince with me, but
she does not count. She is no companion. There is no one
there like you, with whom I can exchange ideas. When I
have been looking at beautiful pictures or listening to ex-
quisite music, I want to remain silent, for quite a long time ;
but after that I want to utter all my thoughts and have them
understood in a moment. It is the same thing as the theatre.
I am lifted out of myself ; but afterwards comes the longing

340 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

for sympathy, for comprehensicm. I am afraid I am very
unconventional, but only a man's intellect is strong enough to
give the communion of spirit that we poor women need in
our highest moment. . . . Mrs. Prince — ^well, you khow
what Mrs. Prince is."

Mrs. Prince was one of the nondescript middle-aged ladies
who were connected with or adopted by the Bumage family,
wife to the large man, and, although Edward did not really
know much of her, he could understand that she would
necessarily fail as recipient of Daphne's vapourings about
art and the drama. Mrs. Prince was altogether too domestic
and prosaic.

One winter afternoon when Daphne had returned from
London, after a round of gaiety, she came straight to the
Library, and Lilian happened to meet her there. Daphne had
brought books, and they were spread out on the big table in
the middle of the room for Churchill's examination. Daphne,
dressed in rich furs, with a bunch of Parma violets at her
neck, sat upon the edge of the table in a graceful attitude,
while Edward, leaning on the far side of the table, pored
over the new volumes. There was nobody else in the place,
until Lilian appeared. When she came in Edward stood up,
and, the table suddenly tilting, Mrs. William nearly sat down
upon the floor. The new books followed her in a cataract.
It was really rather ridiculous, because Mrs. William had
been cut short and nearly upset in the midst of quite a high
flight of eloquence; but, recovering equilibrium, she pre-
served her full dignity and did not seem at all confused.

'•Your husband is quite wonderful," she said. "There
is nothing that he has not read, and nothing that he cannot
understand. I am sure you must be very proud of him."

Lilian replied rather stifily to these compliments. The
fact was she had heard too many of them, and for her own
reasons she could not support them any longer with perfect
equanimity. In the early days Mrs. William had called
at the cottage two or three times, but Lilian did not take to
her very kindly even then. Mrs. William's languishing grace
and slow, graceful gestures failed to charm, and the compli-
ments to Edward, who was not present on these occasions,
soon began to pall. One's pride in those one loves is not
a matter that one can easily discuss with fresh acquaintances.

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 341

nor docs one ordinarily enjoy having the duties that love
commands pointed out to one by strangers.

"I shall come to hear you on Thursday," said Mrs.
William, shaking out her furs and readjusting her violets.
"The usual time, I suppose. Eight o'clock."

Other members of the family went to Edward's evening
lectures at the Institute at long intervals, as a politeness or
for business purposes — Mr. Gordon, to make sure that the
lighting arrangements were satisfactory, without danger of
fire ; Mr. Edrick, perhaps to ascertain that the discourse did
not trench upon political economy or contain any ideas of
an unsettling nature. But Mrs. William went always when
she was in Lipsford, as if to a great treat, glad to renounce
her dinner for a lecture. Lilian several times saw her there,
sitting always in the same chair, looking very grand with her
big hat and velvet cloak, sniffing at a bottle of salts, half
closing her eyes and opening them prodigiously. When the
lecture was over she always said it had been "wonderful."
She said this to Mr. Gates, to the overseers, to anybody ; and
she said to Edward, if she got near enough, that it had taken
her out of herself, and she wished it hachi't stopped so soon.

Allan Gates, at supper with the Churchills one evening
after a lecture, said facetiously, "Old boy, you have made
quite a conquest. You have completely bowled over Mrs.
William."

The kindest people say the wrong thing sometimes, and
poor Allan said it then.

Lilian did not care for his remark ; she could not see any
joke in it, and after he had gone she told Edward her opinion
of Mrs. William quite seriously.

"I dislike her very much, and I hope you'll never give her
the very least encouragement."

"Lilian, my dear girl, how can you talk so absurdly?"

"It's not absurd. That woman would come between us
if she could." And she added proudly, "I am not a bit
afraid of her. But I don't like it."

And she spoke of Mrs. William again that evening, smil-
ing at him now, with her hands upon his shoulders.

"Edward, I am not much to look at — but you couldn't
prefer a faded, affected thing like that, could you ?"

All this was utterly absurd, but it was none the less annoy-

^^amm^lt''^'^'-ir ■if a", i ■" ' i,i' itik'-rf^-fl

342 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

ing. Edward was no better pleased with Allan's silly attempt
at a joke than Lilian had been. Before this he had often
felt a certain constraint and awkwardness in Mrs. William's
company, and henceforth these sensations were accentuated
by recalling LUian's extraordinary and unique flash of
jealous doubt. Everything chivalrous in his nature recoiled
from admitting for a moment that there might be a shadow
of substance to justify the imputation against the unfortu-
nate and embarrassing Daj^ne. But the thought of how
easily people and things can be misinterpreted rendered him
uncomfortable, and gave Daphne power to be for a time a
real worry.

Then, fortunately, she went to Harrogate again.

It was when she came back to lipsford that she heard of
the altered circumstances of the Churchills and rushed to
their rescue. That she meant well no one could doubt, but
really she was silly and precipitate in jumping to such large
conclusions. She seemed to think that the poor souls' need
was so great that even their daily bread might be in jeopardy,
and, eager to alleviate their more immediate distress, she
arrived at the cottage with a parcel of provisions in her hands
and a consignment of tinned fruit on the front seat of the
carriage. One of the gardeners from the big house followed
with an immense hamper of vegetables.

'TTiere," she said breathlessly to Lilian. "Now tell me
everything about it. I am sorry. I never slept a wink last
night, from thinking about it. Wh<st has happened?"

It was very difficult to satisfy her sympathetic question-
ings; or to persuade her to believe that they were not
hungry, and that, even if famished, they could never eat
so many vegetables.

"But," said Daphne, "v^^etables are invaluaUe if ycm
know slU you can do with them. I do not know m]rsdf*—
I am so ignorant But Ethel Prince knows. I will bring
Ethel Prince."

Then Daphne and Mrs. Prince came together; and Mrs.
Prince, in a quiet, bustling, capable way, told Lilian that it
was a mistake to suppose Aat man is really or necessarily a
meat-eater. Vast geographical tracts are peopled with races
who scarcely ever touch meat. The best doctors arc now
agreed that we Britons eat too much meat. She herself had

iTHE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 343

for some time been leading her husband, Mr. Prince, towards
the vegetarian habit; and, although as a person of large
frame not free from prejudices, he hung back a little, he was
already better, yes, better, for her treatment. He was less
inclined to be drowsy, more talkative after his meals.

"Believe me," she said, "Mr. Churchill will not suffer by
the change. To one of his ascetic temperament and energetic,
intelligent character, it will come as a revelation."

And she proposed, if Lilian permitted, to demonstrate
there and then how easy it was to make three kinds of
nourishing cabbage soup and one appetising tomato ragout.

Lilian submitted to this lesson, but, being so very anxious
to get rid of her visitors at the time and to escape more
visits from them in the future, she perhaps did not show
adequate pleasure or offer as gracious thanks as had been
expected. Mrs. Prince had ratiher a huffy air at the end of
the lesson, and she told Daphne afterwards that Mrs.
Churchill was a stuck-up, foolish person.

"I don't know what she may have been, but she thinks
herself above her station," said Mrs. Prince. "She is useless
in a house. If you wish to assist them, you'll have to do it
through the husband."

Daphne was already tr3ring to assist Edward with some-
thing more substantial than cabbage soups. She made a
proposal to him that the counsel and guidance he had so
freely given her should now be continued in a r^^lar, busi-
nesslike manner; that they should become teacher and pupil;
and that he should accept a handsome remuneration for a
course of interviews — say, three afternoons a week, an hour
at a time, at hours convenient to himself.

He told her that this was impossible. He was already in
receipt of a sufficient pajrment for all his services to the
community.

Indeed you are not," said Daphne, with indignation.
It is a beggarly pittance. It makes me ashamed to think
of. I mean to tell my cousin Edrick that it must be in-
creased, and very much increased, at once."

"No, please don't do that. Mrs. Draycott,I beg you as
a favour not to do that."

"Then what am I to do?" said Daphne disconsolately.
"You refuse everything. You won't trust me — yo^ H?t«i\.

MItlttmiittmatmmmtaiKaiimtimmm

344 THE MIRROR AND THE LAME

let me be helpful ;" and she seemed as though his obduracy
might reduce her to tears.

Edward, in dread of such a catastrophe, hurriedly assured
her that he appreciated her kind thoughts, although he could
not avail himself of them.

"Truly, Mrs. Draycott, we need no help. You are very
kind. Don't, please, trouble about us."

"But I do trouble. I can't help it. It makes me so un-
comfortable. And if you won't let me put things on a busi-
ness footing, how can I go on trespassing on your time and
your own occupations ? It will mean that I must not come
to the Library to have one of our talks. And there are
things I am dying to talk of."

He replied to the effect that now and always he was at her
disposal as a salaried servant of the family, that the Library
was a public place, and that the librarian was there to be
talked to. What else could he say?

So it happened that during the pleasant September weather
of their third year at Lipsf ord he spent, in following Daphne
through another of her vagaries, many half -hours that might
have been better and more profitably employed. It was
philanthropy this time. Literature had receded into a dim
background of headachy recollections. She wanted to ame-
liorate the lot of mankind, and she wished Mr. Churchill to
tell her how to set about it. At Harrogate she had met a
lady who did "slumming" in one of the great industrial
centres, and this lady said that the immorality, the distress,
the general condition of the poor, were far worse than in
London.

"I doubt if that is possible," said Churchill. And he told
her a little about life among the London poor, as he had
seen it.

She was intensely interested, and she asked why could not
she do what her Harrogate friend and other noble, unselfish
women did — go about among wonderful people, helping
them, and be lifted completely out of herself. The family
would, of course, object. But she was prepared to defy
their old-fashioned, conventional prejudices. They deserved
defiance as punishment for their failure ever properly to
understand her.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 345

GiurchiU thought it would be a pity to upset the family,
and suggested that as a beginning she might start her good
work nearer home. He told her of his belief in a rule of life
that made one do always first the things that are nearest
one's hand. He spoke quite earnestly, sympathising with
Daphne in this her new enthusiasm* It was finer, if not
likely to be less evanescent, than other of her fancies.

"Every day," he said, "I become more and more con-
vinced that it is not necessary to run about the world seeking
how and where one can do the most good. The calls come to
one, wherever one is. If one answers the call one hears
plainest, if one does the thing nearest one's hand, it is better
for one's own happiness — and it is enough. When the time
comes that we are all doing it, there will be no more
unhappiness in the world."

"But what's nearest to me ? What call? Exeter?"

"No, you might begin here,"

"HereT said Daphne, with a gesture of fatigue and
disgust. "What can I do here? Do you suppose I should
be allowed to do anything— even if there was anything to
do? Mr. Churchill," and Daphne showed emotion, "it's
unkind, if you are laughing at me."

"hideed I am not."

"Then what do you mean? There are no slums — ^nothing
approaching to a slum — ^here at Lipsford."

"Then I mean I should not trouble about slums, if I were
you."

But Mrs. William said she must trouble, because slums —
real slums — ^were on her mind ; and from what he had already
let fall, she now thought her friend was wrong and that
London slums were the best — ^that is, the worst. She begged
him to tell her some more about them.

"It's enthralling," she said, with admiration. **You have
seen these things yourself? You have lived among them —
in the real true East End of London?"

"Yes, I was working in the East End for a considerable
time."

"What part of it ? Where exactly ?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then told her that it was
the parish of St. Bede's.

■iagar

346 THE MIRROR AND. THE LAME

A few days after this conversation she brought to the
Library a copy of an illustrated magazine and showed it to
him.

"St. Bede's !" she echoed. "I have heard something about
St. Bede's — ^no, I read something about it— only the other
day. I know I did. St. Bede'sl"

"'See, Mr. Churchill. I knew I was right Here is an
article all about a wonderful place at St. Bede's."

The article was one of a series called "Odd Comers of
the Lab3rrinth/' and it concerned itself with Denmark House.
There were photographs of the outside of the house and the
inside of the house, of people sitting in the rooms, and
grouped together on the stairs. The writer praised the
House, calling it in the course of his article a haven of rest,
a harbour of refuge, and a secure shelter for all who had
been storm-tossed on the ocean of life, and saying that,
as an institution, it had been started, set going, put on foot
by the benevolence of a wealthy curate of the parish.

Edward Churchill glanced through the article, and saw
that the curate's name was not mentioned.

"Do you know the place yourself ?" asked Daphne, takii^
the magazine again to have another look at the pictures.

"Yes," he said, "I know it well."

"But it is beautiful," she said. "It is not a bit like a
slum."

"No, it is diflferent from the rest of the neighborhood."

"One day," said Daphne, with enthusiasm, "you must
take me to see it. Mr. Churchill, it must be arranged some-
how for you to come to London some time when I am there.
Mrs. Prince suffocates me in London. I must have some one
to talk to."

She harped on this idea more than once, and finally in
October told him that she was off to the metropolis and
invited him to come too. She must be allowed to defray all
tfie costs of this excursion, and he ought to consent. He
could stay at what hotel he pleased, and she would not
attempt to monopolise all his time. But he should escort
her to theatres, concerts, picture galleries, and perhaps show
her some wonderful places and wonderful people. They
would both be lifted right out of themselves, and it would

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 347

do them all the good in the world. This, perhaps, she
thought was doing the thing nearest to her hand.

''What is the use of being so conventional?" she argued.
"Why mayn't one be happy and enjoy oneself now and then
in one's own way? You never have a holiday. You never
get a change."

He regretted that he could not accept the invitation, and
said that, as a fact, he might have to go to Staffordshire on
business. That would give him sufficient change.

"Then come on to London," Daphne urged, "after you
have done your business in Staffordshire. Why not? I am
sure Mrs. Churchill would not object. May I ask her if she
will spare you?"

"No, please don't," said Churchill gravely. "I could not
in any case leave her alone while I was — amusing myself
in London."

Daphne half closed her eyes, considered, and spoke with
sudden decision.

"Then bring her too. Yes, bring her to London with you.
I am sure she and Mrs. Prince will be able to entertain each
other very well."

Not too tactfully he declined this enlarged invitation also,
and Daphne seemed wounded as well as disappointed. On
the following day she went to London, and he thought no
more about her.

But one evening only a few days later he saw the Bumage
brougham with the luggage cart on its way to the station,
and he heard that Mrs. William and Mrs. Prince had come
back again. Evidently this particular trip to London had not
been a great success.

XLIII

Next morning he and Allan Gates were summoned to the
big house to meet the family. Each carried with him various
accounts and papers ; for it was the custom of the family to
hold informal meetings, imder the presidency of Mr. Edrick,
at which the social progress of the community, plans for
future improvement, and reports on past efforts, were dis-
cussed by all concerned.

These meetings, as Mr. Edrick said, rendered easier their
common endeavour, and he wished everybody to give his
personal views with freedom. Often the big dining-room
was full of people, and the debate lasted a long time, because,
thus encouraged by the president, even the least important
personages liked to have their say.

To-day, however, it appeared that the meeting was to be
quite a small affair. The dining-room had been prepared as
usual, with the mahogany table laid bare and seats ranged
about it, but only Mr. Edrick, Mr. Gordon, and Mr. Prince
were in position at the table, while old Mrs. Bumage, un-
supported by other ladies of the family, sat in a high-backed
chair near the fire. Evidently nobody else was expected,
because Mr. Edrick opened the proceedings at once.

"Sit down, please. Don't undo your papers, Gates. . . .
Mr. Churchill, the business in hand is, I regret, of a rather
painful character; but I am sure it is best to come straight
to the point. Have I your permission to do so?"
'Certainly," said Churchill.

'Well then," said Mr. Edrick, suavely and almost depre-
catingly, "a relative and connection of ours happened the
other day to visit a part of London where you, as I now
understand, are well known, and there they heard certain
allegations — I should say, information concerning you. I
must not — ^we none of us think it right to accept this infor-
mation as correct until you have had an opportunity of
denying the facts mentioned ; but it is only fair to add that
we have also felt it right to consider and resolve upon our
course of action if you are unable to deny them."

348

"(

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 349

"Please tdl me the allegations."

"To begin with, that you are a clergyman of the Church
of England."

"I was one, but I have ceased to be one."

"Just so. But ''

"One moment," Allan Gates interposed finnly. "I want
to say at once that I was aware of this fact from the
banning."

"No," said Churchill. "You forget, Allan. I did not
tell you till after I had been here for a long time."

"But I guessed it," said Gates.

"Oh, you guessed it, Gates?" said Mr. Edrick. "But
you did not think it necessary to tell me or any of us?"

"No," said Gates, very firmly. "Why should I? It
did not concern you or any of us. It was entirely Churchill's
own affair. He was coming here to perform secular duties,
and he has performed them admirably. I had every con-
fidence in him, and my confidence has been thoroughly
justified."

Mr. Edrick looked at his brother, and then again at Gates.
"On the whole," he said mildly and courteously, "I think
you may not have been wrong in taking that view. No, all
things considered, I do not know that this circumstance
greatly concerned us; although naturally we should have
preferred to know the exact status of any one with whom we
were brought into close relations."

Old Mrs. Bumage was taking no part in the proceedings,
but she had said something to herself in a gnmibling tone,
and all turned toward her for a moment. Mr. Edrick seemed
to interpret her slight disturbance as a hint to abridge the
talk and get to business.

Deprecatingly then, but without unnecessary phrases, he
asked Churchill if it was true that the lady he had brought
among them as his wife was not in fact his wife for the
strongest of all reasons, because she was the wife of some-
body else.

"Yes," said Edward, "that is true, in the sense that you
attach to your question. The bond between us has not been
ratified by law. It is none the less indissoluble."

"Well then, that being so, we feel that we have no alter-
native but to ask you to vacate your appointment"

~^-» ■« ;. »t. - i *ii i l'rfg>#ii» ^

250 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"No doubt," said Edward, "you arc right from your point
of view. Please consider the appointment vacated."

Mr. Edrick seemed to be relieved.

"You see our difficulty. We make no reproaches. We
very much regret the unfortunate circumstances of the
situation, and we understand that, as you were placed, it was
not easy for you to explain them to us; but you would
perhaps have understood — ^had you thought of it — ^that our
reception of the lady we supposed to be Mrs. Churchill must
have been different — ^and that it was not fair to leave us
under a misapprehension."

"No, from your point of view it was not fair."

"You do see that now," and Mr. Edrick looked still more
relieved. "I put it to you as a man of the world "

"I am not a man of the world," said Edward; "but I
think no more need be said. You wish us to go. We will go
without delay." He had risen to his feet, and he bowed
gravely. "On behalf of both of us I beg to thank you all
for mu(^ kindness, and I am sorry if some, of it has been
given to us by mistake."

But then Allan Gates interposed hotly. He said that the
point of view of the family was not a Christian point of
view ; that if his friend was not a man of the world, he was
something far better ; that he and the lady who was his wife
in everything but name had led the most admirable life that
had ever been seen in Lipsford. All married couples might
take it as a model for imitation, and it was monstrous and
cruel to turn them out as if in disgrace.

"Gently, my dear Gates, gently," said Mr. Edrick. "There
is no question of disgrace— certainly not. Your friend
himself admits our difficulty. Surely you, too, must see that
we cannot countenance what in a larger community might
perhaps be of much less consequence. It is the example.
What we seem to countenance we must be held to approve.
We have many young men and women in our charge. This
lady goes about among the work-girls. They admire her and
are naturally subject to her influence."

"Do you think," asked Churchill, "she has done them
any harm?"

"No," said Mr. Gordon, "far from it. Mv brother had
no wish, as I know, to give an impression that any of us

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 351

doubt that. No, believe me, Mr. Churchill, it is to our great
regret that we are losing you both. You have both endeared
yourselves to many here."

Then Mrs. Bumage began to talk, as if to herself, rather
than to the company. "He ought not to have brought her
here — ^not into this house!" and she went on grumblingly.
*'It has never happened before— except once, when Ihey
brought the actress who played Lady Macbeth at Exeter.
That was in my husband's time."

"No, no," continued Mr. Gordon hurriedly. "Much
regret, I assure you ; but, as my brother has indicated, we
are not really free agents in the matter. We have responsi-
bilities."

"Very well," said Allan Gates. He, too, had risen from
his chair, and he came and stood by his friend's side near the
door. "If they go, I go with them. Please accept my
resignation also."

"That," said Mr. Edrick, "would be a thousand pities.
Gates."

"Yes," said Mr. Gordon. "Really, Gates you must not
think of such a course."

"Allan," said Edward Churchill appealingly, "don't,
please. For my sake, don't."

"No, no," said Mr. Edrick, "we simply won't consider
such a course."

"Why not ?" said Gates, very warmly. "You have taken
a course. Then I take mine. I refuse to countenance what
I consider a dangerous example of narrow-mindedness and
ingratitude. I protest against your treatment of this man
and this woman as unjust, ungrateful and unchristian."

The dark cheeks of Allan Gates were fiery red and his
eyes blazed as he made his protest. Mr. Edridk was gready
perturbed by it, and murmured deprecatingly ; Mr. Prince
shook his head in sign of solemn negation ; and Mr. Gordon
looked apprehensively towards the big chair by the fire.
But old Mrs. Bumage was quite undisturbed. She did not
seem to have noticed Allan's rather noisv outburst, and
presently one heard her speak to herself as if pursuing a long
train of thought.

"If I had Imown," she said, "I should not have given her
a nosegay."

352 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Outside in the hall Daphne was waiting for Churchill.
She seized his hand and clung to him. Her eyes had red
circles round them, her long nose was swollen by weeping,
she spoke hysterically and breathlessly.

''It is not my fault. Dear Mr. Churchill, do believe me.
I am not to blame."

"No," he said gently and kindly, *'of course not No one
is to blame except myself."

"It is Mrs. Prince," said Daphne, with a gasp. "I hate
her. I'll never speak to her again. We went to Denmark
House — ^your wonderful House that you gave them. You
gave them all your money. And they love you there. They
pray for you. And I think there's nobody like you. I have
told Edrick. I have told them all that none of them here are
fit to black your boots. . . . But the matron of the House
told us something about her — and Ethel Prince insisted on
going to other places, making further inquiries, until she
found out everything. I tried to prevent her. , . . Oh, why
didn't you trust me? If you had trusted me, I should
have been on my guard, and this wouldn't have happened ;"
and she burst into hysterical sobbing.

"Daphne," said Mr. Edrick, coming from the dining-room ;
"Daphne. This is not very becoming. I beg of you to
control yourself ;" and he and Mr. Prince released Churchill
from her embrace, and led her away still sobbing.

Allan Gates and Edward Churchill, carrying their un-
opened papers, walked through the gardens and down the
park-like slope towards the river and the clustered roofs.
The sun was shining on the pleasant meadows and the ter-
raced hill; never had their valley looked prettier or more
restful.

And Edward, thinking of his friend, said to himself, "He
loves it. He is happy here. He has made it his home.
But for me, he would stay here to the end of his life."

And, speaking aloud, he reproached Allan for wishing to
make a quite unnecessary sacrifice, and urged him to with-
draw his resignation. The family would be quick to pardon
a few hasty and ill-considered words, and eager to retain
his services.

"Allan, please do it — for my sake. I should never forgive
myself for bringing this trouble upon you."

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 353

"I shouldn't forgive myself eith^jr. Dear old boy, I am
following your own rule. How often have you told me ? —
self has its rights. I am doing it for my own sake. Besides,
I had to make my protest — ^to make it as strong as I could, so
that all might understand it."

"But, Allan, did you believe all that you said to them?
Did you really think that they were acting so improperly ?"

"Of course I did. . . . Oh, I don't taio^." And for a
moment he had his expression of childlike ruefulness. "1
can't analyse too closely. They made me very angry. Don't
let's speak of it again. Let us think of what we are all to
do."

Indeed the outlook, so far as Lilian and Edward were
concerned, could not be considered as cheerful. They had
lost their job. They were out of work and almost penniless.

"I think," Allan went on, "what we had better do is to
go first of all to Danesborough. I am sure they'll take me
on again there. There is always room there for another
curate. We shall have plenty of time there to look round,
and see what is best for all of us." As he talked, he became
gay again, snapping his fingers, and stepping out briskly.
"Remember, we have a nice little nest egg — ^the money
you wouldn't use. We'll use it now, till we get going
again."

"Allan, you speak of *we' and *us,' when you ought to
say *I.' Lilian and I can fend for ourselves. We are not
going to hang upon you."

"No, you are not. But you are coming with me. We
are going into the wilderness together."

During the afternoon Edward Churchill once more at-
tempted to dissuade his friend from abandoning the happy
valley; but Gates scarcely listened to these further argu-
ments. He was busily packing at his beloved parsonage.
He had already stripped the "book-room," and he moved to
and fro in the midst of confusion, pulling about boxes, piling
things in small heaps, talking to his servant and talking to
himself with the utmost cheeriness. "This pile is to be burnt
. . . That is a present for Mr. Madge. He is coming to
fetch it. . . . My fishing-boots! Shall I ever require them?
No, I think I will give my fishing-boots to old John Venning.
Yes, for Venning^the boots. That settles that," and he

■*-~~"-'-***'^ -^* -^'

354

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

whistled gaily. *'What did you say, Edward ? Will you and
Lilian be ready for the first train to-morrow ? . . . Oh, about
my going I" and he stopped and turned. "That's all right.
I have been here more than long enough. I always said
so— and, in any case, I could not go on living here when
you and Lilian were gone"

Arguments were without avail, and Edward Churchill
had not really expected that his friend would }rield to them.
As each knew, it was a comradeship that could not be
broken. So these three went out into the wilderness, as it
were, hand in hand.

XLIV

In those days the town of Danesborotigh was perhaps not
more than half its present size ; but already its rapid expan-
sion had begun. Allan Gates said that since he last saw it,
a belt of pretty fields and copses that used to separate the
suburbs of Danesmead and Castle Hill had been built over,
and the district called Canal Bank had "grown out of all
knowledge." Here the new docks had been opened, another
canal had been cut to the estuary of the river, and the semi-
maritime character of the neighbourhood had become merged
in its manufacturing activity. The timber trade flourished
exceedingly, and a bocHn had begun in half-finished wood-
work and builders' materials. The children, especially the
girls, were nearly all employed at the wood-work as soon
as they left school. A large trade in fish was also developing
itself, while the old trades of woollen goods, cement, and
carpets more than held their own, increasing their smoke-
cloud and swallowing fresh acreage in a most satisfactory
manner.

Indeed, from a material point of view, Danesborough was
doing well. "With our population of over a quarter of a
million," as the local newspapers used to say, "with a system
of water-ways that connects us with the North Sea, with
our public parks, with the residential amenities offered by
wealthy Danesmead and the scarcely less affluent Castle
Hill, Danesborough and its dependencies ma^ fairly rival and
ere long challenge supremacy with any city m Europe." The
newspapers rarely if ever spoke of the beautiful Norman
church of St. Peter's or the old market or the Monks' Gate,
but these medieval curiosities had always been there in the
middle of the town, and modem generations could only claim
to have made them look foolish if compared with the iron
and plateglass castles that now surrounded and dwarfed
them. AA^at the newspapers talked of most of all, what
formed a topic of genend conversation and excluded all such
subjects as art, literature, or religion, was the Train Service.

355

356 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Danesborough wanted more and faster trains. It made
people's blood boil when they heard of new railway facilities
for Leeds and Liverpool, or of wonderful non-stop runs into
the sleepy West of England. But for the w inertue and
selfish greed of two railway boards, the progress of this
glorious city might have been even greater.

From another point of view, it was a place without a soul.
The well-to-do had hearts of stone ; the rich were brutally
bumptious ; the Press, the Municipality, all the public men,
were ridiculously, vaingloriously self-satisfied. Every class
down to the humblest work-people earned plenty of money,
and spent their money in eating too much and drinking too
much. At night drunkards made the streets horrible. By
day the most respectable people drank more than was good
for them ; business men completed no piece of business with-
out wetting the bargain ; their wives at home in fine villas
soaked through the empty hours ; the crowd gathering for
its professional football match, rabbit coursing, or whippet
racing, flushed and heated itself at a thousand taverns before
the sport began. Whole roads smelt of whisky, and even
little children knew, its taste. Prostitution also was rife,
fostered by the ready money in all the young men's pockets
and by the conditions of the workshops where the young
girls were employed. These were regular recruiting places
for the army of the fallen, and shop-girls led astray by their
employers, servants seduced by the sons of the house, young
women too lazy to work, helped to swell its ranks.

To Edward Churchill the place seemed uglier far than the
East End of London. There people were miserably poor,
and yet they helped one another, were kind to one another.
Here they were prosperous, but they gave no help, they
showed no kindness. They enjoyed other people's misfor-
tunes ; accidents to others made them laugh ; if a horse fell
or a cart came to grief, men passing on their way to woric
would not lend a hand. "Ay, lad, sit on th' beast's head
as long as ye like, but that wunna mend matters," and they
laughed and went on. Nothing for nothing was their motto.
They were cold and dour and greedy. Wives extracted
coin from trousers pockets while their husbands slept, and
fathers thrashed their grown-up daughters with a strap for
withholding their wages from the family purse. *'Ay, lassie.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAME 357

ye ma rub and rub, but ye wun't rub tha'at oot in a hurry/'
The only active work of mercy that Churchill met with was
a small organisation for rescuing the fallen. This was called
the Sisterhood of St. Mildred, and the sisters were ladies
of means who had never received any monetary aid from the
town in the good work that they were doing. Churchill,
made known to these ladies by Gates, recognised them as a
touch of light on a very dark background. Nearly all else
struck him as abomination and desolation.

But then Edward Churchill was a failure in D^nesborough.
Gates, who had been almost immediately given work as an
assistant curate at St. Peter's, not only supported his two
friends for a little while, but used every effort to provide
them with good employment. Many people remembered
him ; and by his influence Edward obtained his first job, an
engagement on the editorial staff of The Daily Courier.

Mr. Milton Kirk, the editor, was a marvellously vain-
glorious little man. Everything about himself, his past, and
his future, was for him full of interest and emotional ex-
citement, and he would talk on such matters with astounding
volubility.

"Big as The Cotmer akchually is," he told ChurchUl, "it
is not big enough for me. It's merely a stepping-stone. I've
been in America. I can see what the power of the Press is
going to be in another twenty years. The pen is mightier
than the sword. The world is mine oyster and I will open
it," and he flourished a stylographic pen that he had t^en
from his waistcoat pocket, as though it were the actual in-
stnmient with .which he intended to open the oyster, and
then handed it to his secretary. "Refill, Miss Jenkins, if you
please. Mr. Churchill, I have made myself what I am. I
shall make myself what I mean to be. You, Mr. Gates in-
forms me, are a man of the highest university education. /
have had no such advantages. My education was n^lected ;"
and, as if to prove the truth of the assertion, he omitted one
or two aspirates. "That neglect, 'owever, 'as been made
good by myself."

Miss Jenkins, the lady secretary, admired him more than
anything on earth. She had a table all to herself, and he
threw her words and tossed her bits of paper, or beckoned
her to his side from time to time ; and all of it she enjoyed

358 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

immensely. Her one desire was to lighten the vast burden
that the editor carried on his small shoulders. Her hatmt-
ing fear was that he might break down under the strain.

"Your note-book, if you please, Miss Jenkins;" and he
would hurriedly dictate. " 'Mr. Milton Kirk directs me to
say he is far too busy a man to comply with your request
. . .' Now, Miss Jenkins, telephone, please. Ring up Sir
Joseph Bence and say I will be with him at the club at 4
p. M. precisely. . . . Make a note, please, to remind me
to get my hair cut before the Masonic Meeting on the
15th. . • •"

All the office furniture had been made in America ; every-
thing in the room was contrived to expedite the rush of
business and avoid the slightest waste of time, and yet it
seemed that time was wasted all day long. The editor talked
so much, stayed away for such a lengthy luncheon, ran out
so frequently for an important appointment or a whisky-
and-soda, and grew so excited towards night, that it ap-
peared wonderful that the paper ever got put to bed at all.
The editor's own leading article was always late ; but for-
tunately, as he said himself, Mr. Kirk could work at high
pressure. At the very last possible moment he began to
prance about the room in the throes of inspiration ; then he
would dash out for one more drink, while poor Miss Jenkins
sat throbbing and trembling ; and then finally he would give
off his coltmin at white heat.

"The Train Service! Miss Jenkins, I'll tickle them up
about the train service again. Yes. Begin. . . . 'We
have never 'esitated to animadvert on supineness and inepti-
tude, when displayed in high places. . . .' "

He told Churchill to try his hand on some articles de-
scriptive of Danesborough itself. "Go about with open eyes,
and record, record what you see. Use your imagination,
draw upon your education, and give us word-pictures —
clear-cut, salient, snappy. As a stranger much will strike
you that to others has become mere 'abitude. See what you
can make of it — ^and remember, akchtidity, Akchuality is
the keynote of successful journalism — ^yes, and of all litera-
ture. Look at Rudyard Kipling. What does he owe his
success to?"

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 359

Miss Jenkins stirred uneasily, and ventured to whisper to
the great man.

"What say? The name! Yes, yes, that's another theory
of mine, Churchill. A name of the right sort — a name of the
right sort — a name not too easy to remember, but one that
sticks when you've learnt it — ^is half the battle. Rudyard
Kipling! People couldn't get the hang of it at first. But
they've got it now. Rider Haggard, Hall Caine — same
thing. Take my own case. Milton Kirk. Not much in
Kirk, but Milton Kirk's all right, eh? Danesborough has
learnt it, and I'll stamp it on England before I've done."

But Mr. Kiric, although conceited, was not without some
kindly attributes. He seemed to have taken quite a liking
for Churchill, and to be genuinely sorry that the descriptive
articles were unsuccessful. He published three of them, and
then was forced to stop the series. The fourth article was
already in type, but he could not pass it. He told Churchill
it was too vague and misty, all up in the clouds, and without
a trace of snap.

"See what I mean?" And he regretfully flourished his
stylographic pen above the condemned proof. "Where's the
akchuality? What's it all about? I ask myself: Is this
socialism? Is it Walt Whitman or Ruskin or 'Erbert
Spencer? Wfiat is it? It's elegant English, I admit; but I
read and I read, and I don't know what you're trying to say.
In one way it almost reads like a criticism of the Corpora-
tion and the way the town is managed. But you never meant
that, I suppose."

"Well, I did mean to hint things were not quite perfect."

"Where's the sense of that ?" said Mr. Kirk, with sudden
irritation. "We don't wash our dirty linen in public at
Danesborough. And what's more, we don't quarrel with our
bread and butter either. The Courier and the Corporation
have grown up side by side. Such an attack — ^if any one
understood it — might play the devil with our advertisement
columns. A jolly nice thing you'd let me in for."

Then, exonerating the offender on the score of ignorance,
he said he would try Churchill at book-reviewing.

"Yes, there's your chance. See what you can make of it.
Exploit your classical education, criticise to your 'earf s

JW^fcbJI*««<to-^ tm . m I ■■Vgi5JU»Wa

360 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

content. But, look here, keep in close touch with Mr. Hod-
son — ^you know, the Advertisement Manager. He'll give
you your line. . . . Mind you, this may lead to big things.
I've long thought of featuring our book page. If the Lon-
don publishers will support me generously, I won't grudge
space, I'll give them the fullest attention. There's going to
be a new era in book-advertising, and we may be the first to
open it out up here."

But Churchill was fated to suS^r another check and post-
ponement in his literary career. One night on his way from
the newspaper office to his distant lodgings he was stopped
near the first canal by a young girl. "Bide a bit, ducky,"
said the girl, and she invited him to follow her towards some
waste ground near a timber yard. He went with her silently
as far as the nearest lamp-post, and then made her stand in
the lamplight while he talked to her. She wore a school-
girl jacket and sailor hat with her hair tied in a red ribbon
bow ; she looked a mere child, certainly not more than fifteen
years old, and yet she was regularly leading a life of sin.
When he asked her age she laughed, and said, "That ud be
telling. Coom and ask Auntie."

But he made her tell him all about herself. She could
not remember a mother or father; she was called Nell
Thorpe, but did not know if that was her real name; she
and three other girls lived in the lowest part of Canal Bank
with a woman who said she was her aunt. Her usual clients
were the sailor lads ; but Aunt liked her to fly at higher game,
and was less unkind if she brought back a respectable prize.
Auntie was unkind. Everybody was unkind ; and she began
to cry. Then she brushed the tears from her eyes, set her
hat jauntily, laughed, and took Churchill by the arm.
"Now," she said, "are you cooming home with me ?"
"No," said Churchill, "you are coming home with me."
And he took her back to his k)dgings, and handed her over
to Lilian.

"I can't help it," he said. "Lilian, I couldn't leave her,
after what I had heard. Look at her. She is young enough
to be my daughter. She must stay with us until we can do
something for her. . . . Nell, my wife will be kind to you.
Now, wluit's that woman's name? I am going to her at

THE MIRROR AND! THE LAMP 361

once, to tell her that you are among friends and that you are
never going back to her."

Not unnaturally, ''Auntie" took this communication in
bad part. Thus outraged, she showed herself to be a bold
as well as a furious virago. Next day she found her way to
their lodgings and tried to recover her ward by the hair of
the head. Then, thwarted, the wretched creature went to
the police for help ; she was versed in the law, and perhaps
had spared no pains to keep on good terms with the local
constabulary.

That evening the Churchills were arrested. They spent
the night in cells, and next morning were brought before the
Borough Bench on a charge of abducting and procuring a
girl for an immoral purpose. Both were remanded, Edward
Churchill being detained in custody and his companion Lilian
Vickers being released on bail. That was all that Allan
Gates could do for them then. But at their next appearance
before the magistrates, he brought efiicient aid from the
Sisterhood of St. Mildred. The sisters spoke to the char-
acter of Churchill and that of Auntie. They knew all about
the street of brothels in which the girl lived. They were
prepared to take charge of the girl, and finish the work that
Churchill had begun.

The Bench did not like it at all. It was a nasty business,
this washing of dirty linen in public, reckless allegations
against the moral life of the town flying about, ladies dressed
up in uniform and shady ne'er-do-wells making out that
Danesborough wasn't paradise — ^the Bench would not in
the circumstances commit for trial, but it said to Edward
Churchill, "Let this be a lesson not to meddle with what
doesn't concern you."

The publicity that was unavoidably attached to the case
gave them a very bad start in Danesborough society, and
indeed spoiled the chance of obtaining for Churchill the kind
of high-class employment at which Gates had aimed. Nor
could Lilian hope now for admission as teacher of music
and French in the rich houses of Danesmead, or even the less
imposing villas of Castle Hill. Perhaps nobody here would
have cared whether they were married or single, but after
such scandalous proceedings they must be considered as

362 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

doubtful characters in the technical sense. Above all, one
could not forgive the dirty linen part of it.

A person of this sort could not be allowed to figure as
literary critic of The Courier. The directors said so, and
the editor was forced to agree.

"I'm sorry," he said to Churchill; "but you have made
a pretty mess of it, haven't you? When I heard what you'd
been up to, I thought, of course, you'd done it for copy — a
bit of akchuality — ^the W. T. Stead game over again. Not,
mind you, that I'd have countenanced one word of it in The
Courier, But you had no such idea ? Simply promiscuous
charity, eh?"

Yet, loth to "turn down" Mr. Churchill altogether, in
spite of the directorial attitude, he offered him a place in
the publishing department There was, practically, a vacancy
in the packing-room.

"Miss Jenkins, speaking-tube, please. My compliments
to Mr. Murtle and will he kindly step up. ... If he
hasn't filled the place of that man Blair, he can give it to Mr.
Churchill. It'll be bread and cheese, anyway."

Edward Churchill wanted bread and cheese, for two, and
he was glad to find himself packing up newspapers and car-
rying them to carts, since he might not use pen and ink any
more. But this job, also, he could not long retain.

After a fortnight or so he happened to overhear a con-
versation between Mr. Murtle, the publisher, and a trouble-
some visitor.

"Get out," said Mr. Murtle, "unless you want me to have
you pitched out."

"It isn't fair play," said the visitor.

"Fair play be damned. I tell you I've filled your place.
You didn't expect me to keep it open till doomsday."

"I've coom oot o' th' 'orspital sooner than what they
tould me. I knaw th' work, an' a'm ready to do't as well
as another."

This man was Blair, Churchill's predecessor. Churchill
went outside the building with him, and learned how he had
fallen sick and been obliged to lay up for a bit, counting on
being reinstated in his employment.

"But they wanted to be shoot o' me," he said heavily.
^S4 to forty-fivt, an' they knaw ma chest's weak. They think

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 363

you're younger, an* stronger, an* a better bargain all ways-
Well, a'U just go home an' tell the wife a'm oot."

"Wait a few minutes," said Churchill.

He went back to the publisher's c^ce, resigned his ap-
pointment, and begged for the reinstatement of Blair.

Mr. Murtle demurred, and unconsciously echoed the work-
man's words. "I'm contented as it is. You're the better
man. Besides, I put you in to oblige Mr. Kirk." Then he
lost his temper. "Oh, damn. Have it your own way.
Draw to-night for the broken week, and tell that fellow to
take on from to-morrow morning." And he added presently
to a clerk, "Good riddance, too. He'd do us no credit in the
long run."

" 'Tis but right," said Blair heavily, when Churchill told
him that he was re-engaged.

Churchill's next job was in a cabinet-maker's shop; but
here he had words and nearly came to blows with his em-
ployer, because this household martinet, after the good old
Danesborough custom, gave a cruel taste of the strap to his
eldest daughter. Then for a little while he worked as a
loader of canal barges, carrying planks. This was a tempo-
rary engagement, and he kept it as long as the task lasted.
After that he worked at a house agent's office by day, and
spent his evenings addressing circular envelopes at a book-
seller's. He was not particular. He took any job that
offered ; but the jobs all seemed to be precarious and the
remuneration was small.

Allan Gates was powerless to lift him from the low level
to which he had dropped ; he himself was very poorly paid,
and his hoardings had already been dissipated. He could
not offer to keep his friends in idleness, even if they had
been willing to accept further aid. So time passed, and
Edward Churchill and Lilian suffered what are called hard-
ships. They knew what it was to be cold for want of a fire
and hungry because of insufficient food. Yet they were not
unhappy.

At any moment they might have escaped from the difficul-
ties of dieir life by doing one of two things. They could
have gone to London, where undoubtedly Churchill would
have obtained a better living wage, or they could have
abandoned the support of Robert Vickers. But they did not

i»-- ^ ..■■■ ■Mj n il ■ ^ ■<1^^■^^^-^*!!—

364 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

ever think of doing either thing. Allan often suggested the
first. "You ought not to stay here," he used to say. "You
must not waste yourself for my sake. It is an absurdly
quixotic notion, a very wrong notion, if you feel bound in
any way to me."

But although so dire a failure, Edward Churchill did not
remain quite a nonentity in Danesborough. The humble
folk with whom he was thrown began to notice him.
Whether he wished it or not, he made his immediate com-
panions think about him. He said very little to them, but
he did things that made them talk of him. He did things
that force men to speak and think, because they have been
set wondering.

In the winter time floods were out, covering the tow-paths
and hiding the canals, and many accidents occurred. One
day Edward came back to his lodgings dripping wet, and
told Lilian that he had been in the water. He was ill after
this, and, while laid up, he asked her to go to a certain house
in one of the poorest streets and find out for him if the
children of the house were all right. He seemed anxious
about them, but did not explain why. She went to the house,
and there discovered that he had rescued three children from
drowning. The mother said that the gentleman would not

?ive his name, but made her promise not to punish the imps
or the "fecklessness," and said that he would come to in-
quire how they were getting on. Lilian told her the gentle-
man's name, and she and others in that street remembered it.
In the hot stmimer-time there came an outbreak of small-
pox in the neighbourhood of the docks, and a great scare
throughout the town. The well-to-do were terrified, and the
train service was severely tested by a number of prosperous
inhabitants who ran away from the danger. The local
authorities, who in fact had for years been asking for trouble
by not enforcing vaccination, hurriedly organised two hos-
pital ships on the river; but they had difficulty in getting
anybody to help. Churchill enrolled himself at once, and
served for two months on one of the hospital ships. This
was noticed and remembered by the people of the docks.

In the autumn there was a row at some cement works
about the unskilled labour men. A union had just been
started tor them and all but a few joined. One of these

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 36S

blacklegs was laid for by a picket and knocked out of time.
Churchill, hearing of this and perhaps recalling an incident
in his own history, went to see the injured blackleg and his
wife. "What are we to do?" said the woman. "Am I to
starve or go to the workhouse till ma man gets fit to work?"
Next day Churchill assumed the character of a sturdy black-
leg, and was taken on at the works. The men glowered at
him, looked more and more menacing, and in the dinner hour
of the second day they got round him at the bottom of the
yard and began to threaten him. He dodged through the
circle, got his back to a wall, and faced them. He told them
why he was there. He was wotking for the man they had
knocked out. He would go on working there and taking
him his pay till the man recovered ; then he would bring the
man back and see that he was not touched by them.

"I don't know whether you are right or wrong about your
union, but I know you were cowardly dogs to band together
six against one. Show you are men and not dogs. Come
on now, if you like, one at a time, and I'll fight the lot of
you."

They did not fight him one at a time, or go for him all
together. Perhaps they were too much puzzled; perhaps
they thought him mad; but they allowed him to continue
working. They talked about him and wondered. When the
injured man returned they did not molest him. Soon he and
the other blacklegs joined the union, but until they did so
they were permitted to work in peace. And when later
Churchill came, merely as a visitor, just for a look-in as he
passed by, all the men seemed to welcome him as an old
friend. " Weel, g^v'nor ? Whaat's oop now ? Coom to fight
us or to teach us manners ? Aye, we've had many a crack
and many a laugh about you doing juryman for old Ben."

Gradually then people came to know him, and, dour as
they were, many came to like him. What had always hap-
pened wherever he went was happening once more. He was
too strong an individuality not to exert influence ; and when
once people yielded ever so little to his influence, some among
them were sure to yield completely. He began to talk to
them. He told them to be kind to one another. "Why are
you unkind? Why do you speak harshly to those you love?
Why do you ask payment for every trifling friendly ad?

wiMTTMiB t iftB>pi» I F i" iiiiiifigBBmB— — MM

366 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Why can't you do something for nothing ? Why aren't you
kind to one another?"

He preached this doctrine in season and out of season.
"Be kind to one another. Nothing else matters." Certainly
he gave them example as well as precept. He seemed to be
trying to help all the world ; he did other men's work as well
as his own ; he would do an3rthing for anybody who by look
or gesture or by ntunb silence seemed to convey to him those
two words, "Help me." And this readiness of action, the
swift response and the unmeasured effort, could not be
ignored, must be pondered on.

A rent collector of Canal Bank spoke of him to Gates,
saying, "Your friend's a rum 'un. I've met his class before
— sort o' men who are always helping others, but can't help
themselves."

But, in the rent collector's sense, he was not even trying
to help himself. He was letting life deal with him from hour
to hour as it pleased. He had given himself to the presstu*es
with which he was surroimded, and he was contented in the
daily struggle of poverty. He had no regret for past com-
fort, no dread of coming pain ; even in the ugliness of Danes-
borough he saw no evil omens for the future of mankind.
In a rough note that he made in his diary he jotted down
some of his reasons for trust and hope, together with his
amended notions of a selfish philosophy.

"I rely on the ultimate salvation of the world, because
of the pity and sympathy which I believe are now firmly
established and ever growing in the human race. You
must yield to them now, because the refusal infallibly
produces mental discomfort in yourself. That is why
everybody who is happy must be what is called an
altruist. To satisfy the craving of self for peace you
must answer the calls of others.

"But the calls are from all directions, all at once,
unceasing, unappeasable. Hence there comes the inner
restlessness and revolt against an impossible task. No
man can answer all the calls — and the restlessness be-
comes mixed with dread. Can I never be at peace?
One is crushed by the feeling of impotence. It is like
the child's dream of monstrous impossibilities. The

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 367

strong man answering the calls thinks, perhaps, 'It is
as if I was turned loose with a broom to sweep all the
rivers into the sea and make the wide world dry. I
cannot do it, but I will show good faith. I will begin
to sweep with all my strength. I shall at any rate gain
the peace that comes from great fatigue. When I can
do no more, I will lie down and sleep and forget.' Then
he starts sweeping the first puddle he meets, and he
cannot even sweep out that. He lies down, but cannot
forget. Even in sleep he is tormented by the first call —
still unanswered. This is real and true. Strong men
die of this sense of failure, by hundreds, philanthropists,
politicians, social reformers.

*And that does no good to anybody.

'One cannot even satisfy the first call. When it
seems small and one gives all that was asked, one is
still restless and discontented. One might have given
more than was asked; then one would perhaps now
have been at peace. This leads you on step by step
to the giving of all. Give everything; then you can
give no more and you will be at peace.

"But blind indiscriminate kindness is wrong — all the
world will tell you so. Wait and watch for the de-
serving case. Be sure that it is a call that ought to be
answered. You cannot. That would mean a life of
torment, a watching and waiting for what may never
come. You will be tortured by remorse — Have you
missed the call ? You will be sickened by hope deferred
— ^Will the call never sound ? Don't listen to the world.
Listen to the inner voice. The necessity is in you, not
outside you. Self is the lord of self. If you cannot
appease and satisfy yourself, the praise of all the world
will not satisfy you.

"Nor need you too closely analyse the needs of those
who ask, or strive to measure them. If evil comes of
it, the evil is external to yourself. It cannot harm you.
You have not made your sacrifice to gain praise. You
have not, in truth, made it to give happiness to others,
but to win peace for yourself. That is your standard
and yotu- test.

"Now, how can you justify yourself for this upraising

368 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

of self above all the world? By the iron facts of life.
You are lodged in the cruel self-prison, and you cannot
escape from it. You look through prison bars and see,
vaguely, moving men who seem to be free, but them-
selves are caged. No man can enter your cell and share
your confinement. You cannot sit behind the bars of
a comrade's prison. Surely, then, each is justified in
dealing with his own cell as he pleases. Who else
can be the worse or the better? Who can know, who
can question him? There is no trap in the iron door;
the warders of life cannot peep in and look at him ; the
governor of the world-prison can pay no visits of in-
spection.

"Suppose the man thinks he has made a wonderful
discovery. The secret of comfort lies in having a clean,
bare cell. With infinite toil, with hands that bleed, he
is breaking up the boards that make his bed, and pitch-
ing them out through his narrow window. Prisoners
afar off see the debris beneath the wall, call him mad-
man, fool, laugh at him or weep for him. What does it
matter ? He cannot pause for that. But perhaps some
day other prisoners will imitate him, follow his ex-
ample; and his secret will pass through stone walls,
from one to another, until it is known to all.

"Indeed, in that thought lies all the justification of
acting for self. You cannot set the world straight.
You cannot act for any one else.

"Practically, too, you may reconcile your conduct to
the law of common sense, because you are giving the
most striking testimony of what you believe to be true
wisdom. You are giving over your message in the
strongest way. Do the thing nearest to your hand.
Your hand cannot stretch across the world. But the
fact may take wings and circle the globe. Those about
you have noticed it, stored it in memory, whether they
will or no. The man who has cheated you and been
forgiven by you cannot forget it. The fact lives with
him at any rate.

"Wide ambition is futile. Ambition drops away

when you recognise your impotence and cease to fight

against it. Give all — and be done with it. Give all—

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 369

and you may then live in peace. Never mind the suffer-
ing and pain that you cannot alleviate. It will vanish in
the brighter future of the race. What you feel in you is
felt by others. There is no going bade now. The in-
ward restlessness will not fade again into the content-
ment of the brutes. You may fold your hands and leave
it all to the mirror and the lamp."

This rough note showed how largely he had modified that
purely rational scheme that was to be his final code, but he
scarcely knew that his attitude of mind had changed and
was still changing. He knew that this rough and tumble life
suited him better than the quiet and comfort of Lipsford.
Things were well with him outwardly as well as inwardly.
His only disturbing thought was remorse for Lilian. Yet
here again he hoped that all was well. Their love burned so
brightly : she seemed to be contented.

And truly she had no real regrets. She, too, had yielded
to the pressure of environment. More and more she was
dealing with the thing close at hand, without conjuring up
an image of things remote. She was living in each day with-
out thought of the morrow. That episode of the girl Nell
Thorpe had stirred her greatly. How could one pine for
creature comforts or the pretty decorations of life while
other women and girls were suffering such a fate as that I

She had made a great friend of one of those good women,
the sisters of St. Mildred ; and this Sister Maude, a homely,
sensible person, came to live at the house where the Church-
ills were lodged. Sister Maude spent her day at the women's
shelter, communing with the rescued, and at night took her
turn at street duty. Edward, coming home of an evening,
often used to meet her as she issued from the lodgings,
dressed in the uniform of the Sisterhood — a grey cloak and
red collar and a round black cloth cap— and always he felt
admiration for her courage and endurance. She was going
to encounter insult, scorn, perhaps violence; she was going
to failure and disappointment, and fatigue ; but she went as
cheerfully and gaily as if to a feast where she would be
caressed by the flattery of charming gracious people. He
admired and respected her.

Then one night he met her coming out with another Siatex.

tML

^^m^

370

THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

It was Lilian, dressed for the first time in the uniform. His

heart melted at sight of her ; she seemed to him so beautiful,

so fragile, so utterly too dear for the ugly streets and their

cruel work.

Xilian," he whispered, ^'must you do this?"

'Not if you tell me not to," she said. "'But I want to

do it."
He could not tell her not to. But he followed her in dread,

watching her from a little distance, trembling for her, loving

her, yearning over her.

«i

«i

XLV

In the rescue work when the Sisters had caught a girl, got
her safely in their Shelter, fed her, clothed her, and done all
they could for her, they then summoned Allan Gates to
convert her to religion.

Gates was "all out" for the repentant sinner. His favour-
ite text here in Danesborough was the one about "more joy
in heaven." From the moment of his arrival he had said,
"Now I must gird up my loins. I know what it is, and here
I am back in it again;" and he became at once a changed
man. He was the active Christian now, the minister, work-
ing late and early ; so different from the easy-going Allan of
the Happy Valley that one could scarcely recall a picture of
him digging in a garden or making a trout fly on the river's
bank. He conducted nearly all the services at the chapel-of-
ease at Canal Bank, and rarely was seen at the grand old
church of St. Peter in the town. At Canal Bank there were
club-rooms or mission-rooms, and he had meetings and
awakening services for men and for women. He also visited
and preached at the prison.

But although working so hard, he was never fussy or
rattled like Walsden; he kept serene and unruflled in the
midst of turmoil. And when most businesslike, the old
childlike Allan would show suddenly. He was very partic-
ular in the preparation of placards and leaflets that he dis-
played and distributed in the streets near the mission-room —
"Where are you going?" "Don't take that step." "Pause
while there is yet time," and so on, in large capitals. He
used to compose these "Startlers," as he called them, with
great care, and he crowed with delight when he thought he
had made a good one. He used to get them struck off at
The Courier printing works, and once Edward was with him
when he fetched out the foreman to talk about a proof.
"Listen ! God is speaking to you !" — but Allan was not sat-
isfied with the effect ; the capitals were too small or faint.
He said it was not arresting enough. The printer, very

371

372 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

sympathetic, said, "More this style, perhaps," and showed
him a commercial slip. "OYSTERS! OYSTERS!
OYSTERS r

"The very thing!" cried Allan, delighted. He saw no
incongruity in the matter, but ordered his arresting startler
to be set up exactly on the Oysters' pattern, and went away
snapping his fingers in pleasure. This was a touch of the
old Allan ; but always to Edward and Lilian he was really
the same. Their friendship would hold them together and
def^ all tests, no matter how often the scene might change
or Its aspect vary. It had been absurd to suggest that they
should leave him.

As Churchill came to know more and more people, he
often met Allan in the houses of the poor. When the priest
made his appearance, this lay helper gave place respectfully.
Perhaps the two men lingered talking together for a few
minutes, but directly Allan got to business Edward with-
drew ; and often, when he had gone, the people of the house
spoke of him with something almost like affection, and said
how useful he had been to them. Allan saw how his power
was increasing, and made him exercise it by lecturing at the
mission-room — on the evils of drink, the folly of gambling,
and on the care of bodily health. Allan set him, too, to taUc
to particular men and visit their families ; and he took help
from him in many other ways. But there remained always
the hard-and-fast division of their duties: one dealt with
the little, hurried world of to-day ; the other's province was
the vast hereafter. Churchill would not speak of religion,
however eagerly he might be questioned. He referred all
inquirers to Allan Gates. It was perhaps a queer partner-
ship, but it seemed to work all right.

The Churchills had lived in many lodgings, but now they
joined Gates at a rather better house at Canal Bank, where
the three of them shared a common living-room. Sister
Maude came with them ; and other occupants of the house
were a queer old actor who gave lessons in elocution, and a
young doctor of considerable talent who had sunk through
his own fault to the humblest kind of practice among £e
wharf -side community. Churchill at this time was working
as a clerk in a herring warehouse close by ; so that he not
only enjoyed the companionship of Allan at their evening

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 373

meal, but was readily obtainable in any brief hour of leisure.
His Saturday afternoons were usually free, and three or
four times a year he employed one of them in going to visit
Robert Vickers. It took an hour and a half to get by train
to the place in Staffordshire, and the journey to and fro
made a tedious business— except on the day when Allan went
with him. That day was a happy outing for both of them.

Vickers counted on these visits of Churchill, and he would
write complainingly if a visit was overdue. Indeed his
letters often contained complaint. He suspected that the
doctors had lost interest in his case, the nurses neglected
him, and so on. Occasionally he said he had something to
communicate of such importance that he could not put it on
paper, and for this reason he begged Churchill to come
without delay. The important conmiunication always proved
to be some little plan for his own welfare. He wanted a
room overlooking the garden rather than the park, and he
wished Churchill to make the request for him! or he had
read an advertisement in a newspaper describing some won-
derful new electric treatment, and he wished Churchill to
let him try it. "Those people here won't do anything unless
you stir them up," he would say querulously. "Ot course
this will be an extra, and it will cost money. But it may
be money well spent. The longer my illness lasts the more
it's going to cost — ^and I want to get well quickly. I mean to
get well, if they'll only let me."

He scarcely seemed to remember where the money came
from, or to care. He had never really thanked Churchill for
providing it. The egoism of sickness had fallen upon him,
and it became a monstrous growth. The whole universe
for him revolved round his bed, his sofa, and his chair in the
garden verandah. He thought, he could think, of nothing
but himself and his chance of recovery. But he was glad
to see Churchill ; he said that Churchill always bucked him
up. "How's Lilian?" he used to ask, and not listen to the
answer. "Now, old chap, youll be glad to hear I've been
feeling much better since I last wrote. Yes, old chap, I'm
making real progress." He called Churchill "old chap";
for him, too, all past differences were obliterated.

He had not endeared himself to the staff at the Sanato-
rium. Affliction had in no way softened him. He rubbed

.-_• -. w~ - t :

374 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

the doctors the wrong way by blustering about scientific
bunglers, and did not placate them by adding that these re-
flections were not to their address. When he had a nice-
looking nurse his demeanor towards her was polite but ob-
jectionable ; when the authorities gave him in punishment an
elderly tmattractive nurse, he lost his temper and roundly
cursed her. At first, too, there was trouble about a disrep-
utable woman who used to come down from London to see
him. Just as letters from Vickers complained of the estab-
lishment, letters from the establishment complained of him.
Qiurchill was threatened once that if this inmate did not
improve his manners, he would be expelled.

"Hang them," said Vickers, when gently expostulated
with. "Why don't they set me on my legs and make me
fit again? Heavens knows I shall be glad enough to say
good-bye to the lot of them."

The doctors always told Churchill the same thing. The
case was a success, in many respects a great success, but it
was idle to expect that Vickers could ever be restored to
health. He would have his ups and downs, as he was having
now ; but as time passed the "ups" would shrink in height
and the "downs" would go deeper, until with a final fluc-
tuation the "down" would be so deep that he would never
rise out of it

Possessed of this knowledge, Churchill saw in the un-
varying hopefulness of the sick man something so pathetic
that he found no difficulty in overlooking any repellent traits.

"It's cursed luck, isn't it, Churchill, to be laid low Kke
this, just in my prime ?" And Vickers would inveigh against
fate, quite in his old style, till his cough stopped him. "That's
nothing. Don't you worry about that, old chap. I do still
cough a bit, but I am doing well. I'm better every day."

And he said that he meant to go to the Colonies, and make
another career. The old country was played out. Australia
or New Zealand should be his ticket. There would be big
labour troubles out there before long, and he would soon
push to the front. "I wonder when they'll let me get away."

If the afternoon was fine they strolled together in tfie
park, very slowly, and with pauses to draw breath wherever
the ground sloped upward. The slightest effort made the
patient cough. He would stand leaning on his stick and

THE RIIRROR AND THE LAMP 375

holding a hand to his side, and when the paroxysm had
passed it left him shaking. Yet at other times he did not
look very ill. He was gaunt and thin, and the thinness
seemed to have added to his height, but like all the other

Eatients he was sunburnt ; and when he spckt of the future
e pulled himself up, squared his bony shoulders and as-
sumed an aspect of tfie strength that he was pining for.

"I am trying to get fit, old chap. They say they believe
in faith-healing to this extent: One can aid or impede re-
covery. Well, I'm not a coward. I mean to get fit."

It was a warm summer day when Allan Gates came, and
they lounged in the gardens. Allan, wishing to leave them
alone, went off with the matron, a kindly, sensible woman
who was full of s}rmpathy and understanding, to see the
newly-erected chapel and be shown through the sanatorium
itself.

Vickers pointed at the chapel with his stick and said,
"Hang them. They opened it before the plaster was dry,
and I caught a rare bad cold there."

"Do you go to church regularly T' asked Edward.

"You bet," said Vickers, and he laughed. "It isn't obli-
gatory. But the matron and the rest of 'em are mighty
pious, and we know we shall get paid out if we don't go ;"
and, unwillingly, Churchill remembered how he had always
"kept in with the Church." He mocked now at religion, as
he would not have done in the old days. "Tommy rot, eh?
You dropped it like a hot potato, didn't you?"

This was very distasteful to Edward Churchill.

Gates came back to them presently, and praised everything
that he had seen. All the domestic arrangements seemed
perfect ; the bedrooms were so bright and airy ; the library
was a charming room ; the smoking-room and lounge were
as handsomely furnished as an)rthing you could find in a
grand hotel or London club. And what a delightful, sym-
pathetic woman, that Miss Faulkner, the matron I

"If you've fallen in love with it all," said Vickers, with
a smile that was like a sneer, "you'd better come and change
places with me. You can have the whole bag of tricks —
Miss Faulkner included — from the day that I get away."

"Ill certainly come and see you again," said Gates cheerily.
"That is, if you have no objection to receive me."

SMfc^MfaBi-— . ■ ; -■ .I'lm

376 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Vickers said that he was prepared to accept any friend
of Churchill as a friend of his own, and that, in fact, visitors
of all kinds were welcome. They broke the dull monotony
of life.

"Very well," said Gates. "Then I consider that a bar-
gain. 1*11 run over at the first opportunity, without waiting
for ChurchiU."

Afterwards Churchill found that Gates had done what he
proposed. When he spoke of this act of kindness, Gates
said lightly : "Dear old boy, you have done so much for him,
already, that it would be a pity for us not to do as much
more as possible."

An effect, perhaps, of the visit of Gates was a letter that
came from Vickers. For the first time Vickers thanked
Churchill for past benefits.

The seasons glided by, and, in spite of poverty, life was
not all struggle and toil at Canal Bank. Their house was
happy because of the love in it. The hardest-worked people
can always find some little time for relaxation. They had
merry evenings when the uniform was laid aside by Sister
Maude; Christmas dinners when the doctor and the actor
shared the feast ; summer treats when they all tramped along
the canal tow-paths to the river, caught the little steamboat
for Grove-on-Sands, and drank tea in the famous tea gardens
at Ferry Port. They helped one another, the old actor
getting Lilian engagements for music lessons, the doctor
seeking in the solace of decent company and the friendship
of two clean-minded men something wherewith to fight the
drug habit that had brought him low. Sister Maude and the
other Sisters were very fond of Lilian, and, after she had
served her novitiate in street duty, set her less sordid tasks ;
they would look after her, and see that no harm befell her,
if Edward was ever called from her side. To his joy, these
good souls gave her holidays in the pleasant homes of their
friends — the hospitable, open-hearted friends who welcomed
her for what she was, and did not mind what she wasn't.
They respected her and made much of her as Sister Lilian,
and did not trouble whether her real name was Mrs. Church-
ill or Mrs. Vickers.

Bosworth, the actor, was a dear old fellow, rich in tales of

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

377

the stage. He had acted with all the great stars ; had played
the King at a provincial theatre with Henry Irving as Ham-
let. What old actor did one ever meet who has not had these
wonderful experiences? But, unlike many old actors, Mr.
Bosworth did not pretend to have been kept out of London
by a conspiracy of timorous rivals. When he came down
from his room at the top of the house, he brought laughter
with him, amusing them by his tales of theatrical life, his
imitations of local pupils, his strange slang. If they did not
send him upstairs to bed he would sit by their fire half the
night, talking, talking, talking; and as farewell, when part-
ing from them or from anybody else, he employed one in-
variable formula — ^"Ta, ta. Be good."

So the years passed, not really uneventful, yet showing no
great outward change. Edward still preached the doctrine
of mutual aid, but in gentler terms ; for already he had made
many converts. The seeds sown on hard ground blossomed
sometimes into splendid unexpected flowers. People soft-
ened at his contact. Since he had asked them to do so, men
here and there had ceased to drink, had bought clothes for
their children instead of betting on whippet races, had
worked in off -hours for distressed neighbours without fee or
reward. There was more kindness in the town of Danes-
borough because of Edward Churchill.

■•"-'^^"-' -irt'- "*"-""i ' II M ""■«"■■ 'frT-JfiiM

XLVI

Then one winter, of a sudden, he rose frcmi his obscurity
to the topmost surface of the town's life. It was said of
him in the highest circles that he had averted the threatened
calamity of a general strike. The trouble began at the
cement works where he had first become known as a black-
leg, and the employers asked him to use his influence with
the men and prevent them from following the pernicious
advice of professional agitators. "Tell the men," said the
employers, "that nothing will make us give in. If they
force us to fight, it shall be to the bitter end. Their demand
is unjust."

"But is it?" asked Churchill. "They are weaker than
you. Justice is not always with the strong."

Then he talked to the men, persuading them that their
g^evance was not worth a quarrel; that except when one
fights in the cause of other people, peace is always better
than war; that here they would be fighting for selfish and
short-sighted ends. "Ask your wives," he told them ; "ask
your children ; ask your own hearts. Lock the gates at din-
ner-time, when these salaried orators come to talk to you as
if you belonged to them and hadn't any minds of your own.
Tdl them this is a family question and you'll decide it among
yourselves, in your own way, at your own time, and without
any assistance from them. Go on with your work, and think
it over. You were contented enough until the notion of this
row got possession of you, and you have known no comfort
since. Nothing matters, except being comfortable in your-
selves."

The men gave in. At these works there was no strike,
and the employers were so pleased that they voluntarily
offered a compromise in which they practically conceded the
point for which they had been ready to fight to the death.

But meanwhile the trouble had spread far and wide, and
Churchill went here and there saying much the same thing to
all. Employers and employed must now follow the examine

378

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 379

set by the cement works; it had been decided there that
peace was better than war; it had been shown that there
was no true reason for strife. The agitators could not stand
up against him ; but for his intervention, more than one of
them would have been given a cold bath in the canal ; the
men made him their leader and followed him like sheep;
the employers listened to him, consulted him, and thanked
him for his good offices. The Courier and other newspapers
sang his praises when all was happily settled. Great mag-
nates desired his further acquaintance, and said they would
be glad to promote his views and assist in his advancement.

If now he had grasped at opportunity, he might have
lifted himself permanently in Danesborough socie^. He
failed to do so. The searchlights of local fame had fallen
upon him for a moment, and then he was again in the dark ;
he was spoken of no more in public print ; the world rolled
on, and left him standing still.

But the incident brought him into touch again with a
person that he had already met on one or two occasions.
This was a Mr. Ra}miond, a childless widower of consider-
able means, who lived very simply in one of the older houses
on the outskirts of Danesmead. Gates, who had known him
in the past, said that he gave largely in charity and interested
himself in many semi-political, semi-humanitarian schemes,
such as the improvement of the prison system, the housing
of the poor. State pensions for the labouring classes, and so
on. Gates also said that he was a devout Churchman. As
Churchill found, other interests of his life were literature
and philosophy ; and he amused himself with such harmless
hobbies as the collecting of old coins, old prints, and en-
gravings.

He seemed to be extraordinarily different from all otfier
citizens of Danesborough ; so well-bred, so large-minded, so
full of strong intellectual life ; and he had, moreover, a great
charm of manner, with a contagious laugh which at once
set one at one's ease, and never jarred, even when its musi-
cal peal broke in unexpectedly on a discussion of serious
things. He engaged Churchill to arrange and catalogue bis
library for him, and during this task mey had many con-
versations. It was an immense pleasure to tdk freely with
such a man, after so long a deprivation from any intenxmrse

i-jf-.i ■ I. — ,-^^j^.^. •-•.— - • • y

380 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

of the kind, and Edward Churchill talked to him with the
utmost freedom of matters that he would not have discussed
with anybody else— even of religion.

For, just as Mr. Raymond was different from his fellow
townsman, he was a Christian believer very different from
the ordinary ruck of Church-people. Well educated, well
read, accustomed to the examination of the varied thoughts
of men in all ages and under all civilisations, he would
debate the tenets of Christianity with as much ease and no
more heat than he applied to a critical appreciation of the
Platonic Dialogues or one of Shakespeare's plays. Doubt-
less, as Gates said, he was firm not only in his faith, but in
his creed also; yet he showed not a trace of the passionate
desire to defend the details of one and the other that, in a
larger or smaller degree, one almost always encounters in
the faithful members of every Church. He supported his
opinions on all subjects with argument, but he put it for-
ward in the most good-humoured, impersonal manner.

Raymond, for his part, was interested by Churchill, and
while talking of so many other things he gradually led him
to talk of himself. He seemed intuitively to understand
much of his character and his natural tastes. He said that
Churchill ought to be more than a reader of books, he ought
to be a writer of books ; and Churchill, confessing to ancient
cravings towards pen and ink, told him of his early tentative
efforts and his more recent literary catastrophe at The
Courier. Raymond laughed heartily over his failure to reach
Mr. Milton Kirk's high standards, and said he would give
him an introduction to the editor of a well-known London
weekly, who would be much easier to please, if he ever cared
to try his hand again.

The two principal rooms of the house — what should have
been the drawing-room and dining-room — ^had been given
over by Mr. Raymond to his books, and from one of the
rooms there was quite a pleasant view across a foreground
of roof-tops and smoking chimneys to the distant river and
the low hills that guarded its mouth. On sunny days, when
the wind was blowing across the water, the smoke clouds
rolled away, and then one had sudden glimpses of full-rigged
ships, brown-sailed fishing boats, and strings of barges
drawn by red-funnelled tugs, all bright and gay beneath an

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 381

unstained patch of clear blue sky. Raymond used to come
into the room of an afternoon, sit in the window, and watch
Churchill at his woric.

"What are you up to now? . . . Margetson, Bowles,
Baldwin 1 Psychology, eh ? I always read psychology with
great pleasure, but I have not trained mysdf in its terms."

"Nor I, either," said Churchill.

"They're always changing, too. That's the worst of these
scientific people— each one of them invents his own vocabu-
lary;" and Raymond laughed. "The cleverer he is, the
more words he makes you learn before you can understand
him."

A staid old maidservant brought in tea, and remained
motionless with her tray, looking severely reproachful while
the two men cleared a table of its books.

"Strawberry jam again," said Raymond, "and no hot
cakes. Eliza, do tell Mrs. Jones to give us hot cakes until
June the first. And try to get us some gooseberry jam — any
jam except strawberry."

"I thought you were fond of strawberry jam," said Eliza
severely.

"So I was, Eliza ; but I am perhaps fickle, and Mrs.' Jones
has cured me of my love by giving such full occasion for
its gratification. We were just talking of the human mind,
Eliza. It has its ebbs and flows, its spontaneous impulses,
and its automatic reactions," and he began to laugh.

Eliza's solemnity relaxed, and she laughed too — ^because
her master was laughing, not because she saw any reason for
laughter.

"Of course," she said, "you can have what jam you prefer,
if ypu name it."

"Very well, let it be gooseberry to-morrow, and don't
forget the cakes."

Then they drank their tea, and smoked, and went on
talking. It was at the tea table, with the soft April sunlight
on the grey rooms and a gentle air floating in from the open
window, that Churchill, replying to his host's questions,
frankly exposed his views about Christianity.

"But, Churchill, if you give up all that you call the mys-
tery and the machinery, what is the world to take in ex-
change ?"

ifiSB

382 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"Nothing is needed." And Churchill spoke of the natural
attributes of pity and sympathy.

"But what is to guide them?"

"They need no guide. They can guide themselves, by the
light of love."

"You say these emotions are implanted. But in man's
nature other emotions are implanted. For instance, rever-
ence, the religious feeling itself — and faith."

"The religious feeling I believe to be inherited supersti-
tion. It is not implanted; it was bom of ignorance and
fear."

"And faith? The new phycholopsts trace the quality of
faith in the working of the mind in regard to all subjects."

And Raymond continued to question his guest with
interest.

"You are not a materialist ?"

"Oh, no, far from it."

"You believe that spiritual forces have had their part in
making and ruling the universe ?"

"Yes, I believe they rule it, and must always rule it."

"And thought itself? Do you hold thought as explicable
essentially at some future time, if not now ; or do you accept
it as a mystery ?"

"I hold it as essentially inexplicable."

"And do you more or less adopt the notion of a universal
mind from which this supply of mind-stuff is issued and to
which it will return?"

"Not as issuing from God."

"Nor from a single ruling mind?"

"No."

"Is it something that pervades the whole universe?"

"I do not know. I cannot think of it logically further
back than its manifestation, as I see it."

"What are you looking for? Matches? Here they are.
... Go on. Don't let me interrupt you."

Churchill took the box of matches, but did not light his
pipe.

"I accept," he said thoughtfully, "the dual mystery of
the two universes in whidi I find myself — the material,
tangible universe and the spiritual, impalpable universe. I
can conceive of their both being governed by similar laws ;

THE MIRROR AND. THE LAMP 383

as, for instance, conservation of energy and indestructibility
of components — ^although in both cases that must be a purely
human conception and probably quite valueless as an absolute
truth ; thus, I can imagine that at death all that remains of
spirit in the man returns to or is absorbed by the universal
reservoir of spirit, but I cannot conceive of its reconstituting
itself again into a manifestation similar to what it has been.
Any more than on the material side could I believe that the
gases given off by a decaying potato will collect themselves
and make another similar potato. I am ready, if necessary,
to believe that what we call spirit and matter are but two
aspects of the same phenomenon — not that it gives me the
smallest notion of what that means."

Raymond laughed. "No, that's too metaphysical alto-
gether. Let's come down again. The air is getting too rare-
fied. I always think of the old definition of metaphysics —
a blind man in a dark room hunting for a black hat that isn't
there. That's how I saw it quoted the other day; but
I thought it was a black coJt — ^not a black hat. Which is
right?"

''I don't know," said Churchill. "But hat is better. Cat is
too objective — it suggests substantial action, movement,
energy," and he lit his pipe and puffed at it.

"What you most forcibly reject," said Ra)rmond, "is re-
vealed religion?"

"Yes, exactly ; in every form. I do not believe that God
exists in any sense that is commonly attached to the idea,
or that there has ever been the slip^htest communion or point
of contact between this God and man. I cannot see that
there is the slightest valid evidence for such a belief. This
may be my misfortune; but I have not felt any want or
tmsatisfied craving because of it."

"You have not been conscious of anything missing to
complete and harmonise your relations with surrounding
nature ?"

"No. I should explain that I used to believe implicitly in
the Christian doctrine. I had never questioned it. But as
soon as I did question it, it tumbled to pieces at once."

"That is curious. What I have always understood as
more usual is for men to lose their religious belief littk by
little — from neglect, the hurry of life, preoccupation by

384 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

practical interests; so that they scarcely realize it is gone
till they think of it."

"Yes. I am not sure if that was not my own case. Yes,
it was going for some time. It had gone really before I
questioned it."

"Or if it goes suddenly, it is usually because of some
emotional storm."

"And that perhaps was my case also."

"But to return to what you said about the implanted im-
pulses towards good — ^they do make for good?"

"Yes, we are always ascending towards higher things."
And Churchill explained his theory of self-seeking altruism.

Ra}miond, like Gates, smiled at this idea of selfishness.
"Surely," he said, "something more definite is required than
that ? You leave it to each man to build his ideal for him-
self. But how many men can do that?"

"The example of others will lead them," said Churchill.
"If men will follow the natural dictates of their hearts, they
will reach the ideal."

Then Raymond put to him the question of whether for
most people there is not wisdom in accepting God, if only
as a working hypothesis. "According to you, we cannot
know the truth. But if we find that the sustaining force
derived from an assurance of immortality, and the complete
satisfaction of the religious or mystical craving, can be
attained by belief in God, should we not logically use the
hypothesis until we can find something better?"

Oh, yes," said Churchill, after a moment's pause; "for
many people a voluntary acceptance of the hypothesis might
undoubtedly be useful — just as other self-deceptions may
have their uses."

"That is characteristic. I have heard it so often from
liberal-minded men like yourself, who are naturally full of
the sensation of their own intellectual power, and who say
religion is very good for everybody else, although they dcm't
want it themselves," and Raymond laughed merrily.

Churchill said with equal good-humour, that he had no
sensations of intellectual power. For a long time he had
felt as if he had lost the faculty of thinking, if indeed he ever
possessed it.
Then, serious again, Raymond amplified his point

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 385

"Take the life of Christ and His teaching — you agree with
it?"

"Very nearly."

'Then suppose that were accepted as an ideal and we
labelled it philosophy instead of religion, you would say it
was all right?"

"Yes."

"But if Christ the philosopher had said, 'Here is my
theory of the highest form of life, and I g^ve you as a frame-
work of thought, an aid to achievement, a stimulus to desire,
this conception of a second unending life, immortality, and
eternal reward' — supposing He said plainly, 'It may not be
true, but it will help you ; therefore act as if it were true' —
would you admit it then?"

But Edward Churchill could not admit it, even on such'
terms as these.

"I think I see the essence of your difficulty," said Ray-
mond, quite seriously. "It is revolt against the supernatural,
because of the harm that has been caused by superstitious
people. You won't touch it with a barge pole. To do what
I suggest seems to you like playing with truth — ^like trifling
with one's reasoning faculties. Those who believed and yet
whose religion had no deeper roots in faith would be, as it
were, making a wager with the unknown on the principle
of Heads I win. Tails I don't lose. And you fed that this
sort of gambling — that any sort of gambling — ^must be wrong
when the stake is a lifelong state of mind."

This and other talks with Mr. Raymond influenced him
more than he knew. One or two things said by Raymond
stuck in his memory and started trains of altering thought.
Recalling one of them, he made this note in his diary —

"In regard to religion, it is worth remembering that
nearly all men who cease to believe in God, etc., etc.
(as probably a very large proportion of men do cease
to believe at a certain period of life), have received
early religious training. At the time when their minds
were plastic, and, consciously or unconsciously, they
were forming their code of ethics, the life of Christ and
the lesson of self-sacrifice was constantly before them
as the ideal of perfect conduct; and Uius habits of

Ifc^fcTlMII 1 I I ■

385 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

thought were formed and lines of action accepted, once
and for all, as correct.

"This ethical code of everyday life remains with
them as something solid (indeed so solid as easily to be
mistaken for intuitive instinct) when the religious belief
has entirely gone. And they fail, perhaps, to analyse
what their mental state might have been if, instead of
ceasing to believe, they had never believed at all."

And a little later he made another note, recording fresh
revision of opinions —

"I think I may have been wrong in not attaching
Its full value to sacrifice itself as the keynote to the
highest life, and have perhaps under-estimated the
essential pleasure of giving oneself for others when
attributing avoidance of personal pain as its logical
aim and justification.''

But he clung still to his old rational thesis, for he soon added
to this note.

"If by experience and reflection one is slowly forced
to the vindication of Christ's truth and an acceptance
of it in its entirety as the great secret — give all — it
should not be to gain rewards in another world, but for
peace in this. The only true happiness is in giving
happiness to others — if you admit that, all the rest still
follows as selfish wisdom really. If a man wants your
cloak as well as your coat, give it to him. Not for
his sake, but for your sake. It is the only way of being
done with it, and going on again in peace.

"For those you love give all, and taste the joy of
giving — no half-measures, no limitations. Give your
time, your inclinations, your thoughts, and convictions
even — for those you love. It is not immolation of self :
it is the lightening and strengthening of self.

"For the honour of the race, for the justice of a
cause, give all. Answer the call each time that you
hear it clearly, whether it i» the cry of a little child,
the whispering voice of the wind, or the dasb of arms

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

387

and the trumpets of war. Give life itself, if necessary.
Because life is useless when you inwardly disapprove of
yourself, and are unhappy, restless, from not living up
to your ideal. This belief and rule of conduct lifts one
above fear and all other miseries ; it robs destiny of its
worst weapons. Kill me when you like, but you cannot
hurt me. All is in me — ^nothing outside me. I am
lord of myself, and therefore lord of all."

>■>*•

~' •■■•-

XLVII

He was sorry when he had completed the library catalogue
and his job came to an end. He saw little more of his new
friend, but the links between them were not broken. Ray-
mond wrote to him now and then, and evidently was often
thinking about him. He called once or twice at the house
at Canal Bank, and left books that he wanted Churchill to
read.

"With reference to our talk about the Working Hypo-
thesis," he wrote once, "I have come upon something that
gives precisely what I expressed so lamely. I send you *a
certified true copy' of the passage. The writer is a learned
professor, who, I gather, is considered to be very much
'up-to-date.' "

Churchill read the transcript with attention. It dealt with
the uses men make of God. The professor said: "The
truth of the matter can be put in this way : God is not known,
he is understood ; he is used — sometimes as meat-purveyor,
sometimes as moral support, sometimes as friend, sometimes
as an object of love. If he proves himself useful, the reli-
gious consciousness asks for no more than that. Does God
really exist? How does he exist? What is he? are so
many irrelevant questions. Not God, but life, more life, a
larger, richer, more satisfying life, is, in the last analysis,
the end of religion. The love of live, at any and every level
of development, is the religious impulse."

The books that Raymond sent him contained the most
recent utterances of the practical philosophers and psycholo-
gists of the^hour. These writers were, in the cant phrase,
up-to-date, and Churchill was astonished by their tolerance
in regard to religion. He had not known how far the
pendulum of thought had swung. It seemed as if, since
his Oxford days, the men of science had changed sides.

These books also influenced him, causing him further to
modify to a certain extent ideas that he had thought final.

One result of his intercourse with Mr. Raymond was a

388

THE MIRROR AND! THE LAMP ^83

renewal of Churchill's eflForts to earn money by the use of
his pen« Raymond, proving as good as his word, had intro-
duced him toll well-known London editor and put him in
the right way of setting to work. He wrote articles and
short stories, and perhaps one out of four was accepted, and
paid for at a modest rate. This measure of success, although
obviously not sufficient to provide bread and cheese for even
the smallest appetites, contented him; and the hours that
he stole from each night for the pleasure of writing refreshed
rather than fatigued him after the long day's work.

But gradually he felt compelled to forego this pleasure.
It took him too much out of himself, and seemed likely to
interfere with the still greater pleasure of sharing more
fully in the labours of Allan Gates. Night and day were all
one to Allan when there was good work to be done. He
kept the club-room open for night-workers, made them
coffee and hot food, and if the chance came, tackled them
about their immortal souls while they stowed away his Irish
stew or blew upon the surface of a plateful of boiling soup.
He was "all out" for the lost sheep, the straggler, the
obstinate wrongtumer who wanted a bit of driving to keep
on the direct road to the heavenly penfold.

Churchill, aiding him more and more, keeping him com-
pany at night and carrying out his directions in every spare
minute of the day, admiring him, and loving him, fliought
often of religion in relation to Allan himself. It was good
for Allan — ^no one could doubt that. It was the larger,
fuller life that the up-to-date philosopher spoke of ; it was
everything in Allan's case. It was good, too, for the fish-
porters and packers that ate the stew and gulped the coffee ;
it remained with them, keeping them warm when the after-
glow of digestion had faded. For them it was an anaesthetic
to pain, a stimulant to endurance. You could not study
Allan's converts closely without recognising its objective
effects upon them. And he thought of it as a working
hypothesis that might be useful if adopted by the whole
town of Danesborough, till they could get anything better.
The place wanted spiritualising somehow, anyhow. A place
without a soul — ^that had been his first strong impression of
Danesborough. As an awakening, elevating force, religion
must be good for Danesborough.

BE

390 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Bot the worldng fajpotbesis was good for Ltfian, too.
Beantif al as her nature had alwajrs beat, rdigkm had raised
her to a higher plane; objectiv^, as well as m the world
of her sweet Idnd thoughts, it had giyen her strengA. For
her it had taken nearly all the ngliness out of life, wherever
she went now it surroanded her with lovd j things ; becaose
of its dream-glory neither cold nor want nor weariness
could really touch her. Because of it nothing that fcxdish
people ever said of her or thought of her matte red znj
longer. And it had done all this for her wiiile he stood l^
and watched. He himself, loving her more than life, had
been able to do nothing for her.

He thought, with immense r^^ret, of how he had once
talked to her of her dream; stupidly, brutally breaking into
it with his own conceptions of reality. Why must he blurt
out his private opinions? Why couldn't he keep them to
himself, or hold them close until a chance came to give
them an airing with a man like Raymond ? He remembered
how ADan had reproached him for roughly touching the
dream. He must have been mad.

From this point onwards he did more than refer to Allan
those who made inquiries about religion ; he advised people
to seek Allan for religious instruction. He had persuaded
himself that this was wise, indeed inevitable, under the pre-
vailing conditions of the town's life. Wlien he had brought
about an improved state of mind in some poor lad who
now wished to live cleanly and sensibly, he handed him
over to Allan for the dose oi superstition that would con-
firm the cure. When with infimte toil he had prevailed upon
a hardened drunkard to give up drinking, it was too cold
and tame an argument for his limited intelligence that 5elf*
respect compels a never-ceasing care for and reverential
treatment of this marvellous organism of body and brain*
but the fancy that our poor bodily frame had been fashioned
in the exact image of an all-powerful God, and that d^rada-
tion of the one is an outrage and a sorrow to the other, had
a fullness of import and a flattering warmth that might keep
the contrite but thirsty transgressor outside of tavern doors.
Churchill's "Don't do it, b^use it hurts you" was feeble
when compared with Allan's ''Don't do it, because it hurts
God." Churchill's teaching was awakening; what Gates

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 391

taught was sustaining. One said, ''Don't make a beast of
yourself. It may be difficult, but don't be a beast" The
other said, "Why not be an angel? It is quite easy. Ill
show you how, and then you can't fail."

So the infidel proselytised for the believer. Allan's best
recruiting agent was the man who had deserted from the
army and didn't mean to rejoin it. They were a stranger
couple of partners than ever.

During the October of their fifth year at Danesborough,
Allan Gates was often away, sometimes for three or four
days at a time; and during these absences he threw the
entire management of his mission- and dub-rooms on
Churchill's hands. He used to return generally late at night,
and come with a beaming face to relieve his deputy. "Don't
tell me things have gone all right," he would say cheerily.
"I can see Aey have. I can feel it in the air." He never
said what business had called him from his post, and he took
it for granted that Churchill would always lay aside his
own affairs in order to replace him.

One night when he had come back in this manner,
Churchill asked him if he would be there next day. He
himself wished to go to see Vickers. Although a visit was
not due, Vickers had tdegraphed asking him to come at

once.

Yes, yes," said Gates, "I know, I know. Go to him
without delay. Yes, I shall be on duty here;" and he
insisted that Edward should go off to bed, as he would be
starting early in the morning. ''We will speak of all this
to-morrow. Go and rest now."

But in the morning Edward went off without seeing Allan.
It was very early, he was travelling by the first train, he
meant to be back as soon as possible ; and he paused outside
Allan's door, but would not go in and wake hinL

It was rtill early when he reached the Sanatorium, before
the patients' toilets had been made, and he was kept waiting
in the hall. After a while Miss Faulkner, the matxxm,
appeared.

"They have told him you have come," she said. "He
will be very glad, poor fellow." She spoke kindly and
sympathetically, looking at Churchill with serious qres.
"You will see a great dmnge in him."

392 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

"Is he worse?"

"Oh, yes. But that isn't what I meant ;" and she looked
at Churchill more searchingly. "Hasn't Mr. Gates told
you ?"

"No. Has he been here lately?"

"Yes, often. He was here till yesterday/'

In the few moments before a nurse came to conduct
him upstairs Churchill asked many questions. Vickers had
taken a turn for the worse a few weeks ago, and they had
not at first anticipated any immediate danger, but in the
last two days his state had become serious. Dr. Ellis
would have summoned Churchill, if Vickers had not already
done so. Dr. Ellis would be here directly.

From the threshold of the room one could hear the sick
man's breathing, very shallow and rapid ; through the open
windows the sunshine came pouring into the room, almost
blinding one after the subdued light of the hall and stair-
case; Churchill, moving forward slowly towards the bed,
saw the gaunt figure propped up high upon the pillows, the
wasted hands clasped as if in prayer, the head bowed down
as if in sleep. Then Vickers looked up quickly, jand
Churchill saw his face.

"Churchill! I knew you wouldn't fail me," and he
smiled and stretched out his hands.

"I did not know how ill you were, or I would have come
sooner."

Churchill could scarcely speak because of his great won-
der. Vickers was transfigured: he was another man.
Obviously he was dying or soon would die, yet it could not
be the aspect of approaching death that had wrought so
startling a change. His face with the full sunlight on it was
thin and white ; every trace of sensuality had passed from
it; his eyes were clear and very bright, unblinking in the
sunshine, gazing yearningly. He breathed fast and his
voice was husky, but the smile about his lips was like a
flicker of joy; and one felt, one knew instinctively, that he
was not suffering any pain, that his mind was unclouded
and quite calm. To Churchill, shaken by wonder, it seemed
that this was not Vickers dying, but Vickers bom again.
This was the man he might have been, the man he should
have been, throughout the ugly, worthless life now drawing

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 393

to a close. These impressions were so powerful, and pos-
sessed him so completely, that Churchill stood by the bedside
motionless and silent, and for a few moments could not hear
what Vickers was saying to him.

"I wanted to see you. They don't tell me so, but I know
my time is short."

Then Churchill drew a chair to the bed, and sat with the
sick man's hand in his. Vickers had difficulty in speaking,
so that he talked a little, then closed his eyes and rested,
and then went on talking again.

"Churchill, as a Christian, forgive me."

"I have nothing to forgive, Vickers. If I ever had, it is
more than forgiven. It is forgotten. Do you forgive me?"

"I have nothing to forgive. I never had." And Vickers
spoke of Lilian. "Churchill, what can I do? Too late.
It is in other hands."

Then he told how by the aid of Allan Gates he had been
reconciled with God, and felt the assurance of salvation.
He quoted Allan's favourite text — ^"There is more joy in
heaven" — ^and spoke of God's mercy and infinite love.
There was not a doubt in Edward Churchill's mind but
that all this was absolutely genuine. Indeed who could
doubt ? And it was not the coward's deathbed conversion.
Vickers was brave ; he spoke without a touch of fear, say-
ing, "O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy
victory?"

He spoke again of forgiveness, using one of his old pet
phrases. "As man to man, I want you to forgive. Not
only as Christians, but as man to man, let me feel that all is
open between us." And he told Churchill how he had hoped
that those men would kill him. "Yes, I was a murderer in
heart. And I intended, if you were out of the way, to get
Lilian back and punish her by every devilish humiliation, to
make her suffer the torments of the damned. That was my
plan — my hope of revenge. Perhaps you don't know what a
bad man's thoughts are."

"Vickers, forget them. You had such thoughts only for
a little while."

Churchill asked him if he wished to see Lilian, and he said
yes, he would like her to be fetched next day, but he wanted
Churchill to stay with him now. In the afternoon of that

394 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

day the doctors said his state was worse, and Giurchill asked
him again if he should send for Lilian.

"No— not now. You stay with me."

Then soon he fell into a dozing, semi-unconscious condi-
tion, and so remained all through that night and the following
day. The doctors said there was not the faintest hope that
he could rally. It was all quite natural, just what one could
expect, and really one should hardly desire anything differ-
ent from this happy release.

But Churchill, who never left him till the end, would
have had it different, if it had lain with him to keep this
man alive. It was man to man now. It was not grief or pity
for mankind, sorrow for all men because life is so short and
death so cruel; it was burning regret and bitter pain be-
cause to this man — the softened Vickers who had dung to
his hand and looked at him with affectionate eyes — all the
sunshine out there on the quiet meadows, the colours of the
autumn trees, the blue void of the cloudless sky, were fading,
darkening, and soon must be for ever gone.

The end came towards dawn of the third day. He had
been conscious again, murmuring rapid words, and Churchill,
stooping over him to catch the faint whisper, heard him say,
"Forgiven; yes, forgiven," and then in hurried repetition,
"O God of love !— O God of love !"

It was the last word that came from tiiose lips — ^love.
After that he was unconscious for a long time, and he died
just when the birds had begun to sing in the garden below
the window and all the world was about to aw^e.

XLVIII

Thb wonder evoked by the conversion of Vickers tinged
the whole stream of Churchiirs thought. G)nsidered merely
as a bit of professional work boldly attacked and smartly
carried through, it seemed a most striking success for Allan
Gates. Surely never did an enterprising professional man
bring off a bigger or a more unlikely coup. But Allan made
nothing of it, appeared to consider it scarcely worth talking
about, and, when urged to discussion, even attempted to
attribute it primarily to Edward rather than to himself.

"Dear old boy," said Allan, "you had done so much for
him that it was as well to complete the job. It was alwavs
in my mind, as something to finish — something that had to be
finished sooner or later."

"Did you speak to him about religion that first time that
jrou went over to see him without me ?"

"Oh, no. Not a word for ages — ^not till this last month,
when he began to ask me questions and I saw that the time
was ripe."

"He was in his usual state then — ^I mean physically?"

"Yes."

'He had not begun to get worse?"

'No. Poor chap, he was full of hope about his conditiofi,
still talking of Australia and all the great things that he
intended to do."

"Allan, it seems to me incredible. I don't know how you
did it."

Then Allan repudiated all credit in the matter, and said
that it was the conduct of Edward Churchill that had
softened the heart of Vickers. "That was my first start,"
said Allan. "Bit by bit, I got him to tmderstand how much
you had given up for his sake. I got him to see into the true
meaning of the sacrifice you had made."

"Allan, it had no meaning. We were given no choice.
We were forced to do it."

"Were you?" and Allan smiled. "And perhaps Vickers

395

"]

396 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

had no choice. At any rate, it was all easy for me when
once we got started. Strength came to me in prayer. . . .
Now let's talk of something else. I think you had better
be married by license. I will arrange the service at St
Peter's. Well have it in the morning, with the church all
to ourselves. Shall we say about a fortnight from now ?"

"Strength came to me in prayer." Churchill, meditating
on the believer's childlike faith, thought once more that
Allan could not have been what he was unless an orthodox
Christian. Nor could their friendship have been quite so
fine a thing. From Allan one could receive any benefit
without feeling the burden of obligation ; one could work for
him or lean upon him, take from him or give to him —
because on Allan's side it was not merely friendship, it was
the brotherhood of Christianity which transcends the com-
mon measure of humanity and counts no cost because no
cost is felt.

He thought of the reality of the effects produced by
religion. What else could have lifted Vickers ? What else
could have robbed death of its anguish and fear? It was
more, much more than the doctor's anaesthetic drug. Not as
an inert log drifting, but high and light upon a wave of faith,
he had passed out across the dark sea. "O death, where is
thy sting? . . . O God of love, into thy hands do I com-
mit my spirit. . . ." And the rescued women — the soulless
men of the town — ^the self -destroyers snatched from the
coil of vice, utterly changed by religion, sent back into the
• world made strong by the illusion? And Lilian? It even
purified and dignified her love for him ; so that, while quite
outside it, he had still to this extent benefited by it.

He realised that his quarrel with religion was at an end.
He thought of himself. His abandonment of religion was
due to two things — ^the disappointment about his mother and
the bar to his love for Lilian. But that prohibition was only
the fetters of stupid Church law. It had nothing to do with
religion itself.

And what had he got in exchange for all that he had dis-
carded? Nothing. He had originated nothing. Slowly
but surely he had come to a reasoned acceptance of Qirist^
teaching in its entirety as the key to human life.

They had no music, singing, or pretty flowers at their

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 397

wedding ; the big church was empty ; not a single nursemaid
or idle work-girl came in from the street to watch them join
hands. But beams of kindly sunlight from the clerestory
windows fell upon the bride, making her sweet face shine
and lighting the tender depths of her eyes, as she turned
to the man she loved and plighted her troth "according to
God's holy ordinance/' She needed no pomp of dedced
altars, no vibrant swell of organ melodies, to make her lips
tremble and her heart throb ; if the whole church had been
crowded with people, and each one a friend who wished
her joy, she would still have felt what she felt now — ^that
they two were standing quite alone in the presence of their
Creator. Every word she uttered was at once a vow of
loyalty and a prayer for pardon.

Allan, reading the service, was like an affectionate friend
welcoming his guests, like a brother speaking to a brother,
like a father speaking to a child. His fervent devotion, his
simple trustfulness, made an atmosphere of cheerful faith
that was bright and warm as the sunlight itself.

"... 'file Lord mercifully with his favour look upon
you." His friendly voice, shaken once or twice by the
strength of his affection, sounded full and firm as he con-
cluded the blessing — ^"and so fill you with all spiritual bene-
diction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life
that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting."

And Edward Churchill thought, "Why can not I believe ?"
The touch of his wife's hand, the sight of her bowed head,
her gentleness, her goodness, and her faith, all moved him
deeply. Memories of what she had been to him, gratitude as
well as love, filled his mind. While he knelt by her side,
feeling all the ^eatness of love, he felt also, mingling with
it, the true religious desire; old sensations were reviving;
he felt a yearning for her happiness and welfare that had
no limits, that seemed to pass beyond his control, beyond
this life, out into immense space, desperately searching for
hope — seeming, because of the intense character of the
wish, to convert itself into hope. But that, as he told him-
self afterwards, was emotion simply. It was the love that
itself has no bounds and thus gives one the illusion of the
infinite.

xux

Once more they were people of private means. By the
springtime that long account for Robert Vickers had been
finally settled, and they came into the enjoyment of their
in^me of two hundred a year. This was forttmate, for
Churchill was passing through a period of anxiety and could
not do any regular work. Lilian was about to become a
mother ; her health gave cause for some alarm, and Edward
devoted himself entirely to her care.

She had said," when first telling him of her condition, "It
is almost miraculous. It is the lifting of the hand of God;"
and this mystical idea, returning again and again, gained
strength and seemed to take complete possesson of her mind
as the time of trial drew near.

Their friend the doctor had advised Edward that a state
of exaltation was not desirable, that all morbid notions
should be discountenanced, but that nevertheless she must
be humoured in her fancies and not argued with. Then
he said she was showing emotional instability ; and this he
considered a bad sign. Then he confessed that the fact of
her not being by any means a young woman rendered him
a little apprehensive.

''She is only thirty,'* said Churchill ; ''and this will not be
her first child."

"No," said Dr. Foley, "she told me so. And the other
child died. I think that memory worries her."

Churchill did not know if the doctor had allowed Lilian
to guess his apprehensions on the score of age, but she spoke
herself of being too old, linking this wiSi the idea that
dominated her.

"Edward, if it were not miraculous, it would have hap-
pened long ago — ^not now when I am almost an old woman."

"My darling, look at yourself in the glass. You are a
jroung girl — ^younger than when I first saw your dear face."
And he challenged her to show him a single crow's-foot
about her eyes or to find one silver thread in the brown
masses of her pretty hair.

398

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 3»

"Fm glad," she said, "if I still seem young to you. But
I am too old for this, unless — ^Edward, I shall know soon.
It will mean that God has pardoned me, if my child lives.
Oh, if my child lives" — ^and she b^^n to cry. "I used to
pray that I might be childless until I was really your wife."

The Sisters of St. Mildred would have taken her away
from Danesborough and placed her in a Maternity Home,
but she refused to be separated from her husband. Their
proposal agitated her greatly, and she implored Edward
not to abandon her to strange hands, however kind and
gentle. Sister Maude was always here, and she did not
require any other woman friend Sister Maude would not
desert her.

Indeed this good, sensible friend proved of immense aid,
and but for her support and counsel Edward would have
suffered far more anxiety. Sister Maude dismissed Dr.
Foley from the case, and called in an older and more solid
sort of man. She said Dr. Foley was all right as a friend,
but no use as a doctor. He was nervous and fussy ; and if
it came to instability of emotion, he was ten times worse
than his patient. This sounded severe; but Sister Maude
stood firm, and her action was justified by immediately ben-
eficial results. The new doctor brought with him such a
matter-of-fact manner and talked with so much quiet com*
mon sense that, in his presence at least, it was impossible to
brood upon mysterious dangers or to put forward miraculous
intervenings for the explanation of natural events.

"My dear madam," he said solidly, "you are going to
have a fine, large, healthy baby, and the only doubt in the
matter is whether it is going to be a boy or a girL That is
all you need trouble your head about. It is a mild, sunny
morning. Get your husband to take you for a little stroll^
say, as far as those seats by the lock bridge. Sit down there
on one of the benches and discuss names — male and female—*
so as to be ready for the christening."

This homely, tonic advice did the patient good. She and
Edward henceforth occupied Aemselves often with the great
question of names, exchanging those fond compliments that
on such occasions never fail to touch loving hearts or to
strike the eagerlv listening ear as pretty and original. Should
it be a girl-auldi as Edward said, he wished tlutt she

400 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

grow up to be in all respects exactly like her mother ; and
Lilian felt that never before in the history of the world had
a man said anything quite so sweet to the poor wife who
adored him. But if it should be a boy» she would teach him
to take his father as a model, imitating him in thought and
in act, so that he might become one of the most perfect men
that ever lived; and Edward, declaring his totaJ tmworthi-
ness of this eulogitun, thought, "What have I done, what
could I do to deserve the love that spoke those words ?"

The boy should be called Eldward. On that she was de-
termined — ^nothing could shake her from her decision. The
girl should not be called Lilian. And as to this she was
equally determined. So he yielded the second point also,
saying at last, "Yes, you are right. There can be only one
Lilian. She must have no competitors."

She asked if their daughter should be given his mother's
name, and he said, "Yes, he would like to call the girl Edith."

But then after this name had been adopted she confessed
to a fancy for something else, unless he had set his heart on
the repetition of his mother's name.

"I did not know your mother, dear — ^but it is not because
of that. But, Edward, I feel that if our child is a £^rl, I
want her to be all new, without a single memory or regret —
with nothing about her but hope. I want her to belong to
the future, and to take nothing from the past. Do you
understand, dear? That's why, really, I'd like her to luive
a name that would mean nothing to either of us — a name
that had no meaning for us till it came to mean her herself.
If it is a girl, may I call her Stella?"

"Yes," said Edward Churchill, "let us call her Stella.
And Stella shall mean all of my world that is not you."

A girl-child was bom to them, and the child lived and
thrived. But Lilian lay ill for a long time, as if, after finding
strength to pass through so many storms, the respite from
pain and the realisation of hope were proving too much for
her. The autumn had come before she was up and about
again. Then quickly she grew strong — strong enough to
face all her happiness. The care of the child was now her
only toil. Pretty things were to be bought for the child,
she who had stinted herself was to be lavish for the child ;
in this direction money could not be counted, extravagance

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 401

seemed to be one's highest duty. Edward Qiurchill was
working hard again ; if his own money ran out like water,
he would soon earn other money; he would always make
enough and to spare, and he told himself that he had no care
that was not merely material.

The baby Stella was the light of their life. All the house,
all the neighbourhood petted her, so that Lilian in her first
outings with a perambulator made a sort of royal progress,
stopped at every comer by a little knot of the admiring
population eager to do reverence to the young princess.
Gates, her godfather, already worshipped her and was her
obedient slave. Old Bosworth the actor brought her toys,
snapped his fingers at her, and said "Ta-ta. Be good."
Sister Maude was a second nursemaid, disputing the peram-
bulater with its rightful owner. And to the intense gratifi-
cation of Lilian, this little world of theirs not only loved her
baby, but all admitted freely that Stella was a remarkable
child. Her intelligence was as striking as her beauty. She
knew her daddy, could recognise his step upon the stairs
at an abnormally early age. If she maintained her present
rate of progress, she would talk fluently before she had
celebrated her first birthday.

Edward Churchill watched her and her mother with an
immense fondness. This wonder of unfolding life en-
chanted him and held him spellbound. He gloried in their
child, thinking, perhaps with sudden sadness in the midst
of love and joy, "Here is the true immortality, the only
immortality vouchsafed to man."

Thus a year of parenthood went by — ^just time enough for
a child's small hands to reach and hold one's heart.

Then their baby Stella fell ill. It was a cold, nothing at
first — ^just a question of keeping her indoors for a few days,
but the doctor in attendance as an extra precaution. Then
she became a little worse, with the chest affected, and yet she
was still "well in herself," as you could see, playing with her
rattle, following her mother with bright eyes, tddng interest.
Then Lilian suddenly took alarm; and the doctor, hastily
summoned one morning, said that pneumonia had set in.
The child was dangerously ill.

Late that evening when Edward returned from work, it

-I ll • ■ I tl --~ >■. = ani. ■ > ■ - , * TT B THI ■■■l i li*fcM**l

402 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

was to find his wife wide-eyed, trembling, almost distraught
The doctor was upstairs waiting to see him. He had broi^t
a trained nurse ; they were fighting with death.

The doctor said that everything possible had been done;
if all the physicians in London were fetched they could do
no more, and he spoke of the rapid onset of the disease and
the power of resistance that might or might not ootanifest
itself. He was kind, in his blunt way, and he omtrived to
make his voice gentle and soft when he spoke to Lilian ; but
he allowed them both to understand that unless an improve-
ment had begun by next day, they must prepare theo^ves
for the worst. He would come again dtiring the nigfat or
very early in the morning.

Saying a few last words to Edward, he showed quite
plainly Siat he himself did not count upon recovery; and
Edward went back to his wife saying to himself, ''He thinks
she will die. Yes, he thinks she will die.''

They sat together, watching the nurse move about the
room, listening to the sound of their child's breathing. It
sounded like the faint patter of rain upon glass, or the flariog
of a gas jet at a distance. Lilian could not long keep away
from the cot. She crept softly to it, knelt beside it, weeping
and praying. And Edward, standing bdiind her and hearing
her whispered prayers, felt a burning agony of pity.

"Girist, have mercy upon us ! O Loi^ Qirist, have mercy
upon us !"

A million tiny threads that had woven themselves about
his heart were being torn astmder, and it seemed that in
breaking they would break his heart as well. The torment
and the dread were almost insupportable. The night was
without end. Minutes were like hours, and yesterdav was
years i^o— yesterday, when the sun was shining, and their
darling smiled and knew her mother's face — yesterday, be-
fore ttiis nightmare dream of darkness and despair had

Once during the nigfat, when Lilian sat clini^g to hun,
she said, ''AUan is prajring. Go down and see. Ask him
to pray."

He went to the living-room below, and Allan comforted
him as no one else on earth could have done. Alone wtdi
his friend, be broke down completely. ^My poor wiie-Hoy

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 403

poor girl I Allan, it is too cruel ;" and he repeated what the
doctor had said. "Allan, he does not hope/'

"But / hope," said AUan. "Hope too."

"I must go back to her. Allan, she sent me to ask you to

pray."

"Yes, yes," said Allan. "I shall pray all through the
night. Tell her I know our prayers have been heard. I hope
they are being granted."

Edward Churchill went back to the room upstairs, and
his wife was again on her knees by the cot. She came to
him presently and clung to him, kissing him, holding her
wet face against his; whispering, "Stay with me," not re-
pulsing him because he too could not pray, loving him in the
midst of her intolerable anguish. The thought of her loyal
love tore him to pieces.

The child recovered. In the morning the doctor was
delighted by distinctly favourable S3anptoms. Then, after
only twenty hours of suspense, the danger had gone; tfie
doctor assured them that there was no further cause- for
fear.

Nothing could ever matter now. This horror had passed
away from them. They felt like people rescued from a
shipwreck, like people cast ashore after battling desperately
in fierce waves — lacerated, broken, half dead, but unutterably
thankful. And Lilian, sobbing on his breast, said again, "It
is a miracle. Our prayers were heard, and God had
mercy. But if now you say even in your secret thoughts
that you don't believe, our child will die."

Their child lived. Edward Churchill, walking alone far
from the town, along the tow-paths towards the open river,
carried with him the picture of the child with her mother
watching her; and thought, "If I were to say *I am grateful
but I do not believe. I am grateful, but there is no God,*
how could It possibly affect them?" Yet no power could
have made him say it. Because, first, it would have been
brutal and treacherous to Lilian, and because, secondly,
even the rejected idea of sa)ring it filled him with returning
dread of danger to the child. That, of course, was super-
stition. But in this case he must not fight against the super-
stitious instincts. Although one can not bind oneself to
nothing, or make compacts with the empty air, one dare not

404 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

even seem to run a fancied risk to those one loves in order
to obtain mental calm and readjust the balance of one's
secret thoughts.

But beyond these reasons why he could not say it, there
was a massive repulsion in himself. Like all who escape
from extreme peril, he felt an immense gratitude ; a desire
to give thanks so strong that the thanksgiving wells forth
of itself and must and will find its outlet, if not in words, if
not in thought, then in a vague but imperious need — to thank
things that have had no part in one's deliverance, if one can
not find active agents. What an immense relief and satis-
faction to pour forth such thankful joy to God, if only one
could believe. And he recognised in himself the basic long-
ing which leads to religious belief. He thought of how it
would have been with him in the past, of how he would
have offered up thanks; of the lightness of spirit that he
would have gained, the ease that would have come to his
overflowing heart.

He walked fast, carrying his hat in his hand, refreshing
himself with the movement of the pleasant air. The sun
shone, a topsail breeze was blowing from the sea, high
clouds raced in a faint blue sky ; the men on the barges and
working the lock gates had bright faces and gave cheery
shouts ; a play of light and life made the commonest things
seem fine. It was difficult not to think that all the world
shared his joy. He felt himself in a closer communion with
every one he met or looked at, and he wanted to stop them,
to talk to them, and clap them on the back and laugh and tell
them that his child who might have died had been spared.

Out by the water's edge, among the tumbled sandhills
and the bent grass, he sat listening to the wind and thinking
about prayer. He remembered parts of his own sermons on
the efficacy of prayer. He thought of prayer, as Allan
prayed, and he recalled his own dead feelings, and saw the
reality of the effect of prayer subjectively. He thought of
how strength seemingly external comes to one — surging up,
as some philosophers now say, from the subliminal self, and
only seeming external because the marginal mystery of self
is so remote from normal consciousness — ^but real at any
rate in its effect, bringing or giving one courage, serenity,
endurance, so that common men are lifted by it sometimes to

THE MIRROR AND^ THE LAMP 40S

great heights of heroic aim and long-sustained action. That,
at least, is true of the efficacy of prayer, making it a force
that philosophers say is important. But it is lost, forfeited,
if one has nothing to pray to. And he thought, "Then relig-
ion must be good, if only for this." And he thought now of
the religious instinct, or desire for religion, as something
permanent and in the scheme of progress, and not as an
atavistic trait, the fading mark of superstition; and he felt
that this was true also. Within the last two years he had
felt the impulse in himself each time that he was deeply
moved. He could suppress it and ignore it; but he could
not exorcise it, much less satisfy it, by thoughts of a rational
plan of ethics. It and reason could not touch. It belonged
to elemental emotion. But if it was there in most men,
then religion must be good for them. In his own case the
wave of emotion quickly subsided, and reason resumed un-
challenged sway. There was but a transitory discomfort;
the thwarted sensations caused by failure of a natural im-
petus in finding its natural issue; a constricted realisation
of dryness, coldness, dullness, in lieu of a voluminous pos-
sibility of largeness, glowing warmth, and richly diffused
light.

Then he thought once more of the working hypothesis.
Yes, for the bulk of mankind it must be right. And for the
first time he felt the full extent of all that he had lost. Not
for the hope of eternal life, but as a sustaining force in this
life, how great is the loss when religious beliefs die. And
he said to himself again, "Why cannot I believe?"

He turned slowly homewara, and the evening glow was in
the sky ; dusk threw her magic veils upon the earth, and all
the world before his footsteps grew beautiful and grand.

It was nearly dark when he reached the dock basins, and
suddenly he quickened his pace, hurrying towards the rows
of lamps of the Canal Bank streets. An irrational thought
had come to him. Suppose his child had died an hour ago !
He hurried on, then stopped, stood still, and freed himself
from the thraldom of baseless fear. But he walked fast
again as he approached the house, and felt his heart beating
as he hurried up the stairs. The child was sleeping com-
fortably. Her mother sat by the cot, watching her sleep.
The quiet lamp-lit room formed a perfect picture of peace

UA

BMHMM

406

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

after storm. Edward Churchill felt ashamed of having for
a moment doubted the permanence of their joy.

He reproached himself for his long absence, for the
yielding to a desire for physical exercise, for his selfi^ en-
joyment of the hours so idly spent in the open air. He
reproached himself too for his meditations and inward
searchings. He thought now that of late he had been weak-
ening. He had fallen into that old folly of introspection^
fostering ^^ism and self-pitv. He said to himself, ^'I have
my guide. I have alwa)rs nad it;" and he made a vow,
'7 mil think of these other things no more^

And indeed he had no time now to think of anything
except the hard facts of external life. The struggle with
ways and means had recommenced, more diffictut now a
hundredfold than it had been before, because of their
increasing needs. Doctors' fees, nurses' fees, the' many
costs of illness, are claims that one cannot control, that
one must meet with a smiling and unquestioning face. Their
income disappeared as a little rivulet that is swallowed by
the thirsty ground. He worked night and day to supple-
ment it. Soon he had three people entirely depmdent on his
exertions.

Stella was thriving. Every day she grew more lusty.
She could walk, she was beginning to talk, she had a pro-
digious appetite — all was wdl with their little Stella. But
her mother was often ailing. It seemed as if a reaction
after brave effort had taken away her vitality and nervous
force. She was courageous as ever, not shirkmg labour, but
physically incapable of undergoing any real fatigue.

And a further calamity befell them. Allan Gates was ill.
This was an unkind stroke of fate that had never for a
moment been apprehended. For, although Allan had passed
his fiftieth year, although his dark hair had turned grey and
his grizzled beard was nearly white, one had continued to
think of him as a man of whipcord and iron, a nattural
source of untiring energy, a mechanism that could not wear
out It seemed a reversal of nature's law, the end of the
world almost, when one saw him cease working. He had
caught a chill and entirely neglected to nurse it. That was
not strange ; for when had he ever taken care of himself ?
Then his dear old face became yellow with jaundice, and he
was forced to take to his bed. He lay there uncomplaining,
burnt up by fever, but never delirious; taking medicine
from Churchill's hand, gratefully thanking him for his min-
istering care, humbly apologising for being a burden and a
nuisance. The jaundice passed, but left him weak and ex-

407

t ■ hTJ

408 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

hausted. Doctors said that his health had altogether broken
down.

It was a heavy blow. He himself confessed at last that
he felt done for and fit for nothing. While he lay ill, the
vicar of St. Peter's — ^in spite of a protest from Churchill-
had superseded him and appointed another man to take over
his curacy ; and Allan said that this was just and proper. It
would have been no good for the vicar to wait for him ; he
knew himself that he must seek for some easier task.

He spoke bravely — ^but with a quiver in his voice that
he could not conceal — of the necessity of parting company
with his friend. "Dear old boy, if I don t get well soon,
there must be no nonsense about keeping me here. You
must just get me into a hospital — or any place where thcyTl
take me without payment. I am not going to hang upon
your hands."

"Allan, don't be unkind. Have you forgotten what you
did for Lilian and me? — ^and I let you do it. I took
everything from you without question."

"But that was all different. You have your duty to
Lilian and Stella — a sacred duty. Dear old boy, be
reasonable. You can't carry all the world on your shoulders."

"I can carry you, Allan, without feeling your weight —
and I am never going to put you down, until you can walk
on your own strong legs. Then you shall carry me again, if
you like ;" and he smiled, and patted Allan's shoulder. Never
had his love for Allan been so strong as now, when sorrow
and tenderness were blended with it. He spoke always
cheerfully of their future, telling Allan that this was just
a rest cure, and that if he gave himself a little more time
and did not worry, he would be restored to his full vigour.

"If God will grant me strength just to earn my daily
bread," said Allan, "I shall be content. I ask for no more."

The winter was severe, and till February Allan remained
in the house as "a useless invalid." This was his own
phrase. He fretted at his helplessness, he longed to relieve
Churchill of the cost of maintaining him. Then the doctor
let him go out — ^to look for work. He was certainly better.
He was as well perhaps as he would ever be in this climate.
The doctor said that England was not the right place for
him. It would do perhaps in the summer, if one moved him

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 409

to softer and purer air, but another English winter might
polish him off.

And then Edward bestirred himself in earnest He was
not good at asking favours for himself, but he proved
importunate on behalf of his friend. He wrote letters, he
had interviews with local magnates, he waited on doorsteps
and would not be turned away from closed doors. Allan
Gates must be taken out of England and established in a
kinder climate. He had worked long and loyally for Danes-
borough, and now the town should do something for a faith-
ful servant. But the town could not be roused to enthusiasm
concerning the case of Mr. Gates. This seemed to be purely
a church matter. Surely there were special ecclesiastical
funds to meet such emergencies? The Corporation looked
after their own people, and would not dream of asking help
from the clergy if they wished to pension one of their dust-
men or firemen. Then why ask help from them? Danes-
borough suggested that Churchill should try London.

He was, in fact, trying London already, and as yet with-
out any successful results. But there was one citizen of
Danesborough of a metal very different from the compo-
sition of the rest. This was Mr. Raymond. He gave
Churchill time, thought, and counsel. He took Churchill
with him to London; and it was probably due to his in-
fluence and active aid that Churchill's efforts at last met
with success.

One night late in March, Churchill came back to Danes-
borough with the splendid piece of news. He had obtained
for Allan the post of English Chaplain at a place in Italy —
on the shore of Lake Como — stipend or remuneration sixty
pounds per annum. Allan must be taken at once to London,
to meet the gentlemen who have promised this appoint-
ment; there is no doubt that these people will fall in love
with Allan, and ratify the treaty. And all of them — ^Ed-
ward, Lilian, and the child — ^will go with him to Italy.
They will pool their resources. Sixty pounds a year added
to two hundred will be more than enough. Life is so cheap
in Italy — they will feel rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

Italy! They echoed the word, and it sounded to them a
word of magic. A quite extraordinary hopefulness came to
them. Italy — ^the mere thought of it made Allan almost

>;.«.

•Jtfte

410

iTHE MIRROR AND THE LAMP.

strong again. Everything will be easy for everybody in
Italy. The gentle climate is as much needed by Lilian,
perhaps, as by Allan. It will make their child bloom like a
flower. Edward will be happy there.

Three weeks later they said good-bye to England. They
travelled straight through to their destination, and the whole
world seemed to be sliding past the windows of the train.
Allan showed no fatigue; and since Stella appeared to be
thoroughly enjo}ring the long journey, Lilian could also
enjoy it. Edward, cheerful, watchful, the guide and guard-
ian of the little band, felt a calmer confidence in fate than
he had ever yet attained ; so that, as he looked out at the
vague, changing landscape, he felt that nothing would now
come into their lives to disturb them. It had been raining
in London : it was raining at Lucerne, and a white mist hid
the lake. The air struck coldly and the clouds hung low
above their heads, as they walked up and down the platform
of the mountain station at the entrance of that small hole in
the stupendous Alpine wall which is named the St. Gotthard
Tunnel.

Lilian always remembered the journey, and the coming
through the Alps. It was the ena of their life-pilgrimage.
They left sorrow and pain behind them, and came out into
the sunshine — ^into the promised land — ^into the sunlit realm
of happiness. That is what it was to her when she looked
back on it, always, to her dying day. They had been sorely
tried ; but their trials were done.

u

Allan^s church stood on raised ground above the road-
way just beyond the last of the big hotels, with villa gardens
on either side and the wooded hills behind. It had been
built by a husband as a memorial to the wife who died here
on the shore that she loved. It was a beautiful little church,
lofty and narrow, rich with coloured marble and gold
mosaic; on its walls were sixteenth-century pictures in
carved frames, the work of pious Italian painters, and these
were reputed to be of great value and interest, well worthy of
examination by tourists staying at Menaggio or Cadenabbia.
But the best picture, the picture that Allan never grew
tired of, was the large one in the frame made by the
opened doors facing the altar. As you moved down the
church, it grew larger and more splendid, showing you the
other shore and the wide fair lake with white Bellaggio
asleep upon its bosom, the verdant heights of Serbelloni,
and the mountain peaks beyond, all glittering, trembling,
glowing in the warm transparent air.

You came out of the church into this fairyland that
stretched to right and left as far as the eye could reach,
bays and promontories, castles and villages, enchanted gar-
dens, grottos of sweet flowers; and earth, sky, and water
were not elements apart, but seemed to blend and melt one
into another to make a lovely dream. It would have been
pretty if you had come down from heaven; it was heaven
itself when you came to it from Danesborough.

They hired a small stone house, very plain and bare, but
with warm red tiles and comfortable broad eaves, and what
should have been a terraced garden, but had now become a
thicket of tangled vines. The little place had been the
holiday home of a Milanese tradesman, but he used it no
more and was glad to let it with the furniture it contained to
any one who would take it off his hands until he could get rid
of it altogether. The vines rose in terraces behind the house,
and there was a palli up the hill that led to a barren moun-

411

yi i SAit iiMBi 11 " !!■■ II ■■■a'i'-TrirMai

412 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

tain ridge--a stepped path^ very old and broken, with little
white shrines for the Stations of the Cross at intervab all
the way up till you reached the Chapel of the Crucifixion on
top of the hill, where the vines or olives ceased and you
came out among rocks and sunshine to the tracks that would
take you across the ridge to farms and towns and markets
on another lake. And up the steep path in the morning
went the laden mules and the sad-eyed men and g^rls, with
the long day's toil before them; and down the path at
dusk the mules came light, and the men and girls gaily sing-
ing, when the da/s work was done. These were emblems
of life and its hard road — ^what the evening of life should
be, if we can make it so.

In front of the house and the garden was the dusty road,
and on the other side of the road there was a private har-
bour. Between the roadway and the harbour there were
broken iron railings and the remains of a narrow strip of
flower-beds, with yellow roses smothering the ruin and hid-
ing all the gaps. A gate stood always open, and naked-
lagged children played upon the causeway or chased the
darting lizards that were scarcely more alive and quick of
movement than themselves. The harbour had solid but
dilapidated stone piers and steps, with fishermen's boats
snugly riding at anchor and brown fishing nets spread out
over the sunlit stones. On the far end of one pier there
was a wrought-iron lamp-standard with a bronze effigy of
the fishermen's Madonna ; and at night barefoot women came
carrying a lamp and put it in the socket frame on top of
the standard — ^a little twinkling star to please the saint, or
a guide to the husbands as they came across the waters
singing in the darkness.

Whether the harbour might be private or not, all these
humble folk had made themselves at home there. They
showed their gleaming teeth in a friendly smile and wel-
comed the newcomers, who indeed had no wish to interfere
with either their usurped rights or ancient privileges.

The Churchills loved the house and the harbour too.
Wherever they looked at it, on land, they were well satis-
fied. Only when you went out on the water, did you see
something to make you uneasy. Painted on the outward
wall of the pier, in huge red letters on a white ground, were

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 413

the ominous words that said the property was for sale.
Every one on passing steamboats could read the words.
This was their only fear — that one day some rich man
would buy, pull down the house, and build himself a gor-
geous villa on its site.

The glorious spring, summer, and autxunn unfolded them-
selves, and peace filled their hearts. Who would not be
contented here? Lilian and her little girl were healthy,
happy. Allan, absolutely fit again, was Allan of the Happy
Valley, He liked his churchwardens, the two trustees of
the memorial fund— one of them lived in a villa at Tremezzo,
and the other, who had seen him in London and confirmed
his appointment, came out every autumn. Both these men
liked Allan, already trusted him. Everybody took to him.
He passed from one hotel to another, went up in lifts to see
solitary old ladies on the top floor, or sat in the hall sur-
rounded by fashionably dressed young people, or ran down
to the couriers' room to chat with ladies'-maids and valets ;
he was here, there, and everywhere. He knew all the world
— ^the hotel-keepers, the regular visitors, the resident English
colony. He was pleasantly busy all the week ; and on Sun-
days he could produce any number of travelling clergymen
to lend him a hand at his real work, if he ever wanted help.
But truly the work of a chaplain here was child's play. He
had time and to spare for carpentry and gardening ; he took
long walks of exploration with Churchill ; and they both used
to row manfully upon the lake in a vast peasants' boat that
had its own peculiar pace which no power could hasten.
A child paddling a scull from the stem could make it go
its pace; two struggling oarsmen could not make it go
faster.

Churchill was writing again, and the delight of this occu-
pation was very great. Nothing now prevented him from
mdulging his own taste and fancy ; no rude shocks or sud-
den calls jerked the pen out of his hand or made him feel
that the solace of imaginative wanderings was paid for by
neglect of duties at his door. He wove a small world of
fiction, entered freely into it, was happy there. He was
writing a long novel every page of which interested him
enormously, and he scarcely troubled himself to wonder if
anybody else would ever find interest in it. Then directly he

414 THE MIRROR ANE THE LAMP

had finished the book he became feverishly anxious to see
it in print. This is a fever, often unexpected, that every
incipient author feels. The pleasure of writing is so great
that it should be its own reward ; and yet one cannot write
at all without the firm hope of having readers. Churchill
did not know how strong the hope had been until he put
his work into the hands of the first reader available, Allan
Gates.

Allan was at first shocked by the novel. It dealt boldly
with such delicate subjects; it was so different from the
mirth-provoking sixpenny tales that he had always consid-
ered to be the correct thing in novels. After reading about
a quarter of it, he let Churchill see his doubt and disapproval.

"Allan," said Churchill, sadly but stoutly, "if there is
anything in it that would g^ve you pain, I'll abandon the
idea."

"I know you would," said Allan cheerfully. **But let
me finish it all before I say anything more."

"Yes, yes," said Churchill, with eagerness. "Do finish
it."

"I will, dear old boy," said Allan, tying a tape about the
manuscript sheets and putting the bundle under his arm;
"but not now. I will get on with it in the evenings. It is,
of course, very long, isn't it ?"

And Churchill experienced further new sensations that
are proper to a young author. All hope ebbed away from
him.

"Dear old boy," said Allan, later on, "I think your
industry is simply wonderful — ^the mere manual labour of
writing all this must have been enormous ;" and he put the
manuscript down again. "When I have written out one of
my sermons — ^and that only means twenty small sheets^
my hand aches. I have to open my fingers like this." Then
reflectively he filled a pipe, lit it, and slowly puffed. "Now
then," and he pulled himself together. "I am really going to
tackle it. I like it better as it goes on," and he beamed at
Edward. "I feel I'm getting into it."

Churchill thought that if by some queer caprice of fortune
a book of his were ever published, ne would not watdi it
being read by anjrbody, least of all by a loved friend. The
thing was too painful : it was torment.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 415

Bat at long last Gates finished a first reading, and then,
after skimming through the work again, he gave his verdict
and pronomiced sentence.

"It is a noble piece," he said. "There is nothing but good
in it. Only certain passages must come out. I will show
you exactly — I will take them out myself."

Churchill, radiant, with the dead weight of suspense lifted,
pleaded for the condemned passages. In his revulsion of
feeling, they seemed to him the best bits, and he did not
see how they could possibly offend. But Gates was granite ;
and Churchill, yielding at once, said "Out they go."

It was dreadful to see — Gates with his stubby pencil,
frowning and intent, the manuscript quivering beneath his
hands. Churchill stood by, like a nervous mother with a
child in the dentist's chair, while Gates drew his darling's
teeth one after another.

"Believe me," said Allan, cheerily, "it's not only right,
it's an improvement. The book is so long that they can't
be missed."

Churchill sent the mutilated manuscript to Mr. Raymond,
who in his turn sent it to a literary agent. The agent without
difiiculty made a fair bargain with a London publisher, and
before very long there l^gan to arrive by post the proof
sheets of The Rainbow Garment, "a novd, by Eciward
Churchill."

It was published in the winter time, and Lilian read it by
her own fireside. The north wind was sweeping down from
the blow-holes of the Sphtigen, making the snow-capped
mountains seem to be cut out of metal against the purple
sky, changing the placid lake into a fierce little sea, beatuig
among the vines and sending across the olive woods a shiver
of grey misery. But she cared nothing for the world or the
weather outside the windows; she had entered the world
made by Edward Churchill, and she never wished to leave
it again. She wept in delight and pride. It was the most
wonderful book ever written, and it had been written by
him.

The author himself was overwhelmed by the fantastic
character of the reports that came to him from his literary
agent ; yet they were supported by masses of documentary
evidttice — newspapers with criticisms, magazines with long

miBmammm

416 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

articles, publishers' advertisements, innumerable letters from
strangers — and so one had to believe that it was all true.
Hundreds of people were writing to the Press about The
Rainbow Garment, quarrelling about it, getting quite hot
about it; tens of diousands were reading it, talking of it,
thinking of it; its publishers had but one trouble — ^they
could not get its editions printed and bound quickly enough.
Its success was of the full and immediate kind that comes at
rare intervals to a hitherto unknown man. Allan Gates
was enraptured and abashed. How had he dared to touch
such a masterpiece with the censor's pencil? He begged
Edward never to tell any one what he had done.

"Nonsense," said the author, smiling happily; "you
knocked it into shape for me. I can't explain its success
any other way."

That was what certain critics said — they could not explain
its success. But readers needed no explanation. It was
different from other books — it had something lofty and fine
in it that was not quite usual. It was not perhaps much of
a story, and it was certainly very long ; but through it there
shone a steady soul-radiance. The book was like Edward
Churchill. You only had to know it well enough, to love it

And Fate began strangely to pay debts. His mother's
husband died and left Churchill all his money. A second
and a third novel established his position as one of the
most widely read writers of the age. It was only necessary
to amuse himself by writing in order to gain more money,
but he had more money than he wanted already.

He bought the house, the ground, and the harbour. He
added to the house, doubled it in size, then trebled it. He
cleared the ground and constructed a terraced garden, with
a pergola on the upper terrace where they used to have
their meals throughout the warm weather. This was a
labour of love, for Lilian; it was her garden. She had
a room of her own on the first floor, the best room in the
house, with her daughter's room adjoining, and a loggia
where she could sit and look down into her garden and
watch things visibly growing under her eyes. Gardening
was so easy now; you had but to wish, and Italy did the
rest. Each twig that you put into the ground would become
the tree that you asked for — myrtles and citrons, fuchsias

THE MIRROR AN0 THE LAMP 417

and Banksia roses, oleanders and daturas, the things whose
very names are pretty to say, the things that in England
have a sound of rareness and unattainable beauty, all grew
with a swift, almost a fierce profusion. Churchill and
Allan, working with the stonemasons and labourers, seemed
to be chased and overtaken by the flowers themselves. The
roses could not wait for the brick coltunns and wooden
beams that were to carry them; such common thrusting
things as clematis and wistaria seized upon half finished
balustrades and ran their tendrils into each crevice of soft
mortar.

For Allan good useful rooms had been arranged by
Churchill and his clever architect from Milan. They had
a separate entrance to the road, and Churchill made them
like an English country vicarage, just in the style that suited
Allan. The harbour was repaired, and they had boats of
their own — a fishing-boat for Allan, and a gig with cush-
ioned seats and brightly-coloured hood that was the family
carriage. At the touch of a pair of sculls it glided away, and
when the two boatmen sculled together it shot across the
lake and distanced all competitors. They had two boatmen
of their own, smiling giants in red sashes and blue shirts ;
but for the most part Allan and Churchill did the rowing.
Allan was so completely restored to his old strength that
nothing tired him; and their private boatmen had employ-
ment outside of the boats — they were footmen, housemaids,
charwomen, as well as being boatmen. A gardener and his
wife, who did the cooking with a maid to help her, were
also native lake-dwellers; another maid and the governess
came from England ; and the rest of the household was not
permanent, but just a changing population that consisted of
other governesses temporarily out of eniplo3rment, poor
young ladies discovered by Lilian, anybody known to Allan
for whom a holiday without a hotel bill would be like a gift
from the fairies. And more or less dependent on the
household, were the people of the harbour, who formed a
sort of faithful clan and were very particular that no out-
siders encroached upon their province.

Truly fate had guided them to the place of peace.
Churchill would still have given all — ^but there was no one
outside his home to give to. He offered his earnings, without

41« THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

stint, to Allan. But Allan could not spend wisdy, and he
would not spend in any other way. There was no miseiyf
no real want, no regular claimants for charitable doles.
Allan saw clearly that to shower money on these peasants
would be wrong. They were happy now. Money would
upset them, spoil them. In fact, the unconsidered lai^gesse
that poured from the villas and the tourist crowd had pat-
ently a depraving influence — making the industrious idle and
the guileless greedy. Now and then one could find a case
where with ca'ition one might play providence — ^marriage
dowry for a girl, new boat for a fisherman, school fees for
a clever boy; — but the amount was small, the opportunity
rare. There were the beggars, of course, hovering about
every steamboat pier, infesting every sunlit piazza, luricing
beneath every cool colonnade ; but to these a few coins and
no more might be given, or they would get drunk, fight, and
fall into the lake. Allan's congregation were rich English.
All other congregations belonged to the Roman CaSiolic
priests, who lived in great amity with this heretic, and
would take for their sick — but they must not take too much,
as Allan saw, or you would spoil the priests themselves.
Italy is not England.

For Allan duty had become a sort of playing at church
and at life, as of a happy child, with no real toil or sorrow
in it. But he was satisfied, easy of conscience. There
could be no harm now in accepting what God granted.
This was his reward, and he received it here below — a fore-
taste of heaven. Perhaps he felt he had earned his reward.
God's will be done. It could not be meant that he should
rack up his traps, go back to the northern slums, and carry
Edward Churchiirs money to spend it there.

Edward Churchill for his part was content, without re-
morse or self -questioning. Contentment was logically de-
manded by his favourite theory. Do the thing nearest your
hand — answer the call — give all. But if there is nodiing
to do, no call to answer, be at peace. He suffered no pangs
because men and women in London, or Leeds, or New York
were suffering. His place was here — not there.

He valued money only for the pleasure he could buy with
it for those he loved. At last Lilian could have all the pretty
things that she knew how to make still prettier; she had a

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 419

genius for decoration and adornment ; and every one of those
shopping trips to Exeter that she had renounced without
complaint was made good to her now a thousandfold. He
used to urge her to go to Milan, or to Paris if she preferred
it, to get herself more new dresses, more new hats ; and yet
he always liked to see her in the garments he knew best.

"Why don't you ever wear that lovely fawn-coloured dress
that I admire so much ?" he would ask her.

"My dear," she answered, with a laugh, "I wore it for four
years. Wasn't that long enough? Stella said it was too
faded and shabby for her to be seen about with me in it."

He neither cotmted money nor measured time: he was
happy in the passing hours. Only the disappearance of an
admired frock; the fact that Stella did not ride in a per-
ambulator, but went out fishing with Gates and came down
to late dinner; the list of his books in a publisher's adver-
tisement — only such reminders as these told him that years
had added themselves to years, that the sum of life was
bigger.

His fame was always growing. He wrote to please him-
self, but what he wrote never failed to please the public. He
wrote fables of the people, and his fables were more popular
than his novels ; he wrote volumes of short stories, and the
public even allowed him to do that ; translations of his bodes
made him known throughout Europe. Because of his books
half the world honoured and respected him. He was, locally,
a celebrated feature of the lake, shown by fly-drivers, pointed
at from steamer decks, photographed behind his back by
everybody old enough to hold a camera. He was beloved by
all the peasants and the boatmen, who cared nothing for
Churchill the writer, but were very glad to talk about
Churchill the man. When questioned concerning his books,
they shook their heads and laughed. Not much of readers —
but Signor Churchill was a grand signor and a good friend.
He paid for the defence of Luigi and Antonio there, wrongly
accused of smuggling. He gave the cow to Giulio's nephew.
He was out on the mountain all night with the rest when
little Vittoria and her mule got lost in the winter fog.

^dllMH

UI

As soon as Stella was old enough they did a little travel-
ling. By the terms of his appointment, Allan Grates was free
to be away from the middle of November to the end of
March, because during this period there were scarcely any
English left on the lake. Nevertheless, he regularly con-
tinued his Sunday services, sometimes with a congregation
of only three persons — ^Lilian, Stella, and her governess.
But on two or three occasions he was persuaded to join the
Churchills in a winter jaunt.

They went up to the snowfields of the Engadine, but the
keen light air did not suit Allan, and they hurried down
again to the plains of Lombardy. Once they followed the
sea coast f rcrni Toulon to Spezzia. They visited Rome, got
as far south as Naples, and crossed the Straits to Sicily.
Allan grew restive in the true atmosphere of Roman Cathol-
icism. It was too grand and sleepy for him. His spirit
was oppressed by the grey old towns, and the mingled gaudi-
ness and squalor of the churches. The priests of the south,
fat, indolent, with wine-stained, dirty cassocks, and double
chins that needed shaving, made him feel irritation and con-
tempt. The splendid old religion itself seemed to him really
like some of the old towers and palaces — a grand outward
form only ; dust pretending to be stone, still standing high
and awe-inspiring, defying the centuries ; the work of man
pretending to be solid and permanent as the work of God.
These churches and castles seemed to speak with the very
voice of Rome, saying they would last as long as the hills
they crowned, yet all of them ready at a toudi to fall into
a cloud of white dust.

Stella enjoyed these wanderings, but she as well as the
others liked their home best. She adored her father. At
first, perhaps, Gates ran him hard in the race for her favour,
but soon Daddy won. Daddy could not carpenter or make
toys, and his rooms were less interesting to explore ; but he
told one curious things, he could look into one's mind, and

420

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 421

formulate the questions that one did not know how to ex-
press. And he could answer them, every one. When he
read aloud, fairy stories became true, not stories that didn't
really happen ; and when he came to the end — the end that
one knew by heart — ^he could go on reading, saying what
occurred after the princess was happily married, all about
her children and their names, and how after a time they
found the palace so dull that they left it one night to search
for the fairy that had formerly befriended their father and
mother. And all this sequel wasn't in the book at all ; it came
straight out of Dadd/s head, and nobody else could read it
aloud to you.

By the time that she was ten years old they had become
real companions. They tmderstood each other. You had
but to see them together to know how close was the bond of
love. As they walked hand in hand about the garden, he no
longer discussed such fabulous topics as the bears of Monte
Legnoncino, or explained why the lake was as deep as the
mountains were high, or why the unhappy village of Lez-
zeno had been put into disgrace and deprived of the sun in
winter and the moon in summer ; but they talked freely of
abstract matters, as freely and as simply as if he and she
were of the same age. He loved these walks and talks as
much as she did. He did not try to teach her anything then
or later, unless it was by leading her from external wonders
towards the deep comfort of the inner life. He had no fear
for her. Already sl^e seemed to him calm and true and
strong.

They had innocent secrets that nobody else knew of. Once
in the summer, when the moon was at the full, he told her
that he was going out at night to climb the high hill behind
Griante to watch the sunrise from its summit ; and she said
she would be in their garden at dawn, standing on the upper
terrace, and kiss her hand to him. She would do this at a
certain minute, and at that exact minute he was to look down
from the mountain. She insisted on this ; she promised to
wrap up properly, and go back to bed afterwards. So they
carefully synchronised their watches, and decided on the
appointed minute.

"At three-forty. Daddy. Remember, you are to look
straight down towards me; and you will feel that I have

422 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

flown up through the air and kissed you. You promise you
won't forget ?"

"I won't forget. But I hope that instead of waking, youll
stay snug in bed."

He was back for breakfast, and he said, ''Thank yott,
Stella, for saying good-morning to me so nicely."

"You couldn't see me, of course ?'

"No, but I knew that you were there."

"Did you feel what I said?"

"Yes, my darling, I felt that, and much more than you
said."

The others did not know what they were talking about.
It was one of their secrets. Perhaps she had secrets of her
own that she could not share with him. She knew that there
was something in her father's life because of which the world
at one time had been unkind to him, and the thought of this
made her feel a passionate longing to guard and protect him
from the slightest touch of pam. This shadow of past
trouble fell upon her faintly but coldly in the midst of sun-
light. He was grand and famous now, and yet the vague
cloud still remained upon his name. People were always
praising him ; and yet she could detect now and then a reser-
vation in their praise that wounded her young pride and
stabbed her loyal young heart.

He and she never spoke of religion. He had prepared
himself for the sort of questions that children usually ask ;
but she never asked them. Had she been warned not to do
so by her mother? He did not know; he did not inquire.
She had, of course, been brought up in the orthodox faith.
Allan Grates prepared her and some other English girls for
confirmation, and in due course she was confirmed by the
Bishop of West Europe on one of his enormous pastoral
tours.

Her father went to church with her on the Sunday after
she had taken her first communion. He used to attend the
morning service perhaps twice a year, for the pleasure of
sitting with his wife and daughter, and in order to be able to
pay his friend compliments about the sermon.

His compliments were precious because he never said
what he did not mean — ^whether to Gates, to his wife, or his
diild. Love has no limits. T ove made Gates a really good

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 423

preacher to Edward Churchill, even if he rentiained merely
a fervent but poor performer to all the rest of the world.

When he told Lilian that she looked as young as ever, she
knew that it was not true, but she knew that he believed it ;
and that was enough. If she had ever suffered, as women
are supposed to suffer, in thinking of the time when the
signs of age would fall upon her and her charm be lost, she
suffered no longer. He had always answered that he could
see no change in her. If she said it was absurd to talk like
that, he smiled and shook his head. He did not really see
that she was different in any outward respect from the girl
who had come to him through darkness and pain, and with
her hand in his had led him back to the light. He would
never see. Love conquers all things — even the years.

He said, and believed, ''You are more beautiful than you
were — ^if, indeed, there is any difference." And if she
ai^ed, he chaffed her about Wheeler's famous article in the
Universal Magasine, "Mr. Wheeler said more than I have
done. Ill fetch it out. You had better read it again."

Mr. Wheeler was a visitor from America, and he had writ-
ten an account of his visit to the villa by the lake. Churchill
kept and treasured his copy of the magazine because of the
sketch of Lilian.

After describing "the home of England's greatest fiction-
ist," the writer said: "Churchill is a bigger optimist even
than his books would lead one to suppose. His is an opti-
mism of the far-reaching, all-embracing character. He be-
lieves in the future of the human race, and does not appear
to attach any weight to the seeming evils of the hour. For
him labour troubles, class antagonisms, war itself with all
its unspeakable horrors, are but momentary checks to
progress — ^they are like small impediments to the flow of a
river, making it for a moment change its direction, only to
resume it when the obstacle is pass^.

. . . "But no picture of Edward Churchill would be com-
plete without the pendent portrait of his wife. Mrs. Church-
ill is a beautiful and gracious lady, with a quiet unaffected
manner, but great natural dignity. Tall and slender in figure,
she has a face of the most refined English type, and yet which
in the delicacy of the features, the play of expression and the
•oft lustrous eyes, recalls the beauty of some of our own

424 THE HIRROR AND THE LAMP

southern women. Both she and her husband, one may add,
are distinctly un-English in their absence of formality and
reserve. The kindly welcome that they accorded to me as a
stranger, with no better credentials than the fact that I could
claim membership of the brotherhood of literature, impressed
me to a notable degree."

Touring Americans were often provided with letters of
introduction to Churchill by his New York publishers, and he
liked these perhaps more than any other chance visitors.
They were so fresh and original when compared with tired
Londoners saturated with other people's worn-out thoughts
and without a thou^^ht that belonged to themselves; so
devoid of all pretension; so free from the ridiculous sdf-
consciousness that fears to betray ignorance of matters quite
outside one's own sphere of knowledge ; so full of humour,
vital energy, and intrinsic kindliness. He liked the hard-
faced men of business whose words snapped like steel
springs and whose hearts were like the hearts of little
children. They sometimes talked as though the world was a
market-place and its high altar a stock exchange, pretending
to live only for the acquisition of hard cash, and yet perhaps
ready to lay down life for an idea. He seemed to trace in
the men and women alike this essential desire for the ideal
and the willingness to stake all to obtain it, and he won-
dered if destiny would ever put them to the test.

These tourists from across the ocean never ran the risk
of outstaying their welcome : without exception, they were all
of them in a prodigious hurry.

"Now, Mr. Churchill, we'd just love to stay and laze
away half a week on your cf^lightful lake ; but it doesn't seem
quite fair to cut out poor old Rome, and Venice, and the
rest. Rome's had to wait a long time for Mrs. Binion and
myself, and I guess she'd feel tired of sitting on her seven
hills if we disappointed her."

"Come back to us on your way home."

"No, we can't do that anyhow. We aren't retracing our
steps this trip. Time doesn't permit. But we shall take
home a vurry pleasant memory of this afternoon, and of
you and your charming wife and your amiable daughter."

More distinguished and less hurried representatives of
American culture, writers, artists, diplomatists, came with

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 425

the English and Continental crowd every spring and autumn.
It was a cosmopolitan society in which sooner or later every
one of note appeared. Indeed in the fashionable seasons
there was no, lack of varied company at the villa; and if
Churchill as a writer needed material for the study of men
and women of the world, it provided itself automatically and
unfailingly. Politicians or statesmen, successful advocates
or great lawyers, smartly-dressed women or grand ladies,
well-known people or people of importance, the man of the
hour or the moulder of to-morrow — ^whichever you cared to
call them — ^they all in time presented themselves on the
Churchills* terrace, to drink a cup of tea beneath the roses
and give their host a chance of seeing their outward shapes
and reading their inward mysteries.

With regard to the most famous of these guests, Stella
and Gates nearly always said the same thing.

''He is not a bit like his pictures in the papers,*' said Stella.

And Gates said, "How easy he is to get on with I"

The great men were always easy to get on with. They
sank into their basket-chairs, drank their tea, and ate their
cake, as if they had been doing so yesterday, the day before
and years ago ; and they talked to Churchill as if they had
known him all their lives. When the rest of their party wan-
dered off about the garden, they still sat talking with him.
When their boat was waiting to start and everybody else on
board, they told the boat to go without them. They would
walk back to the hotel by the road — ^and perhaps Churchill
would stroll a little way with them, so that they might go
on talking.

In the course of years many real friends dropped in on
them — old friends discovered unexpectedly on landing-
stages, who were at once made to move their baggage from
their hotel, and put up at the villa. Thus, for the first time,
chance brought them Prebendary and Mrs. Verschoyle ; and
Canon Nape and Monsignor Gardiner, sometime curates of
St. Bede's. The Verschoyles came nearly every autumn, and
no other friends were so dear to them.

Sometimes there surged up out of the past once familiar
faces that they had never thought of or missed. In this
manner suddenly appeared Mr. Milton Kirk of Danes-
borough and his secretary. Miss Jenkins. Churchill had seen

426 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

them from his window without recognising them, as thev
slowly ascended the garden steps and paused to take bream
on each terrace — a small, dapper gentleman in a yachting suit
and cap, with field-glasses swung over his arm ; and a gor-
geously attired mature lady witii a mauve parasol. Now
tiiey were in the drawing-room with Lilian, and Stella had
been sent to fetch him. He put down his pen and went at
once.

Mr. Kirk was standing on the hearthrug and talking vol-
ubly, reminding Lilian of how he had not only been the
original discoverer of Churchill's talent, but its careful
trainer. Mrs. Kirk sat near, admiring him. They were
much grander-looking than of old, obviously very prosper-
ous and opulent.

"How is Danesborough?'' asked Churchill, after efFusive
hand-shakings.

"Danesborough," said Mr. Kirk impressively, "is making
colossal progress — going slap bang ahead. You know the
saying, 'What Manchester thinks to-day London ihinks
to-morrow?' Well, Danesborough thinks it the day before
Manchester."

'And are you still working for The Courier f"

1 AM The Courier/* and Mr. Kirk said how he had
bought out the old proprietary. He was also the owner of
half a dozen other periodicals. He thought no more of
launching a new paper nowadays than of having his break-
fast. "But I did not come here to talk about mysdf." And
he spoke again of his cleverness in having spotted Churchill,
as a likely winner in the race for literary fame.

"Miss Churchill, the 'umble individual before you now
was your papa's first patron. Yes, young lady, tnis illus-
trious author, then a bashful beginner, used to bring me his
immature efforts, and we put our heads together to screw
them up to concert pitch. . . . You haven't forgotten,
have you, Churchill ? . . . I said to my wife there, 'There's
something about Churchill's work that may puzzle many
people, but it doesn't puzzle me. It is gemus/ Yes, I said
it then, un'esitatingly. All the world has said it since."

The late Miss Jenkins recalled this speech of her hus-
band's, and said he had quoted his very words. She was
grand, with her white frock, high heels, and delicate mauve

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 427

parasol. She had jewelled bangles, and a little watch en*-
crusted with diamonds, the tiny dial of which she consulted
presently.

^ "Now, Milton," she said. "Remember, this is holiday^
time." And she explained that she wished his brain to rest
as much as possible. The strain was more severe than ever.

Obviously she was very well pleased with herself ; but she
worshipped Mr. Kirk, and would always take the greatest
care of him.

As they went back to the harbour and their boat, she
spoke kindly and confidentially to Lilian.

"Aren't your husband's books splendid? I love them.
I wonder the Government hasn't publicly recognised them."

"How do you mean ?" asked Lilian.

"Why, by giving him a knighthood or something. They
are going to make Milton a knight. It will be in the next
Birthday Honours. . . . What a world it is. I wcmder
what I should have said if the fairies had told me that one
day I should be Lady Milton Kirk."

When they reached the pier Mr. Kirk had still much to
say to Churchill, and it was with difficulty that Mrs. Kirk
embarked him.

"I must get him away," she whispered. "But when two
old cronies get together, there's no separating them."

Churchill begged the Kirks to come to dinner any day ; but
Mrs. Kirk refused the invitation. Dinner parties excited
Milton. As she explained, she got him off to bed imme-
diately after the table-d'hSte. He had half a bottle of light
wine at dinner, and she herself brought him his "nipit-cap"
when she had tucked him in. "But many thanks, all the same.
It's depriving him of a pleasure, but it's for his own good. I
think his brain is like a steam-engine: it is always working
at high pressure."

Mr. Kirk brandished his field-glasses and Mrs. Kiric
waved her parasol as the boat elided away with them. The
Churchills stood at the end of the pier by the fishermen's
shrine till the boat became a small speck on the broad sur-
face of the lake. Then they went back to the house, all three
together, lingering among the perfumed shrubs, turning on
terrace steps to look back at the great shadow of their moun-
tain as it crept up the slope on the other shore and the even-

428 THE MIRROR' AND THE LAMP

ing sunlight as it began to glow red on the crest of the
hills above Varenna. Then at last the writer returned to his
desk and went on writing.

Visitors squandered a lot of his time. But to all he was
courteous and kind, and all were the better for seeing him.
Something he gave unconsciously, something they took away
that made them a little richer — ^the prosperous Kirks, the
successful politicians, the tired advocates, the expansive,
warm-hearted wanderers from the great Republic, even the
pretty, worldly ladies with husbands they did not care to
show and lovers they could not contrive to hide. It was the
divine gift of sympathy. The humble people, the peasants,
knew what it was well enough, and came for it without
scruple as a right — in every trouble ; their love affairs, their
business enterprises, their little family vendettas ; their hopes,
their fears, their crimes.

He would lay down his pen, and give them an hour — ^a day
— ^two days. He would see the lawyers for them, he would
go to Milan for them ; there was nothing that he would not
do for them.

Lilian and Stella tried to save him from interruptions, but
in vain. He would not be the guarded prophet or the
sheltered muse. He worked when he could. Like all
authors, he had his favourite hours, when his pen seemed to
run easiest, and perhaps his best and most cherished time
was on Sunday mornings.

The church bell ceased its music; his ladies with their
prayer books in their hands had just passed the window, and
the maids were hurrying down the stairs ; dear old Allan was
busily engaged, and would not come in and out of the room
for a couple of hours. The whole house fell silent; the
Sabbath hush had descended on land and water; not a mur-
mur came from the hillside, not a rustle from the lake. He
used to feel that he was absolutely alone with his work, and
the pen moved faster and faster.

Ik

LHI

At the beginning of a week late in October Allan Gates
fell sick with influenza. This was the first time since he left
England that there had been anything wrong with him. On
Monday the Italian doctor from Tremezzo ordered him to
go to bed, but promised that he would be on his legs again
by Sunday. Allan's one anxiety was about the Sunday serv-
ices. Although at this late period of the year very few Eng-
lish were still here, the mere thought of the church doors
being closed against them sent up his temperature and made
him toss and turn in bed. Such a failure would spoil his
record for ever.

On Thursday, when he should have been allowed to get up,
he was still held prisoner by the doctor, and he judged it
prudent to ascertain that a substitute would be available, if
required, to take his place on Sunday. During the regular
season the shore was almost black with parsons, but now one
would not have so wide a choice. The churchwardens had
already departed. Stella, however, sent out spying for
Allan, brought back a report that she had seen four black
coats — ^the one at the "Britannia" ; a new one out in a boat
with some ladies; and other two sitting in the hall at the
"Bellevue." Four blackbirds, not likely to be flown before
Sunday. Allan felt reassured.

On Saturday morning he got up without permission, and
was sitting in a chair when the doctor came. The doctor sent
him back to bed, to stay there till further orders. Lilian and
Stella, sent forth to search, found the four birds flown. Not
a parson left on the shore. All day long they telegraphed
and telephoned here and there, up and down the lake. No
parson available. No service to-morrow. Allan was in
despair. He lay writhing and tossing, saying he did not care
what his temperature might be ; he would be up to-morrow
and be at the church at 8 a. m., if he could stand.

"What is it at eight o'clock ?" asked Qiurchill, sitting with
him in the evening. "CcMnmunion ?"

429

■■^■T.^^ ■^--,_,. ■ .^^■,^-:tr • -fcK-TT^-fcAiiaMm

430 THE MIRROR ANDI THE LAMP

"'No, only Matins--chiefly for the English waiters and the
clerk from the 'Bellevue.' "

"And what is it at eleven o'clock?"

"Morning Prayer and Litany/*

"Allan, I'll do the services for you/' said Churchill.

Allan looked at him, gave a gasp, and then sank back in
bed, perspiring, joyful. "God bless you, dear old fellow I
Oh, God bless you 1"

The fervent gratitude of Allan's tone, his extreme emo-
tion, his gasp or cry of joy on hearing his friend's words,
startled Churchill. It had seemed to him such a small thing
to say. Why should it seem so much to Allan? ChurchiS
had spoken on the impulse of the moment, without thought
or doubt. His friend wanted something done, and he could
do it. It was nothing for him to do. Of course he must do
it. It was a call that he had answered automatically.

"Now settle down," he said, "and get to sleep."

"Yes, I shall sleep to-night," said Allan, in tne same joyful
tone.

Churchill going, put his head back into the room to ask
if he should find a surplice and everything else at the church.

"Yes, dear old fellow. I have given Lilian the keys."

"That'll be all right then," said Churchill.

But a little later Lilian came to him, with shining eyes and
lips trembling.

"Allan has told me. Oh, Edward, does this mean— oh,
let me know what it means."

"My dearest," he said, rather blankly, "it means nothing ;"
and he took her hands and pressed them gently. "Dear old
Allan was in a hole — ^so I offered to do it for once. But I
hope you don't think it is wroi^. Allan did not. It is only
for this once — to make him easy."

''Yes," she said, "you have made Allan easy;" and she
released her hands, and turned away.

"Lilian, I hadn't thought of my position — as a priest who
had been inhibited. I hadn't thought of myself at all— except
that I should be able to get throtigh the services all right
But if you feel that I haven't the right to do it — if you think
it wrong, I must tell him I can't do it."

"No," she said sadly. "I don't think it wrong. I could
never think anjrthing you did was wrong. Only it set me

THE MIRROR AND THE LAME 431

tfainkitig ^" and her eyes filled with tears. "But I under-
stand now."

He sat meditating after she had gone.

Was it wrong? Surely not. All that episode of his
quarrel with the Church and the manner in which he had
left it seemed so immensely remote. It was like something
that had happened in the life of another man. Who else
would trouble to remember it? Who would know or care?
No one here would wonder about it.

He had not thought of religion in regard to himself since
the time long ago when his child recovered from her dan-
gerous illness. He had determined then that he would not
Slink of these things, and he had adhered to his resolution.
Nothing in the happy years had ever revived the feelings of
that period. His life since then had been so peaceful and
yet so full : the world all round him and the worlds of his
mi2^nation had been all sufficient to him.

In his books he had never spoken of religion, but now and
then the public Press had made allusions to the fact of his
having been a clergyman. Critics who wished to appear
knowing sometimes called him the Reverend Edward
Churchill ; critics who wished to be nasty had not scrupled
to call him an infidel and an atheist. No one could call him
a materialist, for in everything that he had ever written the
triumph of spirit over matter had been the essential idea
conveyed ; but it was, as he knew, generally assumed both
by readers and by critics that he was not an orthodox be-
liever.

Suddenly, and for a few moments, it seemed a queer thing
that he was intending to do now. To those who really knew
his life-history, this act might seem like a public recantation.
They might say of him, "Edward Churchill has recanted.
He has stood up before men and God, and owned diat he
was at fault, and they were right. Yet he does not now
resdly believe. Therefore he is one of two things : a liar or
a hypocrite."

But in another moment everything dropped into its proper
place and took its old proportional value. What people may
think about him — and they won't think — ^is of no importance.
It is utterly trivial. The only important thing was to serve
his friend. He would have gone and swept oat stables.

i ^t^ - m. -m.

432 fTHE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

climbed ladders and laid bricks, stood on the high road and
begged-— done his friend's task for him, whatever it was,
while he lay sick.

He fetched out his manuscript notes and b^;an to write.
He had mortgaged to-morrow morning, and would make up
for lost time by doing a little woric to-night

Allan slept soundly, and was still asleep when Churchill
went out to do the first service. There were only five people
in the church.

There were more people at eleven o'clock, perhaps as many
as thirty; and he conducted the service beautifully, without
the least sign of embarrassment, and with only the very
slightest emotional feeling. He was extremely careful, read-
ing what he would have recited from memory in the old days,
and he made no slips.

Inwardly and outwardly he was calm. Strangers in the
church were struck by his outward aspect, and saw in him a
faithful carrier of the divine message. He stood there, tall
and thin, his hair sleek as silk, silver grey ; his clean-shaven
face, darkened by the Italian sun, like a beautiful mask ; the
features exquisitely refined, with all sensual character gone
utterly, and yet with strength remaining, visibly indicated by
the frontal ridge and the firm though thin-lipped mouth. He
looked at once an ideal priest and an intellectual aristocrat
The benign light of all-embracing love was in his eyes when
he delivered the last words.

No one could have guessed. From the moment of his
first kneeling, till now as he stood with raised hand and the
sunlight through the windows crowning him, in a glory
rather than a petty halo, he has been God's perfect mes-
senger. Yet he felt nothing beyond love of humanity. If
God were here, in this little church, why did he not feel the
mysterious presence ? Why did not he realise that he was no
longer alone on the chancel steps? He seemed to be quite
alone. But he could not have said, even in thought, "There
is nothing here. There is no God. There never was a God."

These others believed. All can believe, except himself.
Looking down at the faces, he could read their hearts. In
their different degrees all these people truly believed. There
was glorious faith here and there. It was shining clear from
his wife and his child— from the old lady in the second pew

THE MIRROR AND THE EAME 433

— and that old man — ^and from the other old dame. From
the others — if not the perfect untroubled faith, at least the
yearning for it, and a hope that will bring it ; or, at the low-
est, the firm belief that this life is a prelude, that something
larger is to come. And who but a fool would take the belief
from them? Pity and love filled his thought, as he read
these few hearts.

For some it is not perhaps much ; for the rest it is every-
thing. And this little pause in the quiet church is good for
all. Who that thinks can doubt it? If it were only to tie
the tongue for an hour a week, it were worth building
churches to win that silence.

After the blessing he made a slip, forgetting what came
next. He thought it was all over. Instead of kneeling in
front of the altar and hiding his face in his hands, he sat
down in the big chair by the wall, in the shadow, with hand
on elbow, watching the congregation go out.

He thought that he could see quite plainly the good of it
to these faithful ones. They have palpably changed be-
neath his watching eyes. The old lady in the second pew is
pra)dng, is dreaming. She rises from her knees, and it is as
if she wraps about her a cloak of dignity which she did not
wear on entering. Her face is grave and calm ; she is old
and fragile, but she walks more strongly, with a braver,
nobler carriage. She has been kneeling, as she thinks, at the
steps of a throne, and has heard gracious promises; and
something of Majesty will cling to her for a little while. In
imagination he follows her out into the sunlight, in imagina-
tion hears her voice. She has neither sought nor shunned
her friends and gently she resigns herself again to the
babbling untied tongues ; but in her voice and eyes there is
something still of the glory of her dream. Who but a fool
would rob her of the dream?

Allan was much better in the week, and all right by Satur-
day. But he asked Edward to help him again. It is Com-
munion Sunday. Allan will do it all himself, every bit of it ;
but he would like to have Edward at his side, in case of fail-
ure. Edward is to be there just to support him, and will
not have to open his mouth.

Edward consented. He will dress once again as an offid-

— ■-'^- ■ f-' -tr I -^ ,..,^,^.:a — j^UJa— >— ifci

434 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

ating priest, and that will be the end of it. Once more, and
for Sie last time. Why not ? Allan wants him.

He put his head in at the door. ''But, I say, old boy, have
you two surplices ? Can you fit me out as well as yourself ?"

"Oh, yes," said Allan joyously. "I'll fit you out" His
face beaming in happiness.

So Edward Churchill made his second appearance behind
the altar rails.

And now Allan Gates was convinced that all he had longed
for and prayed for had at last come to pass. Edward had
come back to them — ^returned to the fold — been brought
home in due season. Not to Allan the glory. He had been
content to watch and pray throughout the long years, but
never once had his confidence wavered. In God's good time
the thing would happen. And he felt certain that it bad
happened now.

He would not allow Lilian to doubt the splendid truth
of it

"Knowing him as I do, I know that it can mean nothing
else/' And he said how he had really felt sure from tlie
moment, eight days ago, when Edward offered to take the
services for him. "He could not have done this otherwise.
Although he may not, at first, have realised why it bad
become possible to him. So you may say the first time was
nothing. But tiie second time proves it. Have no fear."

"May I ask him if it is so ?"

"Yes, ask him. Have no fear. Let us go to him now."

Thus his friend and his wife came to him ; Lilian's face all
joyous, and Allan rubbing his hands together.

"Edward, is it true?" And she asked him explicitly if
he had recovered his lost belief.

He started, looked at their eager faces, and checked the
answer that was rising to his lips. Then, after an almost
imperceptible pause, he answered gravely and firmly that
what they wished was true. Without consciously searching
for the words, he had so framed his answer as to avoid a
personal declaration of belief; but, however worded, the
sense of the answer was unequivocal. He made them think
that what they had hoped for was true

This was his last great renunciation-«-co8ting him sonie-

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 435

diing even now. Must one deny one's deepest right, may not
one have one secret innermost place that is one's very own?
No; for those you love, give all. No holding back to your-
self — no limitations or half measures. Give yourself, your
life, your all. Why not ? What is it really ? What does it
count — to bring happiness to the loved wife, the loved
friend? They want it — ^that is enough. As to the dignity of
6elf, which forbids one to subscribe to the recantation of
one's thoughts — ^that is too vain and futile. The mirror is
the guide.

One look at their faces told him that he was right. They
were radiantly happy. Henceforth, so far as those two are
concerned, he must act a lie — if he cannot make it the truth.
They must always think it is the truth.

Aiid perhaps in dread of widening consequences, or
merely as an instinctive precaution, he gently pleaded for his
old fi^edom of action.

"I don't think I should care to go to church very regVL-
larly — perhaps scarcely at all; — I mean no more than in
the past."

"No, no. Whatever you like," cried Gates. And Lilian
agreed. They are absolutely content, and will leave him
unmolested. He is safe now — ^that is all they craved to
know for certain.

The acting of a lie would not do. The truth and nothing
but the truth was required. It had been a foolish thought, if
he supposed that anything less would suffice.

He could not write, either that day or the days that fol-
lowed. He sat idle in his room, or wandered out of the
house by himself. He wanted to be alone ; he was afraid of
the company of those who were dear to him. Something had
come between him and them. They were not conscious of it ;
it was only he who knew that when they fancied they had
drawn closest to him, a barrier that might prove impenetrable
had suddenly arisen to separate them. But that must not be.

He said to himself, "I will accept the working hypothesis.
I will believe all that I can ; I will believe all that I can't —
for their sakes. Love has no limits to its demands, or to its
power. It takes all, but it can give all. Love can make me
believe. Perhaps nothing else."

Bfii

--~^='-*-

—,

'436

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

la dm setue be lodged to bdieve and pnjvd for bcficL
He longed for the stiO larger, richer fife viudi fas Gould
readi now with bdief added-— more infimteif, than wfaca lie
was young, and, cxctpt for his locAMtr^ had no tics dat
bocsnd him to eaithhr diii^s. If behind and bejood die beantj
of diese lakes, and die hills and dieir fragrant v c slme of
flowers, be could see the beauty of the eternal worid of
spirit, as Lilian could, as Stella could, 2S Allan coold, how
much, much joy would be added. Above aD, he longed for
the close communion of spirit with the three pcof^ that he
loved more than himself, his work, his life.

He looked into his own mind, and it seemed that there was
nothing there that was not either a reflection of external
objects or the memory of them, or the print of die impnliy^
that had come from them and passed through him. His best
thoughts had always come to him seemingly from outside,
even his imaginations or inventions. It seemed that he had
originated nothing from within. Faith had entered into him,
doubt had entered into him, disbelief had entered into him.
He remembered how he had once fancied that the highest
task of his life would be to chase doubt from great men's
minds — minds so much stronger than his. Why cannot he do
this now for himself ? And again came the thought, '^jOvc
can do it for me. If I am passive love will do it — ^love shaU
do it."

So when Sunday morning came he did not use his free-
dom. He went to church and knelt by Lilian's side, with his
mind cleaned and emptied, his heart like the heart of a child.

uv

It was autumn again, after a perfect summer. September
had a ripeness and fullness that surpassed all previous
months; the air was dreamy, the earth gave forth sweet
perfumes. In every vineyard one met groups of laughing
girls, and high on the hillside one heard laughter and music ;
tfie world had become a harvest festival.

One Sunday afternoon the Churchills rowed across the
lake to attend a festa organised by the Roman priests. The
village landing-place was one of the largest on the lake, with
shallow steps on three sides ; and beyond there was an open
space surrounded by trimmed planes and used often for a
market. On the far side of this, a rapid ascent through
cypress trees led one to the piazza of the church. Before
the landing-steps big peasant-boats used to He at anchor
throughout the week. But to-day dozens of boats of all sorts
were tied up, gently bobbing and scraping, so that the
watery space was like the enclosure of a race-course; and
more and still more boats were coming. All the shore was
crowded. Processions of priests and their followers were
moving beneath bright-coloured banners ; a band was play-
ing ; the church bells rang.

They tied up their boat, and Churchill remained in it,
while Allan, Lilian, and Stella went to "do the festa" — and
see all that there was to be seen.

What can they see? Out here from the boat it is all
colour, movement, and confusion, without meaning apparent
— but one can piece it together. It is the pageant of life in
little. Is it more at close range? When you stand in the
crowd, is the meaning apparent? You must go where the
pressure guides you. They are all going one way: then
surely the goal is worth reaching?

All the beautiful pageant of life — does it matter, the size
of the stage, the number of the actors ? Here are the peas-
ants: men and women and children, bringing their votive
oflFerings— all that the earth itself yields — fruit, flowers, and

437

438 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

beasts. Not much. But our pope has big pockets, takes the
kind thought for the rich gift — takes both ; and our father
at Rome has many fetes. Let us hope he may get all he
wants when he puts all together. Thus they go, the poor
peasants — ^bright-eyed slaves of a magic that makes them
happy. Here are the muttering priests, robed as rich as a
pope, and all one with a pope to the peasants. The banners
wave and gladden the eye, the little t>oys sing, and the maid-
ens whisper ; and the smoke from the censor swings out and
rises and fades ; and the prayers and the hopes in the mut-
tered words are as smdce, soon lost in the stmlight. The
babe on its mother's arm clutches, without sense of space or
bulk, at the glittering cope, the lofty cross with its dazzling
jewels, at the sun itself ; and cries when it finds its hand still
empty. Here are policemen, soldiers, shopkeepers from the
town. Here are the smart hotel visitors from Bellagio and
Cadenabbia, men in Panama hats, women in rainbow dresses,
mingling with the humble throng — of it completely, yet
thinxing themselves above it ; — all nations these, with no Imk
to bind them unless it be that they all are bound in golden
fetters; lords, ladies — ^princes from the princely villas — all
come out to kill time, without a shiver in the warm sunlight
because they all know it is time that will kill them. This is
the pageant of life. What actors are missing?

He waited patiently in the boat for a long time — till again
the boats are going. And his mind is vacant and peaceful.
There is nothing there now but the bright pure flame and a
crystal clear mirror. Time is gone, and space is annihilated.
He rouses himself when the others return, smiles at them — a
wonderful smile, and a welcoming look that goes to their
hearts.

But at such times, when he cannot count the gliding min-
utes or think in words, the thought-vapour must be mere-
something that transcends thought. Day by day the power
of thought is strengthening, widening. He is wiser every
day, stronger. Books that were difficult are now easy to
read — and men are as easy to read as books. Something like
the clairvoyant wisdom — far-reaching, barrier-breaking— of
the greatest thinkers has come to him, slowly and surely, by
not thinking.

THE MIRROR AND THE LAME 439

The lake is most beautiful, at all hours. Allan is sculling
them very slowly — ^merely paddling — and husband, wife and
child sit together beneath the awning.

"Pull it down," says the girl. "The sun cannot hurt us
now."

"Nothing can hurt us now," he says dreamily.

The screen is lowered, to give them a wider view ; and the
boat glides slowly onward by the shore.

Beneath them are the silent depths ; over the surface of
the water light airs come creeping from the gates of the
other lake, and with the gentle breeze is borne to them the
far-oflF sounds of life — faint music, evening bells, herdsmen
calling. Hidden from them on the other lake, behind the
wooded hill, there is a pleasure steamer making restless noise
to remind them of the world. The unceasing, rhythmic and
yet fretful beat of the unseen paddle-wheel throbs faintly on
the ear. It is the heart-beat of the world — futile, furious,
unceasing.

They glide on, past the stately villas, backs of humble
houses clustered at the foot of quarried cliffs, hanging woods,
gardens and vineyards, and again the stately villas. The
shore is a beautiful picttu'e unfolding itself. But Edward
Churchill looks at it in the water — ^the reflected, inverted
picture that little children love. Hold your gaze on the
depths, and you never know what the picture will be till it
comes. In this steady sunlight, the color and the solidity of
the mirage are as perfect as the objects they represent. But
the mirage forms, glows, fades, and is utterly gone as you
pass. Look back, and no trace is left— only the silent
depths.

Cypresses, stone steps, flowers festooned on marble balus-
trades; smooth lawns, palace walls — ^this is wealth. Don't
look forward, don't look back. A little beach and a fisher-
man's boat, a cabin and a slated roof — this is poverty. Don't
look back. Don't look forward. The picture has formed,
gained strength, and vanished. And this is all that life can
show as one passes. We may try to stand still, to keep the

fiicture with us ; but in truth we cannot. The shadows are
ailing, the light itself is fading; our picture must change,
even if we do not move. In a little while it will be gone as
completely as if we ourselves had passed on.

-^-■---. -> -■ --^-T-. I I, riiiaaiii-m— lam

LV

The fact of Churchiirs doing duty for his sick friend did
not go unnoticed. It was reported in England, and it had
caused some trouble. The trustees of the diurch, when they
heard of it, desired an explanation from Gates. Was it not
highly irregular, in view of Mr. Churchill's status ; or were
they under a misapprehension on this point? The ecclesi-
astical authorities also became aware of the occurrence, and,
off and on, throughout the winter, Allan Gates had been
mildly badgered by them. He was obliged to send lengthy
answers to letters from the Bishop of West Europe. He said
nothing to Edward or to Lilian about these little worries.

It was the custom of the Bishop and his wife — ^when cross-
ing their gigantic diocese in spring and autimin — ^to stay
two or three days with Allan and the Churchills. But they
had not come this spring. They would be here, no doubt,
before the autumn was over. The Bishop knew all about
Churchill, was familiar with the details of his whole career.
He was a dry little chap ; old, genial, but fond of argument;
he would often tackle Churchill at dinner, not as a bishop
but as a man of the world, discussing his books, making him
stand up in self-defence, and explain the logic of incidents
or the development of characters. But he liked Churchill
very much, and was one of the most tolerant of men.

He and his wife duly turned up at the end of September,
on a glorious day about tea-time. After tea his good lady
withdrew to her room to repose herself, while he and the
others went out upon the lake. Allan sculled stroke, Miss
Stella bow; Edward Churchill steered, with the bishop on
one side of him and Lilian on the other. The boat shot out
from the pier in grand style; the scullers settled to their
work with a will; then, taking things easier, slackened the
pace, and the progress was gentle, peaceful, luUingly smooth.

As they glided along, the Bishop opened his mind.

He told Edward Churchill about the clerical fuss and
annoyance. He, the bishop, had himself been badgered.

440

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP 441

Letters, interviews— even a visit to Lambeth. Everybody
was, of course, delighted that Churchill had come bade to
the fold — ^but there really was very considerable scandal and
fuss, which, fortunately, he has now been able to set right.

"Is it real?" — ^Even that had been asked in regard to
Churchill's vindication of his religious belief. The Bishop
knew well that there was no ground for such a question ; he
knew the absolute genuineness of this unreserved recognition
of past error and resumption of a faith that had never been
totally abandoned. Otherwise he would not be saying these
words. But fame has its penalties. A public man is public
property, and his owners will talk about him. When you
have countless admirers, you must have detractors also
among the small, envious souls who like to think and speak
evil of the great. Moreover, on the technical side of the
matter — ^weU, one must be governed by those who are ap-
pointed to govern. A clergyman who has been inhibited, a
clergyman without a license "to preach the word of God

and administer the sacraments " Really our friend

Gates quite put himself in the wrong.

Allan and the girl had ceased rowing ; the boat drifted on.

"And the crux may occur again," the Bishop continued.
It would be very convenient to Gates, it would be useful to
everybody, to have a substitute ready. It would be useful,
as an object lesson for the world, to have such a man — ^to
have this particular man. Churchill in his surplice answers
all the questions, hushes all the scandal as to Churchill's
infidelity and that ancient quarrel with the authorities.

So the Bishop has obtained the lifting of the ban, and he
proposes to appoint Edward Churchill as a chaplain, hono-
rary, to himself. Churchill will have no duties to perform ;
the appointment will be a sinecure that carries with it neither
function nor emolument, but it will give a proper status as a
priest. And by his manner and his tone he conveyed to all
of them that in this he intends not only to rehabilitate
Edward Churchill most handsomely, but to do him consid-
erable honour.

Thus Churchill can wear the Sunday surplice without
qualms. He can resume the week-day livery, and show him-
self boldly on lake and shore in the orthodox collar and black
coat.

442

THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP

Churchill sat tongue-tied. The Bishop was smiling at him
with great kindness ; Lilian had laid her hand on his ; Allan
was beaming. His daughter, leaning to one side, showed her
bright face, and he could read in it her pride and love. To
her this is most splendid tidings — rehabilitation, acknowledg-
ment of father's true worth at last, the lifting of that cloud
upon his name. He had not known till now that she har-
boured these feelings.

The boat drifted on, in the golden sunlight, on the bosom
of the deep lake ; and there was silence. Churchill remem-
bered the hour when, throwing off the coat and collar, he
made a vow that he would never again carry the ugly yoke
of superstition. But that was not really himself : that was
another man. In his rage and revolt he had called his
priestly garb the devil's livery. Now he may wear it again.
'What say you to that?" asked the Bishop.
1 say you are very kind," said Churchill, with a catch
of the breath. "Very, very kind. And I thank you — ^I thank
you."

Then they were all happy — all thanking the kind Bishop.
Allan and the girl poised their sculls, and bent and swung.
They talked gaily, while the steersman sat mute. The sun-
light fell bright on the lake, glancing on the surface, not
piercing the silent depths. But the steersman was happy.
The flame was leaping high ; the mirror was crystal dear.

it^

«1

THE END

ENGLISH REVIEWS OF ''THE MIRROR

AND THE LAMP"

Westminster Gazette

Not since The Ragged Messenger has any English novel-
ist given us so painstaking, so sympathetic, and so deeply
ironical a study of the religious temperament as Mr. W. B.
Maxwell, in his return to the theme in which he of all liv-
ing writers excels, The Mirror and the Lamp*

The Globe

Mr. W. B. Maxwell's latest novel, The Mirror and the
Lamp, is the hnest book he has yet written.

Sheffield Telegraph

In his new book. The Mirror and the Lamp, Mr. W. B.
Maxwell has for his central character a clergyman who lost
his faith and took to himself the ill-used wife of an evil
labour leader and lived with her in what is technically known
as "sin." Those are the crude facts as they might be whis-
pered over a cup of tea, but Edward Churchill was no vulgar
sensualist. He was of a deeply spiritual and introspective na-
ture, who from the first found in the church his true voca-
tion. He deliberately set aside the highest opportunities of
advancement in order to give himself to the work in a poor
parish, and until he met Lilian his blood never seems to have
given him any trouble. . . . Whether he did right or
wrong is a matter of opinion ; after all, it is a world of make-
belief and compromise. Mr. Maxwell has written a pro-
found and intimate study on an old but eternal theme, and
it is good work.

Morning Post

But with the story is developed a moral which explains.
It is signified in the title. The lamp is one's innermost self,
and the mirror is one's mind. The lamp — ^the soul, call it as
you will — ^is imperishable in its power to light the mirror,
and show what is fair and foul.

dU

Lad/8

The Mirror and the Lamp, by W. B. Maxwell, b a book
of serious purport, extremely well done and full of truth
and artistry. The Mirror is conscience, and the Lamp the
flame of truth ; and the story traces the spiritual history of
the hero, Edward Churchill, from boyhood to middle life.
... It is altogether an extremely interesting and clever
book.

Weekly Despatch

A fine piece of work, and one feels the soul struggle of
Exlward Churchill.

The Times

And this brings us to his unusual talent for secondary
characters. The Rev. Mr. Walsden simply "is" ; if Tolstoy
had been an Englishman, this is the Mr. Walsden whom he
might have given us, though we wonder whether even Tol-
stoy's Mr. Walsden would have made us such staunch
friends; the sergeant is perfectly a sergeant, through Mr.
Maxwell's almost unerring instinct for dialogue. And there
is Mrs. Churchill. In this saint-like, flawed, pitiful woman,
whom we instinctively distrust from the first, whom we feel
convinced that Mr. Maxwell dislikes while he pities, all the
elements of beauty in the novel seem to concentrate them-
selves. Her physical presence, so slightly but distinctly
conveyed; her early confession to her son, whose love,
womanlike, is made even more tender by disillusion; her
final degradation — all these form a little masterjMcce in the
midst of excellence.

James Douglas in The Star

And yet the spiritual struggle breaks out over and over
again, and I catch glimpses of a soul ill at ease, and striving
to be at rest. And these glimpses somehow do convey that
sense of incompleteness, of starvation, of deprivation which
is more and more the mark of our day. Hungry souls in a
world of hungry souls ! the old shibboleths and catchwords
taste like war-bread. We yearn for vision, for beauty, for
poise, or, to put it quite simply, for peace. It is not new,
this hunger. It is as old as Job and the psalmist. But the
area of Ae hunger is larger. There is a job to-day in eveiy
street, in every slum. I am Job. You arc Job. Job is
Everyman.

The ScotsmAii

Patiently, almost minatdy, Mr. Maxwell, in his latest
novel, builds up an arrestti^ picture of life.

Daily Graphic

The story is worthy of its author's high reputation, and
is an absorbing study of the clash of ideals with a great pas-
sion.

Manchester Guardian

It is perhaps the dreadfulness of the physical conflict
now engaging the world that turns many minds to questions
of spiritual energy and aspiration. At least it may be held
certain that a part of the interest of Mr. Maxwell's novel is
due to some such revolt.

Daily Chronicle

Mr. W. B. Maxwell comes back from the war with a
novel, TIte Mirror and the Lamp, which will be very wel-
come. When Armageddon broke he put down the pen and
took up the sword. He has done his "bit," done it simply
and well with the Royal Fusiliers, and now he resumes his
pen. It is not a war story that he gives us, though nobody
who has been in the thick of the Somme fighting could write
without some of the influence of the war at his elbow. It
is a story with a soul problem, at least a moral problem—
namely, how the spiritual side of a man and a woman react
to an unsanctifled life. The man is Edward Churchill, who
was destined for religion — nay, had a call for religion. But
into his life, rich in hopes and ideals, there comes a wronged
wife, a woman of subtle, flne oualities and that meetmg
makes both their lives different. The subject is diflicult and,
just for that reason, one which Mr. Maxwell handles with
msight, with delicacy, and with artistry. '

National News

W. B. Maxwell has been in France, in the fighting line,
literally in "The Devil's Garden," though not the one wrote
of in his novel of that name four years ago ; but there is no
trace of the war in his new story. The Mirror and the Lamp,
a subtle, sometimes cynical study in the after effects of the
strict, narrowly religious upbringing of three boys, sons of
the widowed Mrs. Churchill.

Glasgow Herald

llie mirror of the mind and the lamp of the soul form a
large subject, and when in addition love and rd^on clash
it will be seen that this is a serious novel indeed.

Aberdeen Herald

After his long silence of five years — due mainly to his
having exchanged the pen for the sword-— Mr. Maxwell's
many admirers will be enthusiastic over his latest novel
which is more than worthy of its author's high reputation.
The reader might expect that the war would now be the
dominant reality for Mr. Maxwell, but it has no part or in-
fluence in The Mirror and the Lamp.

The Rev. Edward Churchill is the third son of his
mother, a widow, and also a foolish and hysterical woman,
but her third son adores her. His two elder brothers are
both disappointments, but Edward is her joy, and her happi-
ness is complete when, after a successful career at Oxford,
he is ordained and obtains an East-End curacy. There he
works with single-hearted devotion, refusing preferment,
but much of his enthusiasm is damped when his mother
marries a vulgar tradesman. More tfian ever does he de-
termine to live by the mirror and the lamp, striving to make
the lamp of his soul reflect in its mirror, the mind, nothing
but the steady flame of content. But his ascetic celibacy
is rudely shattered when he falls in love with a woman un-
happily married to a brutal husband. In the spirit of knight-
errantry he rescues her, but with the triumph of an unau-
thorized love, his religious faith gives way. Whether an
attitude of blank atheism will satisfy this intellectual aris-
tocrat, and how their unsanctifled life will react on the moral
nature of the man and woman, the reader will prefer to dis-
cover for himself.

Sunday Evening Telegram

Considered as a study of a sensitive man's struggle both
to think and to act rightly, The Mirror and the Lamp is in-
tensely interesting.

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