Bealby; A Holiday :: CHAPTER V THE SEEKING OF BEALBY

CHAPTER V THE SEEKING OF BEALBY

On the same Monday evening that witnessed Bealby’s first experience of the theatre, Mr. Mergleson, the house steward of Shonts, walked slowly and thoughtfully across the corner of the park between the laundry and the gardens. His face was much recovered from the accidents of his collision with the Lord Chancellor, resort to raw meat in the kitchen had checked the development of his injuries, and only a few contusions in the side of his face were more than faintly traceable. And suffering had on the whole rather ennobled than depressed his bearing. He had a black eye, but it was not, he felt, a common black eye. It came from high quarters and through no fault of Mr. Mergleson’s own. He carried it well. It was a fruit of duty rather than the outcome of wanton pleasure-seeking or misdirected passion.

He found Mr. Darling in profound meditation over some peach trees against the wall. They were not doing so well as they ought to do and Mr. Darling was engaged in wondering why.

“Good evening, Mr. Darling,” said Mr. Mergleson.

Mr. Darling ceased rather slowly to wonder and turned to his friend. “Good evening, Mr. Mergleson,” he said. “I don’t quite like the look of these here peaches, blowed if I do.”

Mr. Mergleson glanced at the peaches, and then came to the matter that was nearest his heart.

“You ’aven’t I suppose seen anything of your stepson these last two days, Mr. Darling?”

“Naturally not,” said Mr. Darling, putting his head on one side and regarding his interlocutor. “Naturally not,—I’ve left that to you, Mr. Mergleson.”

“Well, that’s what’s awkward,” said Mr. Mergleson, and then, with a forced easiness, “You see, I ain’t seen ’im either.”

“No!”

“No. I lost sight of ’im—” Mr. Mergleson appeared to reflect—“late on Sattiday night.”

“’Ow’s that, Mr. Mergleson?”

Mr. Mergleson considered the difficulties of lucid explanation. “We missed ’im,” said Mr. Mergleson simply, regarding the well-weeded garden path with a calculating expression and then lifting his eyes to Mr. Darling’s with an air of great candour. “And we continue to miss him.”

“Well!” said Mr. Darling. “That’s rum.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Mergleson.

“It’s decidedly rum,” said Mr. Darling.

“We thought ’e might be ’iding from ’is work. Or cut off ’ome.”

“You didn’t send down to ask.”

“We was too busy with the week-end people. On the ’ole we thought if ’e ’ad cut ’ome, on the ’ole, ’e wasn’t a very serious loss. ’E got in the way at times.... And there was one or two things ’appened—... Now that they’re all gone and ’e ’asn’t turned up—Well, I came down, Mr. Darling, to arst you. Where’s ’e gone?”

“’E ain’t come ’ere,” said Mr. Darling surveying the garden.

“I ’arf expected ’e might and I ’arf expected ’e mightn’t,” said Mr. Mergleson with the air of one who had anticipated Mr. Darling’s answer but hesitated to admit as much.

The two gentlemen paused for some seconds and regarded each other searchingly.

“Where’s ’e got to?” said Mr. Darling.

“Well,” said Mr. Mergleson, putting his hands where the tails of his short jacket would have been if it hadn’t been short, and looking extraordinarily like a parrot in its more thoughtful moods, “to tell you the truth, Mr. Darling, I’ve ’ad a dream about ’im—and it worries me. I got a sort of ideer of ’im as being in one of them secret passages. ’Iding away. There was a guest, well, I say it with all respec’ but anyone might ’ave ’id from ’im.... S’morning soon as the week-end ’ad cleared up and gone ’ome, me and Thomas went through them passages as well as we could. Not a trace of ’im. But I still got that ideer. ’E was a wriggling, climbing,—enterprising sort of boy.”

“I’ve checked ’im for it once or twice,” said Mr. Darling with the red light of fierce memories gleaming for a moment in his eyes.

“’E might even,” said Mr. Mergleson, “well, very likely ’ave got ’imself jammed in one of them secret passages....”

“Jammed,” repeated Mr. Darling.

“Well—got ’imself somewhere where ’e can’t get out. I’ve ’eard tell there’s walled-up dungeons.”

“They say,” said Mr. Darling, “there’s underground passages to the Abbey ruins—three good mile away.”

“Orkward,” said Mr. Mergleson....

“Drat ’is eyes!” said Mr. Darling, scratching his head. “What does ’e mean by it?”

“We can’t leave ’im there,” said Mr. Mergleson.

“I knowed a young devil once what crawled up a culvert,” said Mr. Darling. “’Is father ’ad to dig ’im out like a fox.... Lord! ’ow ’e walloped ’im for it.”

“Mistake to ’ave a boy in so young,” said Mr. Mergleson.

“It’s all very awkward,” said Mr. Darling, surveying every aspect of the case. “You see—. ’Is mother sets a most estrordinary value on ’im. Most estrordinary.”

“I don’t know whether she oughtn’t to be told,” said Mr. Mergleson. “I was thinking of that.”

Mr. Darling was not the sort of man to meet trouble half-way. He shook his head at that. “Not yet, Mr. Mergleson. I don’t think yet. Not until everything’s been tried. I don’t think there’s any need to give her needless distress,—none whatever. If you don’t mind I think I’ll come up to-night—nineish say—and ’ave a talk to you and Thomas about it—a quiet talk. Best to begin with a quiet talk. It’s a dashed rum go, and me and you we got to think it out a bit.”

“That’s what I think,” said Mr. Mergleson with unconcealed relief at Mr. Darling’s friendliness. “That’s exactly the light, Mr. Darling, in which it appears to me. Because, you see—if ’e’s all right and in the ’ouse, why doesn’t ’e come for ’is vittels?”

In the pantry that evening the question of telling someone was discussed further. It was discussed over a number of glasses of Mr. Mergleson’s beer. For, following a sound tradition, Mr. Mergleson brewed at Shonts, and sometimes he brewed well and sometimes he brewed ill, and sometimes he brewed weak and sometimes he brewed strong, and there was no monotony in the cups at Shonts. This was sturdy stuff and suited Mr. Darling’s mood, and ever and again with an author’s natural weakness and an affectation of abstraction Mr. Mergleson took the jug out empty and brought it back foaming.

Henry, the second footman, was disposed to a forced hopefulness so as not to spoil the evening, but Thomas was sympathetic and distressed. The red-haired youth made cigarettes with a little machine, licked them and offered them to the others, saying little, as became him. Etiquette deprived him of an uninvited beer, and Mr. Mergleson’s inattention completed what etiquette began.

“I can’t bear to think of the poor little beggar, stuck head foremost into some cobwebby cranny, blowed if I can,” said Thomas, getting help from the jug.

“He was an interesting kid,” said Thomas in a tone that was frankly obituary. “He didn’t like his work, one could see that, but he was lively—and I tried to help him along all I could, when I wasn’t too busy myself.”

“There was something sensitive about him,” said Thomas.

Mr. Mergleson sat with his arms loosely thrown out over the table.

“What we got to do is to tell someone,” he said, “I don’t see ’ow I can put off telling ’er ladyship—after to-morrow morning. And then—’eaven ’elp us!”

“’Course I got to tell my missis,” said Mr. Darling, and poured in a preoccupied way, some running over.

“We’ll go through them passages again now before we go to bed,” said Mr. Mergleson, “far as we can. But there’s ’oles and chinks on’y a boy could get through.”

“I got to tell the missis,” said Mr. Darling. “That’s what’s worrying me....”

As the evening wore on there was a tendency on the part of Mr. Darling to make this the refrain of his discourse. He sought advice. “’Ow’d you tell the missis?” he asked Mr. Mergleson, and emptied a glass to control his impatience before Mr. Mergleson replied.

“I shall tell ’er ladyship, just simply, the fact. I shall say, your ladyship, here’s my boy gone and we don’t know where. And as she arsts me questions so shall I give particulars.”

Mr. Darling reflected and then shook his head slowly.

“’Ow’d ju tell the missis?” he asked Thomas.

“Glad I haven’t got to,” said Thomas. “Poor little beggar.”

“Yes, but ’ow would you tell ’er?” Mr. Darling said, varying the accent very carefully.

“I’d go to ’er and I’d pat her back and I’d say, ‘bear up,’ see, and when she asked what for, I’d just tell her what for—gradual like.”

“You don’t know the missis,” said Mr. Darling. “Henry, ’ow’d ju tell ’er?”

“Let ’er find out,” said Henry. “Wimmin do.”

Mr. Darling reflected, and decided that too was unworkable.

“’Ow’d you?” he asked with an air of desperation of the red-haired youth.

The red-haired youth remained for a moment with his tongue extended, licking the gum of a cigarette paper, and his eyes on Mr. Darling. Then he finished the cigarette slowly, giving his mind very carefully to the question he had been honoured with. “I think,” he said, in a low serious voice, “I should say, just simply, Mary—or Susan—or whatever her name is.”

“Tilda,” supplied Mr. Darling.

“‘Tilda,’ I should say. ‘The Lord gave and the Lord ’ath taken away. Tilda!—’e’s gone.’ Somethin’ like that.”

The red-haired boy cleared his throat. He was rather touched by his own simple eloquence.

Mr. Darling reflected on this with profound satisfaction for some moments. Then he broke out almost querulously, “Yes, but brast him!—where’s ’e gone?”

“Anyhow,” said Mr. Darling, “I ain’t going to tell ’er, not till the morning. I ain’t going to lose my night’s rest if I have lost my stepson. Nohow. Mr. Mergleson, I must say, I don’t think I ever ’ave tasted better beer. Never. It’s—it’s famous beer.”

He had some more....

On his way back through the moonlight to the gardens Mr. Darling was still unsettled as to the exact way of breaking things to his wife. He had come out from the house a little ruffled because of Mr. Mergleson’s opposition to a rather good idea of his that he should go about the house and “holler for ’im a bit. He’d know my voice, you see. Ladyship wouldn’t mind. Very likely ’sleep by now.” But the moonlight dispelled his irritation.

How was he to tell his wife? He tried various methods to the listening moon.

There was for example the off-hand newsy way. “You know tha’ boy yours?” Then a pause for the reply. Then, “’E’s toley dis’peared.”

Only there are difficulties about the word totally.

Or the distressed impersonal manner. “Dre’fle thing happen’d. Dre’fle thing. Tha’ poo’ lill’ chap, Artie—toley dis’peared.”

Totally again.

Or the personal intimate note. “Dunno wha’ you’ll say t’me, Tilda, when you hear what-togottasay. Thur’ly bad news. Seems they los’ our Artie up there—clean los’ ’im. Can’t fine ’im nowhere tall.”

Or the authoritative kindly. “Tilda—you go’ control yourself. Go’ show whad you made of. Our boy—’e’s—hic—los’.”

Then he addressed the park at large with a sudden despair. “Don’ care wha’ I say, she’ll blame it on to me. I know ’er!”

After that the enormous pathos of the situation got hold of him. “Poor lill’ chap,” he said. “Poor lill’ fell’,” and shed a few natural tears.

“Loved ’im jessis mione son.”

As the circumambient night made no reply he repeated the remark in a louder, almost domineering tone....

He spent some time trying to climb the garden wall because the door did not seem to be in the usual place. (Have to enquire about that in the morning. Difficult to see everything is all right when one is so bereaved). But finally he came on the door round a corner.

He told his wife merely that he intended to have a peaceful night, and took off his boots in a defiant and intermittent manner.

The morning would be soon enough.

She looked at him pretty hard, and he looked at her ever and again, but she never made a guess at it.

Bed.

So soon as the week-enders had dispersed and Sir Peter had gone off to London to attend to various matters affecting the peptonizing of milk and the distribution of baby soothers about the habitable globe, Lady Laxton went back to bed and remained in bed until midday on Tuesday. Nothing short of complete rest and the utmost kindness from her maid would, she felt, save her from a nervous breakdown of the most serious description. The festival had been stormy to the end. Sir Peter’s ill-advised attempts to deprive Lord Moggeridge of alcohol had led to a painful struggle at lunch, and this had been followed by a still more unpleasant scene between host and guest in the afternoon. “This is an occasion for tact,” Sir Peter had said and had gone off to tackle the Lord Chancellor, leaving his wife to the direst, best founded apprehensions. For Sir Peter’s tact was a thing by itself, a mixture of misconception, recrimination and familiarity that was rarely well received....

She had had to explain to the Sunday dinner party that his lordship had been called away suddenly. “Something connected with the Great Seal,” Lady Laxton had whispered in a discreet mysterious whisper. One or two simple hearers were left with the persuasion that the Great Seal had been taken suddenly unwell—and probably in a slightly indelicate manner. Thomas had to paint Mergleson’s eye with grease-paint left over from some private theatricals. It had been a patched-up affair altogether, and before she retired to bed that night Lady Laxton had given way to her accumulated tensions and wept.

There was no reason whatever why to wind up the day Sir Peter should have stayed in her room for an hour saying what he thought of Lord Moggeridge. She felt she knew quite well enough what he thought of Lord Moggeridge, and on these occasions he always used a number of words that she did her best to believe, as a delicately brought up woman, were unfamiliar to her ears....

So on Monday, as soon as the guests had gone, she went to bed again and stayed there, trying as a good woman should to prevent herself thinking of what the neighbours could be thinking—and saying—of the whole affair, by studying a new and very circumstantial pamphlet by Bishop Fowle on social evils, turning over the moving illustrations of some recent antivivisection literature and re-reading the accounts in the morning papers of a colliery disaster in the north of England.

To such women as Lady Laxton, brought up in an atmosphere of refinement that is almost colourless, and living a life troubled only by small social conflicts and the minor violence of Sir Peter, blameless to the point of complete uneventfulness, and secure and comfortable to the point of tedium, there is something amounting to fascination in the wickedness and sufferings of more normally situated people, there is a real attraction and solace in the thought of pain and stress, and as her access to any other accounts of vice and suffering was restricted she kept herself closely in touch with the more explicit literature of the various movements for human moralization that distinguish our age, and responded eagerly and generously to such painful catastrophes as enliven it. The counterfoils of her cheque book witnessed to her gratitude for these vicarious sensations. She figured herself to herself in her day dreams as a calm and white and shining intervention checking and reproving amusements of an undesirable nature, and earning the tearful blessings of the mangled by-products of industrial enterprise.

There is a curious craving for entire reality in the feminine composition, and there were times when in spite of these feasts of particulars, she wished she could come just a little nearer to the heady dreadfulnesses of life than simply writing a cheque against it. She would have liked to have actually seen the votaries of evil blench and repent before her contributions, to have, herself, unstrapped and revived and pitied some doomed and chloroformed victim of the so-called “scientist,” to have herself participated in the stretcher and the hospital and humanity made marvellous by enlistment under the red-cross badge. But Sir Peter’s ideals of womanhood were higher than his language, and he would not let her soil her refinement with any vision of the pain and evil in the world. “Sort of woman they want up there is a Trained Nurse,” he used to say when she broached the possibility of going to some famine or disaster. “You don’t want to go prying, old girl....”

She suffered, she felt, from repressed heroism. If ever she was to shine in disaster that disaster, she felt, must come to her, she might not go to meet it, and so you realize how deeply it stirred her, how it brightened her and uplifted her to learn from Mr. Mergleson’s halting statements that perhaps, that probably, that almost certainly, a painful and tragical thing was happening even now within the walls of Shonts, that there was urgent necessity for action—if anguish was to be witnessed before it had ended, and life saved.

She clasped her hands; she surveyed her large servitor with agonized green-grey eyes.

“Something must be done at once,” she said. “Everything possible must be done. Poor little Mite!”

“Of course, my lady, ’e may ’ave run away!”

“Oh no!” she cried, “he hasn’t run away. He hasn’t run away. How can you be so wicked, Mergleson. Of course he hasn’t run away. He’s there now. And it’s too dreadful.”

She became suddenly very firm and masterful. The morning’s colliery tragedy inspired her imagination.

“We must get pick-axes,” she said. “We must organize search parties. Not a moment is to be lost, Mergleson—not a moment.... Get the men in off the roads. Get everyone you can....”

And not a moment was lost. The road men were actually at work in Shonts before their proper dinner-hour was over.

They did quite a lot of things that afternoon. Every passage attainable from the dining-room opening was explored, and where these passages gave off chinks and crannies they were opened up with a vigour which Lady Laxton had greatly stimulated by an encouraging presence and liberal doses of whisky. Through their efforts a fine new opening was made into the library from the wall near the window, a hole big enough for a man to fall through, because one did, and a great piece of stonework was thrown down from the Queen Elizabeth tower, exposing the upper portion of the secret passage to the light of day. Lady Laxton herself and the head housemaid went round the panelling with a hammer and a chisel, and called out “Are you there?” and attempted an opening wherever it sounded hollow. The sweep was sent for to go up the old chimneys outside the present flues. Meanwhile Mr. Darling had been set with several of his men to dig for, discover, pick up and lay open the underground passage or disused drain, whichever it was, that was known to run from the corner of the laundry towards the old ice-house, and that was supposed to reach to the abbey ruins. After some bold exploratory excavations this channel was located and a report sent at once to Lady Laxton.

It was this and the new and alarming scar on the Queen Elizabeth tower that brought Mr. Beaulieu Plummer post-haste from the estate office up to the house. Mr. Beaulieu Plummer was the Marquis of Cranberry’s estate agent, a man of great natural tact, and charged among other duties with the task of seeing that the Laxtons did not make away with Shonts during the period of their tenancy. He was a sound compact little man, rarely out of extreme riding breeches and gaiters, and he wore glasses, that now glittered with astonishment as he approached Lady Laxton and her band of spade workers.

At his approach Mr. Darling attempted to become invisible, but he was unable to do so.

“Lady Laxton,” Mr. Beaulieu Plummer appealed, “may I ask—?”

“Oh Mr. Beaulieu Plummer, I’m so glad you’ve come. A little boy—suffocating! I can hardly bear it.”

“Suffocating!” cried Mr. Beaulieu Plummer, “where?” and was in a confused manner told.

He asked a number of questions that Lady Laxton found very tiresome. But how did she know the boy was in the secret passage? Of course she knew; was it likely she would do all this if she didn’t know? But mightn’t he have run away? How could he when he was in the secret passages? But why not first scour the countryside? By which time he would be smothered and starved and dead!...

They parted with a mutual loss of esteem, and Mr. Beaulieu Plummer, looking very serious indeed, ran as fast as he could straight to the village telegraph-office. Or to be more exact, he walked until he thought himself out of sight of Lady Laxton and then he took to his heels and ran. He sat for some time in the parlour post office spoiling telegraph forms, and composing telegrams to Sir Peter Laxton and Lord Cranberry.

He got these off at last, and then drawn by an irresistible fascination went back to the park and watched from afar the signs of fresh activities on the part of Lady Laxton.

He saw men coming from the direction of the stables with large rakes. With these they dragged the ornamental waters.

Then a man with a pick-axe appeared against the skyline and crossed the roof in the direction of the clock tower, bound upon some unknown but probably highly destructive mission.

Then he saw Lady Laxton going off to the gardens. She was going to console Mrs. Darling in her trouble. This she did through nearly an hour and a half. And on the whole it seemed well to Mr. Beaulieu Plummer that so she should be occupied....

It was striking five when a telegraph boy on a bicycle came up from the village with a telegram from Sir Peter Laxton.

“Stop all proceedings absolutely,” it said, “until I get to you.”

Lady Laxton’s lips tightened at the message. She was back from much weeping with Mrs. Darling and altogether finely strung. Here she felt was one of those supreme occasions when a woman must assert herself. “A matter of life or death,” she wired in reply, and to show herself how completely she overrode such dictation as this she sent Mr. Mergleson down to the village public-house with orders to engage anyone he could find there for an evening’s work on an extraordinarily liberal overtime scale.

After taking this step the spirit of Lady Laxton quailed. She went and sat in her own room and quivered. She quivered but she clenched her delicate fist.

She would go through with it, come what might, she would go on with the excavation all night if necessary, but at the same time she began a little to regret that she had not taken earlier steps to demonstrate the improbability of Bealby having simply run away. She set to work to repair this omission. She wrote off to the Superintendent of Police in the neighbouring town, to the nearest police magistrate, and then on the off chance to various of her week-end guests, including Captain Douglas. If it was true that he had organized the annoyance of the Lord Chancellor (and though she still rejected that view she did now begin to regard it as a permissible hypothesis), then he might also know something about the mystery of this boy’s disappearance.

Each letter she wrote she wrote with greater fatigue and haste than its predecessor and more illegibly.

Sir Peter arrived long after dark. He cut across the corner of the park to save time, and fell into one of the trenches that Mr. Darling had opened. This added greatly to the Éclat with which he came into the hall.

Lady Laxton withstood him for five minutes and then returned abruptly to her bedroom and locked herself in, leaving the control of the operations in his hands....

“If he’s not in the house,” said Sir Peter, “all this is thunderin’ foolery, and if he’s in the house he’s dead. If he’s dead he’ll smell in a bit and then’ll be the time to look for him. Somethin’ to go upon instead of all this blind hacking the place about. No wonder they’re threatenin’ proceedings....”

Upon Captain Douglas Lady Laxton’s letter was destined to have a very distracting effect. Because, as he came to think it over, as he came to put her partly illegible allusions to secret passages and a missing boy side by side with his memories of Lord Moggeridge’s accusations and the general mystery of his expulsion from Shonts, it became more and more evident to him that he had here something remarkably like a clue, something that might serve to lift the black suspicion of irreverence and levity from his military reputation. And he had already got to the point of suggesting to Miss Philips that he ought to follow up and secure Bealby forthwith, before ever they came over the hill crest to witness the disaster to the caravan.

Captain Douglas, it must be understood, was a young man at war within himself.

He had been very nicely brought up, firstly in a charming English home, then in a preparatory school for selected young gentlemen, then in a good set at Eton, then at Sandhurst, where the internal trouble had begun to manifest itself. Afterwards the Bistershires.

There were three main strands in the composition of Captain Douglas. In the first place, and what was peculiarly his own quality, was the keenest interest in the why of things and the how of things and the general mechanism of things. He was fond of clocks, curious about engines, eager for science; he had a quick brain and nimble hands. He read Jules Verne and liked to think about going to the stars and making flying machines and submarines—in those days when everybody knew quite certainly that such things were impossible. His brain teemed with larval ideas that only needed air and light to become active full-fledged ideas. There he excelled most of us. In the next place, but this second strand was just a strand that most young men have, he had a natural keen interest in the other half of humanity, he thought them lovely, interesting, wonderful, and they filled him with warm curiosities and set his imagination cutting the prettiest capers. And in the third place, and there again he was ordinarily human, he wanted to be liked, admired, approved, well thought of.... And so constituted he had passed through the educational influence of that English home, that preparatory school, the good set at Eton, the Sandhurst discipline, the Bistershire mess....

Now the educational influence of the English home, the preparatory school, the good set at Eton and Sandhurst in those days—though Sandhurst has altered a little since—was all to develop that third chief strand of his being to the complete suppression of the others, to make him look well and unobtrusive, dress well and unobtrusively, behave well and unobtrusively, carry himself well, play games reasonably well, do nothing else well, and in the best possible form. And the two brothers Douglas, who were really very much alike, did honestly do their best to be such plain and simple gentlemen as our country demands, taking pretentious established things seriously, and not being odd or intelligent—in spite of those insurgent strands.

But the strands were in them. Below the surface the disturbing impulses worked and at last forced their way out....

In one Captain Douglas, as Mrs. Rampound Pilby told the Lord Chancellor, the suppressed ingenuity broke out in disconcerting mystifications and practical jokes that led to a severance from Portsmouth, in the other the pent-up passions came out before the other ingredients in an uncontrollable devotion to the obvious and challenging femininity of Miss Madeleine Philips.... His training had made him proof against ordinary women, deaf as it were to their charms, but she—she had penetrated. And impulsive forces that have been pent up—go with a bang when they go....

The first strand in the composition of Captain Douglas has still to be accounted for, the sinister strain of intelligence and inventiveness and lively curiosity. On that he had kept a warier hold. So far that had not been noted against him. He had his motor bicycle, it is true, at a time when motor bicycles were on the verge of the caddish; to that extent a watchful eye might have found him suspicious; that was all that showed. I wish I could add it was all that there was, but other things—other things were going on. Nobody knew about them. But they were going on more and more.

He read books.

Not decent fiction, not official biographies about other fellows’ fathers and all the old anecdotes brought up to date and so on, but books with ideas,—you know, philosophy, social philosophy, scientific stuff, all that rot. The sort of stuff they read in mechanics’ institutes.

He thought. He could have controlled it. But he did not attempt to control it. He tried to think. He knew perfectly well that it wasn’t good form, but a vicious attraction drew him on.

He used to sit in his bedroom-study at Sandhurst, with the door locked, and write down on a bit of paper what he really believed and why. He would cut all sorts of things to do this. He would question—things no properly trained English gentleman ever questions.

And—he experimented.

This you know was long before the French and American aviators. It was long before the coming of that emphatic lead from abroad without which no well-bred English mind permits itself to stir. In the darkest secrecy he used to make little models of cane and paper and elastic in the hope that somehow he would find out something about flying. Flying—that dream! He used to go off by himself to lonely places and climb up as high as he could and send these things fluttering earthward. He used to moon over them and muse about them. If anyone came upon him suddenly while he was doing these things, he would sit on his model, or pretend it didn’t belong to him, or clap it into his pocket, whichever was most convenient, and assume the vacuous expression of a well-bred gentleman at leisure—and so far nobody had caught him. But it was a dangerous practice.

And finally, and this now is the worst and last thing to tell of his eccentricities, he was keenly interested in the science of his profession and intensely ambitious.

He thought—though it wasn’t his business to think, the business of a junior officer is to obey and look a credit to his regiment—that the military science of the British army was not nearly so bright as it ought to be, and that if big trouble came there might be considerable scope for an inventive man who had done what he could to keep abreast with foreign work, and a considerable weeding out of generals whose promotion had been determined entirely by their seniority, amiability and unruffled connubial felicity. He thought that the field artillery would be found out—there was no good in making a fuss about it beforehand—that no end of neglected dodges would have to be picked up from the enemy, that the transport was feeble, and a health service—other than surgery and ambulance—an unknown idea, but he saw no remedy but experience. So he worked hard in secret; he worked almost as hard as some confounded foreigner might have done; in the belief that after the first horrid smash-up there might be a chance to do things.

Outwardly of course he was sedulously all right. But he could not quite hide the stir in his mind. It broke out upon his surface in a chattering activity of incompleted sentences which he tried to keep as decently silly as he could. He had done his utmost hitherto to escape the observation of the powers that were. His infatuation for Madeleine Philips had at any rate distracted censorious attention from these deeper infamies....

And now here was a crisis in his life. Through some idiotic entanglement manifestly connected with this missing boy, he had got tarred by his brother’s brush and was under grave suspicion for liveliness and disrespect.

The thing might be his professional ruin. And he loved the suppressed possibilities of his work beyond measure.

It was a thing to make him absent-minded even in the company of Madeleine.

Not only were the first and second strands in the composition of Captain Douglas in conflict with all his appearances and pretensions, but they were also in conflict with one another.

He was full of that concealed resolve to do and serve and accomplish great things in the world. That was surely purpose enough to hide behind an easy-going unpretending gentlemanliness. But he was also tremendously attracted by Madeleine Philips, more particularly when she was not there.

A beautiful woman may be the inspiration of a great career. This, however, he was beginning to find was not the case with himself. He had believed it at first and written as much and said as much, and said it very variously and gracefully. But becoming more and more distinctly clear to his intelligence was the fact that the very reverse was the case. Miss Madeleine Philips was making it very manifest to Captain Douglas that she herself was a career; that a lover with any other career in view need not—as the advertisements say—apply.

And the time she took up!

The distress of being with her!

And the distress of not being with her!

She was such a proud and lovely and entrancing and distressing being to remember, and such a vain and difficult thing to be with.

She knew clearly that she was made for love, for she had made herself for love; and she went through life like its empress with all mankind and numerous women at her feet. And she had an ideal of the lover who should win her which was like a oleographic copy of a Laszlo portrait of Douglas greatly magnified. He was to rise rapidly to great things, he was to be a conqueror and administrator, while attending exclusively to her. And incidentally she would gather desperate homage from all other men of mark, and these attentions would be an added glory to her love for him. At first Captain Douglas had been quite prepared to satisfy all these requirements. He had met her at Shorncliffe, for her people were quite good military people, and he had worshipped his way straight to her feet. He had made the most delightfully simple and delicate love to her. He had given up his secret vice of thinking for the writing of quite surprisingly clever love-letters, and the little white paper models had ceased for a time to flutter in lonely places.

And then the thought of his career returned to him, from a new aspect, as something he might lay at her feet. And once it had returned to him it remained with him.

“Some day,” he said, “and it may not be so very long, some of those scientific chaps will invent flying. Then the army will have to take it up, you know.”

“I should love,” she said, “to soar through the air.”

He talked one day of going on active service. How would it affect them if he had to do so? It was a necessary part of a soldier’s lot.

“But I should come too!” she said. “I should come with you.”

“It might not be altogether convenient,” he said, for already he had learnt that Madeleine Philips usually travelled with quite a large number of trunks and considerable impressiveness.

“Of course,” she said, “it would be splendid! How could I let you go alone. You would be the great general and I should be with you always.”

“Not always very comfortable,” he suggested.

“Silly boy!—I shouldn’t mind that! How little you know me! Any hardship!”

“A woman—if she isn’t a nurse—”

“I should come dressed as a man. I would be your groom....”

He tried to think of her dressed as a man, but nothing on earth could get his imagination any further than a vision of her dressed as a Principal Boy. She was so delightfully and valiantly not virile; her hair would have flowed, her body would have moved, a richly fluent femininity—visible through any disguise.

That was in the opening stage of the controversy between their careers. In those days they were both acutely in love with each other. Their friends thought the spectacle quite beautiful; they went together so well. Admirers, fluttered with the pride of participation, asked them for week-ends together; those theatrical week-ends that begin on Sunday morning and end on Monday afternoon. She confided widely.

And when at last there was something like a rupture it became the concern of a large circle of friends.

The particulars of the breach were differently stated. It would seem that looking ahead he had announced his intention of seeing the French army manoeuvres just when it seemed probable that she would be out of an engagement.

“But I ought to see what they are doing,” he said. “They’re going to try those new dirigibles.”

Then should she come?

He wanted to whisk about. It wouldn’t be any fun for her. They might get landed at nightfall in any old hole. And besides people would talk— Especially as it was in France. One could do unconventional things in England one couldn’t in France. Atmosphere was different.

For a time after that halting explanation she maintained a silence. Then she spoke in a voice of deep feeling. She perceived, she said, that he wanted his freedom. She would be the last person to hold a reluctant lover to her side. He might go—to any manoeuvres. He might go if he wished round the world. He might go away from her for ever. She would not detain him, cripple him, hamper a career she had once been assured she inspired....

The unfortunate man, torn between his love and his profession, protested that he hadn’t meant that.

Then what had he meant?

He realized he had meant something remarkably like it and he found great difficulty in expressing these fine distinctions....

She banished him from her presence for a month, said he might go to his manoeuvres—with her blessing. As for herself, that was her own affair. Some day perhaps he might know more of the heart of a woman.... She choked back tears—very beautifully, and military science suddenly became a trivial matter. But she was firm. He wanted to go. He must go. For a month anyhow.

He went sadly....

Into this opening breach rushed friends. It was the inestimable triumph of Judy Bowles to get there first. To begin with, Madeleine confided in her, and then, availing herself of the privilege of a distant cousinship, she commanded Douglas to tea in her Knightsbridge flat and had a good straight talk with him. She liked good straight talks with honest young men about their love affairs; it was almost the only form of flirtation that the Professor, who was a fierce, tough, undiscriminating man upon the essentials of matrimony, permitted her. And there was something peculiarly gratifying about Douglas’s complexion. Under her guidance he was induced to declare that he could not live without Madeleine, that her love was the heart of his life, without it he was nothing and with it he could conquer the world.... Judy permitted herself great protestations on behalf of Madeleine, and Douglas was worked up to the pitch of kissing her intervening hand. He had little silvery hairs, she saw, all over his temples. And he was such a simple perplexed dear. It was a rich deep beautiful afternoon for Judy.

And then in a very obvious way Judy, who was already deeply in love with the idea of a caravan tour and the “wind on the heath” and the “Gipsy life” and the “open road” and all the rest of it, worked this charming little love difficulty into her scheme, utilized her reluctant husband to arrange for the coming of Douglas, confided in Mrs. Geedge....

And Douglas went off with his perplexities. He gave up all thought of France, week-ended at Shonts instead, to his own grave injury, returned to London unexpectedly by a Sunday train, packed for France and started. He reached Rheims on Monday afternoon. And then the image of Madeleine, which always became more beautiful and mysterious and commanding with every mile he put between them, would not let him go on. He made unconvincing excuses to the Daily Excess military expert with whom he was to have seen things. “There’s a woman in it, my boy, and you’re a fool to go,” said the Daily Excess man, “but of course you’ll go, and I for one don’t blame you—” He hurried back to London and was at Judy’s trysting-place even as Judy had anticipated.

And when he saw Madeleine standing in the sunlight, pleased and proud and glorious, with a smile in her eyes and trembling on her lips, with a strand or so of her beautiful hair and a streamer or so of delightful blue fluttering in the wind about her gracious form, it seemed to him for the moment that leaving the manoeuvres and coming back to England was quite a right and almost a magnificent thing to do.

§ 7

This meeting was no exception to their other meetings.

The coming to her was a crescendo of poetical desire, the sight of her a climax, and then—an accumulation of irritations. He had thought being with her would be pure delight, and as they went over the down straying after the Bowles and the Geedges towards the Redlake Hotel he already found himself rather urgently asking her to marry him and being annoyed by what he regarded as her evasiveness.

He walked along with the restrained movement of a decent Englishman; he seemed as it were to gesticulate only through his clenched teeth, and she floated beside him, in a wonderful blue dress that with a wonderful foresight she had planned for breezy uplands on the basis of Botticelli’s Primavera. He was urging her to marry him soon; he needed her, he could not live in peace without her. It was not at all what he had come to say; he could not recollect that he had come to say anything, but now that he was with her it was the only thing he could find to say to her.

“But, my dearest boy,” she said, “how are we to marry? What is to become of your career and my career?”

“I’ve left my career!” cried Captain Douglas with the first clear note of irritation in his voice.

“Oh! don’t let us quarrel,” she cried. “Don’t let us talk of all those distant things. Let us be happy. Let us enjoy just this lovely day and the sunshine and the freshness and the beauty.... Because you know we are snatching these days. We have so few days together. Each—each must be a gem.... Look, dear, how the breeze sweeps through these tall dry stems that stick up everywhere—low broad ripples.”

She was a perfect work of art, abolishing time and obligations.

For a time they walked in silence. Then Captain Douglas said, “All very well—beauty and all that—but a fellow likes to know where he is.”

She did not answer immediately, and then she said, “I believe you are angry because you have come away from France.”

“Not a bit of it,” said the Captain stoutly. “I’d come away from anywhere to be with you.”

“I wonder,” she said.

“Well,—haven’t I?”

“I wonder if you ever are with me.... Oh!—I know you want me. I know you desire me. But the real thing, the happiness,—love. What is anything to love—anything at all?”

In this strain they continued until their footsteps led them through the shelter of a group of beeches. And there the gallant captain sought expression in deeds. He kissed her hands, he sought her lips. She resisted softly.

“No,” she said, “only if you love me with all your heart.”

Then suddenly, wonderfully, conqueringly she yielded him her lips.

“Oh!” she sighed presently, “if only you understood.”

And leaving speech at that enigma she kissed again....

But you see now how difficult it was under these mystically loving conditions to introduce the idea of a prompt examination and dispatch of Bealby. Already these days were consecrated....

And then you see Bealby vanished—going seaward....

Even the crash of the caravan disaster did little to change the atmosphere. In spite of a certain energetic quality in the Professor’s direction of the situation—he was a little embittered because his thumb was sprained and his knee bruised rather badly and he had a slight abrasion over one ear and William had bitten his calf—the general disposition was to treat the affair hilariously. Nobody seemed really hurt except William,—the Professor was not so much hurt as annoyed,—and William’s injuries though striking were all superficial, a sprained jaw and grazes and bruises and little things like that; everybody was heartened up to the idea of damages to be paid for; and neither the internal injuries to the caravan nor the hawker’s estimate of his stock-in-trade proved to be as great as one might reasonably have expected. Before sunset the caravan was safely housed in the Winthorpe-Sutbury public house, William had found a congenial corner in the bar parlour, where his account of an inside view of the catastrophe and his views upon Professor Bowles were much appreciated, the hawker had made a bit extra by carting all the luggage to the Redlake Royal Hotel and the caravanners and their menfolk had loitered harmoniously back to this refuge. Madeleine had walked along the road beside Captain Douglas and his motor bicycle, which he had picked up at the now desolate encampment.

“It only remains,” she said, “for that thing to get broken.”

“But I may want it,” he said.

“No,” she said, “Heaven has poured us together and now He has smashed the vessels. At least He has smashed one of the vessels. And look!—like a great shield, there is the moon. It’s the Harvest Moon, isn’t it?”

“No,” said the Captain, with his poetry running away with him. “It’s the Lovers’ Moon.”

“It’s like a benediction rising over our meeting.”

And it was certainly far too much like a benediction for the Captain to talk about Bealby.

That night was a perfect night for lovers, a night flooded with a kindly radiance, so that the warm mystery of the centre of life seemed to lurk in every shadow and hearts throbbed instead of beating and eyes were stars. After dinner every one found wraps and slipped out into the moonlight; the Geedges vanished like moths; the Professor made no secret that Judy was transfigured for him. Night works these miracles. The only other visitors there, a brace of couples, resorted to the boats upon the little lake.

Two enormous waiters removing the coffee cups from the small tables upon the verandah heard Madeleine’s beautiful voice for a little while and then it was stilled....

The morning found Captain Douglas in a state of reaction. He was anxious to explain quite clearly to Madeleine just how necessary it was that he should go in search of Bealby forthwith. He was beginning to realize now just what a chance in the form of Bealby had slipped through his fingers. He had dropped Bealby and now the thing to do was to pick up Bealby again before he was altogether lost. Her professional life unfortunately had given Miss Philips the habit of never rising before midday, and the Captain had to pass the time as well as he could until the opportunity for his explanation came.

A fellow couldn’t go off without an explanation....

He passed the time with Professor Bowles upon the golf links.

The Professor was a first-rate player and an unselfish one; he wanted all other players to be as good as himself. He would spare no pains to make them so. If he saw them committing any of the many errors into which golfers fall, he would tell them of it and tell them why it was an error and insist upon showing them just how to avoid it in future. He would point out any want of judgment, and not confine himself, as so many professional golf teachers do, merely to the stroke. After a time he found it necessary to hint to the Captain that nowadays a military man must accustom himself to self-control. The Captain kept Pishing and Tushing, and presently, it was only too evident, swearing softly; his play got jerky, his strokes were forcible without any real strength, once he missed the globe altogether and several times he sliced badly. The eyes under his light eyelashes were wicked little things.

He remembered that he had always detested golf.

And the Professor. He had always detested the Professor.

And his caddie; at least he would have always detested his caddie if he had known him long enough. His caddie was one of those maddening boys with no expression at all. It didn’t matter what he did or failed to do, there was the silly idiot with his stuffed face, unmoved. Really, of course overjoyed—but apparently unmoved....

“Why did I play it that way?” the Captain repeated. “Oh! because I like to play it that way.”

“Well,” said the Professor. “It isn’t a recognized way anyhow....”

Then came a moment of evil pleasures.

He’d sliced. Old Bowles had sliced. For once in a while he’d muffed something. Always teaching others and here he was slicing! Why, sometimes the Captain didn’t slice!...

He’d get out of that neatly enough. Luck! He’d get the hole yet. What a bore it all was!...

Why couldn’t Madeleine get up at a decent hour to see a fellow? Why must she lie in bed when she wasn’t acting? If she had got up all this wouldn’t have happened. The shame of it! Here he was, an able-bodied capable man in the prime of life and the morning of a day playing this blockhead’s game—!

Yes—blockhead’s game!

“You play the like,” said the Professor.

“Rather,” said the Captain and addressed himself to his stroke.

“That’s not your ball,” said the Professor.

“Similar position,” said the Captain.

“You know, you might win this hole,” said the Professor.

“Who cares?” said the Captain under his breath and putted extravagantly.

“That saves me,” said the Professor, and went down from a distance of twelve yards.

The Captain, full of an irrational resentment, did his best to halve the hole and failed.

“You ought to put in a week at nothing but putting,” said the Professor. “It would save you at least a stroke a hole. I’ve noticed that on almost every green, if I haven’t beaten you before I pull up in the putting.”

The Captain pretended not to hear and said a lot of rococo things inside himself.

It was Madeleine who had got him in for this game. A beautiful healthy girl ought to get up in the mornings. Mornings and beautiful healthy girls are all the same thing really. She ought to be dewy—positively dewy.... There she must be lying, warm and beautiful in bed—like Catherine the Great or somebody of that sort. No. It wasn’t right. All very luxurious and so on but not right. She ought to have understood that he was bound to fall a prey to the Professor if she didn’t get up. Golf! Here he was, neglecting his career; hanging about on these beastly links, all the sound men away there in France—it didn’t do to think of it!—and he was playing this retired tradesman’s consolation!

(Beastly the Professor’s legs looked from behind. The uglier a man’s legs are the better he plays golf. It’s almost a law.)

That’s what it was, a retired tradesman’s consolation. A decent British soldier has no more business to be playing golf than he has to be dressing dolls. It’s a game at once worthless and exasperating. If a man isn’t perfectly fit he cannot play golf, and when he is perfectly fit he ought to be doing a man’s work in the world. If ever anything deserved the name of vice, if ever anything was pure, unforgivable dissipation, surely golf was that thing....

And meanwhile that boy was getting more and more start. Anyone with a ha’porth of sense would have been up at five and after that brat—might have had him bagged and safe and back to lunch. Ass one was at times!

“You’re here, sir,” said the caddie.

The captain perceived he was in a nasty place, open green ahead but with some tumbled country near at hand and to the left, a rusty old gravel pit, furze at the sides, water at the bottom. Nasty attractive hole of a place. Sort of thing one gets into. He must pull himself together for this. After all, having undertaken to play a game one must play the game. If he hit the infernal thing, that is to say the ball, if he hit the ball so that if it didn’t go straight it would go to the right rather—clear of the hedge it wouldn’t be so bad to the right. Difficult to manage. Best thing was to think hard of the green ahead, a long way ahead,—with just the slightest deflection to the right. Now then,—heels well down, club up, a good swing, keep your eye on the ball, keep your eye on the ball, keep your eye on the ball just where you mean to hit it—far below there and a little to the right—and don’t worry....

Rap.

“In the pond I think, sir.”

“The water would have splashed if it had gone in the pond,” said the Professor. “It must be over there in the wet sand. You hit it pretty hard, I thought.”

Search. The caddie looked as though he didn’t care whether he found it or not. He ought to be interested. It was his profession, not just his game. But nowadays everybody had this horrid disposition towards slacking. A Tired generation we are. The world is too much with us. Too much to think about, too much to do, Madeleines, army manoeuvres, angry lawyers, lost boys—let alone such exhausting foolery as this game....

“Got it, sir!” said the caddie.

“Where?”

“Here, sir! Up in the bush, sir!”

It was resting in the branches of a bush two yards above the slippery bank.

“I doubt if you can play it,” said the Professor, “but it will be interesting to try.”

The Captain scrutinized the position. “I can play it,” he said.

“You’ll slip, I’m afraid,” said the Professor.

They were both right. Captain Douglas drove his feet into the steep slope of rusty sand below the bush, held his iron a little short and wiped the ball up and over and as he found afterwards out of the rough. All eyes followed the ball except his. The Professor made sounds of friendly encouragement. But the Captain was going—going. He was on all fours, he scrabbled handfuls of prickly gorse, of wet sand. His feet, his ankles, his calves slid into the pond. How much more? No. He’d reached the bottom. He proceeded to get out again as well as he could. Not so easy. The bottom of the pond sucked at him....

When at last he rejoined the other three his hands were sandy red, his knees were sandy red, his feet were of clay, but his face was like the face of a little child. Like the face of a little fair child after it has been boiled red in its bath and then dusted over with white powder. His ears were the colour of roses, Lancaster roses. And his eyes too had something of the angry wonder of a little child distressed....

“I was afraid you’d slip into the pond,” said the Professor.

“I didn’t,” said the Captain.

“!”

“I just got in to see how deep it was and cool my feet—I hate warm feet.”

He lost that hole but he felt a better golfer now, his anger he thought was warming him up so that he would presently begin to make strokes by instinct, and do remarkable things unawares. After all there is something in the phrase “getting one’s blood up.” If only the Professor wouldn’t dally so with his ball and let one’s blood get down again. Tap!—the Professor’s ball went soaring. Now for it. The Captain addressed himself to his task, altered his plans rather hastily, smote and topped the ball.

The least one could expect was a sympathetic silence. But the Professor thought fit to improve the occasion.

“You’ll never drive,” said the Professor; “you’ll never drive with that irritable jerk in the middle of the stroke. You might just as well smack the ball without raising your club. If you think—”

The Captain lost his self-control altogether.

“Look here,” he said, “if you think that I care a single rap about how I hit the ball, if you think that I really want to win and do well at this beastly, silly, elderly, childish game—.”

He paused on the verge of ungentlemanly language.

“If a thing’s worth doing at all,” said the Professor after a pause for reflection, “it’s worth doing well.”

“Then it isn’t worth doing at all. As this hole gives you the game—if you don’t mind—”

The Captain’s hot moods were so rapid that already he was acutely ashamed of himself.

“O certainly, if you wish it,” said the Professor.

With a gesture the Professor indicated the altered situation to the respectful caddies and the two gentlemen turned their faces towards the hotel.

For a time they walked side by side in silence, the caddies following with hushed expressions.

“Splendid weather for the French manoeuvres,” said the Captain presently in an off-hand tone, “that is to say if they are getting this weather.”

“At present there are a series of high pressure systems over the whole of Europe north of the Alps,” said the Professor. “It is as near set fair as Europe can be.”

“Fine weather for tramps and wanderers,” said the Captain after a further interval.

“There’s a drawback to everything,” said the Professor. “But it’s very lovely weather.”

They got back to the hotel about half-past eleven and the Captain went and had an unpleasant time with one of the tyres of his motor bicycle which had got down in the night. In replacing the tyre he pinched the top of one of his fingers rather badly. Then he got the ordnance map of the district and sat at a green table in the open air in front of the hotel windows and speculated on the probable flight of Bealby. He had been last seen going south by east. That way lay the sea, and all boy fugitives go naturally for the sea.

He tried to throw himself into the fugitive’s mind and work out just exactly the course Bealby must take to the sea.

For a time he found this quite an absorbing occupation.

Bealby probably had no money or very little money. Therefore he would have to beg or steal. He wouldn’t go to the workhouse because he wouldn’t know about the workhouse, respectable poor people never know anything about the workhouse, and the chances were he would be both too honest and too timid to steal. He’d beg. He’d beg at front doors because of dogs and things, and he’d probably go along a high road. He’d be more likely to beg from houses than from passers-by, because a door is at first glance less formidable than a pedestrian and more accustomed to being addressed. And he’d try isolated cottages rather than the village street doors, an isolated wayside cottage is so much more confidential. He’d ask for food—not money. All that seemed pretty sound.

Now this road on the map—into it he was bound to fall and along it he would go begging. No other?... No.

In the fine weather he’d sleep out. And he’d go—ten, twelve, fourteen—thirteen, thirteen miles a day.

So now, he ought to be about here. And to-night,—here.

To-morrow at the same pace,—here.

But suppose he got a lift!...

He’d only get a slow lift if he got one at all. It wouldn’t make much difference in the calculation....

So if to-morrow one started and went on to these cross roads marked Inn, just about twenty-six miles it must be by the scale, and beat round it one ought to get something in the way of tidings of Mr. Bealby. Was there any reason why Bealby shouldn’t go on south by east and seaward?...

None.

And now there remained nothing to do but to explain all this clearly to Madeleine. And why didn’t she come down? Why didn’t she come down?

But when one got Bealby what would one do with him?

Wring the truth out of him—half by threats and half by persuasion. Suppose after all he hadn’t any connexion with the upsetting of Lord Moggeridge? He had. Suppose he hadn’t. He had. He had. He had.

And when one had the truth?

Whisk the boy right up to London and confront the Lord Chancellor with the facts. But suppose he wouldn’t be confronted with the facts. He was a touchy old sinner....

For a time Captain Douglas balked at this difficulty. Then suddenly there came into his head the tall figure, the long moustaches of that kindly popular figure, his adopted uncle Lord Chickney. Suppose he took the boy straight to Uncle Chickney, told him the whole story. Even the Lord Chancellor would scarcely refuse ten minutes to General Lord Chickney....

The clearer the plans of Captain Douglas grew the more anxious he became to put them before Madeleine—clearly and convincingly....

Because first he had to catch his boy....

Presently, as Captain Douglas fretted at the continued eclipse of Madeleine, his thumb went into his waistcoat pocket and found a piece of paper. He drew it out and looked at it. It was a little piece of stiff note-paper cut into the shape of a curved V rather after the fashion of a soaring bird. It must have been there for months. He looked at it. His care-wrinkled brow relaxed. He glanced over his shoulder at the house and then held this little scrap high over his head and let go. It descended with a slanting flight curving round to the left and then came about and swept down to the ground to the right.... Now why did it go like that? As if it changed its mind. He tried it again. Same result.... Suppose the curvature of the wings was a little greater? Would it make a more acute or a less acute angle? He did not know.... Try it.

He felt in his pocket for a piece of paper, found Lady Laxton’s letter, produced a stout pair of nail scissors in a sheath from a waistcoat pocket, selected a good clear sheet, and set himself to cut out his improved V....

As he did so his eyes were on V number one, on the ground. It would be interesting to see if this thing turned about to the left again. If in fact it would go on zig-zagging. It ought, he felt, to do so. But to test that one ought to release it from some higher point so as to give it a longer flight. Stand on the chair?...

Not in front of the whole rotten hotel. And there was a beastly looking man in a green apron coming out of the house,—the sort of man who looks at you. He might come up and watch; these fellows are equal to anything of that sort. Captain Douglas replaced his scissors and scraps in his pockets, leaned back with an affectation of boredom, got up, lit a cigarette—sort of thing the man in the green apron would think all right—and strolled off towards a clump of beech trees, beyond which were bushes and a depression. There perhaps one might be free from observation. Just try these things for a bit. That point about the angle was a curious one; it made one feel one’s ignorance not to know that....

The ideal King has a careworn look, he rules, he has to do things, but the ideal Queen is radiant happiness, tall and sweetly dignified, simply she has to be things. And when at last towards midday Queen Madeleine dispelled the clouds of the morning and came shining back into the world that waited outside her door, she was full of thankfulness for herself and for the empire that was given her. She knew she was a delicious and wonderful thing, she knew she was well done, her hands, the soft folds of her dress as she held it up, the sweep of her hair from her forehead pleased her, she lifted her chin but not too high for the almost unenvious homage in the eyes of the housemaid on the staircase. Her descent was well timed for the lunch gathering of the hotel guests; there was “Ah!—here she comes at last!” and there was her own particular court out upon the verandah before the entrance, Geedge and the Professor and Mrs. Bowles—and Mrs. Geedge coming across the lawn,—and the lover?

She came on down and out into the sunshine. She betrayed no surprise. The others met her with flattering greetings that she returned smilingly. But the lover—?

He was not there!

It was as if the curtain had gone up on almost empty stalls.

He ought to have been worked up and waiting tremendously. He ought to have spent the morning in writing a poem to her or in writing a delightful poetical love letter she could carry away and read or in wandering alone and thinking about her. He ought to be feeling now like the end of a vigil. He ought to be standing now, a little in the background and with that pleasant flush of his upon his face and that shy, subdued, reluctant look that was so infinitely more flattering than any boldness of admiration. And then she would go towards him, for she was a giving type, and hold out both hands to him, and he, as though he couldn’t help it, in spite of all his British reserve, would take one and hesitate—which made it all the more marked—and kiss it....

Instead of which he was just not there....

No visible disappointment dashed her bravery. She knew that at the slightest flicker Judy and Mrs. Geedge would guess and that anyhow the men would guess nothing. “I’ve rested,” she said, “I’ve rested delightfully. What have you all been doing?”

Judy told of great conversations, Mr. Geedge had been looking for trout in the stream, Mrs. Geedge with a thin little smile said she had been making a few notes and—she added the word with deliberation—“observations,” and Professor Bowles said he had had a round of golf with the Captain. “And he lost?” asked Madeleine.

“He’s careless in his drive and impatient at the greens,” said the Professor modestly.

“And then?”

“He vanished,” said the Professor, recognizing the true orientation of her interest.

There was a little pause and Mrs. Geedge said, “You know—” and stopped short.

Interrogative looks focussed upon her.

“It’s so odd,” she said.

Curiosity increased.

“I suppose one ought not to say,” said Mrs. Geedge, “and yet—why shouldn’t one?”

“Exactly,” said Professor Bowles, and every one drew a little nearer to Mrs. Geedge.

“One can’t help being amused,” she said. “It was so—extraordinary.”

“Is it something about the Captain?” asked Madeleine.

“Yes. You see,—he didn’t see me.”

“Is he—is he writing poetry?” Madeleine was much entertained and relieved at the thought. That would account for everything. The poor dear! He hadn’t been able to find some rhyme!

But one gathered from the mysterious airs of Mrs. Geedge that he was not writing poetry. “You see,” she said, “I was lying out there among the bushes, just jotting down a few little things,—and he came by. And he went down into the hollow out of sight.... And what do you think he is doing? You’d never guess? He’s been at it for twenty minutes.”

They didn’t guess.

“He’s playing with little bits of paper—Oh! like a kitten plays with dead leaves. He throws them up—and they flutter to the ground—and then he pounces on them.”

“But—” said Madeleine. And then very brightly, “let’s go and see!”

She was amazed. She couldn’t understand. She hid it under a light playfulness, that threatened to become distraught. Even when presently, after a very careful stalking of the dell under the guidance of Mrs. Geedge, with the others in support, she came in sight of him, she still found him incredible. There was her lover, her devoted lover, standing on the top bar of a fence, his legs wide apart and his body balanced with difficulty, and in his fingers poised high was a little scrap of paper. This was the man who should have been waiting in the hall with feverish anxiety. His fingers released the little model and down it went drifting....

He seemed to be thinking of nothing else in the world. She might never have been born!...

Some noise, some rustle, caught his ear. He turned his head quickly, guiltily, and saw her and her companions.

And then he crowned her astonishment. No lovelight leapt to his eyes; he uttered no cry of joy. Instead he clutched wildly at the air, shouted, “Oh damn!” and came down with a complicated inelegance on all fours upon the ground.

He was angry with her—angry; she could see that he was extremely angry.

So it was that the incompatibilities of man and woman arose again in the just recovering love dream of Madeleine Philips. But now the discord was far more evident than it had been at the first breach.

Suddenly her dear lover, her flatterer, her worshipper, had become a strange averted man. He scrabbled up two of his paper scraps before he came towards her, still with no lovelight in his eyes. He kissed her hand as if it was a matter of course and said almost immediately: “I’ve been hoping for you all the endless morning. I’ve had to amuse myself as best I can.” His tone was resentful. He spoke as if he had a claim upon her—upon her attentions. As if it wasn’t entirely upon his side that obligations lay.

She resolved that shouldn’t deter her from being charming.

And all through the lunch she was as charming as she could be, and under such treatment that rebellious ruffled quality vanished from his manner, vanished so completely that she could wonder if it had really been evident at any time. The alert servitor returned.

She was only too pleased to forget the disappointment of her descent and forgive him, and it was with a puzzled incredulity that she presently saw his “difficult” expression returning. It was an odd little knitting of the brows, a faint absentmindedness, a filming of the brightness of his worship. He was just perceptibly indifferent to the charmed and charming things she was saying.

It seemed best to her to open the question herself. “Is there something on your mind, Dot?”

“Dot” was his old school nickname.

“Well, no—not exactly on my mind. But—. It’s a bother of course. There’s that confounded boy....”

“Were you trying some sort of divination about him? With those pieces of paper?”

“No. That was different. That was—just something else. But you see that boy—. Probably clear up the whole of the Moggeridge bother—and you know it is a bother. Might turn out beastly awkward....”

It was extraordinarily difficult to express. He wanted so much to stay with her and he wanted so much to go.

But all reason, all that was expressible, all that found vent in words and definite suggestions, was on the side of an immediate pursuit of Bealby. So that it seemed to her he wanted and intended to go much more definitely than he actually did.

That divergence of purpose flawed a beautiful afternoon, cast chill shadows of silence over their talk, arrested endearments. She was irritated. About six o’clock she urged him to go; she did not mind, anyhow she had things to see to, letters to write, and she left him with an effect of leaving him for ever. He went and overhauled his motor bicycle thoroughly and then an aching dread of separation from her arrested him.

Dinner, the late June sunset and the moon seemed to bring them together again. Almost harmoniously he was able to suggest that he should get up very early the next morning, pursue and capture Bealby and return for lunch.

“You’d get up at dawn!” she cried. “But how perfectly Splendid the midsummer dawn must be.”

Then she had an inspiration. “Dot!” she cried, “I will get up at dawn also and come with you.... Yes, but as you say he cannot be more than thirteen miles away we’d catch him warm in his little bed somewhere. And the freshness! The dewy freshness!”

And she laughed her beautiful laugh and said it would be “Such Fun!” entering as she supposed into his secret desires and making the most perfect of reconciliations. They were to have tea first, which she would prepare with the caravan lamp and kettle. Mrs. Geedge would hand it over to her.

She broke into song. “A Hunting we will go-ooh,” she sang. “A Hunting we will go....”

But she could not conquer the churlish underside of the Captain’s nature even by such efforts. She threw a glamour of vigour and fun over the adventure, but some cold streak in his composition was insisting all the time that as a boy hunt the attempt failed. Various little delays in her preparations prevented a start before half-past seven, he let that weigh with him, and when sometimes she clapped her hands and ran—and she ran like a deer, and sometimes she sang, he said something about going at an even pace.

At a quarter past one Mrs. Geedge observed them returning. They were walking abreast and about six feet apart, they bore themselves grimly, after the manner of those who have delivered ultimata, and they conversed no more....

In the afternoon Madeleine kept her own room, exhausted, and Captain Douglas sought opportunities of speaking to her in vain. His face expressed distress and perplexity, with momentary lapses into wrathful resolution, and he evaded Judy and her leading questions and talked about the weather with Geedge. He declined a proposal of the Professor’s to go round the links, with especial reference to his neglected putting. “You ought to, you know,” said the Professor.

About half-past three, and without any publication of his intention, Captain Douglas departed upon his motor bicycle....

Madeleine did not reappear until dinner-time, and then she was clad in lace and gaiety that impressed the naturally very good observation of Mrs. Geedge as unreal.

The Captain, a confusion of motives that was as it were a mind returning to chaos, started. He had seen tears in her eyes. Just for one instant, but certainly they were tears. Tears of vexation. Or sorrow? (Which is the worse thing for a lover to arouse, grief or resentment?) But this boy must be caught, because if he was not caught a perpetually developing story of imbecile practical joking upon eminent and influential persons would eat like a cancer into the Captain’s career. And if his career was spoilt what sort of thing would he be as a lover? Not to mention that he might never get a chance then to try flying for military purposes.... So anyhow, anyhow, this boy must be caught. But quickly, for women’s hearts are tender, they will not stand exposure to hardship. There is a kind of unreasonableness natural to goddesses. Unhappily this was an expedition needing wariness, deliberation, and one brought to it a feverish hurry to get back. There must be self-control. There must be patience. Such occasions try the soldierly quality of a man....

It added nothing to the Captain’s self-control that after he had travelled ten miles he found he had forgotten his quite indispensable map and had to return for it. Then he was seized again with doubts about his inductions and went over them again, sitting by the roadside. (There must be patience.) ... He went on at a pace of thirty-five miles an hour to the inn he had marked upon his map as Bealby’s limit for the second evening. It was a beastly little inn, it stewed tea for the Captain atrociously and it knew nothing of Bealby. In the adjacent cottages also they had never heard of Bealby. Captain Douglas revised his deductions for the third time and came to the conclusion that he had not made a proper allowance for Wednesday afternoon. Then there was all Thursday, and the longer, lengthening part of Friday. He might have done thirty miles or more already. And he might have crossed this corner—inconspicuously.

Suppose he hadn’t after all come along this road!

He had a momentary vision of Madeleine with eyes brightly tearful. “You left me for a Wild Goose Chase,” he fancied her saying....

One must stick to one’s job. A soldier more particularly must stick to his job. Consider Balaclava....

He decided to go on along this road and try the incidental cottages that his reasoning led him to suppose were the most likely places at which Bealby would ask for food. It was a business demanding patience and politeness.

So a number of cottagers, for the greater part they were elderly women past the fiercer rush and hurry of life, grandmothers and ancient dames or wives at leisure with their children away at the Council schools, had a caller that afternoon. Cottages are such lonely places in the daytime that even district visitors and canvassers are godsends and only tramps ill received. Captain Douglas ranked high in the scale of visitors. There was something about him, his fairness, a certain handsomeness, his quick colour, his active speech, which interested women at all times, and now an indefinable flow of romantic excitement conveyed itself to his interlocutors. He encountered the utmost civility everywhere; doors at first tentatively ajar opened wider at the sight of him and there was a kindly disposition to enter into his troubles lengthily and deliberately. People listened attentively to his demands, and before they testified to Bealby’s sustained absence from their perception they would for the most part ask numerous questions in return. They wanted to hear the Captain’s story, the reason for his research, the relationship between himself and the boy, they wanted to feel something of the sentiment of the thing. After that was the season for negative facts. Perhaps when everything was stated they might be able to conjure up what he wanted. He was asked in to have tea twice, for he looked not only pink and dusty, but dry, and one old lady said that years ago she had lost just such a boy as Bealby seemed to be—“Ah! not in the way you have lost him”—and she wept, poor old dear! and was only comforted after she had told the Captain three touching but extremely lengthy and detailed anecdotes of Bealby’s vanished prototype.

(Fellow cannot rush away, you know; still all this sort of thing, accumulating, means a confounded lot of delay.)

And then there was a deaf old man.... A very, very tiresome deaf old man who said at first he had seen Bealby....

After all the old fellow was deaf....

The sunset found the Captain on a breezy common forty miles away from the Redlake Royal Hotel and by this time he knew that fugitive boys cannot be trusted to follow the lines even of the soundest inductions. This business meant a search.

Should he pelt back to Redlake and start again more thoroughly on the morrow?

A moment of temptation.

If he did he knew she wouldn’t let him go.

No!

NO!

He must make a sweeping movement through the country to the left, trying up and down the roads that, roughly speaking, radiated from Redlake between the twenty-fifth and the thirty-fifth milestone....

It was night and high moonlight when at last the Captain reached Crayminster, that little old town decayed to a village, in the Crays valley. He was hungry, dispirited, quite unsuccessful, and here he resolved to eat and rest for the night.

He would have a meal, for by this time he was ravenous, and then go and talk in the bar or the tap about Bealby.

Until he had eaten he felt he could not endure the sound of his own voice repeating what had already become a tiresome stereotyped formula; “You haven’t I suppose seen or heard anything during the last two days of a small boy—little chap of about thirteen—wandering about? He’s a sturdy resolute little fellow with a high colour, short wiry hair, rather dark....”

The White Hart at Crayminster, after some negotiations, produced mutton cutlets and Australian hock. As he sat at his meal in the small ambiguous respectable dining-room of the inn—adorned with framed and glazed beer advertisements, crinkled paper fringes and insincere sporting prints—he became aware of a murmurous confabulation going on in the bar parlour. It must certainly he felt be the bar parlour....

He could not hear distinctly, and yet it seemed to him that the conversational style of Crayminster was abnormally rich in expletive. And the tone was odd. It had a steadfast quality of commination.

He brushed off a crumb from his jacket, lit a cigarette and stepped across the passage to put his hopeless questions.

The talk ceased abruptly at his appearance.

It was one of those deep-toned bar parlours that are so infinitely more pleasant to the eye than the tawdry decorations of the genteel accommodation. It was brown with a trimming of green paper hops and it had a mirror and glass shelves sustaining bottles and tankards. Six or seven individuals were sitting about the room. They had a numerous effect. There was a man in very light floury tweeds, with a floury bloom on his face and hair and an anxious depressed expression. He was clearly a baker. He sat forward as though he nursed something precious under the table. Next him was a respectable-looking, regular-featured fair man with a large head, and a ruddy-faced butcher-like individual smoked a clay pipe by the side of the fireplace. A further individual with an alert intrusive look might have been a grocer’s assistant associating above himself.

“Evening,” said the Captain.

“Evening,” said the man with the large hand guardedly.

The Captain came to the hearthrug with an affectation of ease.

“I suppose,” he began, “that you haven’t any of you seen anything of a small boy, wandering about. He’s a little chap about thirteen. Sturdy, resolute-looking little fellow with a high colour, short wiry hair, rather dark....”

He stopped short, arrested by the excited movements of the butcher’s pipe and by the changed expressions of the rest of the company.

“We—we seen ’im,” the man with the big head managed to say at last.

“We seen ’im all right,” said a voice out of the darkness beyond the range of the lamp.

The baker with the melancholy expression interjected, “I don’t care if I don’t ever see ’im again.”

“Ah!” said the Captain, astonished to find himself suddenly beyond hoping on a hot fresh scent. “Now all that’s very interesting. Where did you see him?”

“Thunderin’ vicious little varmint,” said the butcher. “Owdacious.”

“Mr. Benshaw,” said the voice from the shadows, “’E’s arter ’im now with a shot gun loaded up wi’ oats. ’E’ll pepper ’im if ’e gets ’im, Bill will, you bet your ’at. And serve ’im jolly well right tew.”

“I doubt,” said the baker, “I doubt if I’ll ever get my stummik—not thoroughly proper again. It’s a Blow I’ve ’ad. ’E give me a Blow. Oh! Mr. ’Orrocks, could I trouble you for another thimbleful of brandy? Just a thimbleful neat. It eases the ache....”

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