That Hideous Strength, by C. S. Lewis (2025)

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Title: That Hideous Strength.A modern fairy-tale for grown-ups.
Author: Lewis, C. S. [Clive Staples] (1898-1963)
Date of first publication: 1945
Edition used as base for this ebook:London: The Bodley Head, 1965[fifth impression]
Date first posted: 31 December 2014
Date last updated: 31 December 2014
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1224

This ebook was produced byMarcia Brooks, Mark Akrigg, Stephen Hutcheson& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Teamat http://www.pgdpcanada.net

Publisher's Note:

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

At the end of the Latin sentence in the third paragraph ofChapter Thirteen, we have corrected "venenis" to "veneris".

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digitalformat, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

C. S. LEWIS

To
J. McNEILL

CONTENTS

Preface

I. Sale of College Property

II. Dinner with the Sub-Warden

III. Belbury and St. Anne's-on-the-Hill

IV. The Liquidation of Anachronisms

V. Elasticity

VI. Fog

VII. The Pendragon

VIII. Moonlight at Belbury

IX. The Saracen's Head

X. The Conquered City

XI. Battle Begun

XII. Wet and Windy Night

XIII. They have pulled down Deep Heaven on their Heads

XIV. "Real Life is Meeting"

XV. The Descent of the Gods

XVI. Banquet at Belbury

XVII. Venus at St. Anne's

The Shadow of that hyddeous strength
Sax myle and more it is of length.

SIR DAVID LINDSAY: from Ane Dialog (describing the Tower of Babel)

PREFACE

I have called this a fairy-tale in the hope that no one who dislikesfantasy may be misled by the first two chapters into reading further,and then complain of his disappointment. If you ask why--intending towrite about magicians, devils, pantomime animals, and planetary angels--Inevertheless begin with such humdrum scenes and persons, I reply that Iam following the traditional fairy-tale. We do not always notice itsmethod, because the cottages, castles, woodcutters, and petty kings withwhich a fairy-tale opens have become for us as remote as the witches andogres to which it proceeds. But they were not remote at all to the menwho made and first enjoyed the stories. They were, indeed, morerealistic and commonplace than Bracton College is to me: for many Germanpeasants had actually met cruel stepmothers, whereas I have never, inany university, come across a college like Bracton.

This is a "tall story" about devilry, though it has behind it a serious"point" which I have tried to make in my Abolition of Man. In thestory the outer rim of that devilry had to be shown touching the life ofsome ordinary and respectable profession. I selected my own profession,not, of course, because I think fellows of colleges more likely to bethus corrupted than anyone else, but because my own profession isnaturally that which I know best. A very small university is imaginedbecause that has certain conveniences for fiction. Edgestow has noresemblance, save for its smallness, to Durham--a university with whichthe only connection I have ever had was entirely pleasant.

I believe that one of the central ideas of this tale came into my headfrom conversations I had with a scientific colleague, some time before Imet a rather similar suggestion in the works of Mr. Olaf Stapledon. If Iam mistaken in this, Mr. Stapledon is so rich in invention that he canwell afford to lend; and I admire his invention (though not hisphilosophy) so much that I should feel no shame to borrow.

Those who would like to learn further about Numinor and the True Westmust (alas!) await the publication of much that still exists only in theMSS. of my friend, Professor J. R. R. Tolkien.

The period of this story is vaguely "after the war." It concludes theTrilogy of which Out of the Silent Planet was the first part, andPerelandra the second, but can be read on its own.

C. S. LEWIS.

Magdalen College, Oxford.

ONE

Sale of College Property

I

"Matrimony was ordained, thirdly," said Jane Studdock to herself, "forthe mutual society, help, and comfort that the one ought to have of theother." She had not been to church since her schooldays until she wentthere six months ago to be married, and the words of the service hadstuck in her mind.

Through the open door she could see the tiny kitchen of the flat andhear the loud, ungentle tick-tick of the clock. She had just left thekitchen and knew how tidy it was. The breakfast things were washed up,the tea towels were hanging above the stove, and the floor was mopped.The beds were made and the rooms "done." She had just returned from theonly shopping she need do that day, and it was still a minute beforeeleven. Except for getting her own lunch and tea there was nothing thathad to be done till six o'clock, even supposing that Mark was reallycoming home for dinner. But there was a College meeting to-day. Almostcertainly Mark would ring up about tea-time to say that the meeting wastaking longer than he had expected and that he would have to dine inCollege. The hours before her were as empty as the flat. The sun shoneand the clock ticked.

"Mutual society, help, and comfort," said Jane bitterly. In realitymarriage had proved to be the door out of a world of work andcomradeship and laughter and innumerable things to do, into somethinglike solitary confinement. For some years before their marriage she hadnever seen so little of Mark as she had done in the last six months.Even when he was at home he hardly ever talked. He was always eithersleepy or intellectually preoccupied. While they had been friends, andlater when they were lovers, life itself had seemed too short for allthey had to say to each other. But now . . . why had he married her? Washe still in love? If so, "being in love" must mean totally differentthings to men and women. Was it the crude truth that all the endlesstalks which had seemed to her, before they were married, the very mediumof love itself, had never been to him more than a preliminary?

"Here I am, starting to waste another morning, mooning," said Jane toherself sharply. "I must do some work." By work she meant herdoctorate thesis on Donne. She had always intended to continue her owncareer as a scholar after she was married: that was one of the reasonswhy they were to have no children, at any rate for a long time yet. Janewas not perhaps a very original thinker, and her plan had been to laygreat stress on Donne's "triumphant vindication of the body." She stillbelieved that if she got out all her note-books and editions and reallysat down to the job she could force herself back into her lostenthusiasm for the subject. But before she did so--perhaps in order toput off the moment of beginning--she turned over a newspaper which waslying on the table and glanced at a picture on the back page.

The moment she saw the picture, she remembered her dream. She rememberednot only the dream but the measureless time after she had crept out ofbed and sat waiting for the first hint of morning, afraid to put on thelight for fear Mark should wake up and fuss, yet feeling offended by thesound of his regular breathing. He was an excellent sleeper. Only onething ever seemed able to keep him awake after he had gone to bed, andeven that did not keep him awake for long.

The terror of this dream, like the terror of most dreams, evaporates inthe telling, but it must be set down for the sake of what cameafterwards.

She had begun by dreaming simply of a face. It was a foreign-lookingface, bearded and rather yellow, with a hooked nose. Its expression wasfrightening because it was frightened. The mouth sagged open and theeyes stared as she had seen other men's eyes stare for a second or twowhen some sudden shock had occurred. But this face seemed to be meetinga shock that lasted for hours. Then gradually she became aware of more.The face belonged to a man who was sitting hunched up in one corner of alittle square room with white-washed walls--waiting, she thought, forthose who had him in their power, to come in and do something horribleto him. At last the door was opened and a rather good-looking man with apointed grey beard came in. The prisoner seemed to recognise him as anold acquaintance and they sat down together and began to talk. In allthe dreams which Jane had hitherto dreamed, one either understood whatthe dream-people were saying or else one did not hear it. But in thisdream--and that helped to make its extraordinary realism--the conversationwas in French and Jane understood bits of it, but by no means all, justas she would have done in real life. The visitor was telling theprisoner something which he apparently intended him to regard as goodnews. And the prisoner at first looked up with a gleam of hope in hiseye and said "Tiens . . . ah . . . ça marche": but then he wavered andchanged his mind. The visitor continued in a low, fluent voice to presshis point. He was a good-looking man in his rather cold way, but he worepince-nez, and these kept on catching the light so as to make his eyesinvisible. This, combined with the almost unnatural perfection of histeeth, somehow gave Jane a disagreeable impression. And this wasincreased by the growing distress, and finally the terror, of theprisoner. She could not make out what it was that the visitor wasproposing to him, but she did discover that the prisoner was undersentence of death. Whatever the visitor was offering him was somethingthat frightened him more than that. At this point the dream abandonedall pretence to realism and became ordinary nightmare. The visitor,adjusting his pince-nez and still smiling his cold smile, seized theprisoner's head between his two hands. He gave it a sharp turn--just asJane had last summer seen men give a sharp turn to the helmet on adiver's head. The visitor unscrewed the prisoner's head and took itaway. Then all became confused. The head was still the centre of thedream, but it was quite a different head now--a head with a reddish-whitebeard all covered with earth. It belonged to an old man whom some peoplewere digging up in a kind of churchyard--a sort of ancient British,druidical kind of man, in a long mantle. Jane didn't mind this much atfirst because she thought it was a corpse. Then suddenly she noticedthat this ancient thing was coming to life. "Look out!" she cried in herdream. "He's alive. Stop! stop! You're waking him." But they did notstop. The old, buried man sat up and began talking in something thatsounded vaguely like Spanish. And this for some reason, frightened Janeso badly that she woke up.

That was the dream--no worse, if also no better, than many anothernightmare. But it was not the mere memory of a nightmare that made thesitting-room of the flat swim before Jane's eyes and caused her to sitdown quickly for fear she should fall. The trouble was elsewhere. There,on the back page of the newspaper, was the head she had seen in thenightmare: the first head (if there had been two of them)--the head ofthe prisoner. With extreme reluctance she took up the paper. EXECUTIONOF ALCASAN was the headline, and beneath it, SCIENTIST BLUEBEARD GOES TOGUILLOTINE. She remembered having vaguely followed the case. Alcasan wasa distinguished radiologist in a neighbouring country--an Arab bydescent, they said--who had cut short an otherwise brilliant career bypoisoning his wife. So that was the origin of her dream. She must havelooked at this photo in the paper--the man certainly had a veryunpleasant face--before going to bed. But no: that couldn't be it. It wasthis morning's paper. But of course there must have been some earlierpicture which she had seen and forgotten--probably weeks ago when thetrial began. It was silly to have let it give her such a turn. And nowfor Donne. Let's see, where were we? The ambiguous passage at the end ofLove's Alchymie,

Hope not for minde in women; at their best
Sweetnesse and wit, they are but Mummy possest.

"Hope not for mind in women." Did any men really want mind in women?But that wasn't the point. "I must get back my power ofconcentrating," said Jane: and then, "Was there a previous picture ofAlcasan? Supposing . . ."

Five minutes later she swept all her books away, went to the mirror, puton her hat, and went out. She was not quite sure where she was going.Anywhere, to be out of that room, that flat, that whole house.

II

Mark himself, meanwhile, was walking down to Bracton College, andthinking of a very different matter. He did not notice at all themorning beauty of the little street that led him from the sandy hillsidesuburb where he and Jane lived down into the central and academic partof Edgestow.

Though I am Oxford bred and very fond of Cambridge, I think thatEdgestow is more beautiful than either. For one thing it is so small. Nomaker of cars or sausages or marmalades has yet come to industrialisethe country town which is the setting of the university, and theuniversity itself is tiny. Apart from Bracton and from thenineteenth-century women's college beyond the railway, there are onlytwo colleges; Northumberland which stands below Bracton on the riverWynd, and Duke's opposite the Abbey. Bracton takes no undergraduates. Itwas founded in 1300 for the support of ten learned men whose duties wereto pray for the soul of Henry de Bracton and to study the laws ofEngland. The number of Fellows has gradually increased to forty, of whomonly six (apart from the Bacon Professor) now study Law and of whomnone, perhaps, prays for the soul of Bracton. Mark Studdock was himselfa Sociologist and had been elected to a fellowship in that subject fiveyears ago. He was beginning to find his feet. If he had felt any doubton that point (which he did not) it would have been laid to rest when hefound himself meeting Curry just outside the post office, and seen hownatural Curry found it that they should walk to College together anddiscuss the agenda for the meeting. Curry was the sub-warden of Bracton.

"Yes," said Curry. "It will take the hell of a time. Probably go onafter dinner. We shall have all the obstructionists wasting time as hardas they can. But luckily that's the worst they can do."

You would never have guessed from the tone of Studdock's reply whatintense pleasure he derived from Curry's use of the pronoun "we." Sovery recently he had been an outsider, watching the proceedings of whathe then called "Curry and his gang" with awe and with littleunderstanding, and making at College meetings short, nervous speecheswhich never influenced the course of events. Now he was inside, and"Curry and his gang" had become "we" or "the progressive element inCollege." It had all happened quite suddenly and was still sweet in themouth.

"You think it'll go through, then?" said Studdock.

"Sure to," said Curry. "We've got the Warden, and the Bursar, and allthe chemical and bio-chemical people for a start. I've tackled Pelhamand Ted and they're sound. I've made Sancho believe that he sees thepoint and that he's in favour of it. Bill the Blizzard will probably dosomething pretty devastating, but he's bound to side with us if it comesto a vote. Besides: I haven't yet told you. Dick's going to be there. Hecame up in time for dinner last night and got busy at once."

Studdock's mind darted hither and thither in search of some safe way toconceal the fact that he did not know who Dick was. In the nick of timehe remembered a very obscure colleague whose Christian name was Richard.

"Telford?" said Studdock in a puzzled voice. He knew very well thatTelford could not be the Dick that Curry meant, and therefore threw aslightly whimsical and ironical tone into his question.

"Good Lord! Telford!" said Curry with a laugh. "No. I mean LordFeverstone--Dick Devine as he used to be."

"I was a little baffled by the idea of Telford," said Studdock,joining in the laugh. "I'm glad Feverstone is coming. I've never met himyou know."

"Oh, but you must," said Curry. "Look here, come and dine in my roomsto-night. I've asked him."

"I should like to very much," said Studdock quite truly. And then, aftera pause, "By the way, I suppose Feverstone's own position is quitesecure?"

"How do you mean?" asked Curry.

"Well, there was some talk, if you remember, as to whether someone whowas away quite so much could go on holding a fellowship."

"Oh, you mean Glossop and all that ramp. Nothing will come of that.Didn't you think it absolute blah?"

"As between ourselves, yes. But I confess if I were put up to explainin public exactly why a man who is nearly always in London should goon being a Fellow of Bracton, I shouldn't find it altogether easy. Thereal reasons are the sort that Watson would call imponderables."

"I don't agree. I shouldn't have the least objection to explaining thereal reasons in public. Isn't it important for a college like this tohave influential connections with the outer world? It's not in the leastimpossible that Dick will be in the next Cabinet. Even already Dick inLondon has been a damn sight more use to the College than Glossop andhalf a dozen others of that sort have been by sitting here all theirlives."

"Yes. Of course that's the real point. It would be a little difficult toput in that form at a College meeting, though!"

"There's one thing," said Curry in a slightly less intimate tone, "thatperhaps you ought to know about Dick."

"What's that?"

"He got you your Fellowship."

Mark was silent. He did not like things which reminded him that he hadonce been not only outside the progressive element but even outside theCollege. He did not always like Curry either. His pleasure in being withhim was not that sort of pleasure.

"Yes," said Curry. "Denniston was your chief rival. Between ourselves, agood many people liked his papers better than yours. It was Dick whoinsisted all through that you were the sort of man we really wanted. Hewent round to Duke's and ferreted out all about you. He took the linethat the one thing to consider is the type of man we need, and be damnedto paper qualifications. And I must say he turned out to be right."

"Very kind of you," said Studdock with a little mock bow. He wassurprised at the turn the conversation had taken. It was an old rule atBracton, as presumably in most colleges, that one never mentioned in thepresence of a man the circumstances of his own election, and Studdockhad not realised till now that this also was one of the traditions theProgressive Element was prepared to scrap. It had also never occurred tohim that his own election had depended on anything but the excellence ofhis work in the fellowship examination: still less that it had been sonarrow a thing. He was so accustomed to his position by now that thisthought gave him the same curious sensation which a man has when hediscovers that his father once very nearly married a different woman.

"Yes," continued Curry, pursuing another train of thought. "One sees nowthat Denniston would never have done. Most emphatically not. A brilliantman at that time, of course, but he seems to have gone quite off therails since then with all his Distributivism and what not. They tell mehe's likely to end up in a monastery."

"He's no fool, all the same," said Studdock.

"I'm glad you're going to meet Dick," said Curry. "We haven't time now,but there's one thing about him I wanted to discuss with you."

Studdock looked enquiringly at him.

"James and I and one or two others," said Curry in a somewhat lowervoice, "have been thinking he ought to be the new warden. But here weare."

"It's not yet twelve," said Studdock. "What about popping into theBristol for a drink?"

Into the Bristol they accordingly went. It would not have been easy topreserve the atmosphere in which the Progressive Element operatedwithout a good many of these little courtesies. This weighed harder onStuddock than on Curry who was unmarried and had a sub-warden's stipend.But the Bristol was a very pleasant place. Studdock bought a doublewhisky for his companion and half a pint of beer for himself.

III

The only time I was a guest at Bracton I persuaded my host to let meinto the Wood and leave me there alone for an hour. He apologised forlocking me in.

Very few people were allowed into Bragdon Wood. The gate was by InigoJones and was the only entry: a high wall enclosed the Wood, which wasperhaps a quarter of a mile broad and a mile from east to west. If youcame in from the street and went through the College to reach it, thesense of gradual penetration into a holy of holies was very strong.First you went through the Newton quadrangle which is dry and gravelly;florid, but beautiful, Georgian buildings look down upon it. Next youmust enter a cool tunnel-like passage, nearly dark at midday unlesseither the door into Hall should be open on your right or the butteryhatch on your left, giving you a glimpse of indoor daylight falling onpanels, and a whiff of the smell of fresh bread. When you emerged fromthis tunnel you would find yourself in the medieval college: in thecloister of the much smaller quadrangle called Republic. The grass herelooks very green after the aridity of Newton and the very stone of thebuttresses that rise from it gives the impression of being soft andalive. Chapel is not far off: the hoarse, heavy noise of the works of agreat and old clock comes to you from somewhere overhead. You went alongthis cloister, past slabs and urns and busts that commemorate deadBractonians, and then down shallow steps into the full daylight of thequadrangle called Lady Alice. The buildings to your left and right wereseventeenth-century work: humble, almost domestic in character, withdormer windows, mossy and grey-tiled. You were in a sweet, Protestantworld. You found yourself, perhaps, thinking of Bunyan or of Walton'sLives. There were no buildings straight ahead on the fourth side ofLady Alice: only a row of elms and a wall; and here first one becameaware of the sound of running water and the cooing of wood pigeons. Thestreet was so far off by now that there were no other noises. In thewall there was a door. It led you into a covered gallery pierced withnarrow windows on either side. Looking out through these you discoveredthat you were crossing a bridge and the dark brown dimpled Wynd wasflowing under you. Now you were very near your goal. A wicket at the farend of the bridge brought you out on the Fellows' bowling-green, andacross that you saw the high wall of the Wood and through the InigoJones gate you caught a glimpse of sunlit green and deep shadows.

I suppose the mere fact of being walled in gave the Wood part of itspeculiar quality, for when a thing is enclosed the mind does notwillingly regard it as common. As I went forward over the quiet turf Ihad the sense of being received. The trees were just so wide apart thatone saw uninterrupted foliage in the distance, but the place where onestood seemed always to be a clearing: surrounded by a world of shadows,one walked in mild sunshine. Except for the sheep whose nibbling keptthe grass so short and who sometimes raised their long, foolish faces tostare at me, I was quite alone; and it felt more like the loneliness ofa very large room in a deserted house than like any ordinary solitudeout of doors. I remember thinking, "This is the sort of place which, asa child, one would have been rather afraid of or else would have likedvery much indeed." A moment later I thought, "But when alone--reallyalone--everyone is a child: or no one?" Youth and age touch only thesurface of our lives.

Half a mile is a short walk. Yet it seemed a long time before I came tothe centre of the Wood. I knew it was the centre, for there was thething I had chiefly come to see. It was a well: a well with steps goingdown to it and the remains of an ancient pavement about it. It was veryimperfect now. I did not step on it, but I lay down in the grass andtouched it with my fingers. For this was the heart of Bracton or BragdonWood: out of this all the legends had come and on this, I suspected, thevery existence of the College had originally depended. Thearchaeologists were agreed that the masonry was very late British-Romanwork, done on the very eve of the Anglo-Saxon invasion. How Bragdon thewood was connected with Bracton the lawyer was a mystery, but I fancymyself that the Bracton family had availed themselves of an accidentalsimilarity in the names to believe, or make believe, that they hadsomething to do with it. Certainly, if all that was told were true, oreven half of it, the Wood was older than the Bractons. I suppose no onenow would attach much importance to Strabo's Balachthon, though it hadled a sixteenth-century warden of the College to say that "we know notby ancientest report of any Britain without Bragdon." But the medievalsong takes us back to the fourteenth century,

In Bragdon bricht this ende dai
Herde ich Merlin ther he lai
Singende woo and welawai.

It is good enough evidence that the well with the British-Roman pavementwas already "Merlin's Well," though the name is not found till QueenElizabeth's reign, when good Warden Shovel surrounded the Wood with awall "for the taking away of all profane and heathenish superstitionsand the deterring of the vulgar sort from all wakes, May games,dancings, mummings, and baking of Morgan's bread, heretofore used aboutthe fountain called in vanity Merlin's Well, and utterly to be renouncedand abominated as a gallimaufrey of papistry, gentilism, lewdness anddunsicall folly." Not that the College had by this action renounced itsown interest in the place. Old Dr. Shovel, who lived to be nearly ahundred, can scarcely have been cold in his grave when one of Cromwell'smajor-generals, conceiving it his business to destroy "the groves andthe high places," sent a few troopers with power to impress the countrypeople for this pious work. The scheme came to nothing in the end: butthere had been a bicker between the College and the troopers in theheart of Bragdon, and the fabulously learned and saintly Richard Crowehad been killed by a musket ball on the very steps of the Well. He wouldbe a brave man who would accuse Crowe either of popery or "gentilism":yet the story is that his last words had been "Marry, sirs, if Merlinwho was the Devil's son was a true King's man as ever ate bread, is itnot a shame that you, being but the sons of bitches, must be rebels andregicides?" And always, through all changes, every warden of Bracton, onthe day of his election, had drunk a ceremonial draught of water fromMerlin's Well in the great cup which both for its antiquity and for itsbeauty, was the greatest of the Bracton treasures.

All this I thought of, lying beside Merlin's Well, beside the Well whichmust certainly date from Merlin's time if there had ever been a realMerlin: lying where Sir Kenelm Digby had lain all one summer night andseen a certain strange appearance: where Collins the poet had lain, andwhere George the Third had cried: where the brilliant and much-lovedNathaniel Fox had composed the famous poem three weeks before he waskilled in France. The air was so still and the billows of foliage soheavy above me, that I fell asleep. I was wakened by my friend hallowingto me from a long way off.

IV

The most controversial business before the College meeting was thequestion of selling Bragdon Wood. The purchaser was the N.I.C.E., theNational Institute of Co-ordinated Experiments. They wanted a site forthe building which would worthily house this remarkable organisation.The N.I.C.E. was the first-fruit of that constructive fusion between thestate and the laboratory on which so many thoughtful people base theirhopes of a better world. It was to be free from almost all the tiresomerestraints--"red tape" was the word its supporters used--which havehitherto hampered research in this country. It was also largely freefrom the restraints of economy, for, as it was argued, a nation whichcan spend so many millions a day on a war can surely afford a fewmillions a month on productive research in peace-time. The buildingproposed for it was one which would make a quite noticeable addition tothe skyline of New York, the staff was to be enormous, and theirsalaries princely. Persistent pressure and endless diplomacy on the partof the Senate of Edgestow had lured the new Institute away from Oxford,from Cambridge, from London. It had thought of all these in turn aspossible scenes for its labours. At times the Progressive Element inEdgestow had almost despaired. But success was now practically certain.If the N.I.C.E. could get the necessary land, it would come to Edgestow.And once it came, then, as everyone felt, things would at last begin tomove. Curry had even expressed a doubt whether, eventually, Oxford andCambridge could survive as major universities at all.

Three years ago, if Mark Studdock had come to a College meeting at whichsuch a question was to be decided, he would have expected to hear theclaims of sentiment against progress and beauty against utility openlydebated. To-day, as he took his seat in the Soler, the long upper roomon the south of Lady Alice, he expected no such matter. He knew now thatthat was not the way things are done.

The Progressive Element managed its business really very well. Most ofthe Fellows did not know when they came into the Soler that there wasany question of selling the Wood. They saw, of course, from their agendapaper that Item 15 was "Sale of College land," but as that appeared atalmost every College meeting, they were not very interested. On theother hand they did see that Item 1 was "Questions about Bragdon Wood."These were not concerned with the proposed sale. Curry, who rose assub-warden to introduce them, had a few letters to read to the College.The first was from a society concerned for the preservation of ancientmonuments. I think myself that this society had been ill-advised to maketwo complaints in one letter. It would have been wiser if they hadconfined themselves to drawing the College's attention to the disrepairof the wall round the Wood. When they went on to urge the desirabilityof building some protection over the Well itself and even to point outthat they had urged this before, the College began to be restive. Andwhen, as a kind of afterthought, they expressed a wish that the Collegecould be a little more accommodating to serious antiquaries who wantedto examine the Well, the College became definitely ill-tempered. I wouldnot like to accuse a man in Curry's position of misreading a letter: buthis reading of this letter was certainly not such as to gloss over anydefects in the tone of the original composition. Before he sat down,nearly everyone in the room desired strongly to make the outer worldunderstand that Bragdon Wood was the private property of Bracton Collegeand that the outer world had better mind its own business. Then he roseagain to read another letter. This was from a society of Spiritualistswho wanted leave to investigate the "reported phenomena" in the Wood--aletter "connected" as Curry said, "with the next which, with theWarden's permission, I will now read to you." This was from a firm whohad heard of the Spiritualists' proposal and wanted permission to make afilm, not exactly of the phenomena, but of the Spiritualists looking forthe phenomena. Curry was directed to write short refusals to all threeletters.

Then came a new voice from quite a different part of the Soler. LordFeverstone had risen. He fully agreed with the action which the Collegehad taken about these impertinent letters from various busybodiesoutside. But was it not, after all, a fact, that the wall of the Woodwas in a very unsatisfactory condition? A good many Fellows--Studdockwas not one of them--imagined they were watching a revolt on Feverstone'spart against "Curry and his gang" and became intensely interested.Almost at once the Bursar, James Busby, was on his feet. He welcomedLord Feverstone's question. In his Bursarial capacity he had recentlytaken expert advice about the wall of the Wood. "Unsatisfactory" was, hefeared, much too mild a word to describe its condition. Nothing but acomplete new wall would really meet the situation. With great difficultythe probable cost of this was elicited from him: and when the Collegeheard the figure it gasped. Lord Feverstone enquired icily whether theBursar was seriously proposing that the College should undertake such anexpense. Busby (a very large ex-clergyman with a bushy black beard)replied with some temper that he had proposed nothing: if he were tomake a suggestion it would be that the question could not be treated inisolation from some important financial considerations which it wouldbecome his duty to lay before them later in the day. There was a pauseat this ominous statement, until gradually, one by one, the "outsiders"and "obstructionists," the men not included in the Progressive Element,began coming into the debate. Most of these found it hard to believethat nothing short of a complete new wall would be any use. TheProgressive Element let them talk for nearly ten minutes. Then it lookedonce again as if Lord Feverstone were actually leading the outsiders. Hewanted to know whether it was possible that the Bursar and thePreservation Committee could really find no alternative between buildinga new wall and allowing Bragdon Wood to degenerate into a common. Hepressed for an answer. Some of the outsiders even began to feel that hewas being too rude to the Bursar. At last the Bursar answered in a lowvoice that he had in a purely theoretical way got some facts aboutpossible alternatives. A barbed wire fence--but the rest was drowned in aroar of disapproval, during which old Canon Jewel was heard to say thathe would sooner have every tree in the Wood felled to the ground thansee it caged in barbed wire. Finally the matter was postponed forconsideration at the next meeting.

The next item was one of those which the majority of the Fellows couldnot understand. It involved the recapitulation (by Curry) of a longcorrespondence between the College and the Senate of the Universityabout the proposed incorporation of the N.I.C.E. in the University ofEdgestow. The words "committed to" kept recurring in the debate thatfollowed. "We appear," said Watson, "to have pledged ourselves as acollege to the fullest possible support of the new Institute." "Weappear," said Feverstone, "to have tied ourselves up hand and foot andgiven the University carte blanche." What all this actually amountedto never became clear to any of the outsiders. They remembered fightinghard at a previous meeting against the N.I.C.E. and all its works, andbeing defeated: but every effort to find out what their defeat hadmeant, though answered with great lucidity by Curry, served only toentangle them further in the impenetrable mazes of the universityconstitution and the still darker mystery of the relations betweenuniversity and college. The result of the discussion was to leave themunder the impression that the honour of the College was now involved inthe establishment of the N.I.C.E. at Edgestow.

During this item the thoughts of more than one Fellow had turned tolunch and attention had wandered. But when Curry rose at five minutes toone to introduce Item 3, there was a sharp revival of interest. It wascalled "Rectification of an Anomaly of the Stipends in Junior Fellows."I would not like to say what the most junior Fellows of Bracton weregetting at this time, but I believe it hardly covered the expenses oftheir residence in college, which was compulsory. Studdock who had onlyrecently emerged from this class felt great sympathy with them. Heunderstood the look in their faces. The Rectification, if it wentthrough, would mean to them clothes and holidays and meat for lunch anda chance to buy a half, instead of a fifth, of the books they needed.All their eyes were fixed on the Bursar when he rose to reply to Curry'sproposal. He hoped that no one would imagine he approved the anomalywhich had, in 1910, excluded the lowest class of the Fellows from thenew clauses in the eighteenth paragraph of Statute 17. He felt sure thateveryone present would wish it to be rectified: but it was his duty,as Bursar, to point out that this was the second proposal involving veryheavy expenditure which had come before them that morning. He could onlysay of this, as he had said of the previous proposal, that it could notbe isolated from the whole problem of the present financial position ofthe College which he hoped to lay before them during the course of theafternoon. A great deal more was said, but the Bursar remainedunanswered, the matter was postponed, and when, at quarter to two, theFellows came surging out of the Soler for lunch, hungry and headachy andravenous for tobacco, every junior had it fixed in his mind that a newwall for the Wood and a rise in his own stipend were strictly exclusivealternatives. "That darn Wood has been in our way all morning," saidone. "We're not out of it yet," answered another.

In this frame of mind the College returned to the Soler after lunch toconsider its finances. Busby, the Bursar, was naturally the principalspeaker. It is very hot in the Soler on a sunny afternoon; and thesmooth flow of the Bursar's exposition, and even the flashing of hislevel, white teeth above his beard (he had remarkably fine teeth) had asort of hypnotic power. Fellows of colleges do not always find moneymatters easy to understand: if they did they would probably not havebeen the sort of men who become Fellows of colleges. They gathered thatthe situation was bad; very bad indeed. Some of the youngest and mostinexperienced members ceased to wonder whether they would get a new wallor a rise of stipend and began to wonder instead whether the Collegecould continue to function at all. The times, as the Bursar so trulysaid, were extraordinarily difficult. Older members had heard of suchtimes very often before from dozens of previous Bursars and were lessdisturbed. I am not suggesting for a moment that the Bursar of Bractonwas in any way misrepresenting the position. It is very seldom that theaffairs of a large corporation, indefinitely committed to theadvancement of learning, can be described as being, in a quiteunambiguous sense, satisfactory. His delivery was excellent. Eachsentence was a model of lucidity: and if his hearers found the gist ofhis whole statement less clear than the parts, that may have been theirown fault. Some minor retrenchments and re-investments which hesuggested were unanimously approved and the College adjourned for tea ina chastened mood. Studdock rang up Jane and told her he would not behome for dinner.

It was not till six o'clock that all the converging lines of thought andfeeling aroused by the earlier business came together upon the questionof selling Bragdon Wood. It was not called "the sale of Bragdon Wood."The Bursar called it the "sale of the area coloured pink on the planwhich, with the Warden's permission, I will now pass round the table."He pointed out quite frankly that this involved the loss of part ofthe Wood. In fact, the proposed N.I.C.E. site still left to the Collegea strip about sixteen feet broad along the far half of the south side,but there was no deception for the Fellows had the plan to look at withtheir own eyes. It was a small-scale plan and not perhaps perfectlyaccurate--only meant to give one a general idea. In answer to questionshe admitted that unfortunately--or perhaps fortunately--the Well itselfwas in the area which the N.I.C.E. wanted. The rights of the College toaccess would, of course, be guaranteed: and the Well and its pavementwould be preserved by the Institute in a manner to satisfy all thearchaeologists in the world. He refrained from offering any advice andmerely mentioned the quite astonishing figure which the N.I.C.E. wasoffering. After that, the meeting became lively. The advantages of thesale discovered themselves one by one like ripe fruit dropping into thehand. It solved the problem of the wall: it solved the problem ofprotecting ancient monuments: it solved the financial problem: it lookedlike solving the problem of the junior Fellows' stipends. It appearedfurther that the N.I.C.E. regarded this as the only possible site inEdgestow: if by any chance Bracton would not sell, the whole schememiscarried and the Institute would undoubtedly go to Cambridge. It waseven drawn out of the Bursar by much questioning that he knew of aCambridge college very anxious to sell.

The few real "Die-hards" present, to whom Bragdon Wood was almost abasic assumption of life, could hardly bring themselves to realise whatwas happening. When they found their voices, they struck a discordantnote amid the general buzz of cheerful comment. They were manoeuvred intothe position of appearing as the party who passionately desired to seeBragdon surrounded with barbed wire. When at last old Jewel, blind andshaky and almost weeping, rose to his feet, his voice was hardlyaudible. Men turned round to gaze at, and some to admire, the clear-cut,half-childish face and the white hair which had become more conspicuousas the long room grew darker. But only those close to him could hearwhat he said. At this moment Lord Feverstone sprang to his feet, foldedhis arms, and looking straight at the old man said in a very loud, clearvoice:

"If Canon Jewel wishes us not to hear his views, I suggest that hisend could be better attained by silence."

Jewel had been already an old man in the days before the first war whenold men were treated with kindness, and he had never succeeded ingetting used to the modern world. He stared with puzzled eyes in thedirection of Feverstone. For a moment as he stood with his head thrustforward, people thought he was going to reply. Then quite suddenly hespread out his hands with a gesture of helplessness, shrunk back, andbegan laboriously to resume his chair.

The motion was carried.

V

After leaving the flat that morning Jane also had gone down to Edgestowand bought a hat. She had before now expressed some contempt for thekind of woman who buys hats, as a man buys drinks, for a stimulant and aconsolation. It did not occur to her that she was doing so herself onthis occasion. She liked her clothes to be rather severe and in coloursthat were really good on serious aesthetic grounds--clothes which wouldmake it plain to everyone that she was an intelligent adult and not awoman of the chocolate-box variety--and because of this preference shedid not know that she was interested in clothes at all. She wastherefore a little annoyed when Mrs. Dimble met her coming out ofSparrow's and said: "Hullo, dear! Been buying a hat? Come home to lunchand let's see it. Cecil has the car just round the corner."

Cecil Dimble, a Fellow of Northumberland, had been Jane's tutor for herlast years as a student, and Mrs. Dimble (one tended to call her "MotherDimble") had been a kind of universal aunt to all the girls of her year.A liking for the female pupils of one's husband is not, perhaps, socommon as might be wished among dons' wives: but Mrs. Dimble appeared tolike all Dr. Dimble's pupils of both sexes and the Dimble's house, awayon the far side of the river, was a kind of noisy salon all the term.She had been particularly fond of Jane with that kind of affection whicha humorous, easy natured and childless woman sometimes feels for a girlwhom she thinks pretty and slightly absurd. For the last year or so Janehad been somewhat losing sight of the Dimbles and felt rather guiltyabout it. She accepted the invitation to lunch.

They drove over the bridge to the north of Bracton and then south alongthe bank of the Wynd, past the cottages, then left and eastward at theNorman church and down the straight road with the poplars on one sideand the wall of Bragdon Wood on the other, and so finally to theDimbles' front door.

"How lovely it's looking!" said Jane quite sincerely as she got out ofthe car. The Dimbles' garden was famous.

"You'd better take a good look at it then," said Dr. Dimble.

"What do you mean?" asked Jane.

"Haven't you told her?" said Dr. Dimble to his wife.

"I haven't screwed myself up to it yet," said Mrs. Dimble. "Besides,poor dear, her husband is one of the villains of the piece. Anyway, Iexpect she knows."

"I've no idea what you're talking about," said Jane.

"Your own college is being so tiresome, dear. They're turning us out.They won't renew the lease."

"Oh, Mrs. Dimble!" exclaimed Jane. "And I didn't even know this wasBracton property."

"There you are!" said Mrs. Dimble. "One half of the world doesn't knowhow the other half lives. Here have I been imagining that you were usingall your influence with Mr. Studdock to try to save us, whereas inreality----"

"Mark never talks to me about College business."

"Good husbands never do," said Dr. Dimble. "At least only about thebusiness of other people's colleges. That's why Margaret knows all aboutBracton and nothing about Northumberland. Is no one coming in to havelunch?"

Dimble guessed that Bracton was going to sell the Wood and everythingelse it owned on that side of the river. The whole region seemed to himnow even more of a paradise than when he first came to live theretwenty-five years ago, and he felt much too strongly on the subject towish to talk about it before the wife of one of the Bracton men.

"You'll have to wait for your lunch till I've seen Jane's new hat," saidMother Dimble, and forthwith hurried Jane upstairs. Then followed someminutes of conversation which was strictly feminine in the old-fashionedsense. Jane, while preserving a certain sense of superiority, found itindefinably comforting: and though Mrs. Dimble had really the wrongpoint of view about such things, there was no denying that the one smallalteration which she suggested did go to the root of the matter. Whenthe hat was being put away again Mrs. Dimble suddenly said:

"There's nothing wrong, is there?"

"Wrong," said Jane. "Why? What should there be?"

"You're not looking yourself."

"Oh, I'm all right," said Jane, aloud. Mentally she added: "She's dyingto know whether I'm going to have a baby. That sort of woman always is."

"Do you hate being kissed?" said Mrs. Dimble unexpectedly.

"Do I hate being kissed?" thought Jane to herself. "That indeed is thequestion. Do I hate being kissed? Hope not for mind in women----" She hadintended to reply "Of course not," but inexplicably, and to her greatannoyance, found herself crying instead. And then, for a moment, Mrs.Dimble became simply a grown-up as grown-ups had been when one was avery small child: large, warm, soft objects to whom one ran with bruisedknees or broken toys. When she thought of her childhood Jane usuallyremembered those occasions on which the voluminous embrace of nurse ormother had been unwelcome and resisted as an insult to one's maturity:now, for the moment, she was back in those forgotten, yet notinfrequent, times when fear or misery induced a willing surrender andsurrender brought comfort. Not to detest being petted and pawed wascontrary to her whole theory of life: yet before they went downstairsshe had told Mrs. Dimble that she was not going to have a baby but was abit depressed from being very much alone and from a nightmare.

During lunch Dr. Dimble talked about the Arthurian legend. "It's reallywonderful," he said, "how the whole thing hangs together, even in a lateversion like Malory's. You've noticed how there are two sets ofcharacters? There's Guinevere and Launcelot and all those people in thecentre: all very courtly and nothing particularly British about them.But then in the background--on the other side of Arthur, so tospeak--there are all those dark people like Morgan and Morgawse, whoare very British indeed and usually more or less hostile though they arehis own relatives. Mixed up with magic. You remember that wonderfulphrase, how Queen Morgan 'set all the country in fire with ladies thatwere enchantresses.' Merlin too, of course, is British, though nothostile. Doesn't it look very like a picture of Britain as it must havebeen on the eve of the invasion?"

"How do you mean, Dr. Dimble?" said Jane.

"Well, wouldn't there have been one section of society that was almostpurely Roman? People wearing togas and talking a CelticisedLatin--something that would sound to us rather like Spanish: and fullyChristian. But farther up country, in the out-of-the-way places, cut offby the forests, there would have been little courts ruled by real oldBritish under-kings, talking something like Welsh, and practising acertain amount of the Druidical religion."

"And which would Arthur himself have been?" said Jane. It was silly thather heart should have missed a beat at the words "rather like Spanish."

"That's just the point," said Dr. Dimble. "One can imagine a man of theold British line, but also a Christian and a fully-trained general withRoman technique, trying to pull this whole society together and almostsucceeding. There'd be jealousy from his own British family, and theRomanised section--the Lancelots and Lionels--would look down on theBritons. That'd be why Kay is always represented as a boor: he is partof the native strain. And always that under-tow, that tug back toDruidism."

"And where would Merlin be?"

"Yes. . . . He's the really interesting figure. Did the whole thing failbecause he died so soon? Has it ever struck you what an odd creationMerlin is? He's not evil: yet he's a magician. He is obviously a druid:yet he knows all about the Grail. He's 'the devil's son': but thenLayamon goes out of his way to tell you that the kind of being whofathered Merlin needn't have been bad after all. You remember: 'Theredwell in the sky many kinds of wights. Some of them are good, and somework evil.'"

"It is rather puzzling. I hadn't thought of it before."

"I often wonder," said Dr. Dimble, "whether Merlin doesn't represent thelast trace of something the later tradition has quite forgottenabout--something that became impossible when the only people in touchwith the supernatural were either white or black, either priests orsorcerers."

"What a horrid idea," said Mrs. Dimble, who had noticed that Jane seemedto be preoccupied. "Anyway, Merlin happened a long time ago if hehappened at all, and he's safely dead and buried under Bragdon Wood aswe all know."

"Buried but not dead, according to the story," corrected Dr. Dimble.

"Ugh!" said Jane involuntarily, but Dr. Dimble was musing aloud.

"I wonder what they will find if they start digging up that place forthe foundations of their N.I.C.E.," he said.

"First mud and then water," said Mrs. Dimble. "That's why they can'treally build it there."

"So you'd think," said her husband. "And if so, why should they want tocome here at all? A little cockney like Jules is not likely to beinfluenced by any poetic fancy about Merlin's mantle having fallen onhim!"

"Merlin's mantle indeed!" said Mrs. Dimble.

"Yes," said the Doctor. "It's a rum idea. I dare say some of his setwould like to recover the mantle well enough. Whether they'll be bigenough to fill it is another matter! I don't think they'd like it if theold man himself came back to life along with it."

"That child's going to faint," said Mrs. Dimble suddenly jumping up.

"Hullo! What's the matter?" said Dr. Dimble, looking with amazement atJane's face. "Is the room too hot for you?"

"Oh, it's too ridiculous," said Jane.

"Let's come into the drawing-room," said Dr. Dimble. "Here. Lean on myarm."

A little later, in the drawing-room, seated beside a window that openedonto the lawn, now strewn with bright yellow leaves, Jane attempted toexcuse her absurd behaviour by telling the story of her dream. "Isuppose I've given myself away dreadfully," she said. "You can bothstart psycho-analysing me now."

From Dr. Dimble's face Jane might have indeed conjectured that her dreamhad shocked him exceedingly. "Extraordinary thing . . . mostextraordinary," he kept muttering. "Two heads. And one of themAlcasan's. Now is that a false scent?"

"Don't, Cecil," said Mrs. Dimble.

"Do you think I ought to be analysed?" said Jane.

"Analysed?" said Dr. Dimble, glancing at her as if he had not quiteunderstood. "Oh, I see. You mean going to Brizeacre or someone of thatsort?" Jane realised that her question had recalled him from some quitedifferent train of thought and even--disconcertingly--that the problem ofher own health had been shouldered aside. The telling of her dream hadraised some other problem, though what this was she could not evenimagine.

Dr. Dimble looked out of the window. "There is my dullest pupil justringing the bell," he said. "I must go to the study and listen to anessay on Swift beginning 'Swift was born.' Must try to keep my mind onit, too, which won't be easy." He rose and stood for a moment with hishand on Jane's shoulder. "Look here," he said, "I'm not going to giveany advice. But if you do decide to go to anyone about that dream, Iwish you would first consider going to someone whose address Margeryor I will give you."

"You don't believe in Mr. Brizeacre?" said Jane.

"I can't explain," said Dr. Dimble. "Not now. It's all so complicated.Try not to bother about it. But if you do, just let us know first.Good-bye."

Almost immediately after his departure some other visitors arrived, sothat there was no opportunity of further private conversation betweenJane and her hostess. She left the Dimbles about half an hour later andwalked home, not along the road with the poplars but by the footpathacross the common, past the donkeys and the geese, with the towers andspires of Edgestow to her left and the old windmill on the horizon toher right.

TWO

Dinner with the Sub-Warden

I

"This is a blow!" said Curry, standing in front of the fireplace in hismagnificent rooms which overlooked Newton. They were the best set inCollege.

"Something from N.O.?" said James Busby. He and Lord Feverstone and Markwere all drinking sherry before dining with Curry. N.O., which stood forNon Olet, was the nickname of Charles Place, the Warden of Bracton.His election to this post, some fifteen years before, had been one ofthe earliest triumphs of the Progressive Element. By dint of saying thatthe College needed "new blood" and must be shaken out of its "academicgrooves" they had succeeded in bringing in an elderly civil servant whohad certainly never been contaminated by academic weaknesses since heleft his rather obscure Cambridge college in the previous century, butwho had written a monumental report on National Sanitation. The subjecthad, if anything, rather recommended him to the Progressive Element.They regarded it as a slap in the face for the dilettanti andDie-hards, who replied by christening their new warden Non Olet. Butgradually even Place's supporters had adopted the name. For Place hadnot answered their expectations, having turned out to be a dyspepticwith a taste for philately, whose voice was so seldom heard that some ofthe junior Fellows did not know what it sounded like.

"Yes, blast him," said Curry. "Wishes to see me on a most importantmatter as soon as I can conveniently call on him after dinner."

"That means," said the Bursar, "that Jewel and Co. have been getting athim and want to find some way of going back on the whole business."

"I don't give a damn for that," said Curry. "How can you go back on aresolution? It isn't that. But it's enough to muck up the wholeevening."

"Only your evening," said Feverstone. "Don't forget to leave out thatvery special brandy of yours before you go."

"Jewel! Good God!" said Busby, burying his left hand in his beard.

"I was rather sorry for old Jewel," said Mark. His motives for sayingthis were very mixed. To do him justice, it must be said that the quiteunexpected and apparently unnecessary brutality of Feverstone'sbehaviour to the old man had disgusted him. And then, too, the wholeidea of his debt to Feverstone in the matter of his own Fellowship hadbeen rankling all day. Who was this man Feverstone? But paradoxically,even while he felt that the time had come for asserting his ownindependence and showing that his agreement with all the methods of theProgressive Element must not be taken for granted, he also felt that alittle independence would raise him to a higher position within thatElement itself. If the idea "Feverstone will think all the more of youfor showing your teeth" had occurred to him in so many words, he wouldhave probably have rejected it as servile; but it didn't.

"Sorry for Jewel?" said Curry, wheeling round. "You wouldn't say that ifyou knew what he was like in his prime."

"I agree with you," said Feverstone to Mark, "but then I take theClausewitz view. Total war is the most humane in the long run. I shuthim up instantaneously. Now that he's got over the shock he's quiteenjoying himself, because I've fully confirmed everything he's beensaying about the younger generation for the last forty years. What wasthe alternative? To let him drivel on until he'd worked himself into acoughing fit or a heart attack, and give him in addition thedisappointment of finding that he was treated civilly."

"That's a point of view, certainly," said Mark.

"Damn it all," continued Feverstone, "no man likes to have hisstock-in-trade taken away. What would poor Curry, here, do if theDie-hards one day all refused to do any die-harding? Othello'soccupation would be gone."

"Dinner is served, sir," said Curry's "Shooter"--for that is what theycall a college servant at Bracton.

"That's all rot, Dick," said Curry as they sat down. "There's nothing Ishould like better than to see the end of all these Die-hards andobstructionists and be able to get on with the job. You don't suppose Ilike having to spend all my time merely getting the road clear?" Marknoticed that his host was a little nettled at Lord Feverstone's banter.The latter had an extremely virile and infectious laugh. Mark felt hewas beginning to like him.

"The job being . . . ?" said Feverstone, not exactly glancing, much lesswinking, at Mark, but making him feel that he was somehow being includedin the fun.

"Well, some of us have got work of our own to do," replied Curry,dropping his voice to give it a more serious tone, almost as some peopledrop their voices to speak of medical or religious matters.

"I never knew you were that sort of person," said Feverstone.

"That's the worst of the whole system," said Curry. "In a place likethis you've either got to be content to see everything go to pieces--Imean, become stagnant--or else to sacrifice your own career as a scholarto all these infernal college politics. One of these days I shallchuck that side of it and get down to my book. The stuff's all there,you know, Feverstone. One long vacation clear and I really believe Icould put it into shape."

Mark, who had never seen Curry baited before, was beginning to enjoyhimself.

"I see," said Feverstone. "In order to keep the place going as a learnedsociety, all the best brains in it have to give up doing anything aboutlearning."

"Exactly!" said Curry. "That's just--" and then stopped, uncertainwhether he was being taken quite seriously. Feverstone burst intolaughter. The Bursar, who had up till now been busily engaged in eating,wiped his beard carefully and spoke.

"All that's very well in theory," he said, "but I think Curry's quiteright. Supposing he resigned his office as sub-warden and retired intohis cave. He might give us a thundering good book on economics----"

"Economics?" said Feverstone, lifting his eyebrows.

"I happen to be a military historian, James," said Curry. He was oftensomewhat annoyed at the difficulty which his colleagues seemed to findin remembering what particular branch of learning he had been elected topursue.

"I mean military history, of course," said Busby. "As I say, he mightgive us a thundering good book on military history. But it would besuperseded in twenty years. Whereas the work he is actually doing forthe College will benefit it for centuries. This whole business, now, ofbringing the N.I.C.E. to Edgestow. What about a thing like that,Feverstone? I'm not speaking merely of the financial side of it, thoughas Bursar I naturally rate that pretty high. But think of the new life,the awakening of new vision, the stirring of dormant impulses. Whatwould any book on economics----"

"Military history," said Feverstone gently, but this time Busby did nothear him.

"What would any book on economics be, compared with a thing like that?"he continued. "I look upon it as the greatest triumph of practicalidealism that this century has yet seen."

The good wine was beginning to do its good office. We have all known thekind of clergyman who tends to forget his clerical collar after thethird glass: but Busby's habit was the reverse. It was after the thirdglass that he began to remember his collar. As wine and candlelightloosened his tongue, the parson still latent within him after thirtyyears' apostasy began to wake into a strange galvanic life.

"As you chaps know," he said, "I make no claim to orthodoxy. But ifreligion is understood in the deepest sense, I have no hesitation insaying that Curry, by bringing the N.I.C.E. to Edgestow, has done morefor it in one year than Jewel has done in his whole life."

"Well," said Curry modestly, "that's rather the sort of thing one hadhoped. I mightn't put it exactly as you do, James----"

"No, no," said the Bursar. "Of course not. We all have our differentlanguages; but we all really mean the same thing."

"Has anyone discovered," asked Feverstone, "what, precisely, theN.I.C.E. is, or what it intends to do?"

Curry looked at him with a slightly startled expression. "That comesoddly from you, Dick," he said. "I thought you were in on it yourself."

"Isn't it a little naïve," said Feverstone, "to suppose that being in ona thing involves any distinct knowledge of its official programme?"

"Oh well, if you mean details," said Curry, and then stopped.

"Surely, Feverstone," said Busby, "you're making a great mystery aboutnothing. I should have thought the objects of the N.I.C.E. were prettyclear. It's the first attempt to take applied science seriously from thenational point of view. The difference in scale between it and anythingwe've had before amounts to a difference in kind. The buildings alone,the apparatus alone!--think what it has done already for industry. Thinkhow it is going to mobilise all the talent of the country: and not onlyscientific talent in the narrower sense. Fifteen departmental directorsat fifteen thousand a year each! Its own legal staff! Its own police,I'm told! Its own permanent staff of architects, surveyors, engineers!The thing's stupendous!"

"Careers for our sons," said Feverstone. "I see."

"What do you mean by that, Lord Feverstone?" said Busby, putting downhis glass.

"God!" said Feverstone, his eyes laughing. "What a brick to drop. I'dquite forgotten you had a family, James."

"I agree with James," said Curry, who had been waiting somewhatimpatiently to speak. "The N.I.C.E. marks the beginning of a new era--thereally scientific era. Up to now everything has been haphazard. Thisis going to put science itself on a scientific basis. There are to beforty interlocking committees sitting every day and they've got awonderful gadget--I was shown the model last time I was in town--by whichthe findings of each committee print themselves off in their own littlecompartment on the Analytical Notice-Board every half-hour. Then thatreport slides itself into the right position where it's connected up bylittle arrows with all the relevant parts of the other reports. A glanceat the board shows you the policy of the whole Institute actually takingshape under your own eyes. There'll be a staff of at least twentyexperts at the top of the building working this notice-board in a roomrather like the Tube control rooms. It's a marvellous gadget. Thedifferent kinds of business all come out in the board in differentcoloured lights. It must have cost half a million. They call it aPragmatometer."

"And there," said Busby, "you see again what the Institute is alreadydoing for the country. Pragmatometry is going to be a big thing.Hundreds of people are going in for it. Why, this AnalyticalNotice-Board will probably be out of date before the building isfinished!"

"Yes, by Jove," said Feverstone, "and N.O. himself told me this morningthat the sanitation of the Institute was going to be something quite outof the ordinary."

"So it is," said Busby sturdily. "I don't see why one should think thatunimportant."

"And what do you think about it, Studdock?" said Feverstone.

"I think," said Mark, "that James touched on the most important pointwhen he said that it would have its own legal staff and its own police.I don't give a fig for Pragmatometers and sanitation de luxe. The realthing is that this time we're going to get science applied to socialproblems and backed by the whole force of the state, just as war hasbeen backed by the whole force of the state in the past. One hopes, ofcourse, that it'll find out more than the old free-lance science did:but what's certain is that it can do more."

"Damn," said Curry, looking at his watch. "I'll have to go and talk toN.O. now. If you people would like any brandy when you've finished yourwine, it's in that cupboard. You'll find balloon glasses on the shelfabove. I'll be back as soon as I can. You're not going, James, are you?"

"Yes," said the Bursar. "I'm going to bed early. Don't let me break upthe party for you two. I've been on my legs nearly all day, you know. Aman's a fool to hold any office in this College. Continual anxiety.Crushing responsibility. And then you get people suggesting that all thelittle research-beetles who never poke their noses outside theirlibraries and laboratories are the real workers! I'd like to see Glossopor any of that lot face the sort of day's work I've had to-day. Curry,my lad, you'd have had an easier life if you'd stuck to economics."

"I've told you before--" began Curry, but the Bursar, now risen, wasbending over Lord Feverstone and telling him a funny story.

As soon as the two men had got out of the room Lord Feverstone lookedsteadily at Mark for some seconds with an enigmatic expression. Then hechuckled. Then the chuckle developed into a laugh. He threw his lean,muscular body well back into his chair and laughed louder and louder. Hewas very infectious in his laughter and Mark found himself laughingtoo--quite sincerely and even helplessly, like a child."Pragmatometers--palatial lavatories--practical idealism," gaspedFeverstone. It was a moment of extraordinary liberation for Mark. Allsorts of things about Curry and Busby which he had not previouslynoticed, or else, noticing, had slurred over in his reverence for theProgressive Element, came back to his mind. He wondered how he couldhave been so blind to the funny side of them.

"It really is rather devastating," said Feverstone when he had partiallyrecovered, "that the people one has to use for getting things doneshould talk such drivel the moment you ask them about the thingsthemselves."

"And yet they are, in a sense, the brains of Bracton," said Mark.

"Good Lord, no! Glossop and Bill the Blizzard and even old Jewel haveten times their intelligence."

"I didn't know you took that view."

"I think Glossop etc. are quite mistaken. I think their idea of cultureand knowledge and what not is unrealistic. I don't think it fits theworld we're living in. It's a mere fantasy. But it is quite a clear ideaand they follow it out consistently. They know what they want. But ourtwo poor friends, though they can be persuaded to take the right train,or even to drive it, haven't a ghost of a notion where it's going to, orwhy. They'll sweat blood to bring the N.I.C.E. to Edgestow: that's whythey're indispensable. But what the point of the N.I.C.E. is, what thepoint of anything is--ask them another. Pragmatometry! Fifteensub-directors!"

"Well, perhaps I'm in the same boat myself."

"Not at all. You saw the point at once. I knew you would. I've readeverything you've written since you were in for your Fellowship. That'swhat I wanted to talk to you about."

Mark was silent. The giddy sensation of being suddenly whirled up fromone plane of secrecy to another, coupled with the growing effect ofCurry's excellent port, prevented him from speaking.

"I want you to come into the Institute," said Feverstone.

"You mean--to leave Bracton?"

"That makes no odds. Anyway, I don't suppose there's anything you wanthere. We'd make Curry warden when N.O. retires and----"

"They were talking of making you warden."

"God!" said Feverstone, and stared. Mark realised that from Feverstone'spoint of view this was like the suggestion that he should becomeHeadmaster of a small idiots' school, and thanked his stars that his ownremark had not been uttered in a tone that made it obviously serious.Then they both laughed again.

"You," said Feverstone, "would be absolutely wasted as warden. That'sthe job for Curry. He'll do it very well. You want a man who lovesbusiness and wire-pulling for their own sake and doesn't really ask whatit's all about. If he did, he'd start bringing in his own--well, Isuppose he'd call them 'ideas.' As it is, we've only got to tell himthat he thinks so-and-so is a man the College wants, and he will thinkit. And then he'll never rest till so-and-so gets a fellowship. That'swhat we want the College for: a drag net, a recruiting office."

"A recruiting office for the N.I.C.E., you mean?"

"Yes, in the first instance. But it's only one part of the generalshow."

"I'm not sure that I know what you mean."

"You soon will. The home side, and all that, you know! It sounds ratherin Busby's style to say that humanity is at the cross-roads. But it isthe main question at the moment: which side one's on--obscurantism ororder. It does really look as if we now had the power to dig ourselvesin as a species for a pretty staggering period; to take control of ourown destiny. If Science is really given a free hand it can now take overthe human race and recondition it; make man a really efficient animal.If it doesn't--well, we're done."

"Go on."

"There are three main problems. First, the interplanetary problem."

"What on earth do you mean?"

"Well, that doesn't really matter. We can't do anything about that atpresent. The only man who could help was Weston."

"He was killed in a blitz, wasn't he?"

"He was murdered."

"Murdered?"

"I'm pretty sure of it, and I've a shrewd idea who the murderer was."

"Good God! Can nothing be done?"

"There's no evidence. The murderer is a respectable Cambridge don withweak eyes, a game leg, and a fair beard. He's dined in this College."

"What was Weston murdered for?"

"For being on our side. The murderer is one of the enemy."

"You don't mean to say he murdered him for that?"

"Yes," said Feverstone, bringing his hand down smartly on the table."That's just the point. You'll hear people like Curry or James burblingaway about the 'war' against reaction. It never enters their heads thatit might be a real war with real casualties. They think the violentresistance of the other side ended with the persecution of Galileo andall that. But don't believe it. It is just seriously beginning. Theyknow now that we have at last got real powers: that the question ofwhat humanity is to be is going to be decided in the next sixty years.They're going to fight every inch. They'll stop at nothing."

"They can't win," said Mark.

"We'll hope not," said Lord Feverstone. "I think they can't. That is whyit is of such immense importance to each of us to choose the right side.If you try to be neutral you become simply a pawn."

"Oh, I haven't any doubt which is my side," said Mark. "Hang itall--the preservation of the human race--it's a pretty rock-bottomobligation."

"Well, personally," said Feverstone, "I'm not indulging in any Busbyismsabout that. It's a little fantastic to base one's actions on a supposedconcern for what's going to happen millions of years hence; and you mustremember that the other side would claim to be preserving humanity too.Both can be explained psycho-analytically if they take that line. Thepractical point is that you and I don't like being pawns, and we dorather like fighting--specially on the winning side."

"And what is the first practical step?"

"Yes, that's the real question. As I said, the interplanetary problemmust be left on one side for the moment. The second problem is ourrivals on this planet. I don't mean only insects and bacteria. There'sfar too much life of every kind about, animal and vegetable. We haven'treally cleared the place yet. First we couldn't; and then we hadaesthetic and humanitarian scruples: and we still haven'tshort-circuited the question of the balance of Nature. All that is to begone into. The third problem is man himself."

"Go on. This interests me very much."

"Man has got to take charge of man. That means, remember, that some menhave got to take charge of the rest--which is another reason for cashingin on it as soon as one can. You and I want to be the people who do thetaking charge, not the ones who are taken charge of. Quite."

"What sort of thing have you in mind?"

"Quite simple and obvious things, at first--sterilisation of the unfit,liquidation of backward races (we don't want any dead weights),selective breeding. Then real education, including pre-natal education.By real education I mean one that has no 'take-it-or-leave-it' nonsense.A real education makes the patient what it wants infallibly: whatever heor his parents try to do about it. Of course, it'll have to be mainlypsychological at first. But we'll get on to biochemical conditioning inthe end and direct manipulation of the brain."

"But this is stupendous, Feverstone."

"It's the real thing at last. A new type of man: and it's people likeyou who've got to begin to make him."

"That's my trouble. Don't think it's false modesty: but I haven't yetseen how I can contribute."

"No, but we have. You are what we need; a trained sociologist with aradically realistic outlook, not afraid of responsibility. Also, asociologist who can write."

"You don't mean you want me to write up all this?"

"No. We want you to write it down--to camouflage it. Only for thepresent, of course. Once the thing gets going we shan't have to botherabout the great heart of the British public. We'll make the great heartwhat we want it to be. But in the meantime it does make a differencehow things are put. For instance, if it were even whispered that theN.I.C.E. wanted powers to experiment on criminals, you'd have all theold women of both sexes up in arms and yapping about humanity: call itre-education of the mal-adjusted and you have them all slobbering withdelight that the brutal era of retributive punishment has at last cometo an end. Odd thing it is--the word 'experiment' is unpopular, but notthe word 'experimental.' You mustn't experiment on children: but offerthe dear little kiddies free education in an experimental schoolattached to the N.I.C.E. and it's all correct!"

"You don't mean that this--er--journalistic side would be my main job?"

"It's nothing to do with journalism. Your readers in the first instancewould be committees of the House of Commons, not the public. But thatwould only be a side line. As for the job itself--why, it's impossible tosay how it might develop. Talking to a man like you, I don't stress thefinancial side. You'd start at something quite modest: say about fifteenhundred a year."

"I wasn't thinking about that," said Mark, flushing with pureexcitement.

"Of course," said Feverstone, "I ought to warn you, there is the danger.Not yet, perhaps. But when things really begin to hum it's quite on thecards they may try to bump you off, like poor old Weston."

"I don't think I was thinking about that either," said Mark.

"Look here," said Feverstone. "Let me run you across to-morrow to seeJohn Wither. He told me to bring you for the week-end if you wereinterested. You'll meet all the important people there, and it'll giveyou a chance to make up your mind."

"How does Wither come into it? I thought Jules was the head of theN.I.C.E." Jules was a distinguished novelist and scientific populariserwhose name always appeared before the public in connection with the newInstitute.

"Jules! Hell's bells!" said Feverstone. "You don't imagine that littlemascot has anything to say to what really goes on? He's all right forselling the Institute to the great British public in the Sunday papersand he draws a whacking salary. He's no use for work. There's nothinginside his head except some nineteenth-century socialist stuff, and blahabout the rights of man. He's just about got as far as Darwin!"

"Oh quite," said Mark. "I was always rather puzzled at his being in theshow at all. Do you know, since you're so kind, I think I'd betteraccept your offer and go over to Withers for the week-end. What timewould you be starting?"

"About quarter to eleven. They tell me you live out Sandown way. I couldcall and pick you up."

"Thanks very much. Now tell me about Wither."

"John Wither," began Feverstone, but suddenly broke off. "Damn!" hesaid. "Here comes Curry. Now we shall have to hear everything N.O. saidand how wonderfully the arch-politician has managed him. Don't run away.I shall need your moral support."

II

The last bus had gone long before Mark left College, and he walked homeup the hill in brilliant moonlight. Something happened to him the momenthe had let himself into the flat which was very unusual. He foundhimself, on the door-mat, embracing a frightened, half-sobbing Jane--evena humble Jane, who was saying, "Oh, Mark, I've been so frightened."

There was a quality in the very muscles of his wife's body which tookhim by surprise. A certain indefinable defensiveness had momentarilydeserted her. He had known such occasions before, but they were rare.They were already becoming rarer. And they tended, in his experience, tobe followed next day by inexplicable quarrels. This puzzled him greatly,but he had never put his bewilderment into words.

It is doubtful whether he could have understood her feelings even ifthey had been explained to him; and Jane, in any case, could not haveexplained them. She was in extreme confusion. But the reasons for herunusual behaviour on this particular evening were simple enough. She hadgot back from the Dimbles at about half-past four, feeling muchexhilarated by her walk and hungry, and quite sure that her experienceson the previous night and at lunch were over and done with. She had hadto light up and draw the curtains before she had finished tea, for thedays were getting short. While doing so the thought had come into hermind that her fright at the dream and at the mere mention of a mantle,an old man, an old man buried but not dead, and a language like Spanish,had really been as irrational as a child's fear of the dark. This hadled her to remember moments when she had feared the dark as a child.Perhaps she allowed herself to remember them too long. At any rate, whenshe sat down to drink her last cup of tea, the evening had somehowdeteriorated. It never recovered. First she found it rather difficult tokeep her mind on her book. Then, when she had acknowledged thisdifficulty, she found it difficult to fix on any book. Then she realisedthat she was restless. From being restless she became nervous. Thenfollowed a long time when she was not frightened, but knew that shewould be very frightened indeed if she did not keep herself in hand.Then came a curious reluctance to go into the kitchen to get herselfsome supper, and a difficulty--indeed an impossibility--of eating anythingwhen she had got it. And now there was no disguising the fact that shewas frightened. In desperation she rang up the Dimbles. "I think I mightgo and see the person you suggested, after all," she said. Mrs. Dimble'svoice came back, after a curious little pause, giving her the address.Ironwood was the name, Miss Ironwood, apparently. Jane had assumed itwould be a man and was rather repelled. Miss Ironwood lived out at St.Anne's on the Hill. Jane asked if she should make an appointment. "No,"said Mrs. Dimble, "they'll be--you needn't make an appointment." Janekept the conversation going as long as she could. She had rung up notchiefly to get the address but to hear Mother Dimble's voice. Secretlyshe had had a wild hope that Mother Dimble would recognise her distressand say at once, "I'll come straight up to you by car." Instead, she gotthe mere information and a hurried "Good night." It seemed to Jane thatthere was something queer about Mrs. Dimble's voice. She felt that byringing up she had interrupted a conversation about herself: or no--notabout herself but about something else more important, with which shewas somehow connected. And what had Mrs. Dimble meant by "They'll be.""They'll be expecting you?" Horrible, childish night-nursery visions ofThey "expecting her" passed before her mind. She saw Miss Ironwood,dressed all in black, sitting with her hands folded on her knees andthen someone leading her into Miss Ironwood's presence and saying "She'scome" and leaving her there.

"Damn the Dimbles!" said Jane to herself, and then unsaid it, more infear than in remorse. And now that the life-line had been used andbrought no comfort, the terror, as if insulted by her futile attempt toescape it, rushed back on her with no possibility of disguise, and shecould never afterwards remember whether the horrible old man and themantle had actually appeared to her in a dream or whether she had merelysat there, huddled and wild-eyed, hoping, hoping, hoping (even praying,though she believed in no one to pray to) that they would not.

And that is why Mark found such an unexpected Jane on the door-mat. Itwas a pity, he thought, that this should have happened on a night whenhe was so late and so tired and, to tell the truth, not perfectly sober.

III

"Do you feel quite all right this morning?" said Mark.

"Yes, thank you," said Jane shortly.

Mark was lying in bed and drinking a cup of tea. Jane was seated at thedressing-table, partially dressed, and doing her hair. Mark's eyesrested on her with indolent, early morning pleasure. If he guessed verylittle of the maladjustment between them this was partly due to ourrace's incurable habit of "projection." We think the lamb gentle becauseits wool is soft to our hands: men call a woman voluptuous when shearouses voluptuous feelings in them. Jane's body, soft though firm andslim though rounded, was so exactly to Mark's mind that it was all butimpossible for him not to attribute to her the same sensations which sheexcited in him.

"You're quite sure you're all right?" he asked again.

"Quite," said Jane, more shortly still.

Jane thought she was annoyed because her hair was not going up to herliking and because Mark was fussing. She also knew, of course, that shewas deeply angry with herself for the collapse which had betrayed herlast night, into being what she most detested--the fluttering, tearful"little woman" of sentimental fiction running for comfort to male arms.But she thought this anger was only in the back of her mind, and had nosuspicion that it was pulsing through every vein and producing at thatvery moment the clumsiness in her fingers which made her hair seemintractable.

"Because," continued Mark, "if you felt the least bit uncomfortable, Icould put off going to see this man Wither."

Jane said nothing.

"If I did go," said Mark, "I'd certainly have to be away for the night;perhaps two."

Jane closed her lips a little more firmly and still said nothing.

"Supposing I did," said Mark, "you wouldn't think of asking Myrtle overto stay?"

"No thank you," said Jane emphatically; and then, "I'm quite accustomedto being alone."

"I know," said Mark in a rather defensive voice. "That's the devil ofthe way things are in College at present. That's one of the chiefreasons I'm thinking of another job."

Jane was still silent.

"Look here, old thing," said Mark, suddenly sitting up and throwing hislegs out of bed. "There's no good beating about the bush. I don't feelcomfortable about going away while you're in your present state----"

"What state?" said Jane, turning round and facing him for the firsttime.

"Well--I mean--just a bit nervy--as anyone may be temporarily."

"Because I happened to be having a nightmare when you came home lastnight--or rather this morning--there's no need to talk as if I was aneurasthenic." This was not in the least what Jane had intended orexpected to say.

"Now there's no good going on like that . . ." began Mark.

"Like what?" said Jane loudly, and then, before he had time to reply,"If you've decided that I'm going mad you'd better get Brizeacre to comedown and certify me. It would be convenient to do it while you're away.They could get me packed off while you are at Mr. Wither's without anyfuss. I'm going to see about the breakfast now. If you don't shave anddress pretty quickly, you'll not be ready when Lord Feverstone calls."

The upshot of it was that Mark gave himself a very bad cut while shaving(and saw, at once, a picture of himself talking to the all-importantWither with a great blob of cotton wool on his upper lip), while Janedecided, from a mixture of motives, to cook Mark an unusually elaboratebreakfast--of which she would rather die than eat any herself--and did sowith the swift efficiency of an angry woman, only to upset it all overthe new stove at the last moment. They were still at the table and bothpretending to read newspapers when Lord Feverstone arrived. Mostunfortunately Mrs. Maggs arrived at the same moment. Mrs. Maggs was thatelement in Jane's economy represented by the phrase "I have a woman whocomes in twice a week." Twenty years earlier Jane's mother would haveaddressed such a functionary as "Maggs" and been addressed by her as"Mum." But Jane and her "woman who came in" called one another Mrs.Maggs and Mrs. Studdock. They were about the same age and to abachelor's eye there was no very noticeable difference in the clothesthey wore. It was therefore perhaps not inexcusable that when Markattempted to introduce Feverstone to his wife Feverstone should haveshaken Mrs. Maggs by the hand: but it did not sweeten the last fewminutes before the two men departed.

Jane left the flat under pretence of shopping almost at once. "I reallycouldn't stand Mrs. Maggs to-day," she said to herself. "She's aterrible talker." So that was Lord Feverstone--that man with the loud,unnatural laugh and the mouth like a shark, and no manners. Apparently aperfect fool, too! What good could it do Mark to go about with a manlike that? Jane had distrusted his face. She could always tell--there wassomething shifty about him. Probably he was making a fool of Mark. Markwas so easily taken in. If only he wasn't at Bracton! It was a horriblecollege. What did Mark see in people like Mr. Curry and the odious oldclergyman with the beard? And meanwhile, what of the day that awaitedher, and the night, and the next night, and beyond that--for when men saythey may be away for two nights it means that two nights is the minimumand they hope to be away for a week. A telegram (never a trunk call)puts it all right as far as they are concerned.

She must do something. She even thought of following Mark's advice andgetting Myrtle to come and stay. But Myrtle was her sister-in-law,Mark's twin sister, with much too much of the adoring sister's attitudeto the brilliant brother. She would talk about Mark's health and hisshirts and socks with a continual undercurrent of unexpressed yetunmistakable astonishment at Jane's good luck in marrying him. No,certainly not Myrtle. Then she thought of going to see Dr. Brizeacre asa patient. He was a Bracton man and would therefore probably charge hernothing. But when she came to think of answering, to Brizeacre of allpeople, the sort of questions which Brizeacre would certainly ask, thisturned out to be impossible. She must do something. In the end, somewhatto her own surprise, she found that she had decided to go out to St.Anne's and see Miss Ironwood. She thought herself a fool for doing so.

IV

An observer placed at the right altitude above Edgestow that day mighthave seen far to the south a moving spot on a main road, and later, tothe east, much nearer the silver thread of the Wynd, and much moreslowly moving, the smoke of a train.

The spot would have been the car which was carrying Mark Studdocktowards the Blood Transfusion Office at Belbury, where the nucleus ofthe N.I.C.E. had taken up its temporary abode. The very size and styleof the car had made a favourable impression on him the moment he saw it.The upholstery was of such quality that one felt it ought to be good toeat. And what fine, male energy (Mark felt sick of women at the moment)revealed itself in the very gestures with which Feverstone settledhimself at the wheel and put his elbow on the horn, and clasped his pipefirmly between his teeth! The speed of the car, even in the narrowstreets of Edgestow, was impressive, and so were the laconic criticismsof Feverstone on other drivers and pedestrians. Once over the levelcrossing and beyond Jane's old college (St. Elizabeth's) he began toshow what his car could do. Their speed became so great that even on arather empty road the inexcusably bad drivers, the manifestlyhalf-witted pedestrians and men with horses, the hen that they actuallyran over and the dogs and hens that Feverstone pronounced "damnedlucky," seemed to follow one another almost without intermission.Telegraph posts raced by, bridges rushed overhead with a roar, villagesstreamed backward to join the country already devoured, and Mark, drunkwith air and at once fascinated and repelled by the insolence ofFeverstone's driving, sat saying "Yes" and "Quite" and "It was theirfault," and stealing sidelong glances at his companion. Certainly, hewas a change from the fussy importance of Curry and the Bursar! Thelong, straight nose and the clenched teeth, the hard bony outlinesbeneath the face, the very way he wore his clothes, all spoke of a bigman driving a big car to somewhere where they would find big stuff goingon. And he, Mark, was to be in it all. At one or two moments when hisheart came into his mouth he wondered whether the quality of LordFeverstone's driving quite justified its speed.

"You need never take a cross-road like that seriously," yelledFeverstone, as they plunged on after the narrowest of these escapes.

"Quite," bawled Mark. "No good making a fetish of them!"

"Drive much yourself?" said Feverstone.

"Used to a good deal," said Mark.

The smoke which our imaginary observer might have seen to the east ofEdgestow would have indicated the train in which Jane Studdock wasprogressing slowly towards the village of St. Anne's. Edgestow itself,for those who had reached it from London, had all the appearances of aterminus: but if you looked about you, you might see presently, in abay, a little train of two or three coaches and a tank engine--a trainthat sizzled and exuded steam from beneath the footboards and in whichmost of the passengers seemed to know one another. On some days, insteadof the third coach, there might be a horse-box, and on the platformthere would be hampers containing dead rabbits or live poultry, and menin brown bowler hats and gaiters, and perhaps a terrier or a sheep-dogthat seemed to be used to travelling. In this train, which started athalf-past one, Jane jerked and rattled along an embankment whence shelooked down through some bare branches and some branches freckled withred and yellow leaves into Bragdon Wood itself and thence through thecutting and over the level-crossing at Bragdon Camp and along the edgeof Brawl Park (the great house was just visible at one point) and so tothe first stop at Duke's Eaton. Here, as at Woolham and Cure Hardy andFourstones, the train settled back, when it stopped, with a little jerkand something like a sigh. And then there would be a noise of milk cansrolling and coarse boots treading on the platform and after that a pausewhich seemed to last long, during which the autumn sunlight grew warm onthe window-pane and smells of wood and field from beyond the tinystation floated in and seemed to claim the railway as part of the land.Passengers got in and out of her carriage at every stop; apple-facedmen, and women with elastic-side boots and imitation fruit on theirhats, and schoolboys. Jane hardly noticed them; for though she wastheoretically an extreme democrat, no social class save her own had yetbecome a reality to her in any place except the printed page. And inbetween the stations things flitted past, so isolated from their contextthat each seemed to promise some unearthly happiness if one could buthave descended from the train at that very moment to seize it: a housebacked with a group of haystacks and wide brown fields about it, twoaged horses standing head to tail, a little orchard with washing hangingon a line, and a rabbit staring at the train, whose two eyes looked likethe dots, and his ears like the uprights, of a double exclamation mark.At quarter-past two she came to St. Anne's, which was the real terminusof the branch, and the end of everything. The air struck her as cold andtonic when she left the station.

Although the train had been chugging and wheezing up-hill for the latterhalf of her journey there was still a climb to be done on foot, for St.Anne's is one of those villages perched on a hilltop which are commonerin Ireland than in England, and the station is some way from thevillage. A winding road between high banks led her up to it. As soon asshe had passed the church she turned left, as she had been instructed,at the Saxon Cross. There were no houses on her left--only a row of beechtrees and unfenced ploughland falling steeply away, and beyond that thetimbered midland plain spreading as far as she could see and blue in thedistance. She was on the highest ground in all that region. Presentlyshe came to a high wall on her right that seemed to run on for a greatway. There was a door in it and beside the door an old iron bell-pull. Akind of flatness of spirit was on her. She felt sure she had come on afool's errand: nevertheless she rang. When the jangling noise had ceasedthere followed a silence so long, and in that upland place so chilly,that Jane began to wonder whether the house were inhabited. Then, justas she was debating whether to ring again or to turn away, she heard thenoise of someone's feet approaching briskly on the inside of the wall.

Meanwhile Lord Feverstone's car had long since arrived at Belbury--aflorid Edwardian mansion which had been built for a millionaire whoadmired Versailles. At the sides it seemed to have sprouted into awidespread outgrowth of newer and lower buildings in cement, whichhoused the Blood Transfusion Office.

THREE

Belbury and St. Anne's-on-the-Hill

I

On his way up the wide staircase Mark caught sight of himself and hiscompanion in a mirror. Feverstone looked, as always, master of hisclothes, his face, and of the whole situation. The blob of cotton woolon Mark's upper lip had been blown awry during the journey, so that itlooked like one half of a fiercely upturned false moustache and revealeda patch of blackened blood beneath it. A moment later he found himselfin a big-windowed room with a blazing fire, being introduced to Mr. JohnWither, Deputy Director of the N.I.C.E.

Wither was a white-haired old man with a courtly manner. His face wasclean shaven and very large indeed, with watery blue eyes and somethingrather vague and chaotic about it. He did not appear to be giving themhis whole attention, and this impression must, I think, have been due tothe eyes, for his actual words and gestures were polite to the point ofeffusiveness. He said it was a great, a very great pleasure, to welcomeMr. Studdock among them. It added to the deep obligations under whichLord Feverstone had already laid him. He hoped they had had an agreeablejourney. Mr. Wither appeared to be under the impression that they hadcome by air and, when this was corrected, that they had come from Londonby train. Then he began enquiring whether Mr. Studdock found hisquarters perfectly comfortable and had to be reminded that they had onlythat moment arrived. "I suppose," thought Mark, "the old chap is tryingto put me at my ease." In fact, Mr. Wither's conversation was havingprecisely the opposite effect. Mark wished he would offer him acigarette. His growing conviction that this man really knew nothingabout him, and even that all the well-knit schemes and promises ofFeverstone were at this moment dissolving into some sort of mist, wasextremely uncomfortable. At last he took his courage in both hands andendeavoured to bring Mr. Wither to the point by saying that he was stillnot quite clear in what capacity he would be able to assist theInstitute.

"I assure you, Mr. Studdock," said the Deputy Director with an unusuallyfar-away look in his eye, "that you needn't anticipate the slightest . . .er . . . the slightest difficulty on that point. There was never anyidea of circumscribing your activities and your general influence onpolicy, much less your relations with your colleagues and what I mightcall in general the terms of reference under which you would becollaborating with us, without the fullest possible consideration ofyour own views and, indeed, your own advice. You will find us, Mr.Studdock, if I might express myself in that way, a very happy family."

"Oh, don't misunderstand me, sir," said Mark. "I didn't mean that atall. I only meant that I felt I should like some sort of idea of whatexactly I should be doing if I came to you."

"Well now, when you speak of coming to us," said the Deputy Director,"that raises a point on which I hope there is no misunderstanding. Ithink we all agreed that no question of residence need be raised--I mean,at this stage. We thought, we all thought, that you should be leftentirely free to carry on your work wherever you pleased. If you caredto live in London or Cambridge----"

"Edgestow," prompted Lord Feverstone.

"Ah yes, Edgestow," here the Deputy Director turned round and addressedFeverstone. "I was just explaining to Mr. . . . er . . . Studdock, and Ifeel sure you will fully agree with me, that nothing was further fromthe mind of the committee than to dictate in any way, or even to advise,where Mr. ---- where your friend should live. Of course, wherever he liveswe should naturally place air transport and road transport at hisdisposal. I dare say, Lord Feverstone, you have already explained to himthat he will find that all questions of that sort will adjust themselveswithout the smallest difficulty."

"Really, Sir," said Mark, "I wasn't thinking about that at all. Ihaven't--I mean I shouldn't have the smallest objection to livinganywhere; I only----"

The Deputy Director interrupted him, if anything so gentle as Wither'svoice can be called an interruption. "But I assure you, Mr. . . . er . . .I assure you, Sir, that there is not the smallest objection to yourresiding wherever you may find convenient. There was never, at anystage, the slightest suggestion----" but here Mark, almost in desperation,ventured to interrupt himself.

"It is the exact nature of the work," he said, "and of my qualificationsfor it that I wanted to get clear."

"My dear friend," said the Deputy Director, "you need not have theslightest uneasiness in that direction. As I said before, you will findus a very happy family, and may feel perfectly satisfied that noquestions as to your entire suitability have been agitating anyone'smind in the least. I should not be offering you a position among us ifthere were the slightest danger of your not being completely welcome toall, or the least suspicion that your very valuable qualities were notfully appreciated. You are--you are among friends here, Mr. Studdock. Ishould be the last person to advise you to connect yourself with anyorganisation where you ran the risk of being exposed . . . er . . . todisagreeable personal contacts."

Mark did not ask again in so many words what the N.I.C.E. wanted him todo; partly because he began to be afraid that he was supposed to knowthis already, and partly because a perfectly direct question would havesounded a crudity in that room--a crudity which might suddenly excludehim from the warm and almost drugged atmosphere of vague, yet heavilyimportant, confidence in which he was gradually being enfolded.

"You are very kind," he said. "The only thing I should like to get justa little clearer is the exact--well, the exact scope of the appointment."

"Well," said Mr. Wither in a voice so low and rich that it was almost asigh. "I am very glad you have raised that issue now in a quite informalway. Obviously neither you nor I would wish to commit ourselves, in thisroom, in any sense which was at all injurious to the powers of thecommittee. I quite understand your motives and . . . er . . . respectthem. We are not, of course, speaking of an appointment in thequasi-technical sense of the term; it would be improper for both of us(though, you may well remind me, in different ways) to do so--or at leastit might lead to certain inconveniences. But I think I can mostdefinitely assure you that nobody wants to force you into any kind ofstrait-waistcoat or bed of Procrustes. We do not really think, amongourselves, in terms of strictly demarcated functions, of course. I takeit that men like you and me are--well, to put it frankly, hardly in thehabit of using concepts of that type. Everyone in the Institute feelsthat his own work is not so much a departmental contribution to an endalready defined as a moment or grade in the progressive self-definitionof an organic whole."

And Mark said--God forgive him, for he was young and shy and vain andtimid all in one--"I do think that is so important. The elasticity ofyour organisation is one of the things that attracts me." After that, hehad no further chance of bringing the Director to the point, andwhenever the slow, gentle voice ceased he found himself answering it inits own style, and apparently helpless to do otherwise despite thetorturing recurrence of the question, "What are we both talkingabout?" At the very end of the interview there came one moment ofclarity. Mr. Wither supposed that he, Mark, would find it convenient tojoin the N.I.C.E. club: even for the next few days he would be freer asa member than as someone's guest. Mark agreed and then flushed crimsonlike a small boy on learning that the easiest course was to become alife member at the cost of £200. He had not that amount in the bank. Ofcourse, if he had got the new job with its fifteen hundred a year, allwould be well. But had he got it? Was there a job at all?

"How silly," he said aloud, "I haven't got my cheque-book with me."

A moment later he found himself on the stairs with Feverstone.

"Well?" asked Mark eagerly. Feverstone did not seem to hear him.

"Well?" repeated Mark. "When shall I know my fate? I mean, have I gotthe job?"

"Hullo, Guy!" bawled Feverstone suddenly to a man in the hall beneath.Next moment he had trotted down to the foot of the stairs, grasped hisfriend warmly by the hand, and disappeared. Mark, following him moreslowly, found himself in the hall, silent, alone, and self-conscious,among the groups and pairs of chattering men, who were all crossing ittowards the big folding doors on his left.

II

It seemed to last long, this standing, this wondering what to do, thiseffort to look natural and not to catch the eyes of strangers. The noiseand the agreeable smells which came from the folding doors made itobvious that people were going to lunch. Mark hesitated, uncertain ofhis own status. In the end he decided that he couldn't stand therelooking like a fool any longer, and went in.

He had hoped that there would be several small tables at one of which hecould have sat alone. But there was only a single long table, already sonearly filled that, after looking in vain for Feverstone, he had to sitdown beside a stranger. "I suppose one sits where one likes?" hemurmured as he did so; but the stranger apparently did not hear. He wasa bustling sort of man who was eating very quickly and talking at thesame time to his neighbour on the other side.

"That's just it," he was saying. "As I told him, it makes no differenceto me which way they settle it. I've no objection to the I.J.P. peopletaking over the whole thing if that's what the D.D. wants, but what Idislike is one man being responsible for it when half the work is beingdone by someone else. As I said to him, you've now got three H.D.s alltumbling over one another about some job that could really be done by aclerk. It's becoming ridiculous. Look at what happened this morning."Conversation on these lines continued throughout the meal.

Although the food and the drinks were excellent, it was a relief to Markwhen people began getting up from table. Following the general movement,he recrossed the hall and came into a large room furnished as a loungewhere coffee was being served. Here at last he saw Feverstone. Indeed itwould have been difficult not to notice him, for he was the centre of agroup and laughing prodigiously. Mark wished to approach him, if only tofind out whether he were expected to stay the night and, if so, whethera room had been assigned to him. But the knot of men round Feverstonewas of that confidential kind which it is difficult to join. He movedtowards one of the many tables and began turning over the glossy pagesof an illustrated weekly. Every few seconds he looked up to see if therewere any chance of getting a word with Feverstone alone. The fifth timehe did so, he found himself looking into the face of one of his owncolleagues, a Fellow of Bracton, called William Hingest. The ProgressiveElement called him, though not to his face, Bill the Blizzard.

Hingest had not, as Curry anticipated, been present at the Collegemeeting, and was hardly on speaking terms with Lord Feverstone. Markrealised with a certain awe that here was a man directly in touch withthe N.I.C.E.--one who started, so to speak, at a point beyond Feverstone.Hingest, who was a physical chemist, was one of the two scientists atBracton who had a reputation outside England. I hope the reader has notbeen misled into supposing that the Fellows of Bracton were a speciallydistinguished body. It was certainly not the intention of theProgressive Element to elect mediocrities to fellowships, but theirdetermination to elect "sound men" cruelly limited their field of choiceand, as Busby had once said, "You can't have everything." Bill theBlizzard had an old-fashioned curly moustache in which white had almost,but not completely, triumphed over yellow, a large beak-like nose, and abald head.

"This is an unexpected pleasure," said Mark with a hint of formality. Hewas always a little afraid of Hingest.

"Huh?" grunted Bill. "Eh? Oh, it's you, Studdock? Didn't know they'dsecured your services here."

"I was sorry not to see you at the College meeting yesterday," saidMark.

This was a lie. The Progressive Element always found Hingest's presencean embarrassment. As a scientist--and the only really eminent scientistthey had--he was their rightful property; but he was that hatefulanomaly, the wrong sort of scientist. Glossop, who was a classic, washis chief friend in College. He had the air (the "affectation" Currycalled it) of not attaching much importance to his own revolutionarydiscoveries in chemistry and of valuing himself much more on being aHingest: the family was of almost mythical antiquity, "nevercontaminated" as its nineteenth century historian had said, "by traitor,placeman, or baronetcy." He had given particular offence on the occasionof de Broglie's visit to Edgestow. The Frenchman had spent his sparetime exclusively in Bill the Blizzard's society, but when anenthusiastic junior Fellow had thrown out a feeler about the rich feastof science which the two savants must have shared, Bill the Blizzardhad appeared to search his memory for a moment and then replied that hedidn't think they had got on to that subject. "Gassing Almanac de Gothanonsense, I suppose," was Curry's comment, though not in Hingest'spresence.

"Eh? What's that? College meeting?" said the Blizzard. "What were theytalking about?"

"About the sale of Bragdon Wood."

"All nonsense," muttered the Blizzard.

"I hope you would have agreed with the decision we came to."

"It made no difference what decision they came to."

"Oh!" said Mark with some surprise.

"It was all nonsense. The N.I.C.E. would have had the Wood in any case.They had powers to compel a sale."

"What an extraordinary thing! I was given to understand they were goingto Cambridge if we didn't sell."

"Not a word of truth in it. As to its being an extraordinary thing, thatdepends on what you mean. There's nothing extraordinary in the Fellowsof Bracton talking all afternoon about an unreal issue. And there'snothing extraordinary in the fact that the N.I.C.E. should wish, ifpossible, to hand over to Bracton the odium of turning the heart ofEngland into a cross between an abortive American hotel and a glorifiedgas-works. The only real puzzle is why the N.I.C.E. should want that bitof land."

"I suppose we shall find out as things go on."

"You may. I shan't."

"Oh?" said Mark interrogatively.

"I've had enough of it," said Hingest, lowering his voice, "I'm leavingto-night. I don't know what you were doing at Bracton, but if it was anygood I'd advise you to go back and stick to it."

"Really!" said Mark. "Why do you say that?"

"Doesn't matter for an old fellow like me," said Hingest, "but theycould play the devil with you. Of course it all depends on what a manlikes."

"As a matter of fact," said Mark, "I haven't fully made up my mind." Hehad been taught to regard Hingest as a warped reactionary. "I don't evenknow yet what my job would be if I stayed."

"What's your subject?"

"Sociology."

"Huh!" said Hingest. "In that case I can soon point you out the manyou'd be under. A fellow called Steele. Over there by the window, do yousee?"

"Perhaps you could introduce me."

"You're determined to stay then?"

"Well, I suppose I ought at least to see him."

"All right," said Hingest. "No business of mine." Then he added in alouder voice, "Steele!"

Steele turned round. He was a tall, unsmiling man with that kind of facewhich, though long and horse-like, has nevertheless rather thick andpouting lips.

"This is Studdock," said Hingest. "The new man for your department."Then he turned away.

"Oh," said Steele. Then after a pause, "Did he say my department?"

"That's what he said," replied Mark with an attempt at a smile. "Butperhaps he's got it wrong. I'm supposed to be a sociologist--if thatthrows any light on it."

"I'm H.D. for sociology all right," said Steele. "But this is the firstI've heard about you. Who told you you were to be there?"

"Well, as a matter of fact," said Mark, "the whole thing is rathervague. I've just had a talk with the Deputy Director but we didn'tactually go into any details."

"How did you manage to see him?"

"Lord Feverstone introduced me."

Steele whistled. "I say, Cosser," he called out to a freckle-faced manwho was passing by, "listen to this. Feverstone has just unloaded thischap on our department. Taken him straight to the D.D. without saying aword to me about it. What do you think of that?"

"Well I'm damned!" said Cosser, hardly glancing at Mark but looking veryhard at Steele.

"I'm sorry," said Mark, a little more loudly and a little more stifflythan he had yet spoken. "Don't be alarmed. I seem to have been put inrather a false position. There must have been some misunderstanding. Asa matter of fact I am, at the moment, merely having a look round. I'mnot at all certain that I intend to stay in any case."

Neither of the other two took any notice of this last suggestion.

"That's Feverstone all over," said Cosser to Steele.

Steele turned to Mark. "I shouldn't advise you to take much notice ofwhat Lord Feverstone says here," he remarked. "This isn't his businessat all."

"All I object to," said Mark, wishing that he could prevent his facefrom turning so red, "is being put in a false position. I only came overas an experiment. It is a matter of indifference to me whether I take ajob in the N.I.C.E. or not."

"You see," said Steele to Cosser, "there isn't really any room for a manin our show--specially for someone who doesn't know the work. Unless theyput him on the U.L."

"That's right," said Cosser.

"Mr. Studdock, I think," said a new voice at Mark's elbow, a treblevoice which seemed disproportionate to the huge hill of a man whom hesaw when he turned his head. He recognised the speaker at once. Hisdark, smooth face and black hair were unmistakable, and so was theforeign accent. This was Professor Filostrato, the great physiologist,whom Mark had sat next to at a dinner about two years before. He was fatto that degree which is comic on the stage, but the effect was not funnyin real life. Mark was charmed that such a man should have rememberedhim.

"I am very glad you have come to join us," said Filostrato, taking holdof Mark's arm and gently piloting him away from Steele and Cosser.

"To tell you the truth," said Mark, "I'm not sure that I have. I wasbrought over by Feverstone but he has disappeared, and Steele--I'd havebeen in his department I suppose--doesn't seem to know anything aboutme."

"Bah! Steele!" said the Professor. "That is all a bagatelle. He get toobig for his boots. He will be put in his place one of these days. It maybe you who will put him. I have read all your work, si si. Do notconsider him."

"I have a strong objection to being put in a false position----" beganMark.

"Listen, my friend," interrupted Filostrato. "You must put all suchideas out of your head. The first thing to realise is that the N.I.C.E.is serious. It is nothing less than the existence of the human race thatdepends on our work: our real work, you comprehend? You will findfrictions and impertinences among this canaglia, this rabble. They areno more to be regarded than your dislike of a brother officer when thebattle is at his crisis."

"As long as I'm given something to do that is worth doing," said Mark,"I shouldn't allow anything of that sort to interfere with it."

"Yes, yes, that is right. The work is more important than you can yetunderstand. You will see. These Steeles and Feverstones--they are of noconsequence. As long as you have the good will of the Deputy Directoryou snap your fingers at them. You need listen to no one but him, youcomprehend? Ah--and there is one other. Do not have the Fairy for yourenemy. For the rest--you laugh at them."

"The Fairy?"

"Yes. Her they call the Fairy. Oh, my God, a terrible Inglesaccia! Sheis the head of our police, the Institutional Police. Ecco, she come. Iwill present you. Miss Hardcastle, permit that I present to you Mr.Studdock."

Mark found himself writhing from the stoker's or carter's hand-grip of abig woman in a black, short-skirted uniform. Despite a bust that wouldhave done credit to a Victorian barmaid, she was rather thickly builtthan fat and her iron-grey hair was cropped short. Her face was square,stern, and pale, and her voice deep. A smudge of lip-stick laid on withviolent inattention to the real shape of her mouth was her onlyconcession to fashion, and she rolled or chewed a long black cheroot,unlit, between her teeth. As she talked she had a habit of removingthis, staring intently at the mixture of lip-stick and saliva on itsmangled end, and then replacing it more firmly than before. She sat downimmediately in a chair close to where Mark was standing, flung her rightleg over one of the arms, and fixed him with a gaze of cold intimacy.

III

Click--clack, distinct in the silence, where Jane stood waiting, camethe tread of the person on the other side of the wall. Then the dooropened and Jane found herself facing a tall woman of about her own age.This person looked at her with keen, non-committal eyes.

"Does a Miss Ironwood live here?" said Jane.

"Yes," said the other girl, neither opening the door any further norstanding aside.

"I want to see her, please," said Jane.

"Have you an appointment?" said the tall woman.

"Well, not exactly," said Jane. "I was directed here by Dr. Dimble whoknows Miss Ironwood. He said I shouldn't need an appointment."

"Oh, if you're from Dr. Dimble that is another matter," said the woman."Come in. Now wait a moment while I attend to this lock. That's better.Now we're all right. There's not room for two on this path so you mustexcuse me if I go first."

The woman led her along a brick path beside a wall on which fruit treeswere growing, and then to the left along a mossy path with gooseberrybushes on each side. Then came a little lawn with a see-saw in themiddle of it, and beyond that a greenhouse. Here they found themselvesin the sort of hamlet that sometimes occurs in the purlieus of a largegarden--walking in fact down a little street which had a barn and astable on one side and, on the other, a second greenhouse, and a pottingshed and a pigstye--inhabited, as the grunts and the not whollydisagreeable smell informed her. After that were narrow paths across avegetable garden that seemed to be on a fairly steep hillside and thenrose bushes, all stiff and prickly in their winter garb. At one placethey were going along a path made of single planks. This reminded Janeof something. It was a very large garden. It was like . . . like . . .yes, now she had it: it was like the garden in Peter Rabbit. Or was itlike the garden in the Romance of the Rose? No, not in the least likereally. Or like Klingsor's garden? Or the garden in Alice? Or like thegarden on the top of some Mesopotamian ziggurat which had probably givenrise to the whole legend of Paradise? Or simply like all walled gardens?Freud said we liked gardens because they were symbols of the femalebody. But that must be a man's point of view. Presumably gardens meantsomething different in women's dreams. Or did they? Did men and womenboth feel interested in the female body and even, though it soundedridiculous, in almost the same way. A sentence rose to her memory. "Thebeauty of the female is the root of joy to the female as well as to themale, and it is no accident that the goddess of Love is older andstronger than the god." Where on earth had she read that? And,incidentally, what frightful nonsense she had been thinking for the lastminute or so! She shook off all these ideas about gardens and determinedto pull herself together. A curious feeling that she was now on hostile,or at least alien, ground warned her to keep all her wits about her. Atthat moment they suddenly emerged from between plantations ofrhododendron and laurel and found themselves at a small side door,flanked by a water butt, in the long wall of a large house. Just as theydid so a window clapped shut upstairs.

A minute or two later Jane was sitting waiting in a large sparelyfurnished room with a shut stove to warm it. Most of the floor was bare,and the walls, above the waist-high wainscotting, were of greyish-whiteplaster, so that the whole effect was faintly austere and conventual.The tall woman's tread died away in the passages and the room becamevery quiet when it had done so. Occasionally the cawing of rooks couldbe heard. "I've let myself in for it now," thought Jane, "I shall haveto tell this woman that dream and she'll ask all sorts of questions."She considered herself, in general, a modern person who could talkwithout embarrassment of anything: but it began to look quite differentas she sat in that room. All sorts of secret reservations in herprogramme of frankness--things which, she now realised, she had set apartas never to be told--came creeping back into consciousness. It wassurprising that very few of them were connected with sex. "In dentists,"said Jane, "they at least leave illustrated papers in the waiting-room."She got up and opened the one book that lay on the table in the middleof the room. Instantly her eyes lit on the following words: "The beautyof the female is the root of joy to the female as well as to the male,and it is no accident that the goddess of Love is older and strongerthan the god. To desire the desiring of her own beauty is the vanity ofLilith, but to desire the enjoying of her own beauty the obedience ofEve, and to both it is in the lover that the beloved tastes her owndelightfulness. As obedience is the stairway of pleasure, so humility isthe . . ."

At that moment the door was suddenly opened. Jane turned crimson as sheshut the book and looked up. The same girl who had first let her in hadapparently just opened the door and was still standing in the doorway.Jane now conceived for her that almost passionate admiration whichwomen, more often than is supposed, feel for other women whose beauty isnot of their own type. It would be nice, Jane thought, to be likethat--so straight, so forthright, so valiant, so fit to be mounted on ahorse, and so divinely tall.

"Is . . . is Miss Ironwood in?" said Jane.

"Are you Mrs. Studdock?" said the girl.

"Yes," said Jane.

"I will bring you to her at once," said the other. "We have beenexpecting you. My name is Camilla--Camilla Denniston."

Jane followed her. From the narrowness and plainness of the passagesJane judged that they were still in the back parts of the house, andthat, if so, it must be a very large house indeed. They went a long waybefore Camilla knocked at a door and stood aside for Jane to enter,after saying in a low, clear voice ("like a servant," Jane thought),"She has come." And Jane went in; and there was Miss Ironwood dressedall in black and sitting with her hands folded on her knees, just asJane had seen her when dreaming--if she were dreaming--last night in theflat.

"Sit down, young lady," said Miss Ironwood.

The hands which were folded on her knees were very big and boney thoughthey did not suggest coarseness, and even when seated Miss Ironwood wasextremely tall. Everything about her was big--the nose, the unsmilinglips, and the grey eyes. She was perhaps nearer sixty than fifty. Therewas an atmosphere in the room which Jane found uncongenial.

"What is your name, young lady?" said Miss Ironwood, taking up a penciland a note-book.

"Jane Studdock."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."

"Does your husband know you have come to us?"

"No."

"And your age, if you please?"

"Twenty-three."

"And now," said Miss Ironwood, "what have you to tell me?"

Jane took a deep breath. "I've been having bad dreams and--and feelingdepressed lately," she said.

"What were the dreams?" asked Miss Ironwood.

Jane's narrative--she did not do it very well--took some time. While shewas speaking she kept her eyes fixed on Miss Ironwood's large hands andher black skirt and the pencil and the note-book. And that was why shesuddenly stopped. For as she proceeded she saw Miss Ironwood's handcease to write and the fingers wrap themselves round the pencil:immensely strong fingers they seemed. And every moment they tightened,till the knuckles grew white and the veins stood out on the backs of thehands, and at last, as if under the influence of some stifled emotion,they broke the pencil in two. It was then that Jane stopped inastonishment and looked up at Miss Ironwood's face. The wide grey eyeswere still looking at her with no change of expression.

"Pray continue, young lady," said Miss Ironwood.

Jane resumed her story. When she had finished, Miss Ironwood put anumber of questions. After that she became silent for so long that Janesaid:

"Is there, do you think, anything very serious wrong with me?"

"There is nothing wrong with you," said Miss Ironwood.

"You mean it will go away?"

"I have no means of telling. I should say probably not."

"Then--can't anything be done about it? They were horribledreams--horribly vivid, not like dreams at all."

"I can quite understand that."

"Is it something that can't be cured?"

"The reason you cannot be cured is that you are not ill."

"But there must be something wrong. It's surely not natural to havedreams like that."

There was a pause. "I think," said Miss Ironwood, "I had better tell youthe whole truth."

"Yes, do," said Jane in a strained voice. The other's words hadfrightened her.

"And I will begin by saying this," continued Miss Ironwood. "You are amore important person than you imagine."

Jane said nothing, but thought inwardly, "She is humouring me. Shethinks I am mad."

"What was your maiden name?" asked Miss Ironwood.

"Tudor," said Jane. At any other moment she would have said it ratherself-consciously, for she was very anxious not to be supposed vain ofher ancient ancestry.

"The Warwickshire branch of the family?"

"Yes."

"Did you ever read a little book--it is only forty pages long--written byan ancestor of yours about the battle of Worcester?"

"No. Father had a copy--the only copy, I think he said. But I never readit. It was lost when the house was broken up after his death."

"Your father was mistaken in thinking it the only copy. There are atleast two others: one is in America, and the other is in this house."

"Well?"

"Your ancestor gave a full and, on the whole, correct account of thebattle, which he says he completed on the same day on which it wasfought. But he was not at it. He was in York at the time."

Jane, who had not really been following this, looked at Miss Ironwood.

"If he was speaking the truth," said Miss Ironwood, "and we believe thathe was, he dreamed it. Do you understand?"

"Dreamed about the battle?"

"Yes. But dreamed it right. He saw the real battle in his dream."

"I don't see the connection."

"Vision--the power of dreaming realities--is sometimes hereditary," saidMiss Ironwood.

Something seemed to be interfering with Jane's breathing. She felt asense of injury--this was just the sort of thing she hated: something outof the past, something irrational and utterly uncalled for, coming upfrom its den and interfering with her.

"Can it be proved?" she asked. "I mean; we have only his word for it."

"We have your dreams," said Miss Ironwood. Her voice, always grave, hadbecome stern. A fantastic thought crossed Jane's mind. Could this oldwoman have some idea that one ought not to call even one's remoteancestors liars?

"My dreams?" she said a little sharply.

"Yes," said Miss Ironwood.

"What do you mean?"

"My opinion is that you have seen real things in your dreams. You haveseen Alcasan as he really sat in the condemned cell: and you have seen avisitor whom he really had."

"But--but--oh, this is ridiculous," said Jane. "That part was a merecoincidence. The rest was just nightmare. It was all impossible. Hescrewed off his head, I tell you. And they . . . dug up the horrible oldman. They made him come to life."

"There are some confusions there, no doubt. But in my opinion there arerealities behind even those episodes."

"I am afraid I don't believe in that sort of thing," said Jane coldly.

"Your upbringing makes it natural that you should not," replied MissIronwood. "Unless, of course, you have discovered for yourself that youhave a tendency to dream real things."

Jane thought of the book on the table which she had apparentlyremembered before she saw it: and then there was Miss Ironwood's ownappearance--that, too, she had seen before she saw it. But it must benonsense.

"Can you, then, do nothing for me?"

"I can tell you the truth," said Miss Ironwood. "I have tried to do so."

"I mean, can you not stop it--cure it?"

"Vision is not a disease."

"But I don't want it," said Jane passionately. "I must stop it. I hatethis sort of thing." Miss Ironwood said nothing.

"Don't you even know of anyone who could stop it?" said Jane. "Can't yourecommend anyone?"

"If you go to an ordinary psychotherapist," said Miss Ironwood, "he willproceed on the assumption that the dreams merely reflect your ownsubconscious. He would try to treat you. I do not know what would be theresults of treatment based on that assumption. I am afraid they might bevery serious. And--it would certainly not remove the dreams."

"But what is this all about?" said Jane. "I want to lead an ordinarylife. I want to do my own work. It's unbearable! Why should I beselected for this horrible thing?"

"The answer to that is known only to authorities much higher thanmyself."

There was a short silence. Jane made a vague movement and said, rathersulkily, "Well, if you can do nothing for me, perhaps I'd better begoing . . ." Then suddenly she added, "But how can you know all this?I mean . . . what realities are you talking about?"

"I think," said Miss Ironwood, "that you yourself have probably morereason to suspect the truth of your dreams than you have yet told me. Ifnot, you soon will have. In the meantime I will answer your question. Weknow your dreams to be partly true because they fit in with informationwe already possess. It was because he saw their importance that Dr.Dimble sent you to us."

"Do you mean he sent me here not to be cured but to give information?"said Jane. The idea fitted in with things she had observed in his mannerwhen she first told him.

"Exactly."

"I wish I had known that a little earlier," said Jane coldly, and nowdefinitely getting up to go. "I'm afraid it has been a misunderstanding.I had imagined Dr. Dimble was trying to help me."

"He was. But he was also trying to do something more important at thesame time."

"I suppose I should be grateful for being considered at all," said Janedryly. "And how, exactly, was I to be helped by--by all this sort ofthing?" The attempt at icy irony collapsed as she said these last wordsand red, undisguised anger rushed back into her face. In some ways shewas very young.

"Young lady," said Miss Ironwood. "You do not at all realise theseriousness of this matter. The things you have seen concern somethingcompared with which the happiness, or even the life, of you and me isof no importance. I must beg you to face the situation. You cannot getrid of your gift. You can try to suppress it, but you will fail, and youwill be very badly frightened. On the other hand, you can put it at ourdisposal. If you do so, you will be much less frightened in the long runand you will be helping to save the human race from a very greatdisaster. Or thirdly, you may tell someone else about it. If you dothat, I warn you that you will almost certainly fall into the hands ofother people who are at least as anxious as we to make use of yourfaculty and who will care no more about your life and happiness thanabout those of a fly. The people you have seen in your dreams are realpeople. It is not at all unlikely that they know you have,involuntarily, been spying on them. And, if so, they will not rest tillthey have got hold of you. I would advise you, even for your own sake,to join our side."

"You keep on talking of we and us. Are you some kind of company?"

"Yes. You may call it a company."

Jane had been standing for the last few minutes: and she had almost beenbelieving what she heard. Then suddenly all her repugnance came over heragain--all her wounded vanity, her resentment of the meaninglesscomplication in which she seemed to be caught, and her general dislikeof the mysterious and the unfamiliar. At that moment nothing seemed tomatter but to get out of that room and away from the grave, patientvoice of Miss Ironwood. "She's made me worse already," thought Jane,still regarding herself as a patient. Aloud, she said:

"I must go home now. I don't know what you are talking about. I don'twant to have anything to do with it."

IV

Mark discovered in the end that he was expected to stay, at least forthe night, and when he went up to dress for dinner he was feeling morecheerful. This was partly due to a whisky and soda taken with "Fairy"Hardcastle immediately before, and partly to the fact that by a glanceat the mirror he saw that he could now remove the objectionable piece ofcotton wool from his lip. The bedroom with its bright fire and itsprivate bathroom attached had also something to do with it. Thankgoodness he had allowed Jane to talk him into buying that newdress-suit! It looked very well, laid out on the bed; and he saw nowthat the old one really would not have done. But what had reassured himmost of all was his conversation with the Fairy.

It would be misleading to say that he liked her. She had indeed excitedin him all the distaste which a young man feels at the proximity ofsomething rankly, even insolently, sexed and at the same time whollyunattractive. And something in her cold eye had told him that she waswell aware of this reaction and found it amusing. She had told him agood many smoking-room stories. Often before now Mark had shuddered atthe clumsy efforts of the emancipated female to indulge in this kind ofhumour, but his shudders had always been consoled by a sense ofsuperiority. This time he had the feeling that he was the butt; thiswoman was exasperating male prudery for her diversion. Later on shedrifted into police reminiscences. In spite of some initial scepticism,Mark was gradually horrified by her assumption that about thirty percent of our murder trials ended by the hanging of an innocent man. Therewere details, too, about the execution shed which had not occurred tohim before.

All this was disagreeable. But it was made up for by the deliciouslyesoteric character of the conversation. Several times that day he hadbeen made to feel himself an outsider: that feeling completelydisappeared while Miss Hardcastle was talking to him. He had the senseof getting in. Miss Hardcastle had apparently lived an exciting life.She had been, at different times, a suffragette, a pacifist, and aBritish Fascist. She had been manhandled by the police and imprisoned.On the other hand, she had met Prime Ministers, Dictators, and famousfilm stars; all her history was secret history. She knew from both endswhat a police force could do and what it could not, and there were inher opinion very few things it could not do. "Specially now," she said."Here in the Institute, we're backing the crusade against Red Tape."

Mark gathered that, for the Fairy, the police side of the Institute wasthe really important side. It existed to relieve the ordinary executiveof what might be called all sanitary cases--a category which ranged fromvaccination to charges of unnatural vice--from which, as she pointed out,it was only a step to bringing in all cases of blackmail. As regardscrime in general, they had already popularised in the press the ideathat the Institute should be allowed to experiment pretty largely in thehope of discovering how far humane, remedial treatment could besubstituted for the old notion of "retributive" or "vindictive"punishment. That was where a lot of legal Red Tape stood in their way."But there are only two papers we don't control," said the Fairy. "Andwe'll smash them. You've got to get the ordinary man into the state inwhich he says 'Sadism' automatically when he hears the word Punishment."And then one would have carte blanche. Mark did not immediately followthis. But the Fairy pointed out that what had hampered every Englishpolice force up to date was precisely the idea of deserved punishment.For desert was always finite: you could do so much to the criminal andno more. Remedial treatment, on the other hand, need have no fixedlimit; it could go on till it had effected a cure, and those who werecarrying it out would decide when that was. And if cure were humaneand desirable, how much more prevention? Soon anyone who had ever beenin the hands of the police at all would come under the control of theN.I.C.E.; in the end, every citizen. "And that's where you and I comein, Sonny," added the Fairy, tapping Mark's chest with her forefinger."There's no distinction in the long run between police work andsociology. You and I've got to work hand in hand."

This had brought Mark back to his doubts as to whether he were reallybeing given a job and, if so, what it was. The Fairy had warned him thatSteele was a dangerous man. "There are two people you want to be verycautious about," she said. "One is Frost and the other is old Wither."But she had laughed at his fears in general. "You're in all right,Sonny," she said. "Only don't be too particular about what exactlyyou've got to do. You'll find out as it comes along. Wither doesn't likepeople who try to pin him down. There's no good saying you've come hereto do this and you won't do that. The game's too fast just atpresent for that sort of thing. You've got to make yourself useful. Anddon't believe everything you're told."

At dinner Mark found himself seated next to Hingest.

"Well," said Hingest, "have they finally roped you into it, eh?"

"I rather believe they have," said Mark.

"Because," said Hingest, "if you thought the better of it I'm motoringback to-night and I could give you a lift."

"You haven't yet told me why you are leaving us yourself," said Mark.

"Oh, well, it all depends what a man likes. If you enjoy the society ofthat Italian eunuch and the mad parson and that Hardcastle girl--hergrandmother would have boxed her ears if she were alive--of coursethere's nothing more to be said."

"I suppose it's hardly to be judged on purely social grounds--I mean,it's something more than a club."

"Eh? Judged? Never judged anything in my life, to the best of myknowledge, except at a flower show. It's all a question of taste. I camehere because I thought it had something to do with science. Now that Ifind it's something more like a political conspiracy, I shall go home.I'm too old for that kind of thing, and if I wanted to join aconspiracy, this one wouldn't be my choice."

"You mean, I suppose, that the element of social planning doesn't appealto you? I can quite understand that it doesn't fit in with your work asit does with sciences like sociology, but----"

"There are no sciences like sociology. And if I found chemistrybeginning to fit in with a secret police run by a middle-aged virago whodoesn't wear corsets and a scheme for taking away his farm and his shopand his children from every Englishman, I'd let chemistry go to thedevil and take up gardening again."

"I think I do understand that sentiment that still attaches to thesmall man, but when you come to study the reality as I have had to do----"

"I should want to pull it to bits and put something else in its place.Of course. That's what happens when you study men: you find mare'snests. I happen to believe that you can't study men, you can only get toknow them, which is quite a different thing. Because you study them, youwant to make the lower orders govern the country and listen to classicalmusic, which is balderdash. You also want to take away from themeverything which makes life worth living, and not only from them butfrom everyone except a parcel of prigs and professors."

"Bill!" said Fairy Hardcastle suddenly, from the far side of the table,in a voice so loud that even he could not ignore it. Hingest fixed hiseyes upon her and his face grew a dark red.

"Is it true," bawled the Fairy, "that you're going off by carimmediately after dinner?"

"Yes, Miss Hardcastle, it is."

"I was wondering if you could give me a lift."

"I should be happy to do so," said Hingest in a voice not intended todeceive, "if we are going in the same direction."

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to Edgestow."

"Will you be passing Brenstock?"

"No, I leave the by-pass at the cross-roads just beyond Lord Holywood'sfront gate and go down what they used to call Potter's Lane."

"Oh, damn! No good to me. I may as well wait till the morning."

After this Mark found himself engaged by his left-hand neighbour and didnot see Bill the Blizzard again until he met him in the hall afterdinner. He was in his overcoat and just ready to step into his car.

He began talking as he opened the door and thus Mark was drawn intoaccompanying him across the gravel sweep to where his car was parked.

"Take my advice, Studdock," he said, "or at least think it over. I don'tbelieve in sociology myself, but you've got quite a decent career beforeyou if you stay at Bracton. You'll do yourself no good by getting mixedup with the N.I.C.E.--and, by God, you'll do nobody else any goodeither."

"I suppose there are two views about everything," said Mark.

"Eh? Two views? There are a dozen views about everything until you knowthe answer. Then there's never more than one. But it's no affair ofmine. Good night."

"Good night, Hingest," said Mark. The other started up the car and droveoff.

There was a touch of frost in the air. The shoulder of Orion, thoughMark did not know even that earnest constellation, flamed at him abovethe treetops. He felt a hesitation about going back into the house. Itmight mean further talk with interesting and influential people: but itmight also mean feeling once more an outsider, hanging about andwatching conversations which he could not join. Anyway, he was tired.Strolling along the front of the house he came presently to another andsmaller door by which, he judged, one could enter without passingthrough the hall or the public rooms. He did so, and went upstairs forthe night immediately.

V

Camilla Denniston showed Jane out--not by the little door in the wall atwhich she had come in, but by the main gate which opened on the sameroad about a hundred yards farther on. Yellow light from a westward gapin the grey sky was pouring a short-lived and chilly brightness over thewhole landscape. Jane had been ashamed to show either temper or anxietybefore Camilla: as a result both had in reality been diminished when shesaid good-bye. But a settled distaste for what she called "all thisnonsense" remained. She was not indeed sure that it was nonsense: butshe had already resolved to treat it as if it were. She would not get"mixed up in it," would not be drawn in. One had to live one's own life.To avoid entanglements and interferences had long been one of her firstprinciples. Even when she had discovered that she was going to marryMark if he asked her, the thought "But I must still keep up my own life"had arisen at once and had never for more than a few minutes at astretch been absent from her mind. Some resentment against love itself,and therefore against Mark, for thus invading her life, remained. Shewas at least very vividly aware how much a woman gives up in gettingmarried. Mark seemed to her insufficiently aware of this. Though she didnot formulate it, this fear of being invaded and entangled was thedeepest ground of her determination not to have a child--or not for along time yet. One had one's own life to live.

Almost as soon as she got back to the flat the telephone went. "Is thatyou, Jane?" came a voice. "It's me, Margaret Dimble. Such a dreadfulthing's happened. I'll tell you when I come. I'm too angry to speak atthe moment. Have you a spare bed by any chance? What? Mr. Studdock'saway? Not a bit, if you don't mind. I've sent Cecil to sleep inCollege. You're sure it won't be a nuisance? Thanks most awfully. I'llbe round in half an hour."

FOUR

The Liquidation of Anachronisms

I

Almost before Jane had finished putting clean sheets on Mark's bed, Mrs.Dimble, with a great many parcels, arrived. "You're an angel to have mefor the night," she said. "We'd tried every hotel in Edgestow I believe.This place is going to become unendurable. The same answer everywhere!All full up with the hangers-on and camp followers of this detestableN.I.C.E. Secretaries here--typists there--commissioners of works--thething's outrageous. If Cecil hadn't had a room in College I reallybelieve he'd have had to sleep in the waiting-room at the station. Ionly hope that man in College has aired the bed."

"But what on earth's happened?" asked Jane.

"Turned out, my dear!"

"But it isn't possible, Mrs. Dimble. I mean, it can't be legal."

"That's what Cecil said. . . . Just think of it, Jane. The first thingwe saw when we poked our heads out of the window this morning was alorry on the drive with its back wheels in the middle of the rose bed,unloading a small army of what looked like criminals with picks andspades. Right in our own garden! There was an odious little man in apeaked cap who talked to Cecil with a cigarette in his mouth, at leastit wasn't in his mouth but seccotined onto his upper lip--you know--andguess what he said? He said they'd have no objection to our remaining inpossession (of the house, mind you, not the garden) till eight o'clockto-morrow morning. No objection!"

"But surely--surely--it must be some mistake."

"Of course Cecil rang up your Bursar. And of course your Bursar was out.That took nearly all morning, ringing up again and again, and by thattime the big beech that you used to be so fond of had been cut down, andall the plum trees. If I hadn't been so angry I'd have sat down andcried my eyes out. That's what I felt like. At last Cecil did get on toyour Mr. Busby, who was perfectly useless. Said there must be somemisunderstanding, but it was out of his hands now and we'd better get onto the N.I.C.E. at Belbury. Of course it turned out to be quiteimpossible to get them. But by lunch-time we saw that one simplycouldn't stay there for the night, whatever happened."

"Why not?"

"My dear, you've no conception what it was like. Great lorries andtraction engines roaring past all the time, and a crane on a thing likea railway truck. Why, our own tradesmen couldn't get through it. Themilk didn't arrive till eleven o'clock. The meat never arrived at all;they rang up in the afternoon to say their people hadn't been able toreach us by either road. We'd the greatest difficulty in getting intotown ourselves. It took us half an hour from our house to the bridge. Itwas like a nightmare. Flares and noise everywhere and the roadpractically ruined and a sort of great tin camp already going up on theCommon. And the people! Such horrid men. I didn't know we hadworkpeople like that in England. Oh, horrible, horrible!" Mrs. Dimblefanned herself with the hat she had just taken off.

"And what are you going to do?" asked Jane.

"Heaven knows!" said Mrs. Dimble. "For the moment we have shut up thehouse and Cecil has been at Rumbold the solicitors, to see if we can atleast have it sealed and left alone until we've got our things out ofit. Rumbold doesn't seem to know where he is. He keeps on saying theN.I.C.E. are in a very peculiar position legally. After that, I'm sure Idon't know. As far as I can see there won't be any houses in Edgestow.There's no question of trying to live on the far side of the river anylonger, even if they'd let us. What did you say? Oh, indescribable. Allthe poplars are going down. All those nice little cottages by the churchare going down. I found poor Ivy--that's your Mrs. Maggs, you know--intears. Poor things! They do look dreadful when they cry on top ofpowder. She's being turned out too. Poor little woman; she's had enoughtroubles in her life without this. I was glad to get away. The men wereso horrible. Three big brutes came to the back door asking for hot waterand went on so that they frightened Martha out of her wits and Cecil hadto go and speak to them. I thought they were going to strike Cecil,really I did. It was most horribly unpleasant. But a sort of specialconstable sent them away. What? Oh yes, there are dozens of what looklike policemen all over the place, and I didn't like the look of themeither. Swinging some kind of truncheon things, like what you'd see inan American film. Do you know, Jane, Cecil and I both thought the samething: we thought, it's almost as if we'd lost the war. Oh, good girl,tea! That's just what I wanted."

"You must stay here as long as you like, Mrs. Dimble," said Jane."Mark'll just have to sleep in College."

"Well, really," said Mother Dimble, "I feel at the moment that no Fellowof Bracton ought to be allowed to sleep anywhere! But I'd make anexception in favour of Mr. Studdock. As a matter of fact, I shan't haveto behave like the sword of Siegfried--and, incidentally, a nasty fatstodgy sword I should be! But that side of it is all fixed up. Cecil andI are to go out to the Manor at St. Anne's. We have to be there so muchat present, you see."

"Oh," said Jane, involuntarily prolonging the exclamation as the wholeof her own story flowed back on her mind.

"Why, what a selfish pig I've been," said Mother Dimble. "Here have Ibeen chattering away about my own troubles and quite forgetting thatyou've been out there and are full of things to tell me. Did you seeGrace? And did you like her?"

"Is 'Grace' Miss Ironwood?" asked Jane.

"Yes."

"I saw her. I don't know if I liked her or not. But I don't want to talkabout all that. I can't think about anything except this outrageousbusiness of yours. It's you who are the real martyr, not me."

"No, my dear," said Mrs. Dimble, "I'm not a martyr. I'm only an angryold woman with sore feet and a splitting head (but that's beginning tobe better) who's trying to talk herself into a good temper. After all,Cecil and I haven't lost our livelihood as poor Ivy Maggs has. Itdoesn't really matter leaving the old house. Do you know, the pleasureof living there was in a way a melancholy pleasure. (I wonder, by thebye, do human beings really like being happy?) A little melancholy,yes. All those big upper rooms which we thought we should want becausewe thought we were going to have lots of children, and then we neverhad. Perhaps I was getting too fond of mooning about them on longafternoons when Cecil was away. Pitying oneself. I shall be better awayfrom it, I dare say. I might have got like that frightful woman in Ibsenwho was always maundering about dolls. It's really worse for Cecil. Hedid so love having all his pupils about the place. Jane, that's thethird time you've yawned. You're dropping asleep and I've talked yourhead off. It comes of being married for thirty years. Husbands were madeto be talked to. It helps them to concentrate their minds on whatthey're reading--like the sound of a weir. There!--you're yawning again."

Jane found Mother Dimble an embarrassing person to share a room withbecause she said prayers. It was quite extraordinary, Jane thought, howthis put one out. One didn't know where to look, and it was so difficultto talk naturally again for several minutes after Mrs. Dimble had risenfrom her knees.

II

"Are you awake now?" said Mrs. Dimble's voice, quietly, in the middle ofthe night.

"Yes," said Jane. "I'm so sorry. Did I wake you up? Was I shouting?"

"Yes. You were shouting out about someone being hit on the head."

"I saw them killing a man . . . a man in a big car driving along acountry road. Then he came to a cross-roads and turned off to the rightpast some trees, and there was someone standing in the middle of theroad waving a light to stop him. I couldn't hear what they said; I wastoo far away. They must have persuaded him to get out of the carsomehow, and there he was talking to one of them. The light fell full onhis face. He wasn't the same old man I saw in my other dream. He hadn'ta beard, only a moustache. And he had a very quick, kind of proud, way.He didn't like what the man said to him and presently he put up hisfists and knocked him down. Another man behind him tried to hit him onthe head with something, but the old man was too quick and turned roundin time. Then it was rather horrible, but rather fine. There were threeof them at him and he was fighting them all. I've read about that kindof thing in books, but I never realised how one would feel about it. Ofcourse they got him in the end. They beat his head about terribly withthe things in their hands. They were quite cool about it and stoopeddown to examine him and make sure he was really dead. The light from thelantern seemed all funny. It looked as if it made long uprights oflight--sort of rods--all round the place. But perhaps I was waking up bythen. No thanks, I'm all right. It was horrid, of course, but I'm notreally frightened . . . not the way I would have been before. I'm moresorry for the old man."

"You feel you can go to sleep again?"

"Oh rather! Is your headache better, Mrs. Dimble?"

"Quite gone, thank you. Good night."

III

"Without a doubt," thought Mark, "this must be the Mad Parson that Billthe Blizzard was talking of." The committee at Belbury did not meet till10.30, and ever since breakfast he had been walking with the ReverendStraik in the garden, despite the raw and misty weather of the morning.At the very moment when the man had first buttonholed him, thethreadbare clothes and clumsy boots, the frayed clerical collar, thedark, lean, tragic face, gashed and ill-shaved and seamed, and thebitter sincerity of his manner, had struck a discordant note. It was nota type Mark had expected to meet in the N.I.C.E.

"Do not imagine," said Mr. Straik, "that I indulge in any dreams ofcarrying out our programme without violence. There will be resistance.They will gnaw their tongues and not repent. We are not to be deterred.We face these disorders with a firmness which will lead traducers to saythat we have desired them. Let them say so. In a sense we have. It is nopart of our witness to preserve that organisation of ordered sin whichis called Society. To that organisation the message which we have todeliver is a message of absolute despair."

"Now that is what I meant," said Mark, "when I said that your point ofview and mine must, in the long run, be incompatible. The preservation,which involves the thorough planning, of society is just precisely theend I have in view. I do not think there is or can be any other end. Theproblem is quite different for you because you look forward to somethingelse, something better than human society, in some other world."

"With every thought and vibration of my heart, with every drop of myblood," said Mr. Straik, "I repudiate that damnable doctrine. That isprecisely the subterfuge by which the World, the organisation and bodyof Death, has sidetracked and emasculated the teaching of Jesus, andturned into priestcraft and mysticism the plain demand of the Lord forrighteousness and judgement here and now. The Kingdom of God is to berealised here--in this world. And it will be. At the name of Jesus everyknee shall bow. In that name I dissociate myself completely from all theorganised religion that has yet been seen in the world."

And at the name of Jesus, Mark, who would have lectured on abortion orperversion to an audience of young women without a qualm, felt himselfso embarrassed that he knew his cheeks were slightly reddening; and hebecame so angry with himself and Mr. Straik at this discovery that theythen proceeded to redden very much indeed. This was exactly the kind ofconversation he could not endure; and never since the well-rememberedmisery of scripture lessons at school had he felt so uncomfortable. Hemuttered something about his ignorance of theology.

"Theology!" said Mr. Straik with profound contempt. "It's not theologyI'm talking about, young man, but the Lord Jesus. Theology istalk--eyewash--a smoke screen--a game for rich men. It wasn't in lecturerooms I found the Lord Jesus. It was in the coal pits, and beside thecoffin of my daughter. If they think that theology is a sort of cottonwool which will keep them safe in the great and terrible day, they'llfind their mistake. For, mark my words, this thing is going to happen.The Kingdom is going to arrive: in this world; in this country. Thepowers of science are an instrument. An irresistible instrument, as allof us in the N.I.C.E. know. And why are they an irresistibleinstrument?"

"Because science is based on observation," suggested Mark.

"They are an irresistible instrument," shouted Straik, "because they arean instrument in His hand. An instrument of judgement as well as ofhealing. That is what I couldn't get any of the churches to see. Theyare blinded. Blinded by their filthy rags of humanism, their culture andhumanitarianism and liberalism, as well as by their sins, or what theythink their sins, though they are really the least sinful thing aboutthem. That is why I have come to stand alone; a poor, weak, unworthy oldman, but the only prophet left. I knew that He was coming in power. Andtherefore, where we see power, we see the sign of His coming. And thatis why I find myself joining with profligates and materialists andanyone else who is really ready to expedite the coming. The feeblest ofthese people here has the tragic sense of life, the ruthlessness, thetotal commitment, the readiness to sacrifice all merely human values,which I could not find amid all the nauseating cant of the organisedreligions."

"You mean, do you," said Mark, "that as far as immediate practice isconcerned, there are no limits to your co-operation with the programme?"

"Sweep away all idea of co-operation!" said the other. "Does clayco-operate with the potter? Did Cyrus co-operate with the Lord?These people will be used. I shall be used too. Instruments. Vehicles.But here comes the point that concerns you, young man. You have nochoice whether you will be used or not. There is no turning back onceyou have set your hand to the plough. No one goes out of the N.I.C.E.Those who try to turn back will perish in the wilderness. But thequestion is whether you are content to be one of the instruments whichis thrown aside when it has served His turn--one which, having executedjudgement on others, is reserved for judgement itself--or will you beamong those who enter on the inheritance? For it's all true, you know.It is the saints who are going to inherit the earth--here in England,perhaps within the next twelve months--the saints and no one else. Knowyou not that we shall judge angels?" Then, suddenly lowering his voice,Straik added, "The real resurrection is even now taking place. Thereal life everlasting. Here in this world. You will see it."

"I say," said Mark, "it's nearly twenty past. Oughtn't we to be going tothe committee?"

Straik turned with him in silence. Partly to avoid further conversationalong the same lines, and partly because he really wanted to know theanswer, Mark said presently, "A rather annoying thing has happened. I'velost my wallet. There wasn't much money in it: only about three pounds.But there were letters and things, and it's a nuisance. Ought I to tellsomeone about it?"

"You could tell the steward," said Straik.

IV

The committee sat for about two hours and the Deputy Director was in thechair. His method of conducting business was slow and involved, and toMark, with his Bracton experience to guide him, it soon became obviousthat the real work of the N.I.C.E. must go on somewhere else. This,indeed, was what he had expected, and he was too reasonable to supposethat he should find himself, at this early stage, in the Inner Ring orwhatever at Belbury corresponded to the Progressive Element at Bracton.But he hoped he would not be kept marking time on phantom committees fortoo long. This morning the business mainly concerned the details of thework which had already been begun at Edgestow. The N.I.C.E. hadapparently won some sort of victory which gave it the right to pull downthe little Norman Church at the corner. "The usual objections were, ofcourse, tabled," said Wither. Mark who was not interested inarchitecture and who did not know the other side of the Wynd nearly sowell as his wife, allowed his attention to wander. It was only at theend of the meeting that Wither opened a much more sensational subject.He believed that most of those present had already heard ("Why dochairmen always begin that way?" thought Mark) the very distressingpiece of news which it was, nevertheless, his duty now to communicate tothem in a semi-official manner. He was referring, of course, to themurder of Mr. William Hingest. As far as Mark could discover from thechairman's tortuous and allusive narrative, Bill the Blizzard had beendiscovered with his head beaten in by some blunt instrument, lying nearhis car in Potter's Lane at about four o'clock that morning. He had beendead for several hours. Mr. Wither ventured to suppose that it would bea melancholy pleasure to the committee to know that N.I.C.E. police hadbeen on the scene of the crime before five, and that neither the localauthorities nor Scotland Yard were making any objections to the fullestcollaboration. He felt that if the occasion were more appropriate hewould have welcomed a motion for some expression of the gratitude theymust all feel to Miss Hardcastle and possibly of congratulations to heron the smooth interaction between her own forces and those of the state.This was a most gratifying feature in the sad story and, he suggested, agood omen for the future. Some decently subdued applause went round thetable at this. Mr. Wither then proceeded to speak at some length aboutthe dead man. They had all much regretted Mr. Hingest's resolution towithdraw from the N.I.C.E., while fully appreciating his motives; theyhad all felt that this official severance would not in the least alterthe cordial relations which existed between the deceased and almostall--he thought he could even say all without exception--of his formercolleagues in the Institute. The obituary (in Raleigh's fine phrase) wasan instrument which the Deputy Director's talents well fitted him toplay, and he spoke at great length. He concluded by suggesting that theyshould all stand in silence for one minute as a token of respect for thememory of William Hingest.

And they did--a world-without-end minute in which odd creakings andbreathings became audible, and behind the mask of each glazed andtight-lipped face, shy, irrelevant thoughts of this and that camecreeping out as birds and mice creep out again in the clearing of a woodwhen the picnickers have gone, and everyone silently assured himselfthat he, at least, was not being morbid and not thinking about death.

Then there was a stir and a bustle and the committee broke up.

V

The whole process of getting up and doing the "morning jobs" was morecheerful, Jane found, because she had Mrs. Dimble with her. Mark oftenhelped: but as he always took the view--and Jane could feel it even if hedid not express it in words--that "anything would do" and that Jane madea lot of unnecessary work and that men could keep house with a tithe ofthe fuss and trouble which women made about it, Mark's help was one ofthe commonest causes of quarrels between them. Mrs. Dimble, on the otherhand, fell in with her ways. It was a bright sunny morning, and as theysat down to breakfast in the kitchen Jane was feeling bright herself.During the night her mind had evolved a comfortable theory that the merefact of having seen Miss Ironwood and "had it all out" would probablystop the dreams altogether. The episode would be closed. And now--therewas all the exciting possibility of Mark's new job to look forward to.She began to see pictures in her mind.

Mrs. Dimble was anxious to know what had happened to Jane at St. Anne'sand when she was going there again. Jane answered evasively on the firstquestion and Mrs. Dimble was too polite to press it. As to the second,Jane thought she wouldn't "bother" Miss Ironwood again, or wouldn't"bother" any further about the dreams. She said she had been "silly" butfelt sure she'd be all right now. And she glanced at the clock andwondered why Mrs. Maggs hadn't yet turned up.

"My dear, I'm afraid you've lost Ivy Maggs," said Mrs. Dimble. "Didn't Itell you they'd taken her house too? I thought you'd understand shewouldn't be coming to you in future. You see there's nowhere for her tolive in Edgestow."

"Bother!" said Jane: and added, without much interest in the reply,"What is she doing, do you know?"

"She's gone out to St. Anne's."

"Has she got friends there?"

"She's gone to the Manor, along with Cecil and me."

"Do you mean she's got a job there?"

"Well, yes. I suppose it is a job."

Mrs. Dimble left at about eleven. She also, it appeared, was going toSt. Anne's, but was first to meet her husband and lunch with him atNorthumberland. Jane walked down to the town with her to do a littleshopping and they parted at the bottom of Market Street. It was justafter this that Jane met Mr. Curry.

"Have you heard the news, Mrs. Studdock?" said Curry. His manner wasalways important and his tone always vaguely confidential, but thismorning they seemed more so than usual.

"No. What's wrong?" said Jane. She thought Mr. Curry a pompous fool andMark a fool for being impressed by him. But as soon as Curry beganspeaking her face showed all the wonder and consternation he could havewished. Nor were they, this time, feigned. He told her that Mr. Hingesthad been murdered, some time during the night or in the small hours ofthat morning. The body had been found lying beside his car, in Potter'sLane, badly beaten about the head. He had been driving from Belbury toEdgestow. Curry was at the moment hastening back to College to talk tothe warden about it: he had just been at the police station. One sawthat the murder had already become Curry's property. The "matter" was,in some indefinable sense, "in his hands," and he was heavy withresponsibility. At another time Jane would have found this amusing. Sheescaped from him as soon as possible and went into Blackie's for a cupof coffee. She felt she must sit down.

The death of Hingest in itself meant nothing to her. She had met himonly once and she had accepted from Mark the view that he was adisagreeable old man and rather a snob. But the certainty that sheherself in her dream had witnessed a real murder shattered at one blowall the consoling pretences with which she had begun the morning. Itcame over her with sickening clarity that the affair of her dreams, farfrom being ended, was only beginning. The bright, narrow little lifewhich she had proposed to live was being irremediably broken into.Windows into huge, dark landscapes were opening on every side and shewas powerless to shut them. It would drive her mad, she thought, to faceit alone. The other alternative was to go back to Miss Ironwood. Butthat seemed to be only a way of going deeper into all this darkness.This Manor at St. Anne's--this "kind of company"--was "mixed up in it."She didn't want to get drawn in. It was unfair. It wasn't as if she hadasked much of life. All she wanted was to be left alone. And the thingwas so preposterous! The sort of thing which, according to all theauthorities she had hitherto accepted, could not really happen.

VI

Cosser--the freckle-faced man with the little wisp of blackmoustache--approached Mark as he was coming away from the committee.

"You and I have a job to do," he said. "Got to get out a report aboutCure Hardy."

Mark was very relieved to hear of a job. But he was a little on hisdignity, not having liked Cosser much when he had met him yesterday, andhe answered:

"Does that mean I am to be in Steele's department after all?"

"That's right," said Cosser.

"The reason I ask," said Mark, "is that neither he nor you seemedparticularly keen on having me. I don't want to push myself in, youknow. I don't need to stay at the N.I.C.E. at all if it comes to that."

"Well, don't start talking about it here," said Cosser. "Come upstairs."

They were talking in the hall and Mark noticed Wither pacingthoughtfully towards them. "Wouldn't it be as well to speak to him andget the whole thing thrashed out?" he suggested. But the DeputyDirector, after coming within ten feet of them, had turned in anotherdirection. He was humming to himself under his breath and seemed so deepin thought that Mark felt the moment unsuitable for an interview.Cosser, though he said nothing, apparently thought the same, and so Markfollowed him up to an office on the third floor.

"It's about the village of Cure Hardy," said Cosser, when they wereseated. "You see, all that land at Bragdon Wood is going to be littlebetter than a swamp once they get to work. Why the hell we wanted to gothere I don't know. Anyway, the latest plan is to divert the Wynd: blockup the old channel through Edgestow altogether. Look. Here'sShillingbridge, ten miles north of the town. It's to be diverted thereand brought down an artificial channel--here, to the east, where the blueline is--and rejoin the old bed down here."

"The university will hardly agree to that," said Mark. "What wouldEdgestow be without the river?"

"We've got the university by the short hairs," said Cosser. "You needn'tworry about that. Anyway it's not our job. The point is that the newWynd must come right through Cure Hardy. Now look at your contours. CureHardy is in this narrow little valley. Eh? Oh, you've been there, haveyou? That makes it all the easier. I don't know these parts myself.Well, the idea is to dam the valley at the southern end and make a bigreservoir. You'll need a new water supply for Edgestow now that it's tobe the second city in the country."

"But what happens to Cure Hardy?"

"That's another advantage. We build a new model village (it's to becalled Jules Hardy or Wither Hardy) four miles away. Over here, on therailway."

"I say, you know, there'll be the devil of a stink about this. CureHardy is famous. It's a beauty spot. There are the sixteenth-centuryalmshouses, and a Norman church, and all that."

"Exactly. That's where you and I come in. We've got to make a report onCure Hardy. We'll run out and have a look round to-morrow, but we canwrite most of the report to-day. It ought to be pretty easy. If it's abeauty spot, you can bet it's insanitary. That's the first point tostress. Then we've got to get out some facts about the population. Ithink you'll find it consists almost entirely of the two mostundesirable elements--small rentiers and agricultural labourers."

"The small rentier is a bad element, I agree," said Mark. "I supposethe agricultural labourer is more controversial."

"The Institute doesn't approve of him. He's a very recalcitrant elementin a planned community, and he's always backward. We're not going in forEnglish agriculture. So, you see, all we have to do is to verify a fewfacts. Otherwise the report writes itself."

Mark was silent for a moment or two.

"That's easy enough," he said. "But before I get down to it I'd justlike to be a bit clearer about my own position. Oughtn't I to go and seeSteele? I don't fancy settling down to work in this department if hedoesn't want to have me."

"I wouldn't do that," said Cosser.

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, Steele can't prevent you if the D.D. backs you up,as he seems to be doing for the moment. For another, Steele is rather adangerous man. If you just go quietly on with the job, he may get usedto you in the end: but if you go and see him it might lead to a bust up.There's another thing, too." Cosser paused, picked his nosethoughtfully, and proceeded. "Between ourselves, I don't think thingscan go on indefinitely in this department in the way they are atpresent."

The excellent training which Mark had had at Bracton enabled him tounderstand this. Cosser was hoping to get Steele out of the departmentaltogether. He thought he saw the whole situation. Steele was dangerouswhile he lasted, but he might not last.

"I got the impression yesterday," said Mark, "that you and Steele hit itoff together rather well."

"The great thing here," said Cosser, "is never to quarrel with anyone. Ihate quarrels myself. I can get on with anybody--as long as the work getsdone."

"Of course," said Mark. "By the way, if we go to Cure Hardy to-morrow Imight as well run in to Edgestow and spend the night at home."

For Mark a good deal hung on the answer to this. He might find outwhether he were actually under orders from Cosser. If Cosser said "youcan't do that" he would at least know where he stood. If Cosser saidthat Mark couldn't be spared, that would be better still. Or Cossermight reply that he'd better consult the D.D. That also would have madeMark feel surer of his position. But Cosser merely said "Oh," leavingMark in doubt whether no one needed leave of absence or whether Mark wasnot sufficiently established as a member of the Institute for hisabsence to be of any consequence. Then they went to work on theirreport.

It took them the rest of the day, so that Cosser and he came in todinner late and without dressing. This gave Mark a most agreeablesensation. And he enjoyed the meal, too. Although he was among men hehad not met before, he seemed to know everyone within the first fiveminutes and to be joining naturally in the conversation. He was learninghow to talk their shop.

"How lovely it is!" said Mark to himself next morning as the car leftthe main road at Duke's Eaton and began descending the bumpy little laneinto the long valley where Cure Hardy lay. Mark was not as a rule verysensitive to beauty: but Jane, and his love for Jane, had alreadyawakened him a little in this respect. Perhaps the winter morningsunlight affected him all the more because he had never been taught toregard it as specially beautiful and it therefore worked on his senseswithout interference. The earth and sky had the look of things recentlywashed. The brown fields looked as if they would be good to eat, andthose in grass set off the curves of the little hills as close-clippedhair sets off the body of a horse. The sky looked farther away thanusual, but also clearer, so that the long, slender streaks of cloud(dark slate colour against the pale blue) had edges as clear as if theywere cut out of cardboard. Every little copse was black and bristling asa hairbrush, and when the car stopped in Cure Hardy itself the silencethat followed the turning-off of the engine was filled with the noise ofrooks that seemed to be calling "Wake! Wake!"

"Bloody awful noise those birds make," said Cosser. "Got your map? Now. . ." He plunged at once into business.

They walked about that village for two hours and saw with their own eyesall the abuses and anachronisms they came to destroy. They saw therecalcitrant and backward labourer and heard his views on the weather.They met the wastefully supported pauper in the person of an old manshuffling across the courtyard of the alms-houses to fill a kettle, andthe elderly rentier (to make matters worse she had a fat old dog withher) in earnest conversation with the postman. It made Mark feel as ifhe were on a holiday, for it was only on holidays that he had everwandered about an English village. For that reason he felt pleasure init. It did not quite escape him that the face of the backward labourerwas rather more interesting than Cosser's and his voice a great dealmore pleasing to the ear. The resemblance between the elderly rentierand Aunt Gilly (when had he last thought of her? Good Lord, that tookone back . . .) did make him understand how it was possible to like thatkind of person. All this did not in the least influence his sociologicalconvictions. Even if he had been free from Belbury and whollyunambitious, it could not have done so, for his education had had thecurious effect of making things that he read and wrote more real to himthan things he saw. Statistics about agricultural labourers were thesubstance: any real ditcher, ploughman, or farmer's boy, was the shadow.Though he had never noticed it himself, he had a great reluctance, inhis work, ever to use such words as "man" or "woman." He preferred towrite about "vocational group," "elements," "classes," and"populations": for, in his own way, he believed as firmly as any mysticin the superior reality of the things that are not seen.

And yet he could not help rather liking this village. When, at oneo'clock, he persuaded Cosser to turn into the Two Bells, he even saidso. They had both brought sandwiches with them, but Mark felt he wouldlike a pint of beer. In the Two Bells it was very warm and dark, for thewindow was small. Two labourers (no doubt recalcitrant and backward)were sitting with earthenware mugs at their elbows, munching very thicksandwiches, and a third was standing up at the counter conducting aconversation with the landlord.

"No beer for me, thanks," said Cosser, "and we don't want to muck abouthere too long. What were you saying?"

"I was saying that on a fine morning there is something ratherattractive about a place like this, in spite of all its obviousabsurdities."

"Yes, it is a fine morning. Makes a real difference to one's health, abit of sunlight."

"I was thinking of the place."

"You mean this?" said Cosser, glancing round the room. "I should havethought it was just the sort of thing we wanted to get rid of. Nosunlight, no ventilation. Haven't much use for alcohol myself (read theMiller Report), but if people have got to have their stimulants, I'dlike to see them administered in a more hygienic way."

"I don't know that the stimulant is quite the whole point," said Mark,looking at his beer. The whole scene was reminding him of drinks andtalks long ago--of laughter and arguments in undergraduate days. Somehowone had made friends more easily then. He wondered what had become ofall that set--of Carey and Wadsden and Denniston, who had so nearly gothis own Fellowship.

"Don't know, I'm sure," said Cosser, in answer to his last remark."Nutrition isn't my subject. You'd want to ask Stock about that."

"What I'm really thinking about," said Mark, "is not this pub, but thewhole village. Of course you're quite right: that sort of thing has gotto go. But it had its pleasant side. We'll have to be careful thatwhatever we're building up in its place will really be able to beat iton all levels--not merely in efficiency."

"Oh, architecture and all that," said Cosser. "Well, that's hardly myline, you know. That's more for someone like Wither. Have you nearlyfinished?"

All at once it came over Mark what a terrible bore this little man was,and in the same moment he felt utterly sick of the N.I.C.E. But hereminded himself that one could not expect to be in the interesting setat once; there would be better things later on. Anyway, he had not burnthis boats. Perhaps he would chuck up the whole thing and go back toBracton in a day or two. But not at once. It would be only sensible tohang on for a bit and see how things shaped.

On their way back Cosser dropped him near Edgestow station, and as hewalked home Mark began to think of what he would say to Jane aboutBelbury. You will quite misunderstand him if you think he wasconsciously inventing a lie. Almost involuntarily, as the picture ofhimself entering the flat, and of Jane's questioning face, arose in hismind, there arose also the imagination of his own voice answering her,hitting off the salient features of Belbury in amusing, confidentphrases. This imaginary speech of his own gradually drove out of hismind the real experiences he had undergone. Those real experiences ofmisgiving and of uneasiness, indeed, quickened his desire to cut a goodfigure in the eyes of his wife. Almost without noticing it, he haddecided not to mention the affair of Cure Hardy; Jane cared for oldbuildings and all that sort of thing. As a result, when Jane, who was atthat moment drawing the curtains, heard the door opening and lookedround and saw Mark, she saw a rather breezy and buoyant Mark. Yes, hewas almost sure he'd got the job. The salary wasn't absolutely fixed,but he'd be going into that to-morrow. It was a very funny place: he'dexplain all that later. But he had already got on to the real peoplethere. Wither and Miss Hardcastle were the ones that mattered. "I musttell you about the Hardcastle woman," he said, "she's quite incredible."

Jane had to decide what she would say to Mark much more quickly than hehad decided what he would say to her. And she decided to tell himnothing about the dreams or St. Anne's. Men hated women who had thingswrong with them, specially queer, unusual things. Her resolution waseasily kept, for Mark, full of his own story, asked her no questions.She was not, perhaps, entirely convinced by what he said. There was avagueness about all the details. Very early in the conversation she saidin a sharp, frightened voice (she had no idea how he disliked thatvoice), "Mark, you haven't given up your Fellowship at Bracton?" He saidNo, of course not, and went on. She listened only with half her mind.She knew he often had rather grandiose ideas, and from something in hisface she divined that during his absence he had been drinking much morethan he usually did. And so, all evening, the male bird displayed hisplumage and the female played her part and asked questions and laughedand feigned more interest than she felt. Both were young, and if neitherloved very much each was still anxious to be admired.

VII

That evening the Fellows of Bracton sat in Common Room over their wineand dessert. They had given up dressing for dinner, as an economy duringthe war and not yet resumed the practice, so that their sports coats andcardigans struck a somewhat discordant note against the dark Jacobeanpanels, the candle-light, and the silver of many different periods.Feverstone and Curry were sitting together. Until that night for aboutthree hundred years this Common Room had been one of the pleasant quietplaces of England. It was in Lady Alice, on the ground floor beneath thesoler, and the windows at its eastern end looked out on the river and onBragdon Wood, across a little terrace where the Fellows were in thehabit of taking their dessert on summer evenings. At this hour andseason these windows were of course shut and curtained. And from beyondthem came such noises as had never been heard in that room before--shoutsand curses and the sound of lorries heavily drumming past or harshlychanging gear, rattling of chains, drumming of mechanical drills,clanging of iron, whistles, thuddings, and an all-pervasive vibration.Saeva sonare verbera, tum stridor ferri tractaeque catenae, asGlossop, sitting on the far side of the fire, had observed to Jewel. Forbeyond those windows, scarcely thirty yards away on the other side ofthe Wynd, the conversion of an ancient woodland into an inferno of mudand noise and steel and concrete was already going on apace. Severalmembers even of the Progressive Element--those who had rooms on this sideof College--had already been grumbling about it. Curry himself had been alittle surprised by the form which his dream had taken now that it was areality, but he was doing his best to brazen it out, and though hisconversation with Feverstone had to be conducted at the top of theirvoices, he made no allusion to this inconvenience.

"It's quite definite, then," he bawled, "that young Studdock is notcoming back?"

"Oh, quite," shouted Feverstone. "He sent me a message through a highofficial to tell me to let the College know."

"When will he send a formal resignation?"

"Haven't an earthly! Like all these youngsters he's very casual aboutthese things. As a matter of fact, the longer he delays the better."

"You mean it gives us a chance to look about us?"

"Quite. You see, nothing need come before the College till he writes.One wants to have the whole question of his successor taped beforethat."

"Obviously. That is most important. Once you present an open question toall these people who don't understand the field and don't know their ownminds you may get anything happening."

"Exactly. That's what we want to avoid. The only way to manage a placelike this is to produce your candidate--bring the rabbit out of thehat--two minutes after you've announced the vacancy."

"We must begin thinking about it at once."

"Does his successor have to be a sociologist? I mean is the Fellowshiptied to the subject?"

"Oh, not in the least. It's one of those Paston Fellowships. Why? Hadyou any subject in mind?"

"It's a long time since we had anyone in politics."

"Um . . . yes. There's still a considerable prejudice against politicsas an academic subject. I say, Feverstone, oughtn't we to give this newsubject a leg up?"

"What new subject?"

"Pragmatometry."

"Well, now, it's funny you should say that, because the man I wasbeginning to think of is a politician who has also been going in a gooddeal for pragmatometry. One could call it a fellowship in socialpragmatometry, or something like that."

"Who is the man?"

"Laird--from Leicester, Cambridge."

It was automatic for Curry to look very thoughtful, though he had neverheard of Laird, and to say "Ah, Laird. Just remind me of the details ofhis academic career."

"Well," said Feverstone, "as you remember, he was in bad health at thetime of his finals, and came rather a cropper. The Cambridge examiningis so bad nowadays that one hardly counts that. Everyone knew he was oneof the most brilliant men of his year. He was president of the Sphinxesand used to edit The Adult. David Laird, you know."

"Yes, to be sure. David Laird. But I say, Dick . . ."

"Yes?"

"I'm not quite happy about his bad degree. Of course I don't attach asuperstitious value to examination results any more than you do. Still. . . we have made one or two unfortunate elections lately." Almostinvoluntarily as he said this, Curry glanced across the room to wherePelham sat--Pelham with his little button-like mouth and his puddingface. Pelham was a sound man: but even Curry found it difficult toremember anything that Pelham had ever done or said.

"Yes, I know," said Feverstone, "but even our worst elections aren'tquite so dim as those the College makes when we leave it to itself."

Perhaps because the intolerable noise had frayed his nerves, Curry felta momentary doubt about the "dimness" of these outsiders. He had dinedrecently at Northumberland and found Telford dining there the samenight. The contrast between the alert and witty Telford whom everyone atNorthumberland seemed to know, whom everyone listened to, and the "dim"Telford in Bracton Common Room had perplexed him. Could it be that thesilences of all these "outsiders" in his own college, their monosyllabicreplies when he condescended and their blank faces when he assumed hisconfidential manner, had an explanation which had never occurred to him?The fantastic suggestion that he, Curry, might be a bore, passed throughhis mind so swiftly that a second later he had forgotten it forever. Themuch less painful suggestion that these traditionalists and researchbeetles affected to look down on him was retained. But Feverstone wasshouting at him again.

"I'm going to be at Cambridge next week," he said, "in fact I'm giving adinner. I'd as soon it wasn't mentioned here, because, as a matter offact, the P.M. may be coming, and one or two big newspaper people andTony Dew. What? Oh, of course you know Tony. That little dark man fromthe Bank. Laird is going to be there. He's some kind of cousin of theP.M.'s. I was wondering if you could join us. I know David's veryanxious to meet you. He's heard a lot about you from some chap who usedto go to your lectures. I can't remember the name."

"Well, it would be very difficult. It rather depends on when old Bill'sfuneral is to be. I should have to be here for that of course. Was thereanything about the inquest on the six o'clock news?"

"I didn't hear. But, of course, that raises a second question. Now thatthe Blizzard has gone to blow in a better world, we have twovacancies."

"I can't hear," yelled Curry. "Is this noise getting worse? Or am Igetting deaf?"

"I say, Sub-Warden," shouted Ted Raynor from beyond Feverstone, "whatthe devil are your friends outside doing?"

"Can't they work without shouting?" asked someone else.

"It doesn't sound like work at all to me," said a third.

"Listen!" said Glossop suddenly, "that's not work. Listen to the feet.It's more like a game of rugger."

"It's getting worse every minute," said Raynor.

Next moment nearly everyone in the room was on his feet. "What wasthat?" shouted one. "They're murdering someone," said Glossop. "There'sonly one way of getting a noise like that out of a man's throat." "Whereare you going?" asked Curry. "I'm going to see what's happening," saidGlossop. "Curry, go and collect all the shooters in College. Someonering up the police." "I shouldn't go out if I were you," saidFeverstone, who had remained seated and was pouring himself out anotherglass of wine, "it sounds as if the police, or something, was therealready."

"What do you mean?"

"Listen. There!"

"I thought that was their infernal drill."

"Listen!"

"My God . . . you really think it's a machine-gun?"

"Look out! Look out!" said a dozen voices at once as a splintering ofglass became audible and a shower of stones fell onto the Common Roomfloor. A moment later several of the Fellows had made a rush for thewindows and put up the shutters: and then they were all standing staringat one another, and silent but for the noise of their heavy breathing.Glossop had a cut on the forehead, and on the floor lay the fragments ofthat famous east window on which Henrietta Maria had once cut her namewith a diamond.

FIVE

Elasticity

I

Next morning Mark went back to Belbury by train. He had promised hiswife to clear up a number of points about his salary and place ofresidence, and the memory of all these promises made a little cloud ofuneasiness in his mind, but on the whole he was in good spirits. Thisreturn to Belbury--just sauntering in and hanging up his hat and orderinga drink--was a pleasant contrast to his first arrival. The servant whobrought the drink knew him. Filostrato nodded to him. Women wouldfuss, but this was clearly the real world. After the drink he strolledupstairs to Cosser's office. He was there for only five minutes, andwhen he came out his state of mind had been completely altered.

Steele and Cosser were both there and both looked up with the air of menwho have been interrupted by a total stranger. Neither spoke.

"Ah--good morning," said Mark awkwardly.

Steele finished making a pencil note on some large document which wasspread out before him.

"What is it, Mr. Studdock?" he said without looking up.

"I came to see Cosser," said Mark, and then, addressing Cosser, "I'vejust been thinking over the last section but one in that report----"

"What report's this?" said Steele to Cosser.

"Oh, I thought," replied Cosser, with a little twisty smile at onecorner of his mouth, "that it would be a good thing to put together areport on Cure Hardy in my spare time, and as there was nothingparticular to do yesterday I drew it up. Mr. Studdock helped me."

"Well, never mind about that now," said Steele. "You can talk to Mr.Cosser about it some other time, Mr. Studdock. I'm afraid he's busy atpresent."

"Look here," said Mark, "I think we'd better understand one another. AmI to take it that this report was simply a private hobby of Cosser's?And if so, I should like to have known that before I spent eight hours'work on it. And whose orders am I under?"

Steele, playing with his pencil, looked at Cosser.

"I asked you a question about my position, Mr. Steele," said Mark.

"I haven't time for this sort of thing," said Steele. "If you haven'tany work to do, I have. I know nothing about your position."

Mark thought, for a moment, of turning to Cosser; but Cosser's smooth,freckled face and non-committal eyes suddenly filled him with suchcontempt that he turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the doorbehind him. He was going to see the Deputy Director.

At the door of Wither's room he hesitated for a moment because he heardvoices from within. But he was too angry to wait. He knocked and enteredwithout noticing whether the knock had been answered.

"My dear boy," said the Deputy Director, looking up but not quite fixinghis eyes on Mark's face, "I am delighted to see you." As he heard thesewords Mark noticed that there was a third person in the room. It was aman called Stone whom he had met at dinner the day before yesterday.Stone was standing in front of Wither's table rolling and unrolling apiece of blotting-paper with his fingers. His mouth was open, his eyesfixed on the Deputy Director.

"Delighted to see you," repeated Wither. "All the more so becauseyou--er--interrupted me in what I am afraid I must call a rather painfulinterview. As I was just saying to poor Mr. Stone when you came in,nothing is nearer to my heart than the wish that this great Instituteshould all work together like one family . . . the greatest unity ofwill and purpose, Mr. Stone, the freest mutual confidence . . . that iswhat I expect of my colleagues. But then as you may remind me,Mr.--ah--Studdock, even in family life there are occasionally strains andfrictions and misunderstandings. And that is why, my dear boy, I am notat the moment quite at leisure--don't go, Mr. Stone. I have a great dealmore to say to you."

"Perhaps I'd better come back later?" said Mark.

"Well, perhaps in all the circumstances . . . it is your feelings thatI am considering, Mr. Stone . . . perhaps . . . the usual method ofseeing me, Mr. Studdock, is to apply to my secretary and make anappointment. Not, you will understand, that I have the least wish toinsist on any formalities or would be other than pleased to see youwhenever you looked in. It is the waste of your time that I am anxiousto avoid."

"Thank you, sir," said Mark. "I'll go and see your secretary."

The secretary's office was next door. When one went in one found not thesecretary himself but a number of subordinates who were cut off fromtheir visitors behind a sort of counter. Mark made an appointment forten o'clock to-morrow which was the earliest hour they could offer him.As he came out he ran into Fairy Hardcastle.

"Hullo, Studdock," said the Fairy. "Hanging round the D.D.'s office?That won't do, you know."

"I have decided," said Mark, "that I must either get my positiondefinitely fixed once and for all or else leave the Institute."

She looked at him with an ambiguous expression in which amusement seemedto predominate. Then she suddenly slipped her arm through his.

"Look, sonny," she said, "you drop all that, see? It isn't going to doyou any good. You come along and have a talk with me."

"There's really nothing to talk about, Miss Hardcastle," said Mark. "I'mquite clear in my mind. Either I get a real job here, or I go back toBracton. That's simple enough: I don't even particularly mind which, solong as I know."

To this the Fairy made no answer, and the steady pressure of her armcompelled Mark, unless he was prepared to struggle, to go with her alongthe passage. The intimacy and authority of her grip was ludicrouslyambiguous, and would have fitted almost equally well the relations ofpoliceman and prisoner, mistress and lover, nurse and child. Mark feltthat he would look a fool if they met anyone.

She brought him to her own offices which were on the second floor. Theouter office was full of what he had already learned to call Waips, thegirls of the Women's Auxiliary Institutional Police. The men of theforce, though very much more numerous, were not so often met withindoors, but Waips were constantly seen flitting to and fro whereverMiss Hardcastle appeared. Far from sharing the masculine characteristicsof their chief they were (as Feverstone once said) "feminine to thepoint of imbecility"--small and slight and fluffy and full of giggles.Miss Hardcastle behaved to them as if she were a man, and addressed themin tones of half breezy, half ferocious gallantry. "Cocktails, Dolly,"she bawled as they entered the outer office. When they reached the inneroffice she made Mark sit down but remained standing herself with herback to the fire and her legs wide apart. The drinks were brought andDolly retired, closing the door behind her. Mark had grumblingly toldhis grievance on the way.

"Cut it all out, Studdock," said Miss Hardcastle. "And whatever you do,don't go bothering the D.D. I told you before that you needn't worryabout all those little third-floor people provided you've got him onyour side. Which you have at present. But you won't have if you keep ongoing to him with complaints."

"That might be very good advice, Miss Hardcastle," said Mark, "if I werecommitted to staying here at all. But I'm not. And from what I've seen Idon't like the place. I've very nearly made up my mind to go home. OnlyI thought I'd just have a talk with him first, to make everythingclear."

"Making things clear is the one thing the D.D. can't stand," repliedMiss Hardcastle. "That's not how he runs the place. And mind you, heknows what he's about. It works, sonny. You've no idea yet how well itworks. As for leaving . . . you're not superstitious, are you? I am. Idon't think it's lucky to leave the N.I.C.E. You needn't bother yourhead about all the Steeles and Cossers. That's part of yourapprenticeship. You're being put through it at the moment, but if youhold on you'll come out above them. All you've got to do is to sittight. Not one of them is going to be left when we get going."

"That's just the sort of line Cosser took about Steele," said Mark, "andit didn't seem to do me much good when it came to the point."

"Do you know, Studdock," said Miss Hardcastle, "I've taken a fancy toyou. And it's just as well I have. Because if I hadn't, I'd be disposedto resent that last remark."

"I don't mean to be offensive," said Mark. "But--damn it all--look at itfrom my point of view."

"No good, sonny," said Miss Hardcastle, shaking her head. "You don'tknow enough facts yet for your point of view to be worth sixpence. Youhaven't yet realised what you're in on. You're being offered a chance ofsomething far bigger than a seat in the cabinet. And there are only twoalternatives, you know. Either to be in the N.I.C.E. or to be out of it.And I know better than you which is going to be most fun."

"I do understand that," said Mark. "But anything is better than beingnominally in and having nothing to do. Give me a real place in theSociological Department and I'll . . ."

"Rats! That whole Department is going to be scrapped. It had to be thereat the beginning for propaganda purposes. But they're all going to beweeded out."

"But what assurance have I that I'm going to be one of theirsuccessors?"

"You aren't. They're not going to have any successors. The real work hasnothing to do with all these departments. The kind of sociology we'reinterested in will be done by my people--the police."

"Then where do I come in?"

"If you'll trust me," said the Fairy, putting down her empty glass andproducing a cheroot, "I can put you on to a bit of your real work--whatyou were really brought here to do--straight away."

"What's that?"

"Alcasan," said Miss Hardcastle between her teeth. She had started oneof her interminable dry smokes. Then, glancing at Mark with a hint ofcontempt, "You know who I'm talking about, don't you?"

"You mean the radiologist--the man who was guillotined?" asked Mark, whowas completely bewildered.

The Fairy nodded.

"He's to be rehabilitated," she said. "Gradually. I've got all the factsin the dossier. You begin with a quiet little article--not questioninghis guilt, not at first, but just hinting that of course he was amember of their quisling government, and there was a prejudice againsthim. Say you don't doubt the verdict was just, but it's disquieting torealise that it would almost certainly have been the same even if he'dbeen innocent. Then you follow it up in a day or two with an article ofquite a different kind. Popular account of the value of his work. Youcan mug up the facts--enough for that kind of article--in an afternoon.Then a letter, rather indignant, to the paper that printed the firstarticle, and going much further. The execution was a miscarriage ofjustice. By that time----"

"What on earth is the point of all this?"

"I'm telling you, Studdock. Alcasan is to be rehabilitated. Made into amartyr. An irreparable loss to the human race."

"But what for?"

"There you go again! You grumble about being given nothing to do, and assoon as I suggest a bit of real work you expect to have the whole planof campaign told you before you do it. It doesn't make sense. That's notthe way to get on here. The great thing is to do what you're told. Ifyou turn out to be any good you'll soon understand what's going on. Butyou've got to begin by doing the work. You don't seem to realise what weare. We're an army."

"Anyway," said Mark, "I'm not a journalist. I didn't come here to writenewspaper articles. I tried to make that clear to Feverstone at the verybeginning."

"The sooner you drop all that talk about what you came here to do, thebetter you'll get on. I'm speaking for your own good, Studdock. Youcan write. That's one of the things you're wanted for."

"Then I've come here under a misunderstanding," said Mark. The sop tohis literary vanity, at that period of his career, by no meanscompensated for the implication that his sociology was of no importance."I've no notion of spending my life writing newspaper articles," hesaid. "And if I had, I'd want to know a good deal more about thepolitics of the N.I.C.E. before I went in for that sort of thing."

"Haven't you been told that it's strictly non-political?"

"I've been told so many things that I don't know whether I'm on my heador my heels," said Mark. "But I don't see how one's going to start anewspaper stunt (which is about what this comes to) without beingpolitical. Is it Left or Right papers that are going to print all thisrot about Alcasan?"

"Both, honey, both," said Miss Hardcastle. "Don't you understandanything? Isn't it absolutely essential to keep a fierce Left and afierce Right both on their toes and each terrified of the other? That'show we get things done. Any opposition to the N.I.C.E. is represented asa Left racket in the Right papers and a Right racket in the Left papers.If it's properly done you get each side out-bidding the other in supportof us--to refute the enemy slanders. Of course we're non-political. Thereal power always is."

"I don't believe you can do that," said Mark. "Not with the papers thatare read by educated people."

"That shows you're still in the nursery, lovey," said Miss Hardcastle."Haven't you yet realised that it's the other way round?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why, you fool, it's the educated readers who can be gulled. All ourdifficulty comes with the others. When did you meet a workman whobelieves the papers? He takes it for granted that they're all propagandaand skips the leading articles. He buys his paper for the footballresults and the little paragraphs about girls falling out of windows andcorpses found in Mayfair flats. He is our problem: we have torecondition him. But the educated public, the people who read thehighbrow weeklies, don't need reconditioning. They're all right already.They'll believe anything."

"As one of the class you mention," said Mark with a smile, "I just don'tbelieve it."

"Good Lord!" said the Fairy, "where are your eyes? Look at what theweeklies have got away with! Look at the Weekly Question. There's apaper for you. When Basic English came in simply as the invention of afree-thinking Cambridge don, nothing was too good for it; as soon as itwas taken up by a Tory Prime Minister it became a menace to the purityof our language. And wasn't the Monarchy an expensive absurdity for tenyears? And then, when the Duke of Windsor abdicated, didn't theQuestion go all monarchist and legitimist for about a fortnight? Didthey drop a single reader? Don't you see that the educated readercan't stop reading the highbrow weeklies whatever they do? He can't.He's been conditioned."

"Well," said Mark, "this is all very interesting, Miss Hardcastle, butit has nothing to do with me. In the first place, I don't want to becomea journalist at all: and if I did I should like to be an honestjournalist."

"Very well," said Miss Hardcastle. "All you'll do is to help to ruinthis country, and perhaps the whole human race. Besides dishing your owncareer."

The confidential tone in which she had been speaking up till now haddisappeared and there was a threatening finality in her voice. Thecitizen and the honest man which had been awaked in Mark by theconversation, quailed a little: his other and far stronger self, theself that was anxious at all costs not to be placed among the outsiders,leaped up, fully alarmed.

"I don't mean," he said, "that I don't see your point. I was onlywondering . . ."

"It's all one to me, Studdock," said Miss Hardcastle, seating herself atlast at her table. "If you don't like the job, of course, that's youraffair. Go and settle it with the D.D. He doesn't like peopleresigning, but, of course, you can. He'll have something to say toFeverstone for bringing you here. We'd assumed you understood."

The mention of Feverstone brought sharply before Mark as a reality theplan, which had up till now been slightly unreal, of going back toEdgestow and satisfying himself with the career of a Fellow of Bracton.On what terms would he go back? Would he still be a member of the innercircle even at Bracton? To find himself no longer in the confidence ofthe Progressive Element, to be thrust down among the Telfords andJewels, seemed to him unendurable. And the salary of a mere don looked apoor thing after the dreams he had been dreaming for the last few days.Married life was already turning out more expensive than he hadreckoned. Then came a sharp doubt about that two hundred pounds formembership of the N.I.C.E. club. But no--that was absurd. They couldn'tpossibly dun him for that.

"Well, obviously," he said in a vague voice, "the first thing is to seethe D.D."

"Now that you're leaving," said the Fairy, "there's one thing I've gotto say. I've laid all the cards on the table. If it should ever enteryour head that it would be fun to repeat any of this conversation in theouter world, take my advice and don't. It wouldn't be at all healthy foryour future career."

"Oh, but of course," began Mark.

"You'd better run along now," said Miss Hardcastle. "Have a nice talkwith the D.D. Be careful not to annoy the old man. He does so hateresignations."

Mark made an attempt to prolong the interview, but the Fairy did notpermit this and in a few seconds he was outside the door.

The rest of that day he passed miserably enough, keeping out of people'sway as much as possible lest his lack of occupation should be noticed.He went out before lunch for one of those short, unsatisfactory walkswhich a man takes in a strange neighbourhood when he has brought withhim neither old clothes nor a walking-stick. After lunch he explored thegrounds. But they were not the sort of grounds that anyone could walk infor pleasure. The Edwardian millionaire who had built Belbury hadenclosed about twenty acres with a low brick wall surmounted by an ironrailing, and laid it all out in what his contractor called OrnamentalPleasure Grounds. There were trees dotted about and winding pathscovered so thickly with round white pebbles that you could hardly walkon them. There were immense flower-beds, some oblong, somelozenge-shaped, and some crescents. There were plantations--slabs wouldbe almost a better word--of that kind of laurel which looks as if it weremade of cleverly painted and varnished metal. Massive summer seats ofbright green stood at regular intervals along the paths. The wholeeffect was like that of a municipal cemetery. Yet, unattractive as itwas, he sought it again after tea, smoking incessantly, though the windblew the lit part down the side of his cigarette, and his tongue wasalready burning. This time he wandered round to the back parts of thehouse where the newer and lower buildings joined it. Here he wassurprised by a stable-like smell and a medley of growls, grunts, andwhimpers--all the signs, in fact, of a considerable zoo. At first he didnot understand, but presently he remembered that an immense programme ofvivisection, freed at last from Red Tape and from niggling economy, wasone of the plans of the N.I.C.E. He had not been particularly interestedand had thought vaguely of rats, rabbits, and an occasional dog. Theconfused noises from within suggested something very different. As hestood there one great yawn-like howl arose, and then, as if it had setthe key, all manner of trumpetings, bayings, screams, laughter even,which shuddered and protested for a moment and then died away intomutterings and whines. Mark had no scruples about vivisection. What thenoise meant to him was the greatness and grandiosity of this wholeundertaking from which, apparently, he was likely to be excluded. Therewere all sorts of things in there: hundreds of pounds' worth of livinganimality, which the Institute could afford to cut up like paper on themere off-chance of some interesting discovery. He must get the job: hemust somehow solve the problem of Steele. But the noise was disagreeableand he moved away.

II

Mark woke next morning with the feeling that there would certainly beone fence and perhaps two fences for him to get over during the day. Thefirst was his interview with the Deputy Director. Unless he could get avery definite assurance about a post and a salary, he would cut hisconnection with the Institute. And then, when he reached home, thesecond fence would be his explanation to Jane of how the whole dream hadfaded away.

The first real fog of the autumn had descended on Belbury that morning.Mark ate his breakfast by artificial light, and neither post nornewspaper had arrived. It was a Friday and a servant handed him his billfor the portion of a week which he had already spent in the Institute.He put it in his pocket after a hasty glance with a resolution thatthis, at any rate, should never be mentioned to Jane. Neither the totalnor the items were of the sort that wives easily understand. He himselfdoubted whether there were not some mistake, but he was still at thatage when a man would rather be fleeced to his last penny than dispute abill. Then he finished his second cup of tea, felt for cigarettes, foundnone, and ordered a new packet.

The odd half-hour which he had to wait before keeping his appointmentwith the Deputy Director passed slowly. No one spoke to him. Everyoneelse seemed to be hasting away on some important and well-definedpurpose. For part of the time he was alone in the lounge and felt thatthe servants looked at him as if he ought not to be there. He was gladwhen he was able to go upstairs and knock on Wither's door.

He was admitted at once, but the conversation was not easy to beginbecause Wither said nothing, and though he looked up as soon as Markentered, with an expression of dreamy courtesy, he did not look exactlyat Mark, nor did he ask him to sit down. The room, as usual, wasextremely hot, and Mark, divided between his desire to make it clearthat he had fully resolved to be left hanging about no longer and hisequally keen desire not to lose the job if there were any real jobgoing, did not perhaps speak very well. At all events the DeputyDirector left him to run down--to pass into disjointed repetitions andthence into complete silence. That silence lasted for some time. Withersat with his lips pouted and slightly open as though he were humming atune.

"So I think, sir, I'd better go," said Mark at last, with vaguereference to what he had been saying.

"You are Mr. Studdock I think?" said Wither tentatively after anotherprolonged silence.

"Yes," said Mark impatiently. "I called on you with Lord Feverstone afew days ago. You gave me to understand that you were offering me aposition on the sociological side of the N.I.C.E. But as I was saying----"

"One moment, Mr. Studdock," interrupted the Deputy Director. "It is soimportant to be perfectly clear what we are doing. You are no doubtaware that in certain senses of the words it would be most unfortunateto speak of my offering anyone a post in the Institute. You must notimagine for a moment that I hold any kind of autocratic position, nor,on the other hand, that the relation between my own sphere of influenceand the powers--I am speaking of their temporary powers, youunderstand--of the permanent committee or those of the Director himselfare defined by any hard and fast system of what--er--one might call aconstitutional, or even a constitutive, character. For example----"

"Then, sir, can you tell me whether anyone has offered me a post, and,if so, who?"

"Oh," said Wither suddenly, changing both his position and his tone asif a new idea had struck him. "There has never been the least questionof that sort. It was always understood that your co-operation with theInstitute would be entirely acceptable--would be of the greatest value."

"Well, can I--I mean, oughtn't we to discuss the details? I mean thesalary for example and--who should I be working under?"

"My dear friend," said Wither with a smile, "I do not anticipate thatthere will be any difficulty about the--er--the financial side of thematter. As for----"

"What would the salary be, sir?" said Mark.

"Well, there you touch on a point which it is hardly for me to decide. Ibelieve that members in the position which we had envisaged you asoccupying usually draw some sum like fifteen hundred a year, allowingfor fluctuations calculated on a very liberal basis. You will find thatall questions of that sort will adjust themselves with the greatestease."

"But when should I know, sir? Who ought I to go to about it?"

"You mustn't suppose, Mr. Studdock, that when I mention fifteen hundredI am at all excluding the possibility of some higher figure. I don'tthink any of us here would allow a disagreement on that point . . ."

"I should be perfectly satisfied with fifteen hundred," said Mark. "Iwasn't thinking of that at all. But--but--" the Deputy Director'sexpression became more and more courtly and confidential as Markstammered, so that when he finally blurted out, "I suppose there'd be acontract or something of the kind," he felt he had committed anunutterable vulgarity.

"Well," said the Deputy Director, fixing his eyes on the ceiling andsinking his voice to a whisper as though he too were profoundlyembarrassed, "that is not exactly the sort of procedure . . . it would,no doubt, be possible . . ."

"And that isn't the main point, sir," said Mark reddening. "There's thequestion of my status. Am I to work under Mr. Steele?"

"I have here a form," said Wither, opening a drawer, "which has not, Ibelieve, been ever actually used but which was designed for suchagreements. You might care to study it at your leisure and if you aresatisfied we could sign it at any time."

"But about Mr. Steele?"

At that moment a secretary entered and placed some letters on the DeputyDirector's table.

"Ah! The post at last!" said Wither. "Perhaps, Mr. Studdock, er--you willhave letters of your own to attend to. You are, I believe, married?" Asmile of fatherly indulgence overspread his face as he said these words.

"I'm sorry to delay you, sir," said Mark, "but about Mr. Steele? Thereis no good my looking at the form of agreement until that question issettled. I should feel compelled to refuse any position which involvedworking under Mr. Steele."

"That opens up a very interesting question about which I should like tohave a quite informal and confidential chat with you on some futureoccasion," said Wither. "For the moment, Mr. Studdock, I shall notregard anything you have said as final. If you care to call on meto-morrow . . ." He became absorbed in the letter he had opened, andMark, feeling that he had achieved enough for one interview, left theroom. Apparently they did really want him at the N.I.C.E. and wereprepared to pay a high price for him. He would fight it out about Steelelater; meanwhile he would study the form of agreement.

He came downstairs again and found the following letter waiting for him.

Bracton College,
Edgestow,
Oct. 20th, 19--.

"MY DEAR MARK,--We were all sorry to hear from Dick that you areresigning your Fellowship, but feel quite certain you've made theright decision as far as your own career is concerned. Once theN.I.C.E. is settled in here I shall expect to see almost as much ofyou as before. If you have not yet sent a formal resignation to N.O.,I shouldn't be in any hurry to do so. If you wrote early next term thevacancy would come up at the February meeting and we should have timeto get ready a suitable candidate as your successor. Have you anyideas on the subject yourself? I was talking to James and Dick theother night about David Laird (James hadn't heard of him before). Nodoubt you know his work: could you let me have a line about it, andabout his more general qualifications? I may see him next week whenI'm running over to Cambridge to dine with the Prime Minister and oneor two others, and I think Dick might be induced to ask Laird as well.You'll have heard that we had rather a shindy here the other night.There was apparently some sort of fracas between the new workmen andthe local inhabitants. The N.I.C.E. police, who seem to be a nervylot, made the mistake of firing a few rounds over the head of thecrowd. We had the Henrietta Maria window smashed and several stonescame into Common Room. Glossop lost his head and wanted to go out andharangue the mob, but I managed to quiet him down. This is in strictconfidence. There are lots of people ready to make capital out of ithere and to get up a hue and cry against us for selling the Wood. Inhaste--I must run off and make arrangements about Hingest'sfuneral.--Yours, G. C. CURRY."

At the first words of this letter a stab of fear ran through Mark. Hetried to reassure himself. An explanation of the misunderstanding--whichhe would write and post immediately--would be bound to put everythingright. They couldn't shove a man out of his Fellowship simply on achance word spoken by Lord Feverstone in Common Room. It came back tohim with miserable insight that what he was now calling "a chance word"was exactly what he had learned, in the Progressive Element, to describeas "settling real business in private" or "cutting out the Red Tape,"but he tried to thrust this out of his mind. It came back to him thatpoor Conington had actually lost his job in a way very similar to this,but he explained to himself that the circumstances had been quitedifferent. Conington had been an outsider; he was inside, even moreinside than Curry himself. But was he? If he were not "inside" atBelbury (and it began to look as if he were not) was he still inFeverstone's confidence? If he had to go back to Bracton would he findthat he retained even his old status there? Could he go to Bracton?Yes, of course. He must write a letter at once explaining that he hadnot resigned, and would not resign, his Fellowship. He sat down at atable in the writing-room and took out his pen. Then another thoughtstruck him. A letter to Curry, saying plainly that he meant to stay atBracton, would be shown to Feverstone. Feverstone would tell Wither.Such a letter could be regarded as a refusal of any post at Belbury.Well--let it be! He would give up this short-lived dream and fall back onhis Fellowship. But how if that were impossible? The whole thing mighthave been arranged simply to let him fall between the two stools--kickedout of Belbury because he was retaining the Bracton Fellowship andkicked out of Bracton because he was supposed to be taking a job atBelbury . . . then he and Jane left to sink or swim with not a soubetween them . . . perhaps with Feverstone's influence against him whenhe tried to get another job. And where was Feverstone?

Obviously, he must play his cards very carefully. He rang the bell andordered a large whisky. At home he would not have drunk till twelve andeven then would have drunk only beer. But now . . . and anyway, he feltcuriously chilly. There was no point in catching a cold on top of allhis other troubles.

He decided that he must write a very careful and rather elusive letter.His first draught was, he thought, not vague enough: it could be used asa proof that he had abandoned all idea of a job at Belbury. He must makeit vaguer. But then, if it were too vague, it would do no good. Oh damn,damn, damn the whole thing. The two hundred pounds entrance fee, thebill for his first week, and snatches of imagined attempts to make Janesee the whole episode in the proper light, kept coming between him andhis task. In the end, with the aid of the whisky and of a great manycigarettes, he produced the following letter:

"THE NATIONAL INSTITUTE
FOR CO-ORDINATED EXPERIMENTS,
BELBURY.

Oct. 21st, 19--.

MY DEAR CURRY,--Feverstone must have got me wrong. I never made theslightest suggestion of resigning my Fellowship and don't in the leastwish to do so. As a matter of fact, I have almost made up my mind notto take a full-time job with the N.I.C.E. and hope to be back inCollege in a day or two. For one thing, I am rather worried about mywife's health, and don't like to commit myself to being much away atpresent. In the second place, though everyone here has been extremelyflattering and all press me to stay, the kind of job they want me foris more on the administrative and publicity side and less scientificthan I had expected. So be sure and contradict it if you hear anyonesaying I am thinking of leaving Edgestow. I hope you'll enjoy yourjaunt to Cambridge: what circles you do move in!--Yours,MARK G. STUDDOCK.

P.S.--Laird wouldn't have done in any case. He got a third, and theonly published work he's ventured on has been treated as a joke byserious reviewers. In particular, he has no critical faculty at all.You can always depend on him for admiring anything that is thoroughlybogus."

The relief of having finished the letter was only momentary, for almostas soon as he had sealed it the problem of how to pass the rest of thisday returned to him. He decided to go and sit in his own room: but whenhe went up there he found the bed stripped and a vacuum cleaner in themiddle of the floor. Apparently members were not expected to be in theirbedrooms at this time of day. He came down and tried the lounge; theservants were tidying it. He looked into the library. It was empty butfor two men who were talking with their heads close together. Theystopped and looked up as soon as he entered, obviously waiting for himto go. He pretended that he had come to get a book and retired. In thehall he saw Steele himself standing by the notice-board and talking to aman with a pointed beard. Neither looked at Mark, but as he passed themthey became silent. He dawdled across the hall and pretended to examinethe barometer. Wherever he went he heard doors opening and shutting, thetread of rapid feet, occasional ringing of telephones; all the signs ofa busy institution carrying on a vigorous life from which he wasexcluded. He opened the front door and looked out: the fog was thick,wet, and cold.

There is one sense in which every narrative is false; it dare notattempt, even if it could, to express the actual movement of time. Thisday was so long to Mark that a faithful account of it would beunreadable. Sometimes he sat upstairs--for at last they finished "doing"his bedroom--sometimes he went out into the fog, sometimes he hung aboutthe public rooms. Every now and then these would be unaccountably filledup by crowds of talking people, and for a few minutes the strain oftrying not to look unoccupied, not to seem miserable and embarrassed,would be imposed on him: then suddenly, as if summoned by their nextengagement, all these people would hurry away.

Some time after lunch he met Stone in one of the passages. Mark had notthought of him since yesterday morning, but now, looking at theexpression on his face and something furtive in his whole manner, herealised that here, at any rate, was someone who felt as uncomfortableas himself. Stone had the look which Mark had often seen before inunpopular boys or new boys at school, in "outsiders" at Bracton--the lookwhich was for Mark the symbol of all his worst fears, for to be one whomust wear that look was, in his scale of values, the greatest evil. Hisinstinct was not to speak to this man Stone. He knew by experience howdangerous it is to be friends with a sinking man or even to be seen withhim: you cannot keep him afloat and he may pull you under. But his owncraving for companionship was now acute, so that against his betterjudgement he smiled a sickly smile and said "Hullo!"

Stone gave a start as if to be spoken to were almost a frighteningexperience. "Good afternoon," he said nervously and made to pass on.

"Let's come and talk somewhere, if you're not busy," said Mark.

"I am--that is to say--I'm not quite sure how long I shall be free," saidStone.

"Tell me about this place," said Mark. "It seems to me perfectly bloody,but I haven't yet made up my mind. Come to my room."

"I don't think that at all. Not at all. Who said I thought that?"answered Stone very quickly. And Mark did not answer because at thatmoment he saw the Deputy Director approaching them. He was to discoverduring the next few weeks that no passage and no public room at Belburywas ever safe from the prolonged indoor walks of the Deputy Director.They could not be regarded as a form of espionage for the creak ofWither's boots and the dreary little tune which he was nearly alwayshumming would have defeated any such purpose. One heard him quite a longway off. Often one saw him a long way off as well, for he was a tallman--without his stoop he would have been very tall indeed--and often,even in a crowd, one saw that face at a distance staring vaguely towardsone. But this was Mark's first experience of that ubiquity, and he feltthat the D.D. could not have appeared at a more unfortunate moment. Veryslowly he came towards them, looked in their direction though it was notplain from his face whether he recognised them or not, and passed on.Neither of the young men attempted to resume their conversation.

At tea Mark saw Feverstone and went at once to sit beside him. He knewthat the worst thing a man in his position could do was to try to forcehimself on anyone, but he was now feeling desperate.

"I say, Feverstone," he began gaily, "I'm in search of information"--andwas relieved to see Feverstone smile in reply.

"Yes," said Mark. "I haven't had exactly what you'd call a glowingreception from Steele. But the D.D. won't hear of my leaving. And theFairy seems to want me to write newspaper articles. What the hell am Isupposed to be doing?"

Feverstone laughed long and loud.

"Because," concluded Mark, "I'm damned if I can find out. I've tried totackle the old boy direct . . ."

"God!" said Feverstone, laughing even louder.

"Can one never get anything out of him?"

"Not what you want," said Feverstone with a chuckle.

"Well, how the devil is one to find out what's wanted if nobody offersany information?"

"Quite."

"Oh, and by the way, that reminds me of something else. How on earth didCurry get hold of the idea that I'm resigning my Fellowship?"

"Aren't you?"

"I never had the faintest notion of resigning it."

"Really! I was told distinctly by the Fairy that you weren't comingback."

"You don't suppose I'd do it through her if I was going to resign?"

Feverstone's smile brightened and widened. "It doesn't make any odds,you know," he said. "If the N.I.C.E. want you to have a nominal jobsomewhere outside Belbury, you'll have one: and if they don't, youwon't. Just like that."

"Damn the N.I.C.E. I'm merely trying to retain the Fellowship I alreadyhad, which is no concern of theirs. One doesn't want to fall between twostools."

"One doesn't want to."

"You mean?"

"Take my advice and get into Wither's good books again as soon as youcan. I gave you a good start but you seem to have rubbed him up thewrong way. His attitude has changed since this morning. You need tohumour him, you know. And just between ourselves, I wouldn't be toothick with the Fairy: it won't do you any good higher up. There arewheels within wheels."

"In the meantime," said Mark, "I've written to Curry to explain thatit's all rot about my resignation."

"No harm if it amuses you," said Feverstone, still smiling.

"Well, I don't suppose College wants to kick me out simply because Currymisunderstood something Miss Hardcastle said to you."

"You can't be deprived of a fellowship under any statute I know,except for gross immorality."

"No, of course not. I didn't mean that. I meant not being re-electedwhen I come up for re-election next term."

"Oh. I see."

"And that's why I must rely on you to get that idea out of Curry'shead."

Feverstone said nothing.

"You will be sure," urged Mark against his own better judgement, "tomake it quite clear to him that the whole thing was a misunderstanding."

"Don't you know Curry? He will have got his whole wangling-machine goingon the problem of your successor long ago."

"That's why I am relying on you to stop him."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Why me?"

"Well--damn it all, Feverstone, it was you who first put the idea intohis head."

"Do you know," said Feverstone, helping himself to a muffin, "I findyour style of conversation rather difficult. You will come up forre-election in a few months. The College may decide to re-elect you; or,of course, it may not. As far as I can make out, you are at presentattempting to canvass my vote in advance. To which the proper answer isthe one I now give--go to hell!"

"You know perfectly well that there was no doubt about my re-electionuntil you spoke a word in Curry's ear."

Feverstone eyed the muffin critically. "You make me rather tired," hesaid. "If you don't know how to steer your own course in a place likeBracton, why come and pester me? I'm not a bucking nurse. And for yourown good I would advise you in talking to people here to adopt a moreagreeable manner than you are using now. Otherwise your life may be, inthe famous words, 'nasty, poor, brutish, and short!'"

"Short?" said Mark. "Is that a threat? Do you mean my life at Bracton orat the N.I.C.E.?"

"I shouldn't stress the distinction too much if I were you," saidFeverstone.

"I shall remember that," said Mark, rising from his chair. As he made tomove away he could not help turning to this smiling man once again andsaying, "It was you who brought me here. I thought you at least were myfriend."

"Incurable romantic!" said Lord Feverstone, deftly extending his mouthto an even wider grin and popping the muffin into it entire.

And so Mark knew that if he lost the Belbury job he would lose hisFellowship at Bracton as well.

III

During these days Jane spent as little time as possible in the flat andkept herself awake reading in bed, as long as she could, each night.Sleep had become her enemy. In the daytime she kept on going toEdgestow--nominally in the attempt to find another "woman who would comein twice a week" instead of Mrs. Maggs. On one of these occasions shewas delighted to find herself suddenly addressed by Camilla Denniston.Camilla had just stepped out of a car and next moment she introduced atall dark man as her husband. Jane saw at once that both the Dennistonswere the sort of people she liked. She knew that Mr. Denniston had oncebeen a friend of Mark's but she had never met him; and her first thoughtwas to wonder, as she had wondered before, why Mark's present friendswere so inferior to those he once had. Carey and Wadsden and theTaylors, who had all been members of the set in which she first got toknow him, had been nicer than Curry and Busby, not to mention theFeverstone man--and this Mr. Denniston was obviously very much nicerindeed.

"We were just coming to see you," said Camilla. "Look here, we havelunch with us. Let's drive you up to the woods beyond Sandown and allfeed together in the car. There's lots to talk about."

"Or what about your coming to the flat and lunching with me?" said Jane,inwardly wondering how she could manage this. "It's hardly a day forpicnicking."

"That only means extra washing-up for you," said Camilla. "Had we bettergo somewhere in town, Arthur?--if Mrs. Studdock thinks it's too cold andfoggy."

"A restaurant would hardly do, Mrs. Studdock," said Denniston, "we wantto be private." The "we" obviously meant "we three" and established atonce a pleasant, business-like unity between them. "As well," hecontinued. "Don't you like a rather foggy day in a wood in autumn?You'll find we shall be perfectly warm sitting in the car."

Jane said she'd never heard of anyone liking fogs before but she didn'tmind trying. All three got in.

"That's why Camilla and I got married," said Denniston as they droveoff. "We both like Weather. Not this or that kind of weather, but justWeather. It's a useful taste if one lives in England."

"How ever did you learn to do that, Mr. Denniston?" said Jane. "I don'tthink I should ever learn to like rain and snow."

"It's the other way round," said Denniston. "Everyone begins as a childby liking weather. You learn the art of disliking it as you grow up.Haven't you ever noticed it on a snowy day? The grown-ups are all goingabout with long faces, but look at the children--and the dogs! Theyknow what snow's made for."

"I'm sure I hated wet days as a child," said Jane.

"That's because the grown-ups kept you in," said Camilla. "Any childloves rain if it's allowed to go out and paddle about in it."

Presently they left the unfenced road beyond Sandown and went bumpingacross grass and among trees and finally came to rest in a sort oflittle grassy bay with a fir thicket on one side and a group of beecheson the other. There were wet cobwebs and a rich autumnal smell all roundthem. Then all three sat together in the back of the car, and there wassome unstrapping of baskets, and then sandwiches and a little flask ofsherry and finally hot coffee and cigarettes. Jane was beginning toenjoy herself.

"Now!" said Camilla.

"Well," said Denniston, "I suppose I'd better begin. You know, ofcourse, where we've come from, Mrs. Studdock?"

"From Miss Ironwood's," said Jane.

"Well, from the same house. But we don't belong to Grace Ironwood. Sheand we both belong to someone else."

"Yes?" said Jane.

"Our little household, or company, or society, or whatever you like tocall it is run by a Mr. Fisher-King. At least that is the name he hasrecently taken. You might or might not know his original name if I toldit to you. He is a great traveller but now an invalid. He got a wound inhis foot on his last journey which won't heal."

"How did he come to change his name?"

"He had a married sister in India, a Mrs. Fisher-King. She has just diedand left him a large fortune on condition that he took the name. She wasa remarkable woman in her way; a friend of the great native Christianmystic whom you may have heard of--the Sura. And that's the point. TheSura had reason to believe, or thought he had reason to believe, that agreat danger was hanging over the human race. And just before theend--just before he disappeared--he became convinced that it wouldactually come to a head in this island. And after he'd gone----"

"Is he dead?" asked Jane.

"That we don't know," answered Denniston. "Some people think he's alive,others not. At any rate he disappeared. And Mrs. Fisher-King more orless handed over the problem to her brother, to our chief. That, infact, was why she gave him the money. He was to collect a company roundhim to watch for this danger, and to strike when it came."

"That's not quite right, Arthur," said Camilla. "He was told that acompany would in fact collect round him and he was to be its head."

"I didn't think we need go into that," said Arthur. "But I agree. Andnow, Mrs. Studdock, this is where you come in."

Jane waited.

"The Sura said that when the time came we should find what he called aseer: a person with second sight."

"Not that we'd get a seer, Arthur," said Camilla, "that a seer wouldturn up. Either we or the other side would get her."

"And it looks," said Denniston to Jane, "as if you were the seer."

"But please," said Jane, smiling, "I don't want to be anything soexciting."

"No," said Denniston. "It's rough luck on you." There was just the rightamount of sympathy in his tone.

Camilla turned to Jane and said, "I gathered from Grace Ironwood thatyou weren't quite convinced you were a seer. I mean you thought itmight be just ordinary dreams. Do you still think that?"

"It's all so strange and--beastly!" said Jane. She liked these people,but her habitual inner prompter was whispering, "Take care. Don't getdrawn in. Don't commit yourself to anything. You've got your own life tolive." Then an impulse of honesty forced her to add: "As a matter offact I've had another dream since then. And it turns out to have beentrue. I saw the murder--Mr. Hingest's murder."

"There you are," said Camilla. "Oh, Mrs. Studdock, you must come in.You must, you must. That means we're right on top of it now. Don't yousee? We've been wondering all this time exactly where the trouble isgoing to begin: and now your dream gives us a clue. You've seensomething within a few miles of Edgestow. In fact, we are apparently inthe thick of it already--whatever it is. And we can't move an inchwithout your help. You are our secret service, our eyes. It's all beenarranged long before we were born. Don't spoil everything. Do join us."

"No, Cam, don't," said Denniston. "The Pendragon--the Head, I mean,wouldn't like us to do that. Mrs. Studdock must come in freely."

"But," said Jane, "I don't know anything about all this. Do I? I don'twant to take sides in something I don't understand."

"But don't you see," broke in Camilla, "that you can't be neutral? Ifyou don't give yourself to us, the enemy will use you."

The words "give yourself to us" were ill chosen. The very muscles ofJane's body stiffened a little: if the speaker had been anyone whoattracted her less than Camilla she would have become like stone to anyfurther appeal. Denniston laid a hand on his wife's arm.

"You must see it from Mrs. Studdock's point of view, dear," he said."You forget she knows practically nothing at all about us. And that isthe real difficulty. We can't tell her much until she has joined. Weare, in fact, asking her to take a leap in the dark." He turned to Janewith a slightly quizzical smile on his face which was, nevertheless,grave. "It is like that," he said, "like getting married, or goinginto the Navy as a boy, or becoming a monk, or trying a new thing toeat. You can't know what it's like until you take the plunge." He didnot perhaps know, or again perhaps he did, the complicated resentmentsand resistances which his choice of illustrations awoke in Jane, norcould she herself analyse them. She merely replied in a colder voicethan she had yet used:

"In that case it is rather difficult to see why one should take it atall."

"I admit frankly," said Denniston, "that you can only take it on trust.It all depends really, I suppose, what impression the Dimbles and Graceand we two have made on you: and, of course, the Head himself, when youmeet him."

Jane softened again.

"What exactly are you asking me to do?" she said.

"To come and see our chief, first of all. And then--well, to join. Itwould involve making certain promises to him. He is really a Head, yousee. We have all agreed to take his orders. Oh--there's one other thing.What view would Mark take about it?--he and I are old friends, you know."

"I wonder," said Camilla. "Need we go into that for the moment?"

"It's bound to come up sooner or later," said her husband.

There was a little pause.

"Mark?" said Jane. "How does he come into it? I can't imagine what he'dsay about all this. He'd probably think we were all off our heads."

"Would he object, though?" said Denniston. "I mean, would he object toyour joining us?"

"If he were at home, I suppose he'd be rather surprised if I announced Iwas going to stay indefinitely at St. Anne's. Does 'joining you' meanthat?"

"Isn't Mark at home?" asked Denniston with some surprise.

"No," said Jane. "He's at Belbury. I think he's going to have a job inthe N.I.C.E." She was rather pleased to be able to say this for she waswell aware of the distinction it implied. If Denniston was impressed hedid not show it.

"I don't think," he said, "that 'joining us' would mean, at the moment,coming to live at St. Anne's: specially in the case of a married woman.Unless old Mark got really interested and came himself----"

"That is quite out of the question," said Jane. ("He doesn't know Mark,"she thought.)

"Anyway," continued Denniston, "that is hardly the real point at themoment. Would he object to your joining--putting yourself under theHead's orders and making the promises and all that?"

"Would he object?" asked Jane. "What on earth would it have to do withhim?"

"Well," said Denniston, hesitating a little, "the Head--or theauthorities he obeys--have rather old-fashioned notions. He wouldn't likea married woman to come in, if it could be avoided, without herhusband's--without consulting----"

"Do you mean I'm to ask Mark's permission?" said Jane with a strainedlittle laugh. The resentment which had been rising and ebbing, butrising each time a little more than it ebbed, for several minutes, hadnow overflowed. All this talk of promises and obedience to an unknownMr. Fisher-King had already repelled her. But the idea of this sameperson sending her back to get Mark's permission--as if she were a childasking leave to go to a party--was the climax. For a moment she looked onMr. Denniston with real dislike. She saw him, and Mark, and theFisher-King man and this preposterous Indian fakir simply asmen--complacent, patriarchal figures making arrangements for women as ifwomen were children or bartering them like cattle. ("And so the kingpromised that if anyone killed the dragon he would give him hisdaughter in marriage.") She was very angry.

"Arthur," said Camilla, "I see a light over there. Do you think it's abonfire?"

"Yes, I should say it was."

"My feet are getting cold. Let's go for a little walk and look at thefire. I wish we had some chestnuts."

"Oh, do let's," said Jane.

They got out. It was warmer in the open than it had by now become in thecar--warm and full of leavy smells, and dampness, and the small noise ofdripping branches. The fire was big and in its middle life--a smokinghillside of leaves on one side and great caves and cliffs of glowing redon the other. They stood round it and chatted of indifferent matters fora time.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Jane presently. "I won't joinyour--your--whatever it is. But I'll promise to let you know if I have anymore dreams of that sort."

"That is splendid," said Denniston. "And I think it is as much as we hada right to expect. I quite see your point of view. May I ask for onemore promise?"

"What is that?"

"Not to mention us to anyone."

"Oh, certainly."

Later, when they had returned to the car and were driving back, Mr.Denniston said, "I hope the dreams will not worry you much, now, Mrs.Studdock. No: I don't mean I hope they'll stop: and I don't think theywill either. But now that you know they are not something in yourselfbut only things going on in the outer world, nasty things, no doubt, butno worse than lots you read in the papers, I believe you'll find themquite bearable. The less you think of them as your dreams and the moreyou think of them--well, as news--the better you'll feel about them."

SIX

Fog

I

A night (with little sleep) and half another day dragged past beforeMark was able to see the Deputy Director again. He went to him in achastened frame of mind, anxious to get the job on almost any terms.

"I have brought back the Form, sir," he said.

"What Form?" asked the Deputy Director. Mark found he was talking to anew and different Wither. The absent-mindedness was still there, but thecourtliness was gone. The man looked at him as if out of a dream, as ifdivided from him by an immense distance, but with a sort of dreamydistaste which might turn into active hatred if ever that distance werediminished. He still smiled, but there was something cat-like in thesmile; an occasional alteration of the lines about the mouth which evenhinted at a snarl. Mark in his hands was as a mouse. At Bracton theProgressive Element, having to face only scholars, had passed for veryknowing fellows, but here at Belbury, one felt quite different. Withersaid he had understood that Mark had already refused the job. He couldnot, in any event, renew the offer. He spoke vaguely and alarmingly ofstrains and frictions, of injudicious behaviour, of the danger of makingenemies, of the impossibility that the N.I.C.E could harbour a personwho appeared to have quarrelled with all its members in the first week.He spoke even more vaguely and alarmingly of conversations he had hadwith "your colleagues at Bracton" which entirely confirmed this view. Hedoubted if Mark were really suited to a learned career, but disclaimedany intention of giving advice. Only after he had hinted and murmuredMark into a sufficient state of dejection did he throw him, like a boneto a dog, the suggestion of an appointment for a probationary period at(roughly--he could not commit the Institute) six hundred a year. And Marktook it. He attempted to get answers even then to some of his questions.From whom was he to take orders? Was he to reside at Belbury?

Wither replied, "I think, Mr. Studdock, we have already mentionedelasticity as the keynote of the Institute. Unless you are prepared totreat membership as . . . er . . . a vocation rather than a mereappointment, I could not conscientiously advise you to come to us. Thereare no watertight compartments. I fear I could not persuade thecommittee to invent for your benefit some cut-and-dried position inwhich you would discharge artificially limited duties and, apart fromthose, regard your time as your own. Pray allow me to finish, Mr.Studdock. We are, as I have said before, more like a family, or even,perhaps, like a single personality. There must be no question of 'takingyour orders,' as you, rather unfortunately, suggest, from some specifiedofficial and considering yourself free to adopt an intransigent attitudeto your other colleagues. (I must ask you not to interrupt me, please.)That is not the spirit in which I would wish you to approach yourduties. You must make yourself useful, Mr. Studdock--generally useful. Ido not think the Institute could allow anyone to remain in it who showeda disposition to stand on his rights . . . who grudged this or thatpiece of service because it fell outside some function which he hadchosen to circumscribe by a rigid definition. On the other hand, itwould be quite equally disastrous . . . I mean for yourself, Mr.Studdock: I am thinking throughout of your own interests . . . quiteequally disastrous if you allowed yourself ever to be distracted fromyour real work by unauthorised collaboration . . . or, worse still,interference . . . with the work of other members. Do not let casualsuggestions distract you or dissipate your energies. Concentration, Mr.Studdock, concentration. And the free spirit of give and take. If youavoid both the errors I have mentioned then . . . ah, I do not think Ineed despair of correcting on your behalf certain unfortunateimpressions which, we must admit, your behaviour has already produced.No, Mr. Studdock, I can allow no further discussion. My time is alreadyfully occupied. I cannot be continually harassed by conversations ofthis sort. You must find your own level, Mr. Studdock. Good morning, Mr.Studdock, good morning. Remember what I have said. I am trying to do allI can for you. Good morning."

Mark reimbursed himself for the humiliation of this interview byreflecting that if he were not a married man he would not have borne itfor a moment. This seemed to him (though he did not put it into words)to throw the burden upon Jane. It also set him free to think of all thethings he would have said to Wither if he hadn't had Jane to botherabout--and would still say if ever he got a chance. This kept him in asort of twilight happiness for several minutes; and when he went to teahe found that the reward for his submission had already begun. The Fairysigned to him to come and sit beside her.

"You haven't done anything about Alcasan yet?" she asked.

"No," said Mark, "because I hadn't really decided to stay, not untilthis morning. I could come up and look at your materials this afternoon. . . at least as far as I know, for I haven't yet really found out whatI'm supposed to be doing."

"Elasticity, sonny, elasticity," said Miss Hardcastle. "You never will.Your line is to do whatever you're told and above all not to bother theold man."

II

During the next few days several processes, which afterwards came toseem important, were steadily going on.

The fog, which covered Edgestow as well as Belbury, continued and grewdenser. At Edgestow one regarded it as "coming up from the river," butin reality it lay all over the heart of England. It blanketed the wholetown so that walls dripped and you could write your name in the dampnesson tables and men worked by artificial light at midday. The workings,where Bragdon Wood had been, ceased to offend conservative eyes andbecame mere clangings, thuddings, hootings, shouts, curses, and metallicscreams in an invisible world.

Some felt glad that the obscenity should thus be covered, for all beyondthe Wynd was now an abomination. The grip of the N.I.C.E. on Edgestowwas tightening. The river itself, which had once been brownish-green andamber and smooth-skinned silver, tugging at the reeds and playing withthe red roots, now flowed opaque, thick with mud, sailed on by endlessfleets of empty tins, sheets of paper, cigarette ends, and fragments ofwood, sometimes varied by rainbow patches of oil. Then the invasionactually crossed it. The Institute had bought the land up to the left oreastern bank. But now Busby was summoned to meet Feverstone and aProfessor Frost as the representatives of the N.I.C.E., and learned forthe first time that the Wynd itself was to be diverted: there was to beno river in Edgestow. This was still strictly confidential, but theInstitute had already powers to force it. This being so, a newadjustment of boundaries between it and the College was clearly needed.Busby's jaw fell when he realised that the Institute wanted to comeright up to the College walls. He refused, of course. And it was thenthat he first heard a hint of requisitioning. The College could sellto-day and the Institute offered a good price: if they did not,compulsion and a merely nominal compensation awaited them. Relationsbetween Feverstone and the Bursar deteriorated during this interview. Anextraordinary College meeting had to be summoned, and Busby had to putthe best face he could on things to his colleagues. He was almostphysically shocked by the storm of hatred which met him. In vain did hepoint out that those who were now abusing him had themselves voted forthe sale of the Wood: but equally in vain did they abuse him. TheCollege was caught in the net of necessity. They sold the little stripon their side of the Wynd which meant so much. It was no more than aterrace between the Eastern walls and the water. Twenty-four hours laterthe N.I.C.E. boarded over the doomed Wynd and converted the terrace intoa dump. All day long workmen were trampling across the planks with heavyloads which they flung down against the very walls of Bracton till thepile had covered the boarded blindness which had once been the HenriettaMaria window and reached almost to the east window of chapel.

In these days many members of the Progressive Element dropped off andjoined the opposition. Those who were left were hammered closer togetherby the unpopularity they had to face. And though the College was thussharply divided within, yet for the very same reason it also took on anew unity perforce in its relations to the outer world. Bracton as awhole bore the blame for bringing the N.I.C.E. to Edgestow at all. Thiswas unfair, for many high authorities in the University had thoroughlyapproved Bracton's action in doing so, but now that the result wasbecoming apparent people refused to remember this. Busby, though he hadheard the hint of requisitioning in confidence, lost no time inspreading it through Edgestow common rooms--"It would have done no goodif we had refused to sell," he said. But nobody believed that this waswhy Bracton had sold, and the unpopularity of that College steadilyincreased. The undergraduates got wind of it, and stopped attending thelectures of Bracton dons. Busby, and even the wholly innocent warden,were mobbed in the streets.

The Town, which did not usually share the opinions of the University,was also in an unsettled condition. The disturbance in which the Bractonwindows had been broken was taken little notice of in the London papersor even in the Edgestow Telegraph. But it was followed by otherepisodes. There was an indecent assault in one of the mean streets downby the station. There were two "beatings up" in a public-house. Therewere increasing complaints of threatening and disorderly behaviour onthe part of the N.I.C.E. workmen. But these complaints never appeared inthe papers. Those who had actually seen ugly incidents were surprised toread in the Telegraph that the new Institute was settling down verycomfortably in Edgestow and the most cordial relations developingbetween it and the natives. Those who had not seen them but only heardof them, finding nothing in the Telegraph, dismissed the stories asrumours or exaggerations. Those who had seen them wrote letters to it,but it did not print their letters.

But if episodes could be doubted, no one could doubt that nearly all thehotels of the town had passed into the hands of the Institute, so that aman could no longer drink with a friend in his accustomed bar; thatfamiliar shops were crowded with strangers who seemed to have plenty ofmoney, and that prices were higher; that there was a queue for everyomnibus and a difficulty in getting into every cinema. Quiet houses thathad looked out on quiet streets were shaken all day long by heavy andunaccustomed traffic: wherever one went one was jostled by crowds ofstrangers. To a little midland market town like Edgestow even visitorsfrom the other side of the county had hitherto ranked as aliens: theday-long clamour of Northern, Welsh, and even Irish voices, the shouts,the cat-calls, the songs, the wild faces passing in the fog, wereutterly detestable. "There's going to be trouble here" was the commentof many a citizen: and in a few days, "You'd think they wantedtrouble." It is not recorded who first said, "We need more police." Andthen at last the Edgestow Telegraph took notice. A shy littlearticle--a cloud no bigger than a man's hand--appeared suggesting that thelocal police were quite incapable of dealing with the new population.

Of all these things Jane took little notice. She was, during these days,merely "hanging on." Perhaps Mark would summon her to Belbury. Perhapshe would give up the whole Belbury scheme and come home--his letters werevague and unsatisfactory. Perhaps she would go out to St. Anne's and seethe Dennistons. The dreams continued. But Mr. Denniston had been right;it was better when one had given in to regarding them as "news." If ithad not been she could hardly have endured her nights. There was onerecurrent dream in which nothing exactly happened. She seemed indeed tobe lying in her own bed. But there was someone beside the bed--someonewho had apparently drawn a chair up to the bedside and then sat down towatch. He had a note-book in which he occasionally made an entry.Otherwise he sat perfectly still and patiently attentive--like a doctor.She knew his face already, and came to know it infinitely well: thepince-nez, the well-chiselled, rather white features, and the littlepointed beard. And presumably--if he could see her--he must by now knowhers equally well: it was certainly herself whom he appeared to bestudying. Jane did not write about this to the Dennistons the first timeit occurred. Even after the second she delayed until it was too late topost the letter that day. She had a sort of hope that the longer shekept silent the more likely they would be to come in and see her again.She wanted comfort, but she wanted it, if possible, without going out toSt. Anne's, without meeting this Fisher-King man and getting drawn intohis orbit.

Mark meanwhile was working at the rehabilitation of Alcasan. He hadnever seen a police dossier before and found it difficult to understand.In spite of his efforts to conceal his ignorance the Fairy soondiscovered it. "I'll put you onto the Captain," she said. "He'll showyou the ropes." That was how Mark came to spend most of his workinghours with her second in command, Captain O'Hara, a big white-haired manwith a handsome face, talking in what English people called a Southernbrogue and Irish people "a Dublin accent you could cut with a knife." Heclaimed to be of ancient family and had a seat at Castlemortle. Mark didnot really understand his explanations of the dossier, the Q Register,the Sliding File system, and what the Captain called "weeding." But hewas ashamed to confess this and so it came about that the wholeselection of facts really remained in O'Hara's hands and Mark foundhimself working merely as a writer. He did his best to conceal this fromO'Hara and to make it appear that they were really working together:this naturally made it impossible for him to repeat his originalprotests against being treated as a mere journalist. He had, indeed, ataking style (which had helped his academic career much more than hewould have liked to acknowledge) and his journalism was a success. Hisarticles and letters about Alcasan appeared in papers where he wouldnever have had the entrée over his own signature: papers read bymillions. He could not help feeling a little thrill of pleasurableexcitement.

He also confided to Captain O'Hara his minor financial anxieties. Whenwas one paid? And in the meantime he was short of petty cash. He hadlost his wallet on his very first night at Belbury and it had never beenrecovered. O'Hara roared with laughter. "Sure you can have any money youlike by asking the Steward."

"You mean it's then deducted from one's next cheque?" asked Mark.

"Man," said the Captain, "once you're in the Institute, God bless it,you needn't bother your head about that. Aren't we going to take overthe whole currency question? It's we that make money."

"Do you mean?" gasped Mark and then paused and added, "But they'd comedown on you for the lot if you left?"

"What do you want to be talking about leaving for at all?" said O'Hara."No one leaves the Institute. At least the only one that ever I heard ofwas old Hingest."

About this time, Hingest's inquest came to an end with a verdict ofmurder by a person or persons unknown. The funeral service was held inthe College chapel at Bracton.

It was the third and thickest day of the fog, which was now so dense andwhite that men's eyes smarted from looking at it and all distant soundswere annihilated; only the drip from eaves and trees and the shouts ofthe workmen outside the chapel were audible within the College. Insidethe chapel the candles burned with straight flames, each flame thecentre of a globe of greasy luminosity, and cast almost no light on thebuilding as a whole: but for the coughing and shuffling of feet onewould not have known that the stalls were quite full. Curry,black-suited and black-gowned and looming unnaturally large, went to andfro at the western end of the chapel, whispering and peering, anxiouslest the fog might delay the arrival of what he called the Remains, andnot unpleasingly conscious of the weight wherewith his responsibilityfor the whole ceremony pressed upon his shoulders. Curry was very greatat College funerals. There was no taint of the undertaker about him; hewas the restrained, manly friend, stricken by a heavy blow but stillmindful that he was (in some undefined sense) the father of the Collegeand that amid all the spoils of mutability he, at any rate, must notgive way. Strangers who had been present on such occasions often said toone another as they drove off, "You could see that sub-warden chap feltit, though he wasn't going to show it." There was no hypocrisy in this.Curry was so used to superintending the lives of his colleagues that itcame naturally to him to superintend their deaths; and possibly, if hehad possessed an analytic mind, he might have discovered in himself avague feeling that his influence, his power of smoothing paths andpulling suitable wires, could not really quite cease once the breath wasout of the body.

The organ began to play and drowned both the coughing within and theharsher noises without--the monotonously ill-tempered voices, the rattleof iron, and the vibrating shocks with which loads were flung from timeto time against the chapel wall. But the fog had, as Curry feared,delayed the coffin, and the organist had been playing for half an hourbefore there came a stir about the door and the family mourners, theblack-clad Hingests of both sexes with their ram-rod backs and countyfaces, began to be ushered into the stalls reserved for them. Then camemaces and beadles and censors and the Grand Rector of Edgestow, then,singing, the choir, and finally the coffin--an island of appallingflowers drifting indistinctly through the fog, which seemed to havepoured in, thicker, colder, and wetter, with the opening of the door.The service began.

Canon Storey took it. His voice was still beautiful, and there wasbeauty, too, in his isolation from all that company. He was isolatedboth by his faith and by his deafness. He felt no qualm about theappropriateness of the words which he read over the corpse of the proudold unbeliever, for he had never suspected his unbelief; and he waswholly unconscious of the strange antiphony between his own voicereading and the other voices from without. Glossop might wince when oneof those voices, impossible to ignore in the silence of the chapel, washeard shouting, "Take your bucking great foot out of the light or I'lllet you have the whole lot on top of it"; but Storey, unmoved andunaware, replied, "Thou fool, that which thou sowest is not quickenedunless it die."

"I'll give you one across your ugly face in a moment, see if I don't,"said the voice again.

"It is sown a natural body; it is raised a spiritual body," said Storey.

"Disgraceful, disgraceful," muttered Curry to the Bursar who sat next tohim. But some of the junior Fellows saw, as they said, the funny side ofit and thought how Feverstone, who had been unable to be present, wouldenjoy the story.

III

The pleasantest of the rewards which fell to Mark for his obedience wasadmission to the library. Shortly after his brief intrusion into it onthat miserable morning he had discovered that this room, thoughnominally public, was in practice reserved for what one had learned, atschool, to call "bloods" and, at Bracton, "the Progressive Element." Itwas on the library hearthrug and during the hours between ten andmidnight that the important and confidential talks took place; and thatwas why, when Feverstone one evening sidled up to Mark in the lounge andsaid, "What about a drink in the library?" Mark smiled and agreed andharboured no resentment for the last conversation he had had withFeverstone. If he felt a little contempt of himself for doing so, herepressed and forgot it: that sort of thing was childish andunrealistic.

The circle in the library usually consisted of Feverstone, the Fairy,Filostrato, and--more surprising--Straik. It was balm to Mark's wounds tofind that Steele never appeared there. He had apparently got in beyond,or behind, Steele, as they had promised him he would; all was workingaccording to programme. One person whose frequent appearance in thelibrary he did not understand was the silent man with the pince-nez andthe pointed beard, Professor Frost. The Deputy Director--or, as Mark nowcalled him, the D.D. or Old Man--was often there, but in a peculiar mode.He had a habit of drifting in and sauntering about the room, creakingand humming as usual. Sometimes he came up to the circle by the fire andlistened and looked on with a vaguely parental expression on his face:but he seldom said anything and he never joined the party. He driftedaway again, and then, perhaps, would return about an hour later and oncemore potter about the empty parts of the room and once more go away. Hehad never spoken to Mark since the humiliating interview in his study,and Mark learned from the Fairy that he was still out of favour. "TheOld Man will thaw in time," she said. "But I told you he didn't likepeople to talk about leaving."

The least satisfactory member of the circle in Mark's eyes was Straik.Straik made no effort to adapt himself to the ribald and realistic tonein which his colleagues spoke. He never drank nor smoked. He would sitsilent, nursing a threadbare knee with a lean hand and turning his largeunhappy eyes from one speaker to another, without attempting to combatthem or to join in the joke when they laughed. Then--perhaps once in thewhole evening--something said would start him off: usually somethingabout the opposition of reactionaries in the outer world and themeasures which the N.I.C.E. would take to deal with it. At such momentshe would burst into loud and prolonged speech, threatening, denouncing,prophesying. The strange thing was that the others neither interruptedhim nor laughed. There was some deeper unity between this uncouth manand them which apparently held in check the obvious lack of sympathy,but what it was Mark did not discover. Sometimes Straik addressed him inparticular, talking, to Mark's great discomfort and bewilderment, aboutresurrection. "Neither a historical fact nor a fable, young man," hesaid, "but a prophecy. All the miracles . . . shadows of things to come.Get rid of false spirituality. It is all going to happen, here in thisworld, in the only world there is. What did the Master tell us? Heal thesick, cast out devils, raise the dead. We shall. The Son of Man--that is,Man himself, full grown--has power to judge the world--to distribute lifewithout end, and punishment without end. You shall see. Here and now."It was all very unpleasant.

It was on the day after Hingest's funeral that Mark first ventured towalk into the library on his own; hitherto he had always been supportedby Feverstone or Filostrato. He was a little uncertain of his reception,and yet also afraid that if he did not soon assert his right to theentrée this modesty might damage him. He knew that in such matters theerror in either direction is equally fatal; one has to guess and takethe risk.

It was a brilliant success. The circle were all there and before he hadclosed the door behind him all had turned with welcoming faces andFilostrato had said "Ecco" and the Fairy, "Here's the very man." Aglow of sheer pleasure passed over Mark's whole body. Never had the fireseemed to burn more brightly nor the smell of the drinks to be moreattractive. He was actually being waited for. He was wanted.

"How quick can you write two leading articles, Mark?" said Feverstone.

"Can you work all night?" asked Miss Hardcastle.

"I have done," said Mark. "What's it all about?"

"You are satisfied?" asked Filostrato. "That it--the disturbance--must goforward at once, yes?"

"That's the joke of it," said Feverstone. "She's done her work too well.She hasn't read her Ovid. Ad metam properate simul."

"We cannot delay it if we wished," said Straik.

"What are we talking about?" said Mark.

"The disturbances at Edgestow," answered Feverstone.

"Oh. . . . I haven't been following them very much. Are they becomingserious?"

"They're going to become serious, sonny," said the Fairy. "And that'sthe point. The real riot was timed for next week. All this little stuffwas only meant to prepare the ground. But it's been going on too well,damn it. The balloon will have to go up to-morrow, or the day after atlatest."

Mark glanced in bewilderment from her face to Feverstone's. The latterdoubled himself up with laughter and Mark, almost automatically, gave ajocular turn to his own bewilderment.

"I think the penny hasn't dropped, Fairy," he said.

"You surely didn't imagine," grinned Feverstone, "that the Fairy leftthe initiative with the natives?"

"You mean she herself is the Disturbance?" said Mark.

"Yes, yes," said Filostrato, his little eyes glistening above his fatcheeks.

"It's all fair and square," said Miss Hardcastle. "You can't put a fewhundred thousand imported workmen----"

"Not the sort you enrolled!" interjected Feverstone.

"Into a sleepy little hole like Edgestow," Miss Hardcastle continued,"without having trouble. I mean there'd have been trouble anyway. As itturns out, I don't believe my boys needed to do anything. But, since thetrouble was bound to come, there was no harm in seeing it came at theright moment."

"You mean you've engineered the disturbances?" said Mark. To do himjustice, his mind was reeling from this new revelation. Nor was he awareof any decision to conceal his state of mind: in the snugness andintimacy of that circle he found his facial muscles and his voice,without any conscious volition, taking on the tone of his colleagues.

"That's a crude way of putting it," said Feverstone.

"It makes no difference," said Filostrato. "This is how things have tobe managed."

"Quite," said Miss Hardcastle. "It's always done. Anyone who knowspolice work will tell you. And as I say, the real thing--the bigriot--must take place within the next forty-eight hours."

"It's nice to get the tip straight from the horse's mouth!" said Mark."I wish I'd got my wife out of the town, though."

"Where does she live?" said the Fairy.

"Up at Sandown."

"Ah. It'll hardly affect her. In the meantime, you and I have got to getbusy about the account of the riot."

"But--what's it all for?"

"Emergency regulations," said Feverstone. "You'll never get the powerswe want at Edgestow until the Government declares that a state ofemergency exists there."

"Exactly," said Filostrato. "It is folly to talk of peacefulrevolutions. Not that the canaglia would always resist--often they haveto be prodded into it--but until there is the disturbance, the firing,the barricades--no one gets powers to act effectively. There is notenough what you call weigh on the boat to steer him."

"And the stuff must be all ready to appear in the papers the very dayafter the riot," said Miss Hardcastle. "That means it must be handed into the D.D. by six to-morrow morning at latest."

"But how are we to write it to-night if the thing doesn't even happentill to-morrow at the earliest?"

Everyone burst out laughing.

"You'll never manage publicity that way, Mark," said Feverstone. "Yousurely don't need to wait for a thing to happen before you tell thestory of it!"

"Well, I admit," said Mark, and his face also was full of laughter, "Ihad a faint prejudice for doing so, not living in Mr. Dunne's sort oftime nor in looking-glass land."

"No good, sonny," said Miss Hardcastle. "We've got to get on with it atonce. Time for one more drink and you and I'd better go upstairs andbegin. We'll get them to give us devilled bones and coffee at two."

This was the first thing Mark had been asked to do which he himself,before he did it, clearly knew to be criminal. But the moment of hisconsent almost escaped his notice; certainly, there was no struggle, nosense of turning a corner. There may have been a time in the world'shistory when such moments fully revealed their gravity, with witchesprophesying on a blasted heath or visible Rubicons to be crossed. But,for him, it all slipped past in a chatter of laughter, of that intimatelaughter between fellow professionals, which of all earthly powers isstrongest to make men do very bad things before they are yet,individually, very bad men. A few moments later he was trotting upstairswith the Fairy. They passed Cosser on the way and Mark, talking busilyto his companion, saw out of the corner of his eye that Cosser waswatching them. To think that he had once been afraid of Cosser!

"Who has the job of waking the D.D. up at six?" asked Mark.

"Probably not necessary," said the Fairy. "I suppose the old man mustsleep sometime. But I've never discovered when he does it."

IV

At four o'clock Mark sat in the Fairy's office re-reading the last twoarticles he had written--one for the most respectable of our papers, theother for a more popular organ. This was the only part of the night'swork which had anything in it to flatter literary vanity. The earlierhours had been spent in the sterner labour of concocting the newsitself. These two Leaders had been kept for the end, and the ink wasstill wet. The first was as follows:

"While it would be premature to make any final comment on last night'sriot at Edgestow, two conclusions seem to emerge from the firstaccounts, which we publish elsewhere, with a clarity which is notlikely to be shaken by subsequent developments. In the first place,the whole episode will administer a rude shock to any complacencywhich may still lurk among us as to the enlightenment of our owncivilisation. It must, of course, be admitted that the transformationof a small university town into a centre of national research cannotbe carried out without some friction and some cases of hardship to thelocal inhabitants. But the Englishman has always had his own quiet andhumorous way of dealing with frictions and has never showed himselfunwilling, when the issue is properly put before him, to makesacrifices much greater than those small alterations of habit andsentiment which progress demands of the people of Edgestow. It isgratifying to note that there is no suggestion in any authoritativequarter that the N.I.C.E. has in any way exceeded its powers or failedin that consideration and courtesy which was expected of it; and thereis little doubt that the actual starting-point of the disturbances wassome quarrel, probably in a public-house, between one of the N.I.C.E.workmen and some local Sir Oracle. But as the Stagyrite said long ago,disorders which have trivial occasions have deeper causes, and thereseems little doubt that this petty fracas must have been inflamed,if not exploited, by sectional interests or widespread prejudice.

"It is disquieting to be forced to suspect that the old distrust ofplanned efficiency and the old jealousy of what is ambiguously called'Bureaucracy' can be so easily, though, we hope, temporarily, revived;though at the same time, this very suspicion, by revealing the gapsand weaknesses in our national level of education, emphasises one ofthe very diseases which the National Institute exists to cure. That itwill cure it we need have no doubt. The will of the nation is behindthis magnificent 'peace-effort,' as Mr. Jules so happily described theInstitute, and any ill-informed opposition which ventures to tryconclusions with it will be, we hope gently, but certainly firmly,resisted.

"The second moral to be drawn from last night's events is a morecheering one. The original proposal to provide the N.I.C.E. with whatis misleadingly called its own 'police force' was viewed with distrustin many quarters. Our readers will remember that while not sharingthat distrust, we extended to it a certain sympathy. Even the falsefears of those who love liberty should be respected as we respect eventhe ill-grounded anxieties of a mother. At the same time we insistedthat the complexity of modern society rendered it an anachronism toconfine the actual execution of the will of society to a body of menwhose real function was the prevention and detection of crime: thatthe police, in fact, must be relieved sooner or later of that growingbody of coercive functions which do not properly fall within theirsphere. That this problem has been solved by other countries in amanner which proved fatal to liberty and justice, by creating a realimperium in imperio, is a fact which no one is likely to forget. Theso-called 'Police' of the N.I.C.E.--who should rather be called its'Sanitary Executive'--is the characteristically English solution. Itsrelation to the National Police cannot, perhaps, be defined withperfect logical accuracy; but, as a nation, we have never been muchenamoured of logic. The executive of the N.I.C.E. has no connectionwith politics: and if it ever comes into relation with criminaljustice, it does so in the gracious role of a rescuer--a rescuer whocan remove the criminal from the harsh sphere of punishment into thatof remedial treatment. If any doubt as to the value of such a forceexisted, it has been amply set at rest by the episodes at Edgestow.The happiest relations seem to have been maintained throughout betweenthe officers of the Institute and the National Police, who, but forthe assistance of the Institute, would have found themselves facedwith an impossible situation. As an eminent police officer observed toone of our representatives this morning, 'But for the N.I.C.E. Police,things would have taken quite a different turn.' If in the light ofthese events it is found convenient to place the whole Edgestow areaunder the exclusive control of the Institutional 'police' for somelimited period, we do not believe that the British people--alwaysrealists at heart--will have the slightest objection. A special tributeis due to the female members of the force, who appear to have actedthroughout with that mixture of courage and common sense which thelast few years have taught us to expect of Englishwomen almost as amatter of course. The wild rumours, current in London this morning, ofmachine-gun fire in the streets and casualties by the hundred, remainto be sifted. Probably, when accurate details are available, it willbe found, in the words of a recent Prime Minister, that 'when bloodflowed, it was generally from the nose.'"

The second ran thus:

"What is happening at Edgestow?

"That is the question which John Citizen wants to have answered. TheInstitute which has settled at Edgestow is a National Institute.That means it is yours and mine. We are not scientists and we do notpretend to know what the master-brains of the Institute are thinking.We do know what each man or woman expects of it. We expect a solutionof the unemployment problem; the cancer problem; the housing problem;the problems of currency, of war, of education. We expect from it abrighter, cleaner, and fuller life for our children in which we andthey can march ever onward and onward and develop to the full the urgeof life which God has given each one of us. The N.I.C.E. is thepeople's instrument for bringing about all the things we fought for.

"Meanwhile--what is happening at Edgestow?

"Do you believe this riot arose simply because Mrs. Snooks or Mr.Buggins found that the landlords had sold their shop or theirallotment to the N.I.C.E.? Mrs. Snooks and Mr. Buggins know better.They know that the Institute means more trade in Edgestow, more publicamenities, a larger population, a burst of undreamed-of prosperity. Isay these disturbances have been ENGINEERED.

"Therefore I ask yet again: What is happening at Edgestow?

"There are traitors in the camp. I am not afraid to say so, whoeverthey may be. They may be so-called religious people. They may befinancial interests. They may be the old cobweb-spinning professorsand philosophers of Edgestow University itself. They may be Jews. Theymay be lawyers. I don't care who they are, but I have one thing totell them. Take care. The people of England are not going to standthis. We are not going to have the Institute sabotaged.

"What is to be done at Edgestow?

"I say, put the whole place under the Institutional Police. Some ofyou may have been to Edgestow for a holiday. If so, you'll know aswell as I do what it is like--a little, sleepy, country town with halfa dozen policemen who have had nothing to do for ten years but stopcyclists because their lamps had gone out. It doesn't make sense toexpect these poor old bobbies to deal with an ENGINEERED RIOT. Lastnight the N.I.C.E. police showed that they could. What I say is--hatsoff to Miss Hardcastle and her brave boys, yes, and her brave girlstoo. Give them a free hand and let them get on with the job. Cut outthe red tape.

"I've one bit of advice. If you hear anyone backbiting the N.I.C.E.police, tell him where he gets off. If you hear anyone comparing themto the Gestapo or the Ogpu, tell him you've heard that one before. Ifyou hear anyone talking about the liberties of England, by which hemeans the liberties of the obscurantists, the Mrs. Grundies, theBishops, and the capitalists, watch that man. He's the enemy. Tell himfrom me that the N.I.C.E. is the boxing-glove on the democracy's fist,and if he doesn't like it he'd best get out of the way.

"Meanwhile--WATCH EDGESTOW."

It might be supposed that after enjoying these articles in the heat ofcomposition, Mark would awake to reason, and with it to disgust, whenreading through the finished product. Unfortunately the process had beenalmost the reverse. He had become more and more reconciled to the jobthe longer he worked at it.

The complete reconciliation came when he fair-copied both articles. Whena man has crossed the Ts and dotted the Is, and likes the look of hiswork, he does not wish it to be committed to the waste-paper basket. Themore often he re-read the articles the better he liked them. And anyway,the thing was a kind of joke. He had in his mind a picture of himself,old and rich, probably with a peerage, certainly very distinguished,when all this--all the unpleasant side of the N.I.C.E.--was over, regalinghis juniors with wild, unbelievable tales of this present time. ("Ah. . . it was a rum show in those early days. I remember once . . .") Andthen, too, for a man whose writings had hitherto appeared only inlearned periodicals or at best in books which only other dons wouldread, there was an all but irresistible lure in the thought of the dailypress--editors waiting for copy--readers all over Europe--something reallydepending on his words. The idea of the immense dynamo which had beenplaced for the moment at his disposal, thrilled through his whole being.It was, after all, not so long ago that he had been excited by admissionto the Progressive Element at Bracton. But what was the ProgressiveElement to this? It wasn't as if he were taken in by the articleshimself. He was writing with his tongue in his cheek--a phrase thatsomehow comforted him by making the whole thing appear like a practicaljoke. And anyway, if he didn't do it, someone else would. And all thewhile the child inside him whispered how splendid and how triumphantlygrown up it was to be sitting like this, so full of alcohol and yet notdrunk, writing, with his tongue in his cheek, articles for greatnewspapers, against time, "with the printer's devil at the door" and allthe inner ring of the N.I.C.E. depending on him, and nobody ever againhaving the least right to consider him a nonentity or cipher.

V

Jane stretched out her hand in the darkness but did not feel the tablewhich ought to have been there at her bed's head. Then with a shock ofsurprise she discovered that she was not in bed at all, but standing.There was utter darkness all about her and it was intensely cold.Groping, she touched what appeared to be uneven surfaces of stone. Theair, also, had some odd quality about it--dead air, imprisoned air, itseemed. Somewhere far away, possibly overhead, there were noises whichcame to her muffled and shuddering as if through earth. So the worst hadhappened . . . a bomb had fallen on the house and she was buried alive.But before she had time to feel the full impact of this idea sheremembered that the war was over . . . oh, and all sorts of things hadhappened since then . . . she had married Mark . . . she had seenAlcasan in his cell . . . she had met Camilla. Then, with great andswift relief she thought, "It is one of my dreams. It is a piece ofnews. It'll stop presently. There's nothing to be frightened of."

The place, whatever it was, did not seem to be very large. She gropedall along one of the rough walls and then, turning at the corner, struckher foot against something hard. She stooped down and felt. There was asort of raised platform or table of stone, about three feet high. And onit? Did she dare to explore? But it would be worse not to. She begantrying the surface of the stone table with her hand, and next moment bither lip to save herself from screaming, for she had touched a humanfoot. It was a naked foot, and dead to judge by its coldness. To go ongroping seemed the hardest thing she had ever done, but somehow she wasimpelled to do it. The corpse was clothed in some very coarse stuffwhich was also uneven, as though it were heavily embroidered, and veryvoluminous. It must be a very large man, she thought, still gropingupwards towards his head. On his chest the texture suddenly changed--asif the skin of some hairy animal had been laid over the coarse robe. Soshe thought at first; then she realised that the hair really belonged toa beard. She hesitated about feeling the face; she had a fear lest theman should stir or wake or speak if she did so. She therefore becamestill for a moment. It was only a dream; she could bear it: but it wasso dreary and it all seemed to be happening so long ago, as if she hadslipped through a cleft in the present, down into some cold, sunless pitof the remote past. She hoped they wouldn't leave her here long. If onlysomeone would come quickly and let her out. And immediately she had apicture of someone, someone bearded but also (it was odd) divinelyyoung, someone all golden and strong and warm coming with a mightyearth-shaking tread down into that black place. The dream became chaoticat this point. Jane had an impression that she ought to curtsey to thisperson (who never actually arrived though the impression of him laybright and heavy on her mind) and felt great consternation on realisingthat some dim memories of dancing lessons at school were not sufficientto show her how to do so. At this point she woke.

She went into Edgestow immediately after breakfast to hunt, as she nowhunted every day, for someone who would replace Mrs. Maggs. At the topof Market Street something happened which finally determined her to goto St. Anne's that very day and by the 10.23 train. She came to a placewhere a big car was standing beside the pavement, an N.I.C.E. car. Justas she reached it a man came out of a shop, cut across her path to speakto the chauffeur of the car, and then got in. He was so close to herthat, despite the fog, she saw him very clearly, in isolation from allother objects: the background was all grey fog and passing feet and theharsh sounds of that unaccustomed traffic which now never ceased inEdgestow. She would have known him, anywhere: not Mark's face, not herown face in a mirror, was by now more familiar. She saw the pointedbeard, the pince-nez, the face which somehow reminded her of a waxworksface. She had no need to think what she would do. Her body, walkingquickly past, seemed of itself to have decided that it was heading forthe station and thence for St. Anne's. It was something different fromfear (though she was frightened, too, almost to the point of nausea)that drove her so unerringly forward. It was a total rejection of, orrevulsion from, this man on all levels of her being at once. Dreams sankinto insignificance compared with the blinding reality of the man'spresence. She shuddered to think that their hands might have touched asshe passed him.

The train was blessedly warm, her compartment empty, the fact of sittingdown delightful. The slow journey through the fog almost sent her tosleep. She hardly thought about St. Anne's until she found herselfthere: even as she walked up the steep hill she made no plans, rehearsednothing that she meant to say, but only thought of Camilla and Mrs.Dimble. The childish levels, the undersoil of the mind, had been turnedup. She wanted to be with Nice people, away from Nasty people--thatnursery distinction seeming at the moment more important than any latercategories of Good and Bad or Friend and Enemy.

She was roused from this state by noticing that it was lighter. Shelooked ahead: surely that bend in the road was more visible than itought to be in such a fog? Or was it only that a country fog wasdifferent from a town one? Certainly what had been grey was becomingwhite, almost dazzlingly white. A few yards farther and luminous bluewas showing overhead, and trees cast shadows (she had not seen a shadowfor days), and then all of a sudden the enormous spaces of the sky hadbecome visible and the pale golden sun, and looking back, as she tookthe turn to the Manor, Jane saw that she was standing on the shore of alittle green sunlit island looking down on a sea of white fog, furrowedand ridged yet level on the whole, which spread as far as she could see.There were other islands too. That dark one to the West was the woodedhills above Sandown where she had picnicked with the Dennistons; and thefar bigger and brighter one to the North was the many-cavernedhills--mountains one could nearly call them--in which the Wynd had itssource. She took a deep breath. It was the size of this world abovethe fog which impressed her. Down in Edgestow all these days one hadlived, even when out of doors, as if in a room, for only objects closeat hand were visible. She felt she had come near to forgetting how bigthe sky is, how remote the horizon.

SEVEN

The Pendragon

I

Before she reached the door in the wall Jane met Mr. Denniston and heguided her into the Manor, not by that door but by the main gate whichopened on the same road a few hundred yards farther on. She told him herstory as they walked. In his company she had that curious sensationwhich most married people know of being with someone whom (for the finalbut wholly mysterious reason) one could never have married but who isnevertheless more of one's own world than the person one has married infact. As they entered the house they met Mrs. Maggs.

"What? Mrs. Studdock! Fancy!" said Mrs. Maggs.

"Yes, Ivy," said Denniston, "and bringing great news. Things arebeginning to move. We must see Grace at once. And is MacPhee about?"

"He's out gardening hours ago," said Mrs. Maggs. "And Dr. Dimble's goneinto College. And Camilla's in the kitchen. Shall I send her along?"

"Yes, do. And if you can prevent Mr. Bultitude from butting in----"

"That's right. I'll keep him out of mischief all right. You'd like a cupof tea, Mrs. Studdock, wouldn't you? Coming by train and all that."

A few minutes later Jane found herself once more in Grace Ironwood'sroom. Miss Ironwood and the Dennistons all sat facing her so that shefelt as if she were the candidate in a viva voce examination. And whenIvy Maggs brought in the tea she did not go away again, but sat down asif she also were one of the examiners.

"Now!" said Camilla, her eyes and nostrils widened with a sort of freshmental hunger--it was too concentrated to be called excitement.

Jane glanced round the room.

"You need not mind Ivy, young lady," said Miss Ironwood. "She is one ofour company."

There was a pause. "We have your letter of the 10th," continued MissIronwood, "describing your dream of the man with the pointed beardsitting making notes in your bedroom. Perhaps I ought to tell you thathe wasn't really there: at least, the Director does not think itpossible. But he was really studying you. He was getting informationabout you from some other source which, unfortunately, was not visibleto you in the dream."

"Will you tell us, if you don't mind," said Mr. Denniston, "what youwere telling me as we came along."

Jane told them about the dream of the corpse (if it was a corpse) in thedark place and how she had met the bearded man that morning in MarketStreet: and at once she was aware of having created intense interest.

"Fancy!" said Ivy Maggs. "So we were right about Bragdon Wood!" saidCamilla. "It is really Belbury," said her husband. "But in that case,where does Alcasan come in?"

"Excuse me," said Miss Ironwood in her level voice, and the othersbecame instantly silent. "We must not discuss the matter here. Mrs.Studdock has not yet joined us."

"Am I to be told nothing?" asked Jane.

"Young lady," said Miss Ironwood, "you must excuse me. It would not bewise at the moment: indeed, we are not at liberty to do so. Will youallow me to ask you two more questions?"

"If you like," said Jane, a little sulkily but only a very little. Thepresence of Camilla and Camilla's husband somehow put her on her bestbehaviour.

Miss Ironwood had opened a drawer and for a few moments there wassilence while she hunted in it. Then she handed a photograph across toJane and asked, "Do you recognise that person?"

"Yes," said Jane in a low voice; "that is the man I dreamed of and theman I saw this morning in Edgestow."

It was a good photograph and beneath it was the name Augustus Frost,with a few other details which Jane did not at the moment take in.

"In the second place," continued Miss Ironwood, holding out her hand forJane to return the photograph, "are you prepared to see the Director. . . now?"

"Well--yes, if you like."

"In that case, Arthur," said Miss Ironwood to Denniston, "you had bettergo and tell him what we have just heard and find out if he is wellenough to meet Mrs. Studdock."

Denniston at once rose.

"In the meantime," said Miss Ironwood, "I would like a word with Mrs.Studdock alone." At this the others rose also and preceded Denniston outof the room. A very large cat which Jane had not noticed before jumpedup and occupied the chair which Ivy Maggs had just vacated.

"I have very little doubt," said Miss Ironwood, "that the Director willsee you."

Jane said nothing.

"And at that interview," continued the other, "you will, I presume, becalled upon to make a final decision."

Jane gave a little cough which had no other purpose than to dispel acertain air of unwelcome solemnity which seemed to have settled on theroom as soon as she and Miss Ironwood were left alone.

"There are also certain things," said Miss Ironwood, "which you ought toknow about the Director before you see him. He will appear to you, Mrs.Studdock, to be a very young man: younger than yourself. You will pleaseunderstand that this is not the case. He is nearer fifty than forty. Heis a man of very great experience, who has travelled where no otherhuman being ever travelled before and mixed in societies of which youand I have no conception."

"That is very interesting," said Jane, though displaying no interest.

"And thirdly," said Miss Ironwood, "I must ask you to remember that heis often in great pain. Whatever decision you come to, I trust you willnot say or do anything that may put an unnecessary strain upon him."

"If Mr. Fisher-King is not well enough to see visitors . . . ," saidJane vaguely.

"You must excuse me," said Miss Ironwood, "for impressing these pointsupon you. I am a doctor, and I am the only doctor in our company. I amtherefore responsible for protecting him as far as I can. If you willnow come with me I will show you to the Blue Room."

She rose and held the door open for Jane. They passed out into theplain, narrow passage and thence up shallow steps into a large entrancehall whence a fine Georgian staircase led to the upper floors. Thehouse, larger than Jane had at first supposed, was warm and very silent,and after so many days spent in fog the autumn sunlight, falling on softcarpets and on walls, seemed to her bright and golden. On the firstfloor, but raised above it by six steps, they found a little squareplace with white pillars where Camilla, quiet and alert, sat waiting forthem. There was a door behind her.

"He will see her," she said to Miss Ironwood, getting up.

"Is he in much pain this morning?"

"It is not continuous. It is one of his good days."

As Miss Ironwood raised her hand to knock on the door, Jane thought toherself, "Be careful. Don't get let in for anything. All these longpassages and low voices will make a fool of you if you don't look out.You'll become another of this man's female adorers." Next moment shefound herself going in. It was light--it seemed all windows. And it waswarm--a fire blazed on the hearth. And blue was the prevailing colour.Before her eyes had taken it in she was annoyed, and in a way ashamed,to see that Miss Ironwood was curtseying. "I won't" contended in Jane'smind with "I can't": for it had been true in her dream, she couldn't.

"This is the young lady, sir," said Miss Ironwood.

Jane looked; and instantly her world was unmade.

On a sofa before her, with one foot bandaged as if he had a wound, laywhat appeared to be a boy, twenty years old.

On one of the long window-sills a tame jackdaw was walking up and down.The light of the fire with its weak reflection, and the light of the sunwith its stronger reflection, contended on the ceiling. But all thelight in the room seemed to run towards the gold hair and the gold beardof the wounded man.

Of course he was not a boy--how could she have thought so? The fresh skinon his forehead and cheeks and, above all, on his hands, had suggestedthe idea. But no boy could have so full a beard. And no boy could be sostrong. She had expected to see an invalid. Now, it was manifest thatthe grip of those hands would be inescapable, and imagination suggestedthat those arms and shoulders could support the whole house. MissIronwood at her side struck her as a little old woman, shrivelled andpale--a thing you could have blown away.

The sofa was placed on a kind of dais divided from the rest of the roomby a step. She had an impression of massed hangings of blue--later, shesaw that it was only a screen--behind the man, so that the effect wasthat of a throne room. She would have called it silly if, instead ofseeing it, she had been told of it by another. Through the window shesaw no trees nor hills nor shapes of other houses: only the level floorof mist, as if this man and she were perched in a blue tower overlookingthe world.

Pain came and went in his face: sudden jabs of sickening and burningpain. But as lightning goes through the darkness and the darkness closesup again and shows no trace, so the tranquillity of his countenanceswallowed up each shock of torture. How could she have thought himyoung? Or old either? It came over her, with a sensation of quick fear,that this face was of no age at all. She had, or so she had believed,disliked bearded faces except for old men with white hair. But that wasbecause she had long since forgotten the imagined Arthur of herchildhood--and the imagined Solomon too. Solomon . . . for the first timein many years the bright solar blend of king and lover and magicianwhich hangs about that name stole back upon her mind. For the first timein all those years she tasted the word King itself with all its linkedassociations of battle, marriage, priesthood, mercy, and power. At thatmoment, as her eyes first rested on his face, Jane forgot who she was,and where, and her faint grudge against Grace Ironwood, and her moreobscure grudge against Mark, and her childhood and her father's house.It was, of course, only for a flash. Next moment she was once more theordinary social Jane, flushed and confused to find that she had beenstaring rudely (at least she hoped that rudeness would be the mainimpression produced) at a total stranger. But her world was unmade; sheknew that. Anything might happen now.

"Thank you, Grace," the man was saying. "Is this Mrs. Studdock?"

And the voice also seemed to be like sunlight and gold. Like gold notonly as gold is beautiful but as it is heavy: like sunlight not only asit falls gently on English walls in autumn but as it beats down on thejungle or the desert to engender life or destroy it. And now it wasaddressing her.

"You must forgive me for not getting up, Mrs. Studdock," it said. "Myfoot is hurt."

And Jane heard her own voice saying "Yes, sir," soft and chastened likeMiss Ironwood's voice. She had meant to say, "Good morning, Mr.Fisher-King," in an easy tone that would have counteracted the absurdityof her behaviour on first entering the room. But the other was whatactually came out of her mouth. Shortly after this she found herselfseated before the Director. She was shaken: she was even shaking. Shehoped intensely that she was not going to cry, or be unable to speak, ordo anything silly. For her world was unmade: anything might happen now.If only the conversation were over so that she could get out of thatroom without disgrace, and go away, not for good, but for a long time.

"Do you wish me to remain, sir?" said Miss Ironwood.

"No, Grace," said the Director, "I don't think you need stay. Thankyou."

"And now," thought Jane, "it's coming--it's coming--it's coming now." Allthe most intolerable questions he might ask, all the most extravagantthings he might make her do, flashed through her mind in a fatuousmedley. For all power of resistance seemed to have been drained awayfrom her and she was left without protection.

II

For the first few minutes after Grace Ironwood had left them alone, Janehardly took in what the Director was saying. It was not that herattention wandered: on the contrary, her attention was so fixed on himthat it defeated itself. Every tone, every look (how could they havesupposed she would think him young?), every gesture, was printingitself upon her memory: and it was not until she found that he hadceased speaking and was apparently awaiting an answer that she realisedshe had taken in so little of what he had been saying.

"I--I beg your pardon," she said, wishing that she did not keep onturning red like a schoolgirl.

"I was saying," he answered, "that you have already done us the greatestpossible service. We knew that one of the most dangerous attacks evermade upon the human race was coming very soon and in this island. We hadan idea that Belbury might be connected with it. But we were notcertain. We certainly did not know that Belbury was so important. Thatis why your information is so valuable. But in another way, it presentsus with a difficulty. I mean a difficulty as far as you are concerned.We had hoped you would be able to join us--to become one of our army."

"Can I not, sir?" said Jane.

"It is difficult," said the Director after a pause. "You see, yourhusband is in Belbury."

Jane glanced up. It had been on the tip of her tongue to say "Do youmean that Mark is in any danger?" But she had realised that anxietyabout Mark did not, in fact, make any part of the complex emotions shewas feeling, and that to reply thus would be hypocrisy. It was a sort ofscruple she had not often felt before. Finally she said, "What do youmean?"

"Why," said the Director, "it would be hard for the same person to bethe wife of an official in the N.I.C.E. and also a member of mycompany."

"You mean you couldn't trust me?"

"I mean nothing we need be afraid to speak of. I mean that, in thecircumstances, you and I and your husband could not all be trusting oneanother."

Jane bit her lip in anger, not at the Director but at Mark. Why shouldhe and his affairs with the Feverstone man intrude themselves at such amoment as this?

"I must do what I think right, mustn't I?" she said softly. "I mean--ifMark--if my husband--is on the wrong side, I can't let that make anydifference to what I do. Can I?"

"You are thinking about what is right?" said the Director. Janestarted, and flushed. She had not, she realised, been thinking aboutthat.

"Of course," said the Director, "things might come to such a point thatyou would be justified in coming here, even wholly against his will,even secretly. It depends on how close the danger is--the danger to usall, and to you personally."

"I thought the danger was right on top of us now . . . from the way Mrs.Denniston talked."

"That is just the question," said the Director, with a smile. "I am notallowed to be too prudent. I am not allowed to use desperate remediesuntil desperate diseases are really apparent. Otherwise we become justlike our enemies--breaking all the rules whenever we imagine that itmight possibly do some vague good to humanity in the remote future."

"But will it do anyone any harm if I come here?" asked Jane.

He did not directly answer this. Presently he spoke again.

"It looks as if you will have to go back; at least for the present. Youwill, no doubt, be seeing your husband again fairly soon. I think youmust make at least one effort to detach him from the N.I.C.E."

"But how can I, sir?" said Jane. "What have I to say to him. He'd thinkit all nonsense. He wouldn't believe all that about an attack on thehuman race." As soon as she had said it she wondered, "Did that soundcunning?" then, more disconcertingly, "Was it cunning?"

"No," said the Director. "And you must not tell him. You must notmention me nor the company at all. We have put our lives in your hands.You must simply ask him to leave Belbury. You must put it on your ownwishes. You are his wife."

"Mark never takes any notice of what I say," answered Jane. She and Markeach thought that of the other.

"Perhaps," said the Director, "you have never asked anything as you willbe able to ask this. Do you not want to save him as well as yourself?"

Jane ignored this question. Now that the threat of expulsion from thehouse was imminent, she felt a kind of desperation. Heedless of thatinner commentator who had more than once during this conversation shownher her own words and wishes in such a novel light, she began speakingrapidly.

"Don't send me back," she said. "I am all alone at home, with terribledreams. It isn't as if Mark and I saw much of one another at the best oftimes. I am so unhappy. He won't care whether I come here or not. He'donly laugh at it all if he knew. Is it fair that my whole life should bespoiled just because he's got mixed up with some horrible people? Youdon't think a woman is to have no life of her own just because she'smarried?"

"Are you unhappy now?" said the Director. A dozen affirmatives died onJane's lips as she looked up in answer to his question. Then suddenly,in a kind of deep calm, like the stillness at the centre of a whirlpool,she saw the truth, and ceased at last to think how her words might makehim think of her, and answered, "No."

"But," she added after a short pause, "it will be worse now, if I goback."

"Will it?"

"I don't know. No. I suppose not." And for a little time Jane was hardlyconscious of anything but peace and well-being, the comfort of her ownbody in the chair where she sat, and a sort of clear beauty in thecolours and proportions of the room. But soon she began thinking toherself, "This is the end. In a moment he will send for the Ironwoodwoman to take you away." It seemed to her that her fate depended on whatshe said in the next minute.

"But is it really necessary?" she began. "I don't think I look onmarriage quite as you do. It seems to me extraordinary that everythingshould hang on what Mark says . . . about something he doesn'tunderstand."

"Child," said the Director, "it is not a question of how you or I lookon marriage but how my Masters look on it."

"Someone said they were very old fashioned. But----"

"That was a joke. They are not old fashioned: but they are very veryold."

"They would never think of finding out first whether Mark and I believedin their ideas of marriage?"

"Well--no," said the Director with a curious smile. "No. Quite definitelythey wouldn't think of doing that."

"And would it make no difference to them what a marriage was actuallylike . . . whether it was a success? Whether the woman loved herhusband?"

Jane had not exactly intended to say this: much less to say it in thecheaply pathetic tone which, it now seemed to her, she had used. Hatingherself, and fearing the Director's silence, she added, "But I supposeyou will say I oughtn't to have told you that."

"My dear child," said the Director, "you have been telling me that eversince your husband was mentioned."

"Does it make no difference?"

"I suppose," said the Director, "it would depend on how he lost yourlove."

Jane was silent. Though she could not tell the Director the truth, andindeed did not know it herself, yet when she tried to explore herinarticulate grievance against Mark, a novel sense of her own injusticeand even of pity for her husband, arose in her mind. And her heart sank,for now it seemed to her that this conversation, to which she hadvaguely looked for some sort of deliverance from all problems, was infact involving her in new ones.

"It was not his fault," she said at last. "I suppose our marriage wasjust a mistake."

The Director said nothing.

"What would you--what would the people you are talking of--say about acase like that?"

"I will tell you if you really want to know," said the Director.

"Please," said Jane reluctantly.

"They would say," he answered, "that you do not fail in obediencethrough lack of love, but have lost love because you never attemptedobedience."

Something in Jane that would normally have reacted to such a remark withanger or laughter was banished to a remote distance (where she couldstill, but only just, hear its voice) by the fact that the wordobedience--but certainly not obedience to Mark--came over her, in thatroom and in that presence, like a strange oriental perfume, perilous,seductive, and ambiguous. . . .

"Stop it!" said the Director sharply.

Jane stared at him, open-mouthed. There were a few moments of silenceduring which the exotic fragrance faded away.

"You were saying, my dear?" resumed the Director.

"I thought love meant equality," she said, "and free companionship."

"Ah, equality!" said the Director. "We must talk of that some othertime. Yes; we must all be guarded by equal rights from one another'sgreed, because we are fallen. Just as we must all wear clothes for thesame reason. But the naked body should be there underneath the clothes,ripening for the day when we shall need them no longer. Equality is notthe deepest thing, you know."

"I always thought that was just what it was. I thought it was in theirsouls that people were equal."

"You were mistaken," said he gravely; "that is the last place where theyare equal. Equality before the law, equality of incomes--that is verywell. Equality guards life; it doesn't make it. It is medicine, notfood. You might as well try to warm yourself with a blue-book."

"But surely in marriage . . . ?"

"Worse and worse," said the Director. "Courtship knows nothing of it;nor does fruition. What has free companionship to do with that? Thosewho are enjoying something, or suffering something together, arecompanions. Those who enjoy or suffer one another, are not. Do you notknow how bashful friendship is? Friends . . . comrades . . . do not lookat each other. Friendship would be ashamed. . . ."

"I thought," said Jane and then stopped.

"I see," said the Director. "It is not your fault. They never warnedyou. No one has ever told you that obedience--humility--is an eroticnecessity. You are putting equality just where it ought not to be. As toyour coming here, that may admit of some doubt. For the present, I mustsend you back. You can come out and see us. In the meantime, talk toyour husband and I will talk to my authorities."

"When will you be seeing them?"

"They come to me when they please. But we've been talking too solemnlyabout obedience all this time. I'd like to show you some of itsdrolleries. You are not afraid of mice are you?"

"Afraid of what?" said Jane in astonishment.

"Mice," said the Director.

"No," said Jane in a puzzled voice.

The Director struck a little bell beside his sofa which was almostimmediately answered by Mrs. Maggs.

"I think," said the Director, "I should like my lunch now, if youplease. They will give you lunch downstairs, Mrs. Studdock--somethingmore substantial than mine. But if you will sit with me while I eat anddrink, I will show you some of the amenities of our house."

Mrs. Maggs presently returned with a tray, bearing a glass, a smallflagon of red wine, and a roll of bread. She set it down on a table atthe Director's side and left the room.

"You see," said the Director, "I live like the King in Curdie. It is asurprisingly pleasant diet." With these words he broke the bread andpoured himself out a glass of wine.

"I never read the book you are speaking of," said Jane.

They talked of the book a little while the Director ate and drank; butpresently he took up the plate and tipped the crumbs off on to thefloor. "Now, Mrs. Studdock," he said, "you shall see a diversion. Butyou must be perfectly still." With these words he took from his pocket alittle silver whistle and blew a note on it. And Jane sat still till theroom became filled with silence like a solid thing and there was first ascratching and then a rustling and presently she saw three plump miceworking their passage across what was to them the thick undergrowth ofthe carpet, nosing this way and that so that if their course had beendrawn it would have resembled that of a winding river, until they wereso close that she could see the twinkling of their eyes and even thepalpitation of their noses. In spite of what she had said she did notreally care for mice in the neighbourhood of her feet and it was with aneffort that she sat still. Thanks to this effort she saw mice for thefirst time as they really are--not as creeping things but as daintyquadrupeds, almost, when they sat up, like tiny kangaroos, withsensitive kid-gloved forepaws and transparent ears. With quick,inaudible movements they ranged to and fro till not a crumb was left onthe floor. Then he blew a second time on his whistle and with a suddenwhisk of tails all three of them were racing for home and in a fewseconds had disappeared behind the coal box. The Director looked at herwith laughter in his eyes. "It is impossible," thought Jane, "to regardhim as old." "There," he said, "a very simple adjustment. Humans wantcrumbs removed; mice are anxious to remove them. It ought never to havebeen a cause of war. But you see that obedience and rule are more like adance than a drill--specially between man and woman where the roles arealways changing."

"How huge we must seem to them," said Jane.

This inconsequent remark had a very curious cause. Hugeness was what shewas thinking of and for one moment it had seemed she was thinking of herown hugeness in comparison with the mice. But almost at once thisidentification collapsed. She was really thinking simply of hugeness. Orrather, she was not thinking of it. She was, in some strange fashion,experiencing it. Something intolerably big, something from Brobdingnag,was pressing on her, was approaching, was almost in the room. She feltherself shrinking, suffocated, emptied of all power and virtue. Shedarted a glance at the Director which was really a cry for help, andthat glance, in some inexplicable way, revealed him as being, likeherself, a very small object. The whole room was a tiny place, a mouse'shole, and it seemed to her to be tilted aslant--as though theinsupportable mass and splendour of this formless hugeness, inapproaching, had knocked it askew. She heard the Director's voice.

"Quick," he said gently, "you must leave me now. This is no place for ussmall ones, but I am inured. Go!"

III

When Jane left the hilltop village of St. Anne's and came down to thestation she found that, even down there, the fog had begun to lift.Great windows had opened in it, and as the train carried her on itpassed repeatedly through pools of afternoon sunlight.

During this journey she was so divided against herself that one mightsay there were three, if not four, Janes in the compartment.

The first was a Jane simply receptive of the Director, recalling everyword and every look, and delighting in them--a Jane taken utterly off herguard, shaken out of the modest little outfit of contemporary ideaswhich had hitherto made her portion of wisdom, and swept away on theflood-tide of an experience which she did not understand and could notcontrol. For she was trying to control it; that was the function of thesecond Jane. This second Jane regarded the first with disgust, as thekind of woman, in fact, whom she had always particularly despised. Once,coming out of a cinema, she had heard a little shop girl say to herfriend "Oh, wasn't he lovely! If he'd looked at me the way he looked ather, I'd have followed him to the end of the world." A little, tawdry,made-up girl, sucking a peppermint. Whether the second Jane was right inequating the first Jane with that girl, may be questioned, but she did.And she found her intolerable. To have surrendered without terms at themere voice and look of this stranger, to have abandoned (withoutnoticing it) that prim little grasp on her own destiny, that perpetualreservation, which she thought essential to her status as a grown-up,integrated, intelligent person . . . the thing was utterly degrading,vulgar, uncivilised.

The third Jane was a new and unexpected visitant. Of the first there hadbeen traces in girlhood, and the second was what Jane took to be her"real" or normal self. But the third one, this moral Jane, was one whoseexistence she had never suspected. Risen from some unknown region ofgrace or heredity, it uttered all sorts of things which Jane had oftenheard before but which had never, till that moment, seemed to beconnected with real life. If it had simply told her that her feelingsabout the Director were wrong, she would not have been very surprised,and would have discounted it as the voice of tradition. But it did not.It kept on blaming her for not having similar feelings about Mark. Itkept on pressing into her mind those new feelings about Mark, feelingsof guilt and pity, which she had first experienced in the Director'sroom. It was Mark who had made the fatal mistake; she must, must, mustbe "nice" to Mark. The Director obviously insisted on it. At the verymoment when her mind was most filled with another man there arose,clouded with some undefined emotion, a resolution to give Mark much morethan she had ever given him before, and a feeling that in so doing shewould be really giving it to the Director. And this produced in her sucha confusion of sensations that the whole inner debate became indistinctand flowed over into the larger experience of the fourth Jane, who wasJane herself and dominated all the rest at every moment without effortand even without choice.

This fourth and supreme Jane was simply in the state of joy. The otherthree had no power upon her, for she was in the sphere of Jove, amidlight and music and festal pomp, brimmed with life and radiant inhealth, jocund and clothed in shining garments. She thought scarcely atall of the curious sensations which had immediately preceded theDirector's dismissal of her and made that dismissal almost a relief.When she tried to, it immediately led her thoughts back to the Directorhimself. Whatever she tried to think of led back to the Director himselfand, in him, to joy. She saw from the windows of the train the outlinedbeams of sunlight pouring over stubble or burnished woods and felt thatthey were like the notes of a trumpet. Her eyes rested on the rabbitsand cows as they flitted by and she embraced them in heart with merry,holiday love. She delighted in the occasional speech of the one wizenedold man who shared her compartment and saw, as never before, the beautyof his shrewd and sunny old mind, sweet as a nut and English as a chalkdown. She reflected with surprise how long it was since music had playedany part in her life, and resolved to listen to many chorales by Bach onthe gramophone that evening. Or else--perhaps--she would read a great manyShakespeare sonnets. She rejoiced also in her hunger and thirst anddecided that she would make herself buttered toast for tea--a great dealof buttered toast. And she rejoiced also in the consciousness of her ownbeauty; for she had the sensation--it may have been false in fact, but ithad nothing to do with vanity--that it was growing and expanding like amagic flower with every minute that passed. In such a mood it was onlynatural, after the old countryman had got out at Cure Hardy, to stand upand look at herself in the mirror which confronted her on the wall ofthe compartment. Certainly she was looking well: she was lookingunusually well. And, once more, there was little vanity in this. Forbeauty was made for others. Her beauty belonged to the Director. Itbelonged to him so completely that he could even decide not to keep itfor himself but to order that it be given to another, by an act ofobedience lower, and therefore higher, more unconditional and thereforemore delighting, than if he had demanded it for himself.

As the train came into Edgestow Station Jane was just deciding that shewould not try to get a 'bus. She would enjoy the walk up to Sandown. Andthen--what on earth was all this? The platform, usually almost desertedat this hour, was like a London platform on a bank holiday. "Here youare, mate!" cried a voice as she opened the door, and half a dozen mencrowded into her carriage so roughly that for a moment she could not getout. She found difficulty in crossing the platform. People seemed to begoing in all directions at once--angry, rough, and excited people. "Getback into the train, quick!" shouted someone. "Get out of the station,if you're not travelling," bawled another voice. "What the devil?" askeda third just beside her, and then a woman's voice said "Oh dear, ohdear! Why don't they stop it!" And from outside, beyond the stationcame a great roaring noise like the noise of a football crowd. Thereseemed to be a lot of unfamiliar lights about.

IV

Hours later, bruised, frightened, and tired to death, Jane found herselfin a street she did not even know, surrounded by N.I.C.E. policemen anda few of their females, the Waips. Her course had been like that of aman trying to get home along the beach when the tide is coming in. Shehad been driven out of her natural route along Warwick Street--they werelooting shops and making bonfires there--and forced to take a much widercircle, up by the Asylum, which would have brought her home in the end.Then even that wider circle had proved impracticable, for the samereason. She had been forced to try a still longer way round: and eachtime the tide had got there before her. Finally she had seen Bone Lane,straight and empty and still, and apparently her last chance of gettinghome that night at all. A couple of N.I.C.E. police--one seemed to meetthem everywhere except where the rioting was most violent--had shoutedout, "You can't go down there, miss." But as they then turned theirbacks on her, and it was poorly lit, and because she was now desperate,Jane had made a bolt for it. They caught her. And that was how she foundherself being taken into a lighted room and questioned by a uniformedwoman with short grey hair, a square face, and an unlighted cheroot. Theroom was in disorder--as if a private house had been suddenly and roughlyconverted into a temporary police station. The woman with the cheroottook no particular interest until Jane had given her name. Then MissHardcastle looked her in the face for the first time, and Jane feltquite a new sensation. She was already tired and frightened, but thiswas different. The face of the other woman affected her as the face ofsome men--fat men with small greedy eyes and strange disquietingsmiles--had affected her when she was in her 'teens. It was dreadfullyquiet and yet dreadfully interested in her. And Jane saw that some quitenew idea was dawning on the woman as she stared at her: some idea thatthe woman found attractive, and then tried to put aside, and thenreturned to dally with, and then finally, with a little sigh ofcontentment, accepted. Miss Hardcastle lit her cheroot and blew a cloudof smoke towards her. If Jane had known how seldom Miss Hardcastleactually smoked she would have been even more alarmed. The policemen andpolicewomen who surrounded her probably did. The whole atmosphere of theroom became a little different.

"Jane Studdock," said the Fairy. "I know all about you, honey. You'll bethe wife of my friend Mark." While she spoke she was writing somethingon a green form.

"That's all right," said Miss Hardcastle. "You'll be able to see Hubbyagain now. We'll take you out to Belbury to-night. Now, just onequestion, dear. What were you doing down here at this time of night?"

"I had just come off a train."

"And where had you been, honey?"

Jane said nothing.

"You hadn't been getting up to mischief while Hubby was away, had you?"

"Will you please let me go," said Jane. "I want to get home. I am verytired and it's very late."

"But you're not going home," said Miss Hardcastle. "You're coming out toBelbury."

"My husband has said nothing about my joining him there."

Miss Hardcastle nodded. "That was one of his mistakes. But you're comingwith us."

"What do you mean?"

"It's an arrest, honey," said Miss Hardcastle, holding out the piece ofgreen paper on which she had been writing. It appeared to Jane as allofficial forms always appeared--a mass of compartments, some empty, somefull of small print, some scrawled with signatures in pencil, and onebearing her own name; all meaningless.

"O-oh!" screamed Jane suddenly, overcome with a sensation of nightmare,and made a dash for the door. Of course she never reached it. A momentlater she came to her senses and found herself held by the twopolicewomen.

"What a naughty temper!" said Miss Hardcastle playfully. "But we'll putthe nasty men outside, shall we?" She said something and the policemenremoved themselves and shut the door behind them. As soon as they weregone Jane felt that a protection had been withdrawn from her.

"Well," said Miss Hardcastle, addressing the two uniformed girls. "Let'ssee. Quarter to one . . . and all going nicely. I think, Daisy, we canafford ourselves a little stand-easy. Be careful, Kitty, make your topgrip under her shoulder just a little tighter. That's right." While shewas speaking Miss Hardcastle was undoing her belt, and when she hadfinished she removed her tunic and flung it on the sofa, revealing ahuge torso, uncorseted (as Bill the Blizzard had complained), rank,floppy, and thinly clad; such things as Rubens might have painted indelirium. Then she resumed her seat, removed the cheroot from her mouth,blew another cloud of smoke in Jane's direction, and addressed her.

"Where had you been by that train?" she said.

And Jane said nothing; partly because she could not speak, and partlybecause she now knew beyond all doubt that these were the enemies of thehuman race whom the Director was fighting against and one must tell themnothing. She did not feel heroic in making this decision. The wholescene was becoming unreal to her: and it was as if between sleeping andwaking that she heard Miss Hardcastle say, "I think, Kitty dear, you andDaisy had better bring her round here." And it was still only half realwhen the two women forced her round to the other side of the table, andshe saw Miss Hardcastle sitting with her legs wide apart and settlingherself in the chair as if in the saddle; long leather-clad legsprojecting from beneath her short skirt. The women forced her on, with askilled, quiet increase of pressure whenever she resisted, until shestood between Miss Hardcastle's feet: whereupon Miss Hardcastle broughther feet together so that she had Jane's ankles pinioned between herown. This proximity to the ogress affected Jane with such horror thatshe had no fears left for what they might be going to do with her. Andfor what seemed an endless time Miss Hardcastle stared at her, smiling alittle and blowing smoke in her face.

"Do you know," said Miss Hardcastle at last, "you're rather a prettylittle thing in your way."

There was another silence.

"Where had you been by that train?" said Miss Hardcastle.

And Jane stared as if her eyes would start out of her head and saidnothing. Then suddenly Miss Hardcastle leant forward and, after verycarefully turning down the edge of Jane's dress, thrust the lighted endof the cheroot against her shoulder. After that there was another pauseand another silence.

"Where had you been by that train?" said Miss Hardcastle.

How many times this happened Jane could never remember. But somehow orother there came a time when Miss Hardcastle was talking not to her butto one of the women. "What are you fussing about, Daisy?" she wassaying.

"I was only saying, ma'am, it was five past one."

"How time flies, doesn't it, Daisy? But what if it is? Aren't youcomfortable, Daisy? You're not getting tired, holding a little bit of athing like her?"

"No ma'am, thank you. But you did say, ma'am, you'd meet Captain O'Haraat one sharp."

"Captain O'Hara?" said Miss Hardcastle dreamily at first, and thenlouder, like one waking from a dream. Next moment she had jumped up andwas putting on her tunic. "Bless the girl!" she said, "what a pair ofblockheads you are! Why didn't you remind me before?"

"Well, ma'am, I didn't exactly like to."

"Like to! What do you think you're there for?"

"You don't like us to interrupt, ma'am, sometimes, when you'reexamining," said the girl sulkily.

"Don't argue!" shouted Miss Hardcastle, wheeling round and hitting hercheek a resounding blow with the palm of her hand. "Look sharp. Get theprisoner into the car. Don't wait to button up her dress, idiots. I'llbe after you the moment I've dipped my face in cold water."

A few seconds later, pinioned between Daisy and Kitty, but still closeto Miss Hardcastle (there seemed to be room for five in the back of thecar), Jane found herself gliding through the darkness. "Better gothrough the town as little as possible, Joe," said Miss Hardcastle'svoice. "It'll be pretty lively by now. Go on to the Asylum and work downthose little streets at the back of the close." There seemed to be allsorts of strange noises and lights about. At places, too, there seemedto be a great many people. Then there came a moment when Jane found thatthe car had drawn up. "What the hell are you stopping for?" said MissHardcastle. For a second or two there was no answer from the driverexcept grunts and the noise of unsuccessful attempts to start up theengine. "What's the matter?" repeated Miss Hardcastle sharply. "Don'tknow, ma'am," said the driver, still working away. "God!" said MissHardcastle, "can't you even look after a car? Some of you people want alittle humane remedial treatment yourselves." The street in which theywere was empty but, to judge by the noise, it was near some other streetwhich was very full and very angry. The man got out, swearing under hisbreath, and opened the bonnet of the car. "Here," said Miss Hardcastle."You two hop out. Look round for another car--anywhere within fiveminutes' walk--commandeer it. If you don't find one, be back here in tenminutes, whatever happens. Sharp." The two other policemen alighted, anddisappeared at the double. Miss Hardcastle continued pouring abuse onthe driver and the driver continued working at the engine. The noisegrew louder. Suddenly the driver straightened himself and turned hisface (Jane saw the sweat shining on it in the lamplight) towards MissHardcastle. "Look here, miss," he said, "that's about enough, see? Youkeep a civil tongue in your head, or else come and mend the bloody caryourself if you're so bloody clever." "Don't you try taking that linewith me, Joe," said Miss Hardcastle, "or you'll find me saying a littleword about you to the ordinary police." "Well, suppose you do?" saidJoe. "I'm beginning to think I might as well be in clink as in yourbucking tea-party. 'Struth! I've been in the military police and I'vebeen in the Black and Tans and I've been in the B.U.F., but they wereall ruddy picnics to this lot. A man got some decent treatment there.And he had men over him, not a bloody lot of old women." "Yes, Joe,"said Miss Hardcastle, "but it wouldn't be clink for you this time if Ipassed the word to the ordinary cops."

"Oh, it wouldn't, wouldn't it? I might have a story or two to tell aboutyourself if it came to that."

"For the lord's sake speak to him nicely, ma'am," wailed Kitty. "They'recoming. We'll catch it proper." And in fact men running, by twos andthrees, had begun to trickle into the street.

"Foot it, girls," said Miss Hardcastle. "Sharp's the word. This way."

Jane found herself hustled out of the car and hurried along betweenDaisy and Kitty. Miss Hardcastle walked in front. The little partydarted across the street and up an alley on the far side.

"Any of you know the way here?" asked Miss Hardcastle when they hadwalked a few steps.

"Don't know, I'm sure, ma'am," said Daisy.

"I'm a stranger here myself, ma'am," said Kitty.

"Nice useful lot I've got," said Miss Hardcastle. "Is there anything youdo know?"

"It doesn't seem to go no farther, ma'am," said Kitty.

The alley had indeed turned out to be a dead end. Miss Hardcastle stoodstill for a moment. Unlike her subordinates, she did not seem to befrightened, but only pleasantly excited, and rather amused at the whitefaces and shaky voices of the girls.

"Well," she said, "this is what I call a night out. You're seeing life,Daisy, aren't you? I wonder are any of these houses empty? All lockedanyway. Perhaps we'd best stay where we are."

The shouting in the street they had left had grown louder and they couldsee a confused mass of humanity surging vaguely in a westward direction.Suddenly it became much louder still and angrier.

"They've caught Joe," said Miss Hardcastle. "If he can make himselfheard he'll send them up here. Blast! This means losing the prisoner.Stop blubbering, Daisy, you little fool. Quick. We must go down into thecrowd separately. We've a very good chance of getting through. Keep yourheads. Don't shoot, whatever you do. Try to get to Billingham at thecross roads. Ta-ta Babs! The quieter you keep the less likely we are tomeet again."

Miss Hardcastle set off at once. Jane saw her stand for a few seconds onthe fringes of the crowd and then disappear into it. The two girlshesitated and then followed. Jane sat down on a doorstep. The burns werepainful where her dress had rubbed against them, but what chieflytroubled her was extreme weariness. She was also deadly cold and alittle sick. But, above all, tired; so tired she could drop asleepalmost. . . .

She shook herself. There was complete silence all about her: she wascolder than she had ever been before and her limbs ached. "I believe Ihave been asleep," she thought. She rose, stretched herself, andwalked down the desolate lamp-lit alley into the larger street. It wasquite empty except for one man in a railway uniform who said "Goodmorning, miss" as he walked smartly past. She stood for a moment,undecided, and then began to walk slowly to her right. She put her handin the pocket of the coat which Daisy and Kitty had flung round herbefore leaving the flat and found three-quarters of a large slab ofchocolate. She was ravenous and began munching it. Just as she finishedshe was overtaken by a car which drew up shortly after it had passedher. "Are you all right?" said a man, poking his head out.

"Were you hurt in the riot?" said a woman's voice from within.

"No . . . not much . . . I don't know," said Jane stupidly.

The man stared at her and then got out. "I say," he said, "You don'tlook too good. Are you sure you're quite well?" Then he turned and spoketo the woman inside. It seemed so long to Jane since she had heard kind,or even sane, voices that she felt like crying. The unknown couple madeher sit in the car and gave her brandy and, after that, sandwiches.Finally they asked if they could give her a lift home. Where was herhome? And Jane, somewhat to her surprise, heard her own voice verysleepily answering, "The Manor, at St. Anne's." "That's fine," said theman, "We're making for Birmingham and we have to pass it." Then Janefell asleep at once again, and awoke only to find herself entering alighted doorway and being received by a woman in pyjamas and an overcoatwho turned out to be Mrs. Maggs. But she was too tired to remember howor where she got to bed.

EIGHT

Moonlight at Belbury

I

"I am the last person, Miss Hardcastle," said the Deputy Director, "towish to interfere with your--er--private pleasures. But, really! . . ." Itwas some hours before breakfast-time and the old gentleman was fullydressed and unshaven. But if he had been up all night, it was odd thathe had let his fire out. He and the Fairy were standing by a cold andblackened grate in his study.

"She can't be far away," said Fairy Hardcastle. "We'll pick her up someother time. It was well worth trying. If I'd got out of her where she'dbeen--and I should have got it if I'd had a few minutes longer--why, itmight have turned out to be enemy headquarters. We might have rounded upthe whole gang."

"It was hardly a suitable occasion . . ." began Wither, but sheinterrupted him.

"We haven't so much time to waste, you know. You tell me Frost isalready complaining that the woman's mind is less accessible. Andaccording to your own metapsychology, or whatever you call the damnedjargon, that means she's falling under the influence of the other side.You told me that yourself! Where'll we be if you lose touch with hermind before I've got her body locked up here?"

"I am always, of course," said Wither, "most ready and--er--interested tohear expressions of your own opinions and would not for a moment denythat they are, in certain respects, of course, if not in all, of a veryreal value. On the other hand, there are matters on whichyour--ah--necessarily specialised experience does not entirely qualifyyou. . . . An arrest was not contemplated at this stage. The Head will,I fear, take the view that you have exceeded your authority. Trespassedbeyond your proper sphere, Miss Hardcastle. I do not say that Inecessarily agree with him. But we must all agree that unauthorisedaction----"

"Oh, cut it out, Wither!" said the Fairy, seating herself on the side ofthe table. "Try that game on the Steeles and Stones. I know too muchabout it. It's no bloody good trying the elasticity stunt on me. It wasa golden opportunity, running into that girl. If I hadn't taken it you'dhave talked about lack of initiative: as I did, you talk about exceedingmy authority. You can't frighten me. I know bloody well we're all for itif the N.I.C.E. fails: and in the meantime I'd like to see you dowithout me. We've got to get the girl, haven't we?"

"But not by an arrest. We have always deprecated anything like violence.If a mere arrest could have secured the--er--goodwill and collaboration ofMrs. Studdock, we should hardly have embarrassed ourselves with thepresence of her husband. And even supposing, merely, of course, for thepurpose of argument, that your action in arresting her could bejustified, I am afraid your conduct of the affair after that is open toserious criticism."

"I couldn't tell that the bucking car was going to break down, could I?"

"I do not think," said Wither, "the Head could be induced to regard thatas the only miscarriage. Once the slightest resistance on this woman'spart developed, it was not, in my opinion, reasonable to expect successby the method you employed. As you are aware, I always deplore anythingthat is not perfectly humane: but that is quite consistent with theposition that if more drastic expedients have to be used then they mustbe used thoroughly. Moderate pain, such as any ordinary degree ofendurance can resist, is always a mistake. It is no true kindness to theprisoner. The more scientific and, may I add, more civilised facilitiesfor coercive examination which we have placed at your disposal here,might have been successful. I am not speaking officially, MissHardcastle, and I would not in any sense attempt to anticipate thereactions of our Head. But I should not be doing my duty if I failed toremind you that complaints from that quarter have already been made,though not, of course, minuted, as to your tendency to allow acertain--er--emotional excitement in the disciplinary or remedial side ofyour work to distract you from the demands of policy."

"You won't find anyone can do a job like mine well unless they get somekick out of it," said the Fairy sulkily.

The Deputy Director looked at his watch.

"Anyway," said the Fairy, "what does the Head want to see me now for?I've been on my feet the whole bloody night. I might be allowed a bathand some breakfast."

"The path of duty, Miss Hardcastle," said Wither, "can never be an easyone. You will not forget that punctuality is one of the points on whichemphasis has sometimes been laid."

Miss Hardcastle got up and rubbed her face with her hands. "Well, I musthave something to drink before I go in," she said. Wither held out hishands in deprecation.

"Come on, Wither. I must," said Miss Hardcastle.

"You don't think he'll smell it?" said Wither.

"I'm not going in without it, anyway," said she.

The old man unlocked his cupboard and gave her whisky. Then the two leftthe study and went a long way, right over to the other side of the housewhere it joined on to the actual Blood Transfusion Offices. It was alldark at this hour in the morning, and they went by the light of MissHardcastle's torch--on through carpeted and pictured passages into blankpassages with rubberoid floors and distempered walls and then through adoor they had to unlock, and then through another. All the way MissHardcastle's booted feet made a noise, but the slippered feet of theDeputy Director made no noise at all. At last they came to a place wherethe lights were on and there was a mixture of animal and chemicalsmells, and then to a door which was opened to them after they hadparleyed through a speaking tube. Filostrato, wearing a white coat,confronted them in the doorway.

"Enter," said Filostrato. "He expect you for some time."

"Is it in a bad temper?" said Miss Hardcastle.

"Sh!" said Wither. "And in any case, my dear lady, I don't think that isquite the way in which one should speak of our Head. His sufferings--inhis peculiar condition, you know----"

"You are to go in at once," said Filostrato, "as soon as you have madeyourselves ready."

"Stop! Half a moment," said Miss Hardcastle suddenly.

"What is it? Be quick, please," said Filostrato.

"I'm going to be sick."

"You cannot be sick here. Go back. I will give you some X54 at once."

"It's all right now," said Miss Hardcastle. "It was only momentary. It'dtake more than this to upset me."

"Silence, please," said the Italian. "Do not attempt to open the seconddoor until my assistant has shut the first one behind you. Do not speakmore than you can help. Do not even say yes when you are given an order.The Head will assume your obedience. Do not make sudden movements, donot get too close, do not shout, and, above all, do not argue. Now!"

II

Long after sunrise there came into Jane's sleeping mind a sensationwhich, had she put it into words, would have sung, "Be glad thou sleeperand thy sorrow offcast. I am the gate to all good adventure." And aftershe had waked and found herself lying in pleasant languor with wintermorning sunlight falling across her bed, the mood continued. "He mustlet me stay here now," she thought. Sometime after this Mrs. Maggs camein and lit the fire and brought her breakfast. Jane winced as she sat upin bed for some of the burns had stuck to the strange night-dress(rather too large for her) in which she found herself clad. There was anindefinable difference in Mrs. Maggs' behaviour.

"It's ever so nice, us both being here, isn't it, Mrs. Studdock?" shesaid, and somehow the tone seemed to imply a closer relation than Janehad envisaged between them. But she was too lazy to wonder much aboutit.

Shortly after breakfast came Miss Ironwood. She examined and dressed theburns, which were not serious.

"You can get up in the afternoon, if you like, Mrs. Studdock," she said."I should just take a quiet day till then. What would you like to read?There's a pretty large library."

"I'd like the Curdie books, please," said Jane, "and Mansfield Parkand Shakespeare's Sonnets."

Having thus been provided with reading matter for several hours, shevery comfortably went to sleep again.

When Mrs. Maggs looked in at about four o'clock to see if Jane wasawake, Jane said she would like to get up.

"All right, Mrs. Studdock," said Mrs. Maggs, "just as you like. I'llbring you along a nice cup of tea in a minute and then I'll get thebathroom ready for you. There's a bathroom next door almost, only I'llhave to get that Mr. Bultitude out of it. He's that lazy, and he willgo in and sit there all day when it's cold weather."

As soon as Mrs. Maggs had gone, however, Jane decided to get up. Shefelt that her social abilities were quite equal to dealing with theeccentric Mr. Bultitude, and she did not want to waste any more time inbed. She had an idea that if once she were "up and about" all sorts ofpleasant and interesting things might happen. Accordingly she put on hercoat, took her towel, and proceeded to explore: and that was why Mrs.Maggs, coming upstairs with the tea a moment later, heard a suppressedshriek and saw Jane emerge from the bathroom with a white face and slamthe door behind her.

"Oh dear!" said Mrs. Maggs, bursting into laughter. "I ought to havetold you. Never mind. I'll soon have him out of that." She set thetea-tray down on the passage floor and turned to the bathroom.

"Is it safe?" asked Jane.

"Oh yes, he's safe alright," said Mrs. Maggs. "But he's not that easyto shift. Not for you or me, Mrs. Studdock. Of course if it was MissIronwood or the Director it would be another matter." With that sheopened the bathroom door. Inside, sitting up on its hunkers beside thebath and occupying most of the room, was a great, snuffly, wheezy,beady-eyed, loose-skinned, gor-bellied brown bear, which, after a greatmany reproaches, appeals, exhortations, pushes, and blows from Mrs.Maggs, heaved up its enormous bulk and came very slowly out into thepassage.

"Why don't you go out and take some exercise that lovely afternoon, yougreat lazy thing?" said Mrs. Maggs. "You ought to be ashamed ofyourself, sitting there getting in everyone's way. Don't be frightened,Mrs. Studdock. He's as tame as tame. He'll let you stroke him. Go on,Mr. Bultitude. Go and say how do you do to the lady."

Jane extended a hesitant and unconvincing hand to touch the animal'sback, but Mr. Bultitude was sulking, and without a glance at Janecontinued his slow walk along the passage to a point about ten yardsaway where he quite suddenly sat down. The tea things rattled at Jane'sfeet, and everyone on the floor below must have known that Mr. Bultitudehad sat down.

"Is it really safe to have a creature like that loose about the house?"said Jane.

"Mrs. Studdock," said Ivy Maggs with some solemnity, "if the Directorwanted to have a tiger about the house it would be safe. That's the wayhe has with animals. There isn't a creature in the place that would gofor another or for us once he's had his little talk with them. Just thesame as he does with us. You'll see."

"If you would put the tea in my room . . ." said Jane rather coldly, andwent into the bathroom.

"Yes," said Mrs. Maggs, standing in the open doorway, "you might havehad your bath with Mr. Bultitude sitting there beside you--though he'sthat big and that human I don't somehow feel it would be Nice myself."

Jane made to shut the door.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then," said Mrs. Maggs without moving.

"Thank you," said Jane.

"Sure you got everything you want?" said Mrs. Maggs.

"Quite sure," said Jane.

"Well, I'll be getting along, then," said Mrs. Maggs, turning as if togo, but almost instantly turning back again to say, "You'll find us inthe kitchen, I expect, Mother Dimble and me and the rest."

"Is Mrs. Dimble staying in the house?" asked Jane with a slight emphasison the Mrs.

"Mother Dimble we all call her here," said Mrs. Maggs. "And I'm sureshe won't mind you doing the same. You'll get used to our ways in a dayor two, I'm sure. It's a funny house really, when you come to think ofit. Well, I'll be getting along, then. Don't take too long or your teawon't be worth drinking. But I dare say you'd better not have a bath,not with those nasty places on your chest. Got all you want?"

When Jane had washed and had tea and dressed herself with as much careas strange hairbrushes and a strange mirror allowed, she set out to lookfor the inhabited rooms. She passed down one long passage, through thatsilence which is not quite like any other in the world--the silenceupstairs, in a big house, on a winter afternoon. Presently she came to aplace where two passages met, and here the silence was broken by a faintirregular noise . . . pob . . . pob . . . pob-pob. Looking to herright she saw the explanation, for where the passage ended in a baywindow stood Mr. Bultitude, this time on his hind legs, meditativelyboxing a punch-ball. Jane chose the way to her left and came to agallery whence she looked down the staircase into a large hall wheredaylight mixed with firelight. On the same level with herself, but onlyto be reached by descending to a landing and ascending again, wereshadowy regions which she recognised as leading to the Director's room.A sort of solemnity seemed to her to emanate from them and she went downinto the hall almost on tiptoes, and now, for the first time, her memoryof that last and curious experience in the blue room came back to herwith a weight which even the thought of the Director himself could notcounteract. When she reached the hall she saw at once where the backpremises of the house must lie--down two steps and along a paved passage,past a stuffed pike in a glass case and then past a grandfather clock,and then, guided by voices and other sounds, to the kitchen itself.

A wide, open hearth glowing with burning wood lit up the comfortableform of Mrs. Dimble who was seated in a kitchen chair at one side of it,apparently, from the basin in her lap and other indications on a tablebeside her, engaged in preparing vegetables. Mrs. Maggs and Camilla weredoing something at a stove--the hearth was apparently not used forcooking--and in a doorway, which doubtless led to the scullery, a tallgrizzle-headed man, who wore gum-boots and seemed to have just come fromthe garden, was drying his hands.

"Come in, Jane," said Mother Dimble. "We're not expecting you to do anywork to-day. Come and sit on the other side of the fire and talk to me.This is Mr. MacPhee--who has no right to be here, but he'd better beintroduced to you."

Mr. MacPhee, having finished the drying process and carefully hung thetowel behind the door, advanced rather ceremoniously and shook handswith Jane. His own hand was very large and coarse in texture, and he hada shrewd hard-featured face.

"I am very glad to see you, Mrs. Studdock," he said in what Jane took tobe a Scotch accent, though it was really that of an Ulsterman.

"Don't believe a word he says, Jane," said Mother Dimble. "He's yourprime enemy in this house. He doesn't believe in your dreams."

"Mrs. Dimble," said MacPhee, "I have repeatedly explained to you thedistinction between a personal feeling of confidence and a logicalsatisfaction of the claims of evidence. The one is a psychologicalevent----"

"And the other a perpetual nuisance," said Mrs. Dimble.

"Never heed her, Mrs. Studdock," said MacPhee. "I am, as I was saying,very glad to welcome you among us. The fact that I have found it my dutyon several occasions to point out that no experimentum crucis has yetconfirmed the hypothesis that your dreams are veridical, has noconnection in the world with my personal attitude."

"Of course," said Jane vaguely, and a little confused. "I'm sure youhave a right to your own opinions."

All the women laughed as MacPhee in a somewhat louder tone replied,"Mrs. Studdock, I have no opinions--on any subject in the world. Istate the facts and exhibit the implications. If everyone indulged infewer opinions" (he pronounced the word with emphatic disgust) "there'dbe less silly talking and printing in the world."

"I know who talks most in this house," said Mrs. Maggs, somewhat toJane's surprise.

The Ulsterman eyed the last speaker with an unaltered face whileproducing a small pewter box from his pocket and helping himself to apinch of snuff.

"What are you waiting for, anyway?" said Mrs. Maggs. "Women's day in thekitchen to-day."

"I was wondering," said MacPhee, "whether you had a cup of tea saved forme."

"And why didn't you come in at the right time, then?" said Mrs. Maggs.Jane noticed that she talked to him much as she had talked to the bear.

"I was busy," said the other, seating himself at one end of the table;and added after a pause, "trenching celery. The wee woman does the bestshe can, but she has a poor notion of what needs doing in a garden."

"What is 'women's day' in the kitchen?" asked Jane of Mother Dimble.

"There are no servants here," said Mother Dimble, "and we all do thework. The women do it one day and the men the next. . . . What? . . .No, it's a very sensible arrangement. The Director's idea is that menand women can't do housework together without quarrelling. There'ssomething in it. Of course it doesn't do to look at the cups too closelyon the men's day, but on the whole we get along pretty well."

"But why should they quarrel?" asked Jane.

"Different methods, my dear. Men can't help in a job, you know. Theycan be induced to do it: not to help while you're doing it. At least itmakes them grumpy."

"The cardinal difficulty," said MacPhee, "in collaboration between thesexes is that women speak a language without nouns. If two men are doinga bit of work one will say to the other, 'Put this bowl inside thebigger bowl which you'll find on the top shelf of the green cupboard.'The female for this is 'Put that in the other one in there.' And then ifyou ask them 'in where?' they say 'in there of course.' There isconsequently a phatic hiatus." He pronounced this so as to rhyme with"get at us."

"There's your tea now," said Ivy Maggs, "and I'll go and get you a pieceof cake, which is more than you deserve. And when you've had it you cango upstairs and talk about nouns for the rest of the evening."

"Not about nouns: by means of nouns," said MacPhee; but Mrs. Maggshad already left the room. Jane took advantage of this to say to MotherDimble in a lower voice, "Mrs. Maggs seems to make herself very much athome here."

"My dear, she is at home here."

"As a maid, you mean?"

"Well, no more than anyone else. She's here chiefly because her househas been taken from her. She had nowhere else to go."

"You mean she is . . . one of the Director's charities."

"Certainly that. Why do you ask?"

"Well . . . I don't know. It did seem a little odd that she shouldcall you Mother Dimble. I hope I'm not being snobbish . . ."

"You're forgetting that Cecil and I are another of the Director'scharities."

"Isn't that rather playing on words?"

"Not a bit. Ivy and Cecil and I are all here because we were turned outof our homes. At least Ivy and I are. It may be rather different forCecil."

"And does the Director know that Mrs. Maggs talks to everyone likethat?"

"My dear child, don't ask me what the Director knows."

"I think what's puzzling me is that when I saw him he said somethingabout equality not being the important thing. But his own house seems tobe run on . . . well on very democratic lines indeed."

"I never attempt to understand what he says on that subject," saidMother Dimble. "He's usually talking either about spiritual ranks--andyou were never goose enough to think yourself spiritually superior toIvy--or else about marriage."

"Did you understand his views on marriage?"

"My dear, the Director is a very wise man. But he is a man, after all,and an unmarried man at that. Some of what he says, or what the Masterssay, about marriage does seem to me to be a lot of fuss about somethingso simple and natural that it oughtn't to need saying at all. But Isuppose there are young women nowadays who need to be told it."

"You haven't got much use for young women who do, I see."

"Well, perhaps I'm unfair. Things were easier for us. We were brought upon stories with happy endings and on the Prayer Book. We always intendedto love, honour, and obey, and we had figures and we wore petticoats andwe liked waltzes . . ."

"Waltzes are ever so nice," said Mrs. Maggs--who had just returned andgiven MacPhee his slab of cake--"so old-fashioned."

At that moment the door opened and a voice from behind it said, "Well,go in then, if you're going." Thus admonished, a very fine jackdawhopped into the room, followed firstly by Mr. Bultitude and secondly byArthur Denniston.

"I've told you before, Arthur," said Ivy Maggs, "not to bring that bearin here when we're cooking the dinner." While she was speaking Mr.Bultitude, who was apparently himself uncertain of his welcome, walkedacross the room in what he believed (erroneously) to be an unobtrusivemanner and sat down behind Mrs. Dimble's chair.

"Dr. Dimble's just come back, Mother Dimble," said Denniston. "But he'shad to go straight to the Blue Room. And the Director wants you to go tohim, too, MacPhee."

III

Mark sat down to lunch that day in good spirits. Everyone reported thatthe riot had gone off most satisfactorily, and he had enjoyed readinghis own accounts of it in the morning papers. He enjoyed it even morewhen he heard Steele and Cosser talking about it in a way which showedthat they did not even know how it had been engineered, much less whohad written it up in the newspapers. And he had enjoyed his morning,too. It had involved a conversation with Frost, the Fairy, and Witherhimself, about the future of Edgestow. All were agreed that thegovernment would follow the almost unanimous opinion of the nation (asexpressed in the newspapers) and put it temporarily under the control ofthe Institutional Police. An emergency governor of Edgestow must beappointed. Feverstone was the obvious man. As a member of Parliament herepresented the Nation, as a Fellow of Bracton he represented theUniversity, as a member of the Institute he represented the Institute.All the competing claims that might otherwise have come into collisionwere reconciled in the person of Lord Feverstone; the articles on thissubject which Mark was to write that afternoon would almost writethemselves! But that had not been all. As the conversation proceeded ithad become clear that there was really a double object in getting thisinvidious post for Feverstone. When the time came, and the localunpopularity of the N.I.C.E. rose to its height, he could be sacrificed.This, of course, was not said in so many words, but Mark realisedperfectly clearly that even Feverstone was no longer quite in the InnerRing. The Fairy said that old Dick was a mere politician at heart andalways would be. Wither, deeply sighing, confessed that his talents hadbeen perhaps more useful at an earlier stage of the movement than theywere likely to be in the period on which they were now entering. Therewas in Mark's mind no plan for undermining Feverstone nor even a fullyformed wish that he should be undermined: but the whole atmosphere ofthe discussion became somehow more agreeable to him as he began tounderstand the real situation. He was also pleased that he had (as hewould have put it) "got to know" Frost. He knew by experience that thereis in almost every organisation some quiet, inconspicuous person whomthe small fry suppose to be of no importance but who is really one ofthe mainsprings of the whole machine. Even to recognise such people forwhat they are shows that one has made considerable progress. There was,to be sure, a cold fish-like quality about Frost which Mark did not likeand something even repulsive about the regularity of his features. Butevery word he spoke (he did not speak many) went to the root of what wasbeing discussed, and Mark found it delightful to speak to him. Thepleasures of conversation were coming, for Mark, to have less and lessconnection with his spontaneous liking or disliking of the people hetalked to. He was aware of this change--which had begun when he joinedthe Progressive Element in College--and welcomed it as a sign ofmaturity.

Wither had thawed in a most encouraging manner. At the end of theconversation he had taken Mark aside, spoken vaguely but paternally ofthe great work he was doing, and finally asked after his wife. The D.D.hoped there was no truth in the rumour which had reached him that shewas suffering from--er--some nervous disorder. "Who the devil has beentelling him that?" thought Mark. "Because," said Wither, "it hadoccurred to me, in view of the great pressure of work which rests on youat present and the difficulty, therefore, of your being at home as muchas we should all (for your sake) wish, that in your case the Institutemight be induced . . . I am speaking in a quite informal way . . . thatwe should all be delighted to welcome Mrs. Studdock here."

Until the D.D. had said this Mark had not realised that there wasnothing he would dislike so much as having Jane at Belbury. There wereso many things that Jane would not understand: not only the pretty heavydrinking which was becoming his habit but--oh, everything from morning tonight. For it is only justice both to Mark and to Jane to record that hewould have found it impossible to conduct in her hearing any one of thehundred conversations which his life at Belbury involved. Her merepresence would have made all the laughter of the Inner Ring soundmetallic, unreal; and what he now regarded as common prudence would seemto her, and through her to himself, mere flattery, back-biting, and toadeating. Jane in the middle of Belbury would turn the whole of Belburyinto a vast vulgarity, flashy and yet furtive. His mind sickened at thethought of trying to teach Jane that she must help to keep Wither in agood temper and must play up to Fairy Hardcastle. He excused himselfvaguely to the D.D., with profuse thanks, and got away as quickly as hecould.

That afternoon, while he was having tea, Fairy Hardcastle came andleaned over the back of his chair and said in his ear:

"You've torn it, Studdock."

"What's the matter now, Fairy?" said he.

"I can't make out what's the matter with you, young Studdock, andthat's a fact. Have you made up your mind to annoy the Old Man? Becauseit's a dangerous game, you know."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Well, here we've all been working on your behalf and soothing him downand this morning we thought we'd finally succeeded. He was talking aboutgiving you the appointment originally intended for you and waiving theprobationary period. Not a cloud in the sky: and then you have fiveminutes' chat with him--barely five minutes, in fact--and in that timeyou've managed to undo it all. I begin to think you're mental."

"What the devil's wrong with him this time?"

"Well you ought to know! Didn't he say something about bringing yourwife here?"

"Yes he did. What about it?"

"And what did you say?"

"I said not to bother about it . . . and, of course, thanked him verymuch and all that." The Fairy whistled.

"Don't you see, honey," she said, gently rapping Mark's scalp with herknuckles, "that you could hardly have made a worse bloomer? It was amost terrific concession for him to make. He's never done it to anyoneelse. You might have known he'd be offended if you cold-shouldered him.He's burbling away now about lack of confidence. Says he's 'hurt': whichmeans that somebody else soon will be! He takes your refusal as a signthat you are not really 'settled' here."

"But that is sheer madness. I mean . . ."

"Why the blazes couldn't you tell him you'd have your wife here?"

"Isn't that my own business?"

"Don't you want to have her? You're not very polite to little wifie,Studdock. And they tell me she's a damned pretty girl."

At that moment the form of Wither, slowly sauntering in their direction,became apparent to both and the conversation ended.

At dinner he sat next to Filostrato. There were no other members of theinner circle within earshot. The Italian was in good spirits andtalkative. He had just given orders for the cutting down of some finebeech trees in the grounds.

"Why have you done that, Professor?" said a Mr. Winter who sat opposite."I shouldn't have thought they did much harm at that distance from thehouse. I'm rather fond of trees myself."

"Oh yes, yes," replied Filostrato. "The pretty trees, the garden trees.But not the savages. I put the rose in my garden, but not the briar. Theforest tree is a weed. But I tell you I have seen the civilised tree inPersia. It was a French attaché who had it, because he was in a placewhere trees do not grow. It was made of metal. A poor, crude thing. Buthow if it were perfected? Light, made of aluminium. So natural, it wouldeven deceive."

"It would hardly be the same as a real tree," said Winter.

"But consider the advantages! You get tired of him in one place: twoworkmen carry him somewhere else: wherever you please. It never dies. Noleaves to fall, no twigs, no birds building nests, no muck and mess."

"I suppose one or two, as curiosities, might be rather amusing."

"Why one or two? At present, I allow, we must have forest for theatmosphere. Presently we find a chemical substitute. And then, why anynatural trees? I foresee nothing but the art tree all over the earth.In fact, we clean the planet."

"Do you mean," put in a man called Gould, "that we are to have novegetation at all?"

"Exactly. You shave your face: even, in the English fashion, you shavehim every day. One day we shave the planet."

"I wonder what the birds will make of it?"

"I would not have any birds either. On the art tree I would have the artbirds all singing when you press a switch inside the house. When you aretired of the singing you switch them off. Consider again theimprovement. No feathers dropped about, no nests, no eggs, no dirt."

"It sounds," said Mark, "like abolishing pretty well all organic life."

"And why not? It is simple hygiene. Listen, my friends. If you pick upsome rotten thing and find this organic life crawling over it, do younot say, 'Oh, the horrid thing. It is alive,' and then drop it?"

"Go on," said Winter.

"And you, especially you English, are you not hostile to any organiclife except your own on your own body? Rather than permit it you haveinvented the daily bath."

"That's true."

"And what do you call dirty dirt? Is it not precisely the organic?Minerals are clean dirt. But the real filth is what comes fromorganisms--sweat, spittles, excretions. Is not your whole idea of purityone huge example? The impure and the organic are interchangeableconceptions."

"What are you driving at, Professor?" said Gould. "After all we areorganisms ourselves."

"I grant it. That is the point. In us organic life has produced Mind. Ithas done its work. After that we want no more of it. We do not want theworld any longer furred over with organic life, like what you call theblue mould--all sprouting and budding and breeding and decaying. We mustget rid of it. By little and little, of course; slowly we learn how.Learn to make our brains live with less and less body: learn to buildour bodies directly with chemicals, no longer have to stuff them full ofdead brutes and weeds. Learn how to reproduce ourselves withoutcopulation."

"I don't think that would be much fun," said Winter.

"My friend, you have already separated the Fun, as you call it, from thefertility. The Fun itself begins to pass away. Bah! I know that is notwhat you think. But look at your English women. Six out of ten arefrigid are they not? You see? Nature herself begins to throw away theanachronism. When she has quite thrown it away, then real civilisationbecomes possible. You would understand if you were peasants. Who wouldtry to work with stallions and bulls? No, no; we want geldings and oxen.There will never be peace and order and discipline so long as there issex. When man has thrown it away, then he will become finallygovernable."

This brought them to the end of dinner, and as they rose from the tableFilostrato whispered in Mark's ear, "I would not advise the Library foryou to-night. You understand? You are not in favour. Come and have alittle conversation with me in my room."

Mark rose and followed him, glad and surprised that in this new crisiswith the D.D. Filostrato was apparently still his friend. They went upto the Italian's sitting-room on the first floor. There Mark sat downbefore the fire, but his host continued to walk up and down the room.

"I am very sorry, my young friend," said Filostrato, "to hear of thisnew trouble between you and the Deputy Director. It must be stopped, youunderstand? If he invite you to bring your wife here why do you notbring her?"

"Well, really," said Mark, "I never knew he attached so much importanceto it. I thought he was merely being polite." His objection to havingJane at Belbury had been, if not removed, at least temporarily deadenedby the wine he had drunk at dinner and by the sharp pang he had felt atthe threat of expulsion from the library circle.

"It is of no importance in itself," said Filostrato. "But I have reasonto believe it came not from Wither but from the Head himself."

"The Head? You mean Jules?" said Mark in some surprise. "I thought hewas a mere figure head. And why should he care whether I bring my wifehere or not?"

"You were mistaken," said Filostrato. "Our Head is no figure head."There was something odd about his manner, Mark thought. For some timeneither man spoke.

"It is all true," said Filostrato at last, "what I said at dinner."

"But about Jules," said Mark. "What business is it of his?"

"Jules?" said Filostrato, "why do you speak of him? I say it was alltrue. The world I look forward to is the world of perfect purity. Theclean mind and the clean minerals. What are the things that most offendthe dignity of man? Birth and breeding and death. How if we are about todiscover that Mind can live without any of the three?"

Mark stared. Filostrato's conversation appeared so disjointed and hismanner so unusual that he began to wonder if he were quite sane or quitesober.

"As for your wife," resumed Filostrato, "I attach no importance to it.What have I to do with men's wives? The whole subject disgusts me. Butif they make a point of it . . . Look, my friend, the real question iswhether you mean to be truly at one with us or no."

"I don't quite follow," said Mark.

"Do you want to be a mere hireling? But you have already come too far infor that. You are at the turning-point of your career, Mr. Studdock. Ifyou try to go back you will be as unfortunate as the fool Hingest. Ifyou come really in--the world . . . bah, what do I say? . . . theuniverse is at your feet."

"But of course I want to come in," said Mark. A certain excitement wasstealing over him.

"The Head thinks that you cannot be really one of us if you will notbring your wife here. He will have all of you, and all that is yours--orelse nothing. You must bring the woman in too. She also must be one ofus."

This remark was like a shock of cold water in Mark's face. And yet . . .and yet . . . in that room and at that moment, fixed with the little,bright eyes of the Professor, he could hardly make the thought of Janequite real to himself.

"You shall hear it from the lips of the Head himself," said Filostratosuddenly.

"Is Jules here?" said Mark.

Instead of answering Filostrato turned sharply from him and with a greatscraping movement flung back the window curtains. Then he switched offthe light. The fog had all gone, the wind had risen. Small clouds werescudding across the stars and the full moon--Mark had never seen her sobright--stared down upon them. As the clouds passed her she looked like aball that was rolling through them. Her bloodless light filled the room.

"There is a world for you, no?" said Filostrato. "There is cleanness,purity. Thousands of square miles of polished rock with not one blade ofgrass, not one fibre of lichen, not one grain of dust. Not even air.Have you thought what it would be like, my friend, if you could walk onthat land? No crumbling, no erosion. The peaks of those mountains arereal peaks: sharp as needles, they would go through your hand. Cliffs ashigh as Everest and as straight as the wall of a house. And cast bythose cliffs, acres of shadow black as ebony, and in the shadow hundredsof degrees of frost. And then, one step beyond the shadow, light thatwould pierce your eyeballs like steel and rock that would burn yourfeet. The temperature is at boiling-point. You would die, yes? But eventhen you would not become filth. In a few moments you are a little heapof ash; clean, white powder. And mark, no wind to blow that powderabout. Every grain in the little heap remain in its place, just whereyou died, till the end of the world . . . but that is nonsense. Theuniverse will have no end."

"Yes. A dead world," said Mark, gazing at the moon.

"No!" said Filostrato. He had come close to Mark and spoke almost in awhisper, the bat-like whisper of a voice that is naturally high-pitched."No. There is life there."

"Do we know that?" asked Mark.

"Oh, si. Intelligent life. Under the surface. A great race, furtheradvanced than we. An inspiration. A pure race. They have cleaned theirworld, broken free (almost) from the organic."

"But how----?"

"They do not need to be born and breed and die; only their commonpeople, their canaglia do that. The Masters live on. They retain theirintelligence: they can keep it artificially alive after the organic bodyhas been dispensed with--a miracle of applied biochemistry. They do notneed organic food. You understand? They are almost free of Nature,attached to her only by the thinnest, finest cord."

"Do you mean that all that," Mark pointed to the mottled white globeof the moon, "is their own doing?"

"Why not? If you remove all the vegetation, presently you have noatmosphere, no water."

"But what was the purpose?"

"Hygiene. Why should they have their world all crawling with organisms?And specially, they would banish one organism. Her surface is not all asyou see. There are still surface-dwellers--savages. One great dirty patchon the far side of her where there is still water and air andforests--yes, and germs and death. They are slowly spreading theirhygiene over their whole globe. Disinfecting her. The savages fightagainst them. There are frontiers, and fierce wars, in the caves andgalleries down below. But the great race press on. If you could see theother side you would see year by year the clean rock--like this side ofthe moon--encroaching: the organic stain, all the green and blue andmist, growing smaller. Like cleaning tarnished silver."

"But how do we know all this?"

"I will tell you all that another time. The Head has many sources ofinformation. For the moment, I speak only to inspire you. I speak thatyou may know what can be done: what shall be done here. ThisInstitute--Dio mio, it is for something better than housing andvaccinations and faster trains and curing the people of cancer. It isfor the conquest of death: or for the conquest of organic life, if youprefer. They are the same thing. It is to bring out of that cocoon oforganic life which sheltered the babyhood of mind the New Man, the manwho will not die, the artificial man, free from Nature. Nature is theladder we have climbed up by, now we kick her away."

"And you think that some day we shall really find a means of keeping thebrain alive indefinitely?"

"We have begun already. The Head himself . . ."

"Go on," said Mark. His heart was beating wildly and he had forgottenboth Jane and Wither. This at last was the real thing.

"The Head himself has already survived death, and you shall speak to himthis night."

"Do you mean that Jules has died?"

"Bah! Jules is nothing. He is not the Head."

"Then who is?"

At this moment there was a knock on the door. Someone, without waitingfor an answer, came in.

"Is the young man ready?" asked the voice of Straik.

"Oh yes. You are ready, are you not, Mr. Studdock?"

"You have explained it to him, then?" said Straik. He turned to Mark andthe moonlight in the room was so bright that Mark could now partiallyrecognise his face--its harsh furrows emphasised by that cold light andshade.

"Do you mean really to join us, young man?" said Straik. "There is noturning back once you have set your hand to the plough. And there are noreservations. The Head has sent for you. Do you understand--the Head?You will look upon one who was killed and is still alive. Theresurrection of Jesus in the Bible was a symbol: to-night you shall seewhat it symbolised. This is real Man at last, and it claims all ourallegiance."

"What the devil are you talking about?" said Mark. The tension of hisnerves distorted his voice into a hoarse blustering cry.

"My friend is quite right," said Filostrato. "Our Head is the first ofthe New Men--the first that lives beyond animal life. As far as Nature isconcerned he is already dead: if Nature had her way his brain would nowbe mouldering in the grave. But he will speak to you within this hour,and--a word in your ear, my friend--you will obey his orders."

"But who is it?" said Mark.

"It is François Alcasan," said Filostrato.

"You mean the man who was guillotined?" gasped Mark. Both the headsnodded. Both faces were close to him: in that disastrous light theylooked like masks hanging in the air.

"You are frightened?" said Filostrato. "You will get over that. We areoffering to make you one of us. Ahi--if you were outside, if you weremere canaglia you would have reason to be frightened. It is thebeginning of all power. He live forever. The giant time is conquered.And the giant space--he was already conquered too. One of our company hasalready travelled in space. True, he was betrayed and murdered and hismanuscripts are imperfect: we have not yet been able to reconstruct hisspace ship. But that will come."

"It is the beginning of Man Immortal and Man Ubiquitous," said Straik."Man on the throne of the universe. It is what all the prophecies reallymeant."

"At first, of course," said Filostrato, "the power will be confined to anumber--a small number--of individual men. Those who are selected foreternal life."

"And you mean," said Mark, "it will then be extended to all men?"

"No," said Filostrato. "I mean it will then be reduced to one man. Youare not a fool, are you, my young friend? All that talk about the powerof Man over Nature--Man in the abstract--is only for the canaglia. Youknow as well as I do that Man's power over Nature means the power ofsome men over other men with Nature as the instrument. There is no suchthing as Man--it is a word. There are only men. No! It is not Man whowill be omnipotent, it is some one man, some immortal man. Alcasan, ourHead, is the first sketch of it. The completed product may be someoneelse. It may be you. It may be me."

"A king cometh," said Straik, "who shall rule the universe withrighteousness and the heavens with judgement. You thought all that wasmythology, no doubt. You thought because fables had clustered about thephrase 'Son of Man' that Man would never really have a son who willwield all power. But he will."

"I don't understand, I don't understand," said Mark.

"But it is very easy," said Filostrato. "We have found how to make adead man live. He was a wise man even in his natural life. He live nowforever: he get wiser. Later, we make them live better--for at present,one must concede, this second life is probably not very agreeable to himwho has it. You see? Later we make it pleasant for some--perhaps not sopleasant for others. For we can make the dead live whether they wish itor not. He who shall be finally king of the universe can give this lifeto whom he pleases. They cannot refuse the little present."

"And so," said Straik, "the lessons you learned at your mother's kneereturn. God will have power to give eternal reward and eternalpunishment."

"God?" said Mark. "How does He come into it? I don't believe in God."

"But, my friend," said Filostrato, "does it follow that because therewas no God in the past that there will be no God also in the future?"

"Don't you see," said Straik, "that we are offering you the unspeakableglory of being present at the creation of God Almighty? Here, in thishouse, you shall meet the first draught of the real God. It is a man--ora being made by man--who will finally ascend the throne of the universe.And rule forever."

"You will come with us?" said Filostrato. "He has sent for you."

"Of course he will come," said Straik. "Does he think he could hold backand live?"

"And that little affair of the wife," added Filostrato. "You will notmention a triviality like that. You will do as you are told. One doesnot argue with the Head."

Mark had nothing now to help him but the rapidly ebbing exhilaration ofthe alcohol taken at dinner-time and some faint gleams of memory fromhours with Jane and with friends made before he went to Bracton, duringwhich the world had had a different taste from this exciting horrorwhich now pressed upon him. These, and a merely instinctive dislike forboth the moonlit faces which so held his attention. On the other sidewas fear. What would they do to him if he refused now? And aiding fearwas this young man's belief that if one gave in for the present thingswould somehow right themselves "in the morning." And, aiding the fearand the hope, there was still, even then, a not wholly disagreeablethrill at the thought of sharing so stupendous a secret.

"Yes," he said, halting in his speech as if he were out of breath,"Yes--of course--I'll come."

They led him out. The passages were already still and the sound of talkand laughter from the public rooms on the ground floor had ceased. Hestumbled, and they linked arms with him. The journey seemed long:passage after passage, passages he had never seen before, doors tounlock, and then into a place where all the lights were on, and therewere strange smells. Then Filostrato spoke through a speaking-tube and adoor was opened to them.

Mark found himself in a surgical-looking room with glaring lights, andsinks, and bottles, and glittering instruments. A young man whom hehardly knew, dressed in a white coat, received them.

"Strip to your underclothes," said Filostrato. While Mark was obeying henoticed that the opposite wall of the room was covered with dials.Numbers of flexible tubes came out of the floor and went into the walljust beneath the dials. The staring dial faces and the bunches of tubesbeneath them, which seemed to be faintly pulsating, gave one theimpression of looking at some creature with many eyes and manytentacles. The young man kept his eyes fixed on the vibrating needles ofthe dials. When the three newcomers had removed their outer clothes,they washed their hands and faces, and after that Filostrato pluckedwhite clothes for them out of a glass container with a pair of forceps.When they had put these on he gave them also gloves and masks such assurgeons wear. There followed a moment's silence while Filostratostudied the dials. "Yes, yes," he said. "A little more air. Not much:point nought three. Turn on the chamber air . . . slowly . . . to Full.Now the lights. Now air in the lock. A little less of the solution. Andnow" (here he turned to Straik and Studdock) "are you ready to go in?"

He led them to a door in the same wall as the dials.

NINE

The Saracen's Head

I

"It was the worst dream I've had yet," said Jane next morning. She wasseated in the Blue Room with the Director and Grace Ironwood.

"Yes," said the Director. "Yours is perhaps the hardest post: until thereal struggle begins."

"I dreamed I was in a dark room," said Jane, "with queer smells in itand a sort of low humming noise. Then the light came on--but not verymuch light, and for a long time I didn't realise what I was looking at.And when I made it out . . . I should have waked up if I hadn't made agreat effort not to. I thought I saw a face floating just in front ofme. A face, not a head, if you understand what I mean. That is, therewas a beard and nose and eyes--at least, you couldn't see the eyesbecause it had coloured glasses on, but there didn't seem to be anythingabove the eyes. Not at first. But as I got used to the light, I got ahorrible shock. I thought the face was a mask tied on to a kind ofballoon thing. But it wasn't, exactly. Perhaps it looked a bit like aman wearing a sort of turban . . . I'm telling this dreadfully badly.What it really was, was a head (the rest of a head) which had had thetop part of the skull taken off and then . . . then . . . as ifsomething inside had boiled over. A great big mass which bulged out frominside what was left of the skull. Wrapped in some kind of compositionstuff, but very thin stuff. You could see it twitch. Even in my fright Iremember thinking, 'Oh, kill it, kill it. Put it out of its pain.' Butonly for a second, because I thought the thing was dead, really. It wasgreen looking and the mouth was wide open and quite dry. You realise Iwas a long time, looking at it, before anything else happened. And soonI saw that it wasn't exactly floating. It was fixed up on some kind ofbracket, or shelf, or pedestal--I don't know quite what, and there werethings hanging from it. From the neck, I mean. Yes, it had a neck and asort of collar thing round it, but nothing below the collar: noshoulders or body. Only these hanging things. In the dream I thought itwas some kind of new man that had only head and entrails: I thought allthose tubes were its insides. But presently--I don't quite know how, Isaw that they were artificial. Little rubber tubes and bulbs and littlemetal things too. I couldn't understand them. All the tubes went intothe wall. Then at last something happened."

"You're all right, Jane, are you?" said Miss Ironwood.

"Oh yes," said Jane, "as far as that goes. Only one somehow doesn'twant to tell it. Well, quite suddenly, like when an engine is started,there came a puff of air out of its mouth, with a hard dry raspingsound. And then there came another, and it settled down into a sort ofrhythm--huff, huff, huff--like an imitation of breathing. Then came amost horrible thing: the mouth began to dribble. I know it sounds sillybut in a way I felt sorry for it, because it had no hands and couldn'twipe its mouth. It seems a small thing compared with all the rest butthat is how I felt. Then it began working its mouth about and evenlicking its lips. It was like someone getting a machine into workingorder. To see it doing that just as if it was alive, and at the sametime dribbling over the beard which was all stiff and dead looking. . . .Then three people came into the room, all dressed up in white, withmasks on, walking as carefully as cats on the top of a wall. One was agreat fat man, and another was lanky and boney. The third . . ." hereJane paused involuntarily. "The third . . . I think it was Mark . . . Imean my husband."

"You are uncertain?" said the Director.

"No," said Jane. "It was Mark. I knew his walk. And I knew the shoes hewas wearing. And his voice. It was Mark."

"I am sorry," said the Director.

"And then," said Jane, "all three of them came round and stood in frontof the Head. They bowed to it. You couldn't tell if it was looking atthem because of its dark glasses. It kept on with that rhythmicalhuffing noise. Then it spoke."

"In English?" said Grace Ironwood.

"No, in French."

"What did it say?"

"Well, my French wasn't quite good enough to follow it. It spoke in aqueer way. In starts--like a man who's out of breath. With no properexpression. And of course it couldn't turn itself this way or that, theway a--a real person--does."

"Did you understand any of what was said?"

"Not very much. The fat man seemed to be introducing Mark to it. It saidsomething to him. Then Mark tried to answer. I could follow him allright, his French isn't much better than mine."

"What did he say?"

"He said something about 'doing it in a few days if it was possible.'"

"Was that all?"

"Very nearly. You see Mark couldn't stand it. I knew he wouldn't be ableto: I remember, idiotically, in the dream, I wanted to tell him. I sawhe was going to fall. I think I tried to shout out to the other two,'He's going to fall.' But, of course, I couldn't. He was sick too. Thenthey got him out of the room."

All three were silent for a few seconds.

"Was that all?" said Miss Ironwood.

"Yes," said Jane. "That's all I remember. I think I woke up then."

The Director took a deep breath. "Well!" he said, glancing at MissIronwood, "it becomes plainer and plainer. We must hold a council atonce. Is everyone here?"

"No. Dr. Dimble has had to go into Edgestow, into College, to takepupils. He won't be back till evening."

"Then we must hold the council this evening. Make all arrangements." Hepaused for a moment and then turned to Jane.

"I am afraid this is very bad for you, my dear," he said; "and worse forhim."

"You mean for Mark, sir?"

"Yes. Don't think hardly of him. He is suffering. If we are defeated weshall all go down with him. If we win we will rescue him; he cannot befar gone yet." He paused, smiled, and added, "We are quite used totrouble about husbands here, you know. Poor Ivy's is in jail."

"In jail?"

"Oh yes--for ordinary theft. But quite a good fellow. He'll be all rightagain."

Though Jane had felt horror, even to the point of nausea, at the sight(in her dream) of Mark's real surroundings and associates, it had beenhorror that carried a certain grandeur and mystery with it. The suddenequation between his predicament and that of a common convict whippedthe blood to her cheeks. She said nothing.

"One other thing," continued the Director. "You will not misunderstandit if I exclude you from our council to-night."

"Of course not, sir," said Jane, in fact, misunderstanding it very much.

"You see," he said, "MacPhee takes the line that if you hear thingstalked of you will carry ideas of them into your sleep and that willdestroy the evidential value of your dreams. And it's not very easy torefute him. He is our sceptic; a very important office."

"I quite understand," said Jane.

"That applies, of course," said the Director, "only to things we don'tknow yet. You mustn't hear our guesses, you mustn't be there when we'repuzzling over the evidence. But we have no secrets from you about theearlier history of our family. In fact, MacPhee himself will insist onbeing the one who tells you all that. He'd be afraid Grace's account, ormine, wouldn't be objective enough."

"I see."

"I want you to like him if you can. He's one of my oldest friends. Andhe'll be about our best man if we're going to be defeated. You couldn'thave a better man at your side in a losing battle. What he'll do if wewin, I can't imagine."

II

Mark woke next morning to the consciousness that his head ached allover, but specially at the back. He remembered that he had fallen--thatwas how he had hurt his head--fallen in that other room, with Filostratoand Straik . . . and then, as one of the poets says, he "discovered inhis mind an inflammation swollen and deformed, his memory." Oh, butimpossible, not to be accepted for a moment: it had been a nightmare, itmust be shoved away, it would vanish away now that he was fully awake.It was an absurdity. Once in delirium he had seen the front part of ahorse, by itself, with no body or hind legs, running across a lawn, hadfelt it ridiculous at the very moment of seeing it, but not the lesshorrible for that. This was an absurdity of the same sort. A headwithout any body underneath. A head that could speak when they turned onthe air and the artificial saliva with taps in the next room. His ownhead began to throb so hard that he had to stop thinking.

But he knew it was true. And he could not, as they say, "take it." Hewas very ashamed of this, for he wished to be considered one of thetough ones. But the truth is that his toughness was only of the will,not of the nerves, and the virtues he had almost succeeded in banishingfrom his mind still lived, if only negatively and as weaknesses, in hisbody. He approved of vivisection, but had never worked in a dissectingroom. He recommended that certain classes of people should be graduallyeliminated: but he had never been there when a small shopkeeper went tothe workhouse or a starved old woman of the governess type came to thevery last day and hour and minute in the cold attic. He knew nothingabout the last half-cup of cocoa drunk slowly ten days before.

Meantime he must get up. He must do something about Jane. Apparently hewould have to bring her to Belbury. His mind had made this decisionfor him at some moment he did not remember. He must get her, to save hislife. All his anxieties about being in the inner ring or getting a jobhad shrunk into insignificance. It was a question of life or death. Theywould kill him if he annoyed them; perhaps behead him . . . oh God, ifonly they would really kill that monstrous little lump of torture, thatlump with a face, which they kept there talking on its steel bracket.All the minor fears at Belbury--for he knew now that all except theleaders were always afraid--were only emanations from that central fear.He must get Jane; he wasn't fighting against that now.

It must be remembered that in Mark's mind hardly one rag of noblethought, either Christian or Pagan, had a secure lodging. His educationhad been neither scientific nor classical--merely "Modern." Theseverities both of abstraction and of high human tradition had passedhim by: and he had neither peasant shrewdness nor aristocratic honour tohelp him. He was a man of straw, a glib examinee in subjects thatrequire no exact knowledge (he had always done well on Essays andGeneral Papers) and the first hint of a real threat to his bodily lifeknocked him sprawling. And his head ached so terribly and he felt sosick. Luckily he now kept a bottle of whisky in his room. A stiff oneenabled him to shave and dress.

He was late for breakfast but that made little difference for he couldnot eat. He drank several cups of black coffee and then went into thewriting-room. Here he sat for a long time drawing things on theblotting-paper. This letter to Jane proved almost impossible now that itcame to the point. And why did they want Jane? Formless fears stirred inhis mind. And Jane of all people! Would they take her to the Head? Foralmost the first time in his life a gleam of something likedisinterested love came into his mind; he wished he had never marriedher, never dragged her into this whole outfit of horrors which was,apparently, to be his life.

"Hullo, Studdock!" said a voice. "Writing to little wifie, eh?"

"Damn!" said Mark. "You've made me drop my pen."

"Then pick it up, sonny," said Miss Hardcastle, seating herself on thetable. Mark did so, and then sat still, without looking up at her. Notsince he had been bullied at school had he known what it was to hate anddread anyone with every nerve of his body as he now hated and dreadedthis woman.

"I've got bad news for you, sonny," she said presently. His heart gave ajump.

"Take it like a man, Studdock," said the Fairy.

"What is it?"

She did not answer quite at once and he knew she was studying him,watching how the instrument responded to her playing.

"I'm worried about little wifie, and that's a fact," she said at last.

"What do you mean?" said Mark sharply, this time looking up. The cherootbetween her teeth was still unlit, but she had got as far as taking outher matches.

"I looked her up," said Miss Hardcastle, "all on your account, too. Ithought Edgestow wasn't too healthy a place for her to be at present."

"What's wrong with her?" shouted Mark.

"Ssh!" said Miss Hardcastle. "You don't want everyone to hear."

"Can't you tell me what's wrong?"

She waited for a few seconds before replying. "How much do you knowabout her family, Studdock?"

"Lots. What's that got to do with it?"

"Nothing . . . queer . . . on either side?"

"What the devil do you mean?"

"Don't be rude, honey. I'm doing all I can for you. It's only--well, Ithought she was behaving pretty oddly when I saw her."

Mark well remembered his conversation with his wife on the morning heleft for Belbury. A new stab of fear pierced him. Might not thisdetestable woman be speaking the truth?

"What did she say?" he asked.

"If there is anything wrong with her in that way," said the Fairy, "takemy advice, Studdock, and have her over here at once. She'll be properlylooked after here."

"You haven't yet told me what she said or did."

"I wouldn't like to have anyone belonging to me popped into EdgestowAsylum. Specially now that we're getting our emergency powers. They'llbe using the ordinary patients experimentally, you know. Whereas ifyou'll just sign this form I'll run over after lunch and have her herethis evening."

"I shall do nothing of the sort. Specially as you haven't given me theslightest notion what's wrong with her."

"I've been trying to tell you but you don't let me. She kept on talkingabout someone who'd broken into your flat--or else met her at the station(one couldn't make out which) and burned her with cigars. Then, mostunfortunately, she noticed my cheroot, and, if you please, sheidentified me with this imaginary persecutor. Of course after that Icould do no good."

"I must go home at once," said Mark, getting up.

"Here--whoa! You can't do that," said the Fairy, also rising.

"Can't go home? I've bloody well got to, if all this is true."

"Don't be a fool, lovey," said Miss Hardcastle. "Honest! I know what I'mtalking about. You're in a dam dangerous position already. You'll aboutdo yourself in if you're absent without leave now. Send me. Sign theform. That's the sensible way to do it."

"But a moment ago you said she couldn't stand you at any price."

"Oh, that wouldn't make any odds. Of course it would be easier if shehadn't taken a dislike to me. I say, Studdock, you don't think littleWifie could be jealous, do you?"

"Jealous? Of you?" said Mark with uncontrollable disgust.

"Where are you off to?" said the Fairy sharply.

"To see the D.D. and then home."

"Stop. You won't do that unless you mean to make me your enemy forlife--and let me tell you, you can't afford many more enemies."

"Oh, go to the Devil," said Mark.

"Come back, Studdock," shouted the Fairy. "Wait! Don't be a bloodyfool." But Mark was already in the hall. For the moment everythingseemed to have become clear. He would look in on Wither, not to ask forleave but simply to announce that he had to go home at once because hiswife was dangerously ill: he would be out of the room before Withercould reply--and then off. The further future was vague, but that did notseem to matter. He put on his hat and coat, ran upstairs and knocked atthe door of the Deputy Director's office.

There was no answer. Then Mark noticed that the door was not quite shut.He ventured to push it open a little farther, and saw the DeputyDirector sitting inside with his back to the door. "Excuse me, sir,"said Mark. "Might I speak to you for a few minutes." There was noanswer. "Excuse me, sir," said Mark in a louder voice, but the figureneither spoke nor moved. With some hesitation, Mark went into the roomand walked round to the other side of the desk; but when he turned tolook at Wither he caught his breath, for he thought he was looking intothe face of a corpse. A moment later he recognised his mistake. In thestillness of the room he could hear the man breathing. He was not evenasleep, for his eyes were open. He was not unconscious, for his eyesrested momentarily on Mark and then looked away. "I beg your pardon,sir," began Mark, and then stopped. The Deputy Director was notlistening. He was so far from listening that Mark felt an insane doubtwhether he was there at all, whether the soul of the Deputy Directorwere not floating far away, spreading and dissipating itself like a gasthrough formless and lightless worlds, waste lands and lumber rooms ofthe universe. What looked out of those pale watery eyes was, in a sense,infinity--the shapeless and the interminable. The room was still andcold: there was no clock and the fire had gone out. It was impossible tospeak to a face like that. Yet it seemed impossible also to get out ofthe room, for the man had seen him. Mark was afraid; it was so unlikeany experience he had ever had before.

When at last Mr. Wither spoke, his eyes were not fixed on Mark but onsome remote point beyond him, beyond the window, perhaps in the sky.

"I know who it is," said Wither. "Your name is Studdock. What do youmean by coming here? You had better have stayed outside. Go away."

It was then that Mark's nerve suddenly broke. All the slowly mountingfears of the last few days ran together into one fixed determination anda few seconds later he was going downstairs three steps at a time. Thenhe was crossing the hall. Then he was out, and walking down the drive.Once again, his immediate course seemed quite plain to him. Opposite theentrance was a thick belt of trees pierced by a field path. That pathwould bring him in half an hour to Courthampton and there he could get acountry 'bus to Edgestow. About the future he did not think at all. Onlytwo things mattered: firstly, to get out of that house, and secondly toget back to Jane. He was devoured with a longing for Jane, which wasphysical without being at all sensual: as if comfort and fortitude wouldflow from her body, as if her very skin would clean away all the filththat seemed to hang about him. The idea that she might be really mad hadsomehow dropped out of his mind. And he was still young enough to beincredulous of misery. He could not quite rid himself of the belief thatif only he made a dash for it the net must somehow break, the sky mustsomehow clear, and it would all end up with Jane and Mark having teatogether as if none of all this had happened.

He was out of the grounds now: he was crossing the road: he had enteredthe belt of trees. He stopped suddenly. Something impossible washappening. There was a figure before him on the path; a tall, very tall,slightly stooping figure, sauntering and humming a little dreary tune;the Deputy Director himself. And in one moment all that brittlehardihood was gone from Mark's mood. He turned back. He stood in theroad; this seemed to him the worst pain that he had ever felt. Then,tired, so tired that he felt his legs would hardly carry him, he walkedvery slowly back into Belbury.

III

Mr. MacPhee had a little room on the ground floor at the Manor which hecalled his office, and to which no woman was ever admitted except underhis own conduct; and in this tidy but dusty apartment he sat with JaneStuddock shortly before dinner that evening, having invited her there togive her what he called "a brief, objective outline of the situation."

"I should premise at the outset, Mrs. Studdock," he said, "that I haveknown the Director for a great many years and that for most of his lifehe was a philologist. I'm not just satisfied myself that philology canbe regarded as an exact science, but I mention the fact as a testimonyto his general intellectual capacity. And, not to forejudge any issue, Iwill not say, as I would in ordinary conversation, that he has alwaysbeen a man of what you might call an imaginative turn. His original namewas Ransom."

"Not Ransom's Dialect and Semantics?" said Jane.

"Aye. That's the man," said MacPhee. "Well, about six years ago--I haveall the dates in a wee book there, but it doesn't concern us at themoment--came his first disappearance. He was clean gone--not a trace ofhim--for about nine months. I thought he'd most likely been drownedbathing or something of the kind. And then one day what does he do butturn up again in his rooms at Cambridge and go down sick and intohospital for three months more. And he wouldn't say where he'd beenexcept privately to a few friends."

"Well?" said Jane eagerly.

"He said," answered MacPhee, producing his snuff-box and laying greatemphasis on the word said, "He said he'd been to the planet Mars."

"You mean he said this . . . while he was ill?"

"No, no. He says so still. Make what you can of it, that's his story."

"I believe it," said Jane.

MacPhee selected a pinch of snuff with as much care as if thoseparticular grains had differed from all the others in his box and spokebefore applying them to his nostrils.

"I'm giving you the facts," he said. "He told us he'd been to Mars,kidnapped, by Professor Weston and Mr. Devine--Lord Feverstone as he nowis. And by his own account he'd escaped from them--on Mars, you'llunderstand--and been wandering about there alone for a bit. Alone."

"It's uninhabited, I suppose?"

"We have no evidence on that point except his own story. You aredoubtless aware, Mrs. Studdock, that a man in complete solitude even onthis earth--an explorer, for example--gets into very remarkable states ofconsciousness. I'm told a man might forget his own identity."

"You mean he might have imagined things on Mars that weren't there?"

"I'm making no comments," said MacPhee. "I'm merely recording. By hisown accounts there are all kinds of creatures walking about there;that's maybe why he has turned this house into a sort of menagerie, butno matter for that. But he also says he met one kind of creature therewhich specially concerns us at this moment. He called them eldils."

"A kind of animal, do you mean?"

"Did ever you try to define the word animal, Mrs. Studdock?"

"Not that I remember. I meant, were these things . . . well,intelligent? Could they talk?"

"Aye. They could talk. They were intelligent, forbye, which is notalways the same thing."

"In fact these were the Martians?"

"That's just what they weren't, according to his account. They were onMars, but they didn't rightly belong there. He says they are creaturesthat live in empty space."

"But there's no air."

"I'm telling you his story. He says they don't breathe. He said alsothat they don't reproduce their species and don't die. But you'llobserve that even if we assume the rest of his story to be correct thislast statement could not rest on observation."

"What on earth are they like?"

"I'm telling you how he described them."

"I mean, what do they look like?"

"I'm not just exactly prepared to answer that question," said MacPhee.

"Are they perfectly huge?" said Jane almost involuntarily.

MacPhee blew his nose and continued. "The point, Mrs. Studdock," hesaid, "is this. Dr. Ransom claims that he has received continual visitsfrom these creatures since he returned to Earth. So much for his firstdisappearance. Then came the second. He was away for more than a yearand that time he said he'd been in the planet Venus--taken there by theseeldils."

"Venus is inhabited by them, too?"

"You'll forgive me observing that this remark shows you have not graspedwhat I'm telling you. These creatures are not planetary creatures atall. Supposing them to exist, you are to conceive them floating aboutthe depth of space, though they may alight on a planet here and there;like a bird alighting on a tree, you understand. There's some of them,he says, are more or less permanently attached to particular planets,but they're not native there. They're just a clean different kind ofthing."

There were a few seconds of silence, and then Jane asked, "They are, Igather, more or less friendly?"

"That is certainly the Director's idea about them, with one importantexception."

"What's that?"

"The eldils that have for many centuries concentrated on our own planet.We seem to have had no luck at all in choosing our particular complementof parasites. And that, Mrs. Studdock, brings me to the point."

Jane waited. It was extraordinary how MacPhee's manner almostneutralised the strangeness of what he was telling her.

"The long and the short of it is," said he, "that this house isdominated either by the creatures I'm talking about, or by a sheerdelusion. It is by advices he thinks he has received from eldils thatthe Director has discovered the conspiracy against the human race; andwhat's more, it's on instructions from eldils that he's conducting thecampaign--if you can call it conducting! It may have occurred to you towonder, Mrs. Studdock, how any man in his senses thinks we're going todefeat a powerful conspiracy by sitting here growing winter vegetablesand training performing bears. It is a question I have propounded onmore than one occasion. The answer is always the same: we're waiting fororders."

"From the eldils? It was them he meant when he spoke of his Masters?"

"I doubt it would be; though he doesn't use that word in speaking tome."

"But, Mr. MacPhee, I don't understand. I thought you said the ones onour planet were hostile."

"That's a very good question," said MacPhee, "but it's not our own onesthat the Director claims to be in communication with. It's his friendsfrom outer space. Our own crew, the terrestrial eldils, are at the backof the whole conspiracy. You are to imagine us, Mrs. Studdock, living ona world where the criminal classes of the eldils have established theirheadquarters. And what's happening now, if the Director's views arecorrect, is that their own respectable kith and kin are visiting thisplanet to red the place up."

"You mean that the other eldils, out of space, actually come here--tothis house?"

"That is what the Director thinks."

"But you must know whether it's true or not."

"How?"

"Have you seen them?"

"That's not a question to be answered Aye or No. I've seen a good manythings in my time that weren't there or weren't what they pretended tobe; rainbows and reflections and sunsets, not to mention dreams. Andthere's hetero-suggestion too. I will not deny that I have observed aclass of phenomena in this house that I have not yet fully accountedfor. But they never occurred at a moment when I had a note-book handy orany facilities for verification."

"Isn't seeing believing?"

"It may be--for children or beasts," said MacPhee.

"But not for sensible people, you mean?"

"My uncle, Dr. Duncanson," said MacPhee, "whose name may be familiar toyou--he was Moderator of the General Assembly over the water, inScotland--used to say, 'Show it me in the word of God.' And then he'dslap down the big Bible on the table. It was a way he had of shutting uppeople that came to him blathering about religious experiences. Andgranting his premises, he was quite right. I don't hold his views, Mrs.Studdock, you understand, but I work on the same principles. If anythingwants Andrew MacPhee to believe in its existence, I'll be obliged if itwill present itself in full daylight, with a sufficient number ofwitnesses present, and not get shy if you hold up a camera or athermometer."

"You have seen something, then?"

"Aye. But we must keep an open mind. It might be a hallucination. Itmight be a conjuring trick . . ."

"By the Director?" asked Jane angrily. Mr. MacPhee once more hadrecourse to his snuff-box. "Do you really expect me," said Jane, "tobelieve that the Director is that sort of man? A charlatan?"

"I wish, ma'am," said MacPhee, "you could see your way to consider thematter without constantly using such terms as believe. Obviously,conjuring is one of the hypotheses that any impartial investigator musttake into account. The fact that it is a hypothesis speciallyuncongenial to the emotions of this investigator or that, is neitherhere nor there. Unless, maybe, it is an extra ground for emphasising thehypothesis in question, just because there is a strong psychologicaldanger of neglecting it."

"There's such a thing as loyalty," said Jane.

MacPhee, who had been carefully shutting up the snuff-box, suddenlylooked up with a hundred Covenanters in his eyes.

"There is, ma'am," he said. "As you get older you will learn that it isa virtue too important to be lavished on individual personalities."

At that moment there was a knock at the door. "Come in," said MacPhee,and Camilla entered.

"Have you finished with Jane, Mr. MacPhee?" she said. "She promised tocome out for a breath of air with me before dinner."

"Och, breath of air your grandmother!" said MacPhee with a gesture ofdespair. "Very well, ladies, very well. Away out to the garden. I doubtthey're doing something more to the purpose on the enemy's side. They'llhave all this country under their hands before we move, at this rate."

"I wish you'd read the poem I'm reading," said Camilla. "For it says inone line just what I feel about this waiting:

Fool,
All lies in a passion of patience, my lord's rule."

"What's that from?" asked Jane.

"Taliessin through Logres."

"Mr. MacPhee probably approves of no poets except Burns."

"Burns!" said MacPhee with profound contempt, opening the drawer of histable with great energy and producing a formidable sheaf of papers. "Ifyou're going to the garden, don't let me delay you, ladies."

"He's been telling you?" said Camilla, as the two girls went togetherdown the passage. Moved by a kind of impulse which was rare to herexperience, Jane seized her friend's hand as she answered "Yes!" Bothwere filled with some passion, but what passion they did not know. Theycame to the front door, and as they opened it a sight met their eyeswhich, though natural, seemed at the moment apocalyptic.

All day the wind had been rising and they found themselves looking outon a sky swept almost clean. The air was intensely cold; the starssevere and bright. High above the last rags of scurrying cloud hung theMoon in all her wildness--not the voluptuous moon of a thousand southernlove-songs, but the huntress, the untameable virgin, the spear-head ofmadness. If that cold satellite had just then joined our planet for thefirst time, it could hardly have looked more like an omen. The wildnesscrept into Jane's blood.

"That Mr. MacPhee . . ." said Jane, as they walked steeply uphill to thevery summit of the garden.

"I know," said Camilla: and then, "You believed it?"

"Of course."

"How does Mr. MacPhee explain the Director's age?"

"You mean his looking--or being--so young--if you call it young?"

"Yes. That is what people are like who come back from the stars. Or atleast from Perelandra. Paradise is still going on there; make him tellyou about it some time. He will never grow a year or a month olderagain."

"Will he die?"

"He will be taken away, I believe. Back into Deep Heaven. It hashappened to one or two people, perhaps about six, since the worldbegan."

"Camilla!"

"Yes."

"What--what is he?"

"He's a man, my dear. And he is the Pendragon of Logres. This house, allof us here, and Mr. Bultitude and Pinch, are all that's left of Logres:all the rest has become merely Britain. Go on. Let's go right to thetop. How it's blowing. They might come to him to-night."

IV

That evening Jane washed up under the attentive eye of Baron Corvo, thejackdaw, while the others held council in the Blue Room.

"Well," said Ransom, as Grace Ironwood concluded reading from her notes."That is the dream, and everything in it seems to be objective."

"Objective?" said Dimble. "I don't understand, sir. You don't mean theycould really have a thing like that?"

"What do you think, MacPhee?" asked Ransom.

"Oh aye, it's possible," said MacPhee. "You see it's an old experimentwith animals' heads. They do it often in laboratories. You cut off acat's head, maybe, and throw the body away. You can keep the head goingfor a bit if you supply it with blood at the right pressure."

"Fancy!" said Ivy Maggs.

"Do you mean, keep it alive?" said Dimble.

"Alive is an ambiguous word. You can keep all the functions. It's whatwould be popularly called alive. But a human head--and consciousness--Idon't know what would happen if you tried that."

"It has been tried," said Miss Ironwood. "A German tried it before thefirst war. With the head of a criminal."

"Is that a fact?" said MacPhee with great interest. "And do you knowwhat result he got?"

"It failed. The head simply decayed in the ordinary way."

"I've had enough of this, I have," said Ivy Maggs, rising and abruptlyleaving the room.

"Then this filthy abomination," said Dr. Dimble, "is real--not only adream." His face was white and his expression strained. His wife's face,on the other hand, showed nothing more than that controlled distastewith which a lady of the old school listens to any disgusting detailwhen its mention becomes unavoidable.

"We have no evidence of that," said MacPhee. "I'm only stating thefacts. What the girl has dreamed is possible."

"And what about this turban business," said Denniston, "this sort ofswelling on top of the head?"

"You see what it might be," said the Director.

"I'm not sure that I do, sir," said Dimble.

"Supposing the dream to be veridical," said MacPhee. "You can guess whatit would be. Once they'd got it kept alive, the first thing that wouldoccur to boys like them would be to increase its brain. They'd try allsorts of stimulants. And then, maybe, they'd ease open the skull-cap andjust--well, just let it boil over, as you might say. That's the idea, Idon't doubt. A cerebral hypertrophy artificially induced to support asuperhuman power of ideation."

"Is it at all probable," said the Director, "that a hypertrophy likethat would increase thinking power?"

"That seems to me the weak point," said Miss Ironwood. "I should havethought it was just as likely to produce lunacy--or nothing at all. Butit might have the opposite effect."

"Then what we are up against," said Dimble, "is a criminal's brainswollen to superhuman proportions and experiencing a mode ofconsciousness which we can't imagine, but which is presumably aconsciousness of agony and hatred."

"It's not certain," said Miss Ironwood, "that there would be very muchactual pain. Some from the neck, perhaps, at first."

"What concerns us much more immediately," said MacPhee, "is to determinewhat conclusions we can draw from these carryings-on with Alcasan's headand what practical steps should be taken on our part--always, and simplyas a working hypothesis, assuming the dream to be veridical."

"It tells us one thing straightaway," said Denniston.

"What's that?" asked MacPhee.

"That the enemy movement is international. To get that head they musthave been hand-in-glove with at least one foreign police force."

MacPhee rubbed his hands. "Man," he said, "you have the makings of alogical thinker. But the deduction's not all that certain. Bribery mightaccount for it without actual consolidation."

"It tells us something in the long run even more important," said theDirector. "It means that if this technique is really successful, theBelbury people have for all practical purposes discovered a way ofmaking themselves immortal." There was a moment's silence, and then hecontinued: "It is the beginning of what is really a new species--theChosen Heads who never die. They will call it the next step inevolution. And henceforward all the creatures that you and I call humanare mere candidates for admission to the new species or else itsslaves--perhaps its food."

"The emergence of the Bodiless Men!" said Dimble.

"Very likely, very likely," said MacPhee, extending his snuff-box to thelast speaker. It was refused, and he took a very deliberate pinch beforeproceeding. "But there's no good at all applying the forces of rhetoricto make ourselves skeery or daffing our own heads off our shouldersbecause some other fellows have had the shoulders taken from under theirheads. I'll back the Director's head, and yours Dr. Dimble, and my own,against this lad's whether the brains is boiling out of it or no.Provided we use them. I should be glad to hear what practical measureson our side are suggested."

With these words he tapped his knuckles gently on his knee and staredhard at the Director.

"It is," said MacPhee, "a question I have ventured to propound before."

A sudden transformation, like the leaping up of a flame in embers,passed over Grace Ironwood's face. "Can the Director not be trusted toproduce his own plan in his own time, Mr. MacPhee?" she said fiercely.

"By the same token, Doctor," said he, "can the Director's council not betrusted to hear his plan?"

"What do you mean, MacPhee?" asked Dimble.

"Mr. Director," said MacPhee. "You'll excuse me for speaking frankly.Your enemies have provided themselves with this Head. They have takenpossession of Edgestow, and they're in a fair way to suspend the laws ofEngland. And still you tell us it is not time to move. If you had takenmy advice six months ago we would have had an organisation all over thisisland by now and maybe a party in the House of Commons. I know wellwhat you'll say--that those are not the right methods. And maybe no. Butif you can neither take our advice nor give us anything to do, what arewe all sitting here for? Have you seriously considered sending us awayand getting some other colleagues that you can work with?"

"Dissolve the Company, do you mean?" said Dimble.

"Aye, I do," said MacPhee.

The Director looked up with a smile. "But," he said, "I have no power todissolve it."

"In that case," said MacPhee, "I must ask what authority you had tobring it together?"

"I never brought it together," said the Director. Then, after glancinground the company, he added: "There is some strange misunderstandinghere! Were you all under the impression I had selected you?"

"Were you?" he repeated, when no one answered.

"Well," said Dimble, "as regards myself I fully realise that the thinghas come about more or less unconsciously--even accidentally. There wasno moment at which you asked me to join a definite movement, or anythingof that kind. That is why I have always regarded myself as a sort ofcamp follower. I had assumed that the others were in a more regularposition."

"You know why Camilla and I are here, sir," said Denniston. "Wecertainly didn't intend or foresee how we were going to be employed."

Grace Ironwood looked up with a set expression on her face, which hadgrown rather pale. "Do you wish . . . ?" she began.

The Director laid his hand on her arm. "No," he said, "no. There is noneed for all these stories to be told."

MacPhee's stern features relaxed into a broad grin. "I see what you'redriving at," he said. "We've all been playing blind-man's buff, I doubt.But I'll take leave to observe, Dr. Ransom, that you carry things a weebit high. I don't just remember how you came to be called Director: butfrom that title and from one or two other indications a man would havethought you behaved more like the leader of an organisation than thehost at a house-party."

"I am the Director," said Ransom, smiling. "Do you think I would claimthe authority I do if the relation between us depended either on yourchoice or mine? You never chose me. I never chose you. Even the greatOyéresu whom I serve never chose me. I came into their worlds by whatseemed, at first, a chance; as you came to me--as the very animals inthis house first came to it. You and I have not started or devised this:it has descended on us--sucked us into itself, if you like. It is, nodoubt, an organisation: but we are not the organisers. And that is why Ihave no authority to give any one of you permission to leave myhousehold."

For a time there was complete silence in the Blue Room, except for thecrackling of the fire.

"If there is nothing more to discuss," said Grace Ironwood presently,"perhaps we had better leave the Director to rest."

MacPhee rose and dusted some snuff off the baggy knees of histrousers--thus preparing a wholly novel adventure for the mice when theynext came out in obedience to the Director's whistle.

"I have no notion," he said, "of leaving this house if anyone wishes meto stay. But as regards the general hypothesis on which the Directorappears to be acting and the very peculiar authority he claims, Iabsolutely reserve my judgement. You know well, Mr. Director, in whatsense I have, and in what sense I have not, complete confidence inyourself."

The Director laughed. "Heaven forbid," he said, "that I should claim toknow what goes on in the two halves of your head, MacPhee, much less howyou connect them. But I know--what matters much more--the kind ofconfidence I have in you. But won't you sit down? There is much more tobe said."

MacPhee resumed his chair, Grace Ironwood, who had been sitting boltupright in hers, relaxed, and the Director spoke.

"We have learned to-night," he said, "if not what the real power behindour enemies is doing, at least the form in which it is embodied atBelbury. We therefore know something about one of the two attacks whichare about to be made on our race. But I'm thinking of the other."

"Yes," said Camilla earnestly, "the other."

"Meaning by that?" asked MacPhee.

"Meaning," said Ransom, "whatever is under Bragdon Wood."

"You're still thinking about that?" said the Ulsterman.

"I am thinking of almost nothing else," said the Director. "We knewalready that the enemy wanted the Wood. Some of us guessed why. Now Janehas seen--or rather felt--in a vision what it is they are looking for inBragdon. It may be the greater danger of the two. But what is certain isthat the greatest danger of all is the junction of the enemies' forces.He is staking everything on that. When the new power from Belbury joinsup with the old power under Bragdon Wood, Logres--indeed Man--will bealmost surrounded. For us everything turns on preventing that junction.That is the point at which we must be ready both to kill and die. But wecannot strike yet. We cannot get into Bragdon and start excavating forourselves. There must be a moment when they find him--it. I have no doubtwe shall be told in one way or another. Till then we must wait."

"I don't believe a word of all that other story," said MacPhee.

"I thought," said Miss Ironwood, "we weren't to use words likebelieve. I thought we were only to state facts and exhibitimplications."

"If you two quarrel much more," said the Director, "I think I'll makeyou marry one another."

V

At the beginning the grand mystery for the Company had been why theenemy wanted Bragdon Wood. The land was unsuitable and could be made fitto bear a building on the scale they proposed only by the costliestpreliminary work; and Edgestow itself was not an obviously convenientplace. By intense study in collaboration with Dr. Dimble and despite thecontinued scepticism of MacPhee the Director had at last come to acertain conclusion. Dimble and he and the Dennistons shared between thema knowledge of Arthurian Britain which orthodox scholarship willprobably not reach for some centuries. They knew that Edgestow lay inwhat had been the very heart of ancient Logres, that the village of CureHardy preserved the name of Ozana le Coeur Hardi, and that a historicalMerlin had once worked in what was now Bragdon Wood.

What exactly he had done there they did not know; but they had all, byvarious routes, come too far either to consider his art mere legend andimposture, or to equate it exactly with what the Renaissance calledMagic. Dimble even maintained that a good critic, by his sensibilityalone, could detect the difference between the traces which the twothings had left on literature. "What common measure is there," he wouldask, "between ceremonial occultists like Faustus and Prospero andArchimago with their midnight studies, their forbidden books, theirattendant fiends or elementals, and a figure like Merlin who seems toproduce his results simply by being Merlin?" And Ransom agreed. Hethought that Merlin's art was the last survival of something older anddifferent--something brought to Western Europe after the fall of Numinorand going back to an era in which the general relations of mind andmatter on this planet had been other than those we know. It had probablydiffered from Renaissance Magic profoundly. It had possibly (though thiswas doubtful) been less guilty: it had certainly been more effective.For Paracelsus and Agrippa and the rest had achieved little or nothing:Bacon himself--no enemy to magic except on this account--reported that themagicians "attained not to greatness and certainty of works." The wholeRenaissance outburst of forbidden arts had, it seemed, been a method oflosing one's soul on singularly unfavourable terms. But the older Arthad been a different proposition.

But if the only possible attraction of Bragdon lay in its associationwith the last vestiges of Atlantean magic, this told the Companysomething else. It told them that the N.I.C.E., at its core, was notconcerned solely with modern or materialistic forms of power. It toldthe Director, in fact, that there was Eldilic energy and Eldilicknowledge behind it. It was, of course, another question whether itshuman members knew of the dark powers who were their real organisers.And in the long run this question was not perhaps important. As Ransomhimself had said more than once, "Whether they know it or whether theydon't, much the same sort of things are going to happen. It's not aquestion of how the Belbury people are going to act--the Dark-Eldils willsee to that--but of how they will think about their actions. They'll goto Bragdon: it remains to be seen whether any of them will know the realreason why they're going there, or whether they'll all fudge up sometheory of soils, or air, or etheric tensions, to explain it."

Up to a certain point the Director had supposed that the powers forwhich the enemy hankered were resident in the mere site at Bragdon--forthere is an old and widespread belief that locality itself is ofimportance in such matters. But from Jane's dream of the cold sleeper hehad learned better. It was something much more definite, somethinglocated under the soil of Bragdon Wood, something to be discovered bydigging. It was, in fact, the body of Merlin. What the eldils had toldhim about the possibility of such discovery he had received, while theywere with him, almost without wonder. It was no wonder to them. In theireyes the normal Tellurian modes of being--engendering and birth and deathand decay--which are to us the framework of thought, were no lesswonderful than the countless other patterns of being which werecontinually present to their unsleeping minds. To those high creatureswhose activity builds what we call Nature, nothing is "natural." Fromtheir station the essential arbitrariness (so to call it) of everyactual creation is ceaselessly visible; for them there are no basicassumptions: all springs with the wilful beauty of a jest or a tune fromthat miraculous moment of self-limitation wherein the Infinite,rejecting a myriad possibilities, throws out of Himself the positive andelected invention. That a body should lie uncorrupted for fifteenhundred years, did not seem strange to them; they knew worlds wherethere was no corruption at all. That its individual life should remainlatent in it all that time, was to them no more strange: they had seeninnumerable different modes in which soul and matter could be combinedand separated, separated without loss of reciprocal influence, combinedwithout true incarnation, fused so utterly as to be a third thing, orperiodically brought together in a union as short, and as momentous, asthe nuptial embrace. It was not as a marvel in natural philosophy, butas an information in time of war that they brought the Director theirtidings. Merlin had not died. His life had been hidden, side-tracked,moved out of our one-dimensioned time, for fifteen centuries. But undercertain conditions it would return to his body.

They had not told him this till recently because they had not known it.One of Ransom's greatest difficulties in disputing with MacPhee, whoconsistently professed to disbelieve the very existence of the eldils,was that MacPhee made the common, but curious assumption that if thereare creatures wiser and stronger than man they must be forthwithomniscient and omnipotent. In vain did Ransom endeavour to explain thetruth. Doubtless the great beings who now so often came to him had powersufficient to sweep Belbury from the face of England and England fromthe face of the globe; perhaps to blot the globe itself out ofexistence. But no power of that kind would be used. Nor had they anydirect vision into the minds of men. It was in a different place, andapproaching their knowledge from the other side, that they haddiscovered the state of Merlin: not from inspection of the thing thatslept under Bragdon Wood, but from observing a certain uniqueconfiguration in that place where those things remain that are taken offtime's mainroad, behind the invisible hedges, into the unimaginablefields. Not all the times that are outside the present are thereforepast or future.

It was this that kept the Director wakeful, with knitted brow, in thesmall cold hours of that morning when the others had left him. There wasno doubt in his mind now that the enemy had bought Bragdon to findMerlin: and if they found him they would re-awake him. The old Druidwould inevitably cast in his lot with the new planners--what couldprevent his doing so? A junction would be effected between two kinds ofpower which between them would determine the fate of our planet.Doubtless that had been the will of the Dark-Eldils for centuries. Thephysical sciences, good and innocent in themselves, had already, even inRansom's own time, begun to be warped, had been subtly manoeuvred in acertain direction. Despair of objective truth had been increasinglyinsinuated into the scientists; indifference to it, and a concentrationupon mere power, had been the result. Babble about the élan vital andflirtations with pan-psychism were bidding fair to restore the AnimaMundi of the magicians. Dreams of the far future destiny of man weredragging up from its shallow and unquiet grave the old dream of Man asGod. The very experiences of the dissecting-room and the pathologicallaboratory were breeding a conviction that the stifling of all deep-setrepugnances was the first essential for progress. And now all this hadreached the stage at which its dark contrivers thought they could safelybegin to bend it back so that it would meet that other and earlier kindof power. Indeed, they were choosing the first moment at which thiscould have been done. You could not have done it with nineteenth-centuryscientists. Their firm objective materialism would have excluded it fromtheir minds; and even if they could have been made to believe, theirinherited morality would have kept them from touching dirt. MacPhee wasa survivor from that tradition. It was different now. Perhaps few ornone of the people at Belbury knew what was happening: but once ithappened, they would be like straw in fire. What should they findincredible, since they believed no longer in a rational universe? Whatshould they regard as too obscene, since they held that all morality wasa mere subjective by-product of the physical and economic situations ofmen? The time was ripe. From the point of view which is accepted inhell, the whole history of our Earth had led up to this moment. Therewas now at last a real chance for fallen Man to shake off thatlimitation of his powers which mercy had imposed upon him as aprotection from the full results of his fall. If this succeeded, hellwould be at last incarnate. Bad men, while still in the body, stillcrawling on this little globe, would enter that state which, heretofore,they had entered only after death, would have the diuturnity and powerof evil spirits. Nature, all over the globe of Tellus, would becometheir slave: and of that dominion no end, before the end of time itself,could be certainly foreseen.

TEN

The Conquered City

I

Up till now, whatever his days had been like, Mark had usually sleptwell: this night, sleep failed him. He had not written to Jane; he hadspent the day keeping out of sight and doing nothing in particular. Thewakeful night moved all his fears on to a new level. He was, of course,a materialist in theory: and, also in theory, he was past the age atwhich one can have night fears. But now, as the wind rattled his windowhour after hour, he felt the nursery terrors again: the old exquisitethrill, as of cold fingers delicately travelling down his back.Materialism is in fact no protection. Those who seek it in that hope(they are not a negligible class) will be disappointed. The thing youfear is impossible. Well and good. Can you therefore cease to fear it?Not here and now. And what then? If you must see ghosts it is better notto disbelieve in them.

He was called earlier than usual, and with his tea came a note. TheDeputy Director sent his compliments and must ask Mr. Studdock to callon him instantly about a most urgent and distressing matter. Markdressed and obeyed.

In Wither's room he found Wither and Miss Hardcastle. To Mark's surpriseand, momentarily, to his relief Wither showed no recollection of theirlast meeting. Indeed, his manner was genial, even deferential, thoughextremely grave.

"Good morning, good morning, Mr. Studdock," he said. "It is with thegreatest regret that I--er--in short, I would not have kept you from yourbreakfast unless I had felt that in your own interests you should beplaced in full possession of the facts at the earliest possible moment.You will of course regard all that I am about to say as strictlyconfidential. The matter is a distressing or at least an embarrassingone. I feel sure that as the conversation proceeds (pray be seated, Mr.Studdock) you will realise in your present situation how very wise wehave been in securing from the outset a police force--to give it thatrather unfortunate name--of our own."

Mark licked his lips and sat down.

"My reluctance to raise the question," continued Wither, "would,however, be very much more serious if I did not feel able to assureyou--in advance you understand--of the complete confidence which we allfeel in you and which I very much hoped" (here for the first time helooked Mark in the eyes) "you were beginning to reciprocate. We regardourselves here as being so many brothers and--er--sisters: so thatwhatever passes between us in this room can be regarded as confidentialin the fullest possible sense of the word, and I take it we shall allfeel entitled to discuss the subject I am about to mention in the mosthuman and informal manner possible."

Miss Hardcastle's voice, suddenly breaking in, had an effect not whollyunlike that of a pistol shot.

"You have lost your wallet, Studdock," she said.

"My--my wallet?" said Mark.

"Yes. Wallet. Pocket-book. Thing you keep notes and letters in."

"Yes. I have. Have you found it?"

"Does it contain three pounds ten, counterfoil of postal order for fiveshillings, letters from a woman signing herself Myrtle, from the Bursarof Bracton, from G. Hernshaw, F. A. Browne, M. Belcher, and a bill for adress-suit from Simonds and Son, 32A Market Street, Edgestow?"

"Well, more or less so."

"There it is," said Miss Hardcastle pointing to the table. "No youdon't!" she added as Mark made a step towards it.

"What on earth is all this about?" said Mark. His tone was that which Ithink almost any man would have used in the circumstances but whichpolicemen are apt to describe as "blustering."

"None of that," said Miss Hardcastle. "This wallet was found in thegrass beside the road about five yards away from Hingest's body."

"My God!" said Studdock. "You don't mean . . . the thing's absurd."

"There's no use appealing to me," said Miss Hardcastle. "I'm not asolicitor, nor a jury, nor a judge. I'm only a policewoman. I'm tellingyou the facts."

"Do I understand that I'm suspected of murdering Hingest?"

"I don't really think," said the Deputy Director, "that you need havethe slightest apprehension that there is, at this stage, any radicaldifference between your colleagues and yourself as to the light in whichthis very painful matter should be regarded. The question is really aconstitutional one----"

"Constitutional?" said Mark angrily. "If I understand her, MissHardcastle is accusing me of murder."

Wither's eyes looked at him as if from an infinite distance.

"Oh," said he, "I don't really think that does justice to MissHardcastle's position. That element in the Institute which sherepresents would be strictly ultra vires in doing anything of the kindwithin the N.I.C.E.--supposing, but purely of course for purposes ofargument, that they wished, or should wish at a later stage, to doso--while in relation to the outside authorities their function, howeverwe define it, would be quite inconsistent with any action of the sort;at least in the sense in which I understand you to be using the words."

"But it's the outside authorities with whom I'm concerned, I suppose,"said Mark. His mouth had become dry and he had difficulty in makinghimself audible. "As far as I can understand, Miss Hardcastle means I'mgoing to be arrested."

"On the contrary," said Wither. "This is precisely one of those cases inwhich you see the enormous value of possessing our own executive. Hereis a matter which might, I fear, cause you very considerableinconvenience if the ordinary police had discovered the wallet or if wewere in the position of an ordinary citizen who felt it his duty--as weshould ourselves feel it our duty if we ever came to be in that verydifferent situation--to hand over the wallet to them. I do not know ifMiss Hardcastle has made it perfectly clear to you that it was herofficers, and they only, who have made this--er--embarrassing discovery."

"What on earth do you mean?" said Mark. "If Miss Hardcastle does notthink there's a prima facie case against me, why am I being arraigned inthis way at all? And if she does, how can she avoid informing theauthorities?"

"My dear friend," said Wither in an antediluvian tone, "there is not theslightest desire on the part of the Committee to insist on defining, incases of this sort, the powers of action of our own police, much less,what is here in question, their powers of inaction. I do not thinkanyone had suggested that Miss Hardcastle should be obliged--in anysense that limited her own initiative--to communicate to outsideauthorities, who by their very organisation must be supposed to be lessadapted for dealing with such imponderable and quasi-technical inquiriesas will often arise, any facts acquired by her and her staff in thecourse of their internal functioning within the N.I.C.E."

"Do I understand," said Mark, "that Miss Hardcastle thinks she has factsjustifying my arrest for the murder of Mr. Hingest, but is kindlyoffering to suppress them?"

"You got it now, Studdock," said the Fairy. A moment later, for thefirst time in Mark's experience, she actually lit her cheroot, blew acloud of smoke, and smiled, or at least drew back her lips so that theteeth became visible.

"But that's not what I want," said Mark. This was not quite true. Theidea of having the thing hushed up in any way and on almost any termswhen it first presented itself a few seconds ago had come like air toone suffocating. But something like citizenship was still alive in himand he proceeded, almost without noticing this emotion, to follow adifferent line. "I don't want that," he said, speaking rather too loud,"I'm an innocent man. I think I'd better go to the police--the realpolice, I mean--at once."

"If you want to be tried for your life," said the Fairy, "that'sanother matter."

"I want to be vindicated," said Mark. "The charge would fall to piecesat once. There was no conceivable motive. And I have an alibi. Everyoneknows I slept here that night."

"Really?" said the Fairy.

"What do you mean?" said Mark.

"There's always a motive, you know," said she, "for anyone murderinganyone. The police are only human. When the machinery's started theynaturally want a conviction."

Mark assured himself he was not frightened. If only Wither didn't keepall his windows shut and then have a roaring fire!

"There's a letter you wrote," said the Fairy.

"What letter?"

"A letter to a Mr. Pelham, of your own College, dated six weeks ago, inwhich you say, 'I wish Bill the Blizzard could be moved to a betterworld.'"

Like a sharp physical pain the memory of that scribbled note came backto Mark. It was the sort of silly jocularity one used in the ProgressiveElement--the kind of thing that might be said a dozen times a day inBracton about an opponent or even about a bore.

"How does that letter come to be in your hands?" said Mark.

"I think, Mr. Studdock," said the Deputy Director, "it would be veryimproper to suggest that Miss Hardcastle should give any kind ofexposition--in detail, I mean--of the actual working of the InstitutionalPolice. In saying this I do not mean for one moment to deny that thefullest possible confidence between all the members of the N.I.C.E. isone of the most valuable characteristics it can have, and, indeed, asine qua non of that really concrete and organic life which we expectit to develop. But there are necessarily certain spheres--not sharplydefined, of course, but inevitably revealing themselves in response tothe environment and obedience to the indwelling ethos or dialectic ofthe whole--in which a confidence that involved the verbal interchange offacts would--er--would defeat its own end."

"You don't suppose," said Mark, "that anyone could take that letter tobe meant seriously?"

"Ever tried to make a policeman understand anything?" said the Fairy. "Imean what you call a real policeman."

Mark said nothing.

"And I don't think the alibi is specially good," said the Fairy. "Youwere seen talking to Bill at dinner. You were seen going out of thefront door with him when he left. You were not seen coming back. Nothingis known of your movements till breakfast-time next morning. If you hadgone with him by car to the scene of the murder you would have had ampletime to walk back and go to bed by about 2.15. Frosty night, you know.No reason why your shoes should have been specially muddy or anything ofthat sort."

"If I might pick up a point made by Miss Hardcastle," said Wither, "thisis a very good illustration of the immense importance of theInstitutional Police. There are so many fine shades involved which itwould be unreasonable to expect the ordinary authorities to understandbut which, so long as they remain, so to speak, in our own family circle(I look upon the N.I.C.E., Mr. Studdock, as one great family) needdevelop no tendency to lead to any miscarriage of justice."

Owing to some mental confusion which had before now assailed him indentists' operating-rooms and in the studies of headmasters, Mark beganalmost to identify the situation which seemed to be imprisoning him withhis literal imprisonment by the four walls of that hot room. If only hecould once get out of it, on any terms, out into the free air andsunlight, away over the countryside, away from the recurrent creak ofthe Deputy Director's collar and the red stains on the end of MissHardcastle's cheroot and the picture of the King which hung above thefireplace!

"You really advise me, sir," he said, "not to go to the police?"

"To the police?" said Wither as if this idea were completely new. "Idon't think, Mr. Studdock, that anyone had quite contemplated yourtaking any irrevocable action of that sort. It might even be argued thatby such an action you would be guilty--unintentionally guilty, I hastento add--of some degree of disloyalty to your colleagues and specially toMiss Hardcastle. You would, of course, be placing yourself outside ourprotection. . . ."

"That's the point, Studdock," said the Fairy. "Once you are in the handsof the police you are in the hands of the police."

The moment of Mark's decision had passed by him without his noticing it.

"Well," he said, "what do you propose to do?"

"Me?" said the Fairy. "Sit tight. It's lucky for you that it was we andnot some outsider who found the wallet."

"Not only fortunate for--er--Mr. Studdock," added Wither gently, "but forthe whole N.I.C.E. We could not have been indifferent. . ."

"There's only one snag," said the Fairy, "and that is that we haven'tgot your letter to Pelham. Only a copy. But with any luck, nothing willcome of that."

"Then there's nothing to be done at present?" said Mark.

"No," said Wither. "No. No immediate action of any official character.It is, of course, very advisable that you should act, as I am sure youwill, with the greatest prudence and--er--er--caution for the next fewmonths. As long as you are with us, Scotland Yard would, I feel, see theinconvenience of trying to act unless they had a very clear case indeed.It is no doubt probable that some--er--some trial of strength between theordinary executive and our own organisation will take place within thenext six months: but I think it very unlikely they would choose to makethis a test case."

"But do you mean they suspect me already?" said Mark.

"We'll hope not," said the Fairy. "Of course they want a prisoner--that'sonly natural. But they'd a damn sight rather have one who doesn'tinvolve them in searching the premises of the N.I.C.E."

"But, look here, damn it!" said Mark. "Aren't you hoping to catch thethief in a day or two? Aren't you going to do anything?"

"The thief?" said Wither. "There has been no suggestion so far that thebody was rifled."

"I mean the thief who stole my wallet."

"Oh--ah--your wallet," said the other, very gently stroking his refined,handsome face. "I see. I understand, do I, that you are advancing acharge of theft against some person or persons unknown----"

"But, good God!" shouted Mark, "were you not assuming that someone stoleit? Do you think I was there myself? Do you both think I am amurderer?"

"Please!" said the Deputy Director, "please, Mr. Studdock, you reallymust not shout. Quite apart from the indiscretion of it, I must remindyou that you are in the presence of a lady. As far as I can remember,nothing has been said on our side about murder, and no charge of anysort had been made. My only anxiety is to make perfectly clear what weare all doing. There are, of course, certain lines of conduct and acertain mode of procedure which it would be theoretically possible foryou to adopt and which would make it very difficult for us to continuethe discussion. I am sure Miss Hardcastle agrees with me."

"It's all one to me," said the Fairy. "Why Studdock should startbellowing at us because we are trying to keep him out of the dock, Idon't know. But that's for him to decide. I've got a busy day and don'twant to hang about here all morning."

"Really," said Mark, "I should have thought it was excusable to----"

"Pray compose yourself, Mr. Studdock," said Wither. "As I said before,we look upon ourselves as one family and nothing like a formal apologyis required. We all understand one another and all dislike--er--scenes. Imight perhaps be allowed to mention, in the friendliest possible manner,that any instability of temperament would be viewed by the Committeeas--well, as not very favourable to the confirmation of your appointment.We are all speaking, of course, in the strictest confidence."

Mark was far past bothering about the job for its own sake: but herealised that the threat of dismissal was now a threat of hanging.

"I'm sorry if I was rude," he said at last. "What do you advise me todo?"

"Don't put your nose outside Belbury, Studdock," said the Fairy.

"I do not think Miss Hardcastle could have given you better advice,"said Wither. "And now that Mrs. Studdock is going to join you here thistemporary captivity--I am using that word, you will understand, in ametaphorical sense--will not be a serious hardship. You must look uponthis as your home, Mr. Studdock."

"Oh . . . that reminds me, sir," said Mark. "I'm not really quite sureabout having my wife here. As a matter of fact she's not in very goodhealth----"

"But surely, in that case, you must be all the more anxious to have herhere?"

"I don't believe it would suit her, sir."

The D.D.'s eyes wandered and his voice became lower.

"I had almost forgotten, Mr. Studdock," he said, "to congratulate you onyour introduction to our Head. It marks an important transition in yourcareer. We all now feel that you are really one of us in a deeper sense.I am sure nothing is further from your intention than to repell thefriendly--the almost fatherly--concern he feels about you. He is veryanxious to welcome Mrs. Studdock among us at the earliest opportunity."

"Why?" said Mark suddenly.

Wither looked at Mark with an indescribable smile.

"My dear boy," he said. "Unity, you know. The family circle. She'd--she'dbe company for Miss Hardcastle!" Before Mark had recovered from thisstaggeringly new conception, Wither rose and shuffled towards the door.He paused with one hand on the handle and laid the other on Mark'sshoulder.

"You must be hungry for your breakfast," he said. "Don't let me delayyou. Behave with the greatest caution. And--and"--here his face suddenlychanged. The widely opened mouth looked all at once like the mouth ofsome enraged animal: what had been the senile vagueness of the eyesbecame an absence of all specifically human expression. "And bring thegirl. Do you understand? Get your wife," he added. "The Head . . . he'snot patient."

II

As Mark closed the door behind him he immediately thought "Now! They'reboth in there together. Safe for a minute at least." Without evenwaiting to get his hat he walked briskly to the front door and down thedrive. Nothing but physical impossibility would stop him from going toEdgestow and warning Jane. After that he had no plans. Even the vagueidea of escaping to America which, in a simpler age, comforted so many afugitive, was denied him. He had already read in the papers the warmapproval of the N.I.C.E. and all its works which came from the UnitedStates and from Russia. Some poor tool just like himself had writtenthem. Its claws were embedded in every country: on the liner, if heshould ever succeed in sailing, on the tender, if he should ever makesome foreign port, its ministers would be waiting for him.

Now he was past the road; he was in the belt of trees. Scarcely a minutehad passed since he had left the D.D.'s office and no one had overtakenhim. But yesterday's adventure was happening over again. A tall,stooped, shuffling, creaking figure, humming a tune, barred his way.Mark had never fought. Ancestral impulses lodged in his body--that bodywhich was in so many ways wiser than his mind--directed the blow which heaimed at the head of this senile obstructor. But there was no impact.The shape had suddenly vanished.

Those who know best were never fully agreed as to the explanation ofthis episode. It may have been that Mark, both then and on the previousday, being over-wrought, saw a hallucination of Wither where Wither wasnot. It may be that the continual appearance of Wither which at almostall hours haunted so many rooms and corridors of Belbury was, in onewell-verified sense of the word, a ghost--one of those sensoryimpressions which a strong personality in its last decay can imprint,most commonly after death but sometimes before it, on the very structureof a building, and which are removed not by exorcism but byarchitectural alterations. Or it may, after all, be that souls who havelost the intellectual good do indeed receive in return, and for a shortperiod, the vain privilege of thus reproducing themselves in many placesas wraiths. At any rate the thing, whatever it was, vanished.

The path ran diagonally across a field in grass, now powdered withfrost, and the sky was hazy blue. Then came a stile: after that the pathran for three fields along the edge of a spinney. Then a little to theleft, past the back parts of a farm, then along a ride through a wood.After that the spire of Courthampton was in sight; Mark's feet had nowgot warm and he was beginning to feel hungry. Then he went across aroad, through a herd of cattle that put down their heads and snorted athim, across a stream by a foot-bridge, and so into the frozen ruts ofthe lane that led him into Courthampton.

The first thing he saw as he came into the village street was afarm-cart. A woman and three children sat beside the man who was drivingit, and in the cart were piled chests of drawers, bedsteads, mattresses,boxes, and a canary in a cage. Immediately after it came a man and womanand child on foot wheeling a perambulator: it also was piled with smallhousehold property. After that came a family pushing a hand-cart, andthen a heavily loaded trap, and then an old car, blowing its hornincessantly but unable to get out of its place in the procession. Asteady stream of such traffic was passing through the village. Mark hadnever seen war: if he had he would have recognised at once the signs offlight. In all those plodding horses and men and in all those loadedvehicles he would have read clearly the message "Enemy behind."

The traffic was so continuous that it took him a long time to get to thecross-road by the pub where he could find a glazed and framed table ofbuses. There would not be one to Edgestow till 12.15. He hung about,understanding nothing of what he saw, but wondering; Courthampton wasnormally a very quiet village. By a happy, and not uncommon, illusion hefelt less endangered now that Belbury was out of sight, and thoughtsurprisingly little about his future. He thought sometimes about Jane,and sometimes about bacon and eggs, and fried fish, and dark, fragrantstreams of coffee pouring into large cups. At 11.30 the pub opened. Hewent in and ordered a pint and some bread and cheese.

The bar was at first empty. During the next half-hour men dropped in oneby one till about four were present. They did not at first talk aboutthe unhappy procession which continued all this time to pass thewindows. For some time indeed they did not talk at all. Then a verylittle man with a face like an old potato observed to no one inparticular, "I seen old Rumbold the other night." No one replied forfive minutes and then a very young man in leggings said, "I reckon he'ssorry he ever tried it." In this way conversation about Rumbold trickledon for some time. It was only when the subject of Rumbold was thoroughlyexhausted that the talk, very indirectly and by gradual stages, began tothrow some light on the stream of refugees.

"Still coming out," said one man.

"Ah," said another.

"Can't be many left there by now."

"Don't know where they'll all get in, I'm sure."

Little by little the whole thing came out. These were the refugees fromEdgestow. Some had been turned out of their houses, some scared by theriots and still more by the restoration of order. Something like aterror appeared to have been established in the town. "They tell methere were two hundred arrests yesterday," said the landlord. "Ah," saidthe young man. "They're hard cases those N.I.C.E. police, every one ofthem. They put the wind up my old Dad proper, I tell 'ee." He ended witha laugh. "'Taint the police so much as the workmen by what I hear," saidanother. "They never ought to have brought those Welsh and Irish." Butthat was about as far as criticism went. What struck Mark deeply was thealmost complete absence of indignation among the speakers, or even ofany distinct sympathy with the refugees. Everyone present knew of atleast one outrage in Edgestow: but all agreed that these refugees mustbe greatly exaggerating. "It says in this morning's paper that thingsare pretty well settling down," said the landlord. "That's right,"agreed the others. "There'll always be some who get awkward," said thepotato-faced man. "What's the good of getting awkward?" asked another,"it's got to go on. You can't stop it." "That's what I say," said thelandlord. Fragments of articles which Mark himself had written driftedto and fro. Apparently he and his kind had done their work well; MissHardcastle had rated too high the resistance of the working classes topropaganda.

When the time came he had no difficulty in getting on to the bus: it wasindeed empty, for all the traffic was going in the opposite direction.It put him down at the top of Market Street and he set out at once towalk up to the flat. The whole town wore a new expression. One house outof three was empty. About half the shops had their windows boarded up.As he gained height and came into the region of large villas withgardens he noticed that many of these had been requisitioned and borewhite placards with the N.I.C.E. symbol--a muscular male nude grasping athunderbolt. At every corner, and often in between, lounged or saunteredthe N.I.C.E. police, helmeted, swinging their clubs, with revolvers inholsters on their black shiny belts. Their round white faces with openmouths slowly revolving as they chewed gum remained long in his memory.There were also notices everywhere which he did not stop to read: theywere headed Emergency Regulations and bore the signature "Feverstone."

Would Jane be in? He felt he could not bear it if Jane should not be in.He was fingering his latchkey in his pocket long before he reached thehouse. The front door was locked. This meant that the Hutchinsons whooccupied the ground floor were away. He opened it and went in. It seemedcold and damp on the staircase: cold and damp and dark on the landing."Ja-ane," he shouted as he unlocked the door of the flat: but he hadalready lost hope. As soon as he was inside the door he knew the placewas uninhabited. A pile of unopened letters lay on the inside door-mat.There was no sound, not a tick of a clock. Everything was in order: Janemust have left some morning immediately after "doing" all the rooms. Thetea-cloths hanging in the kitchen were bone dry: they clearly had notbeen used for at least twenty-four hours. The bread in the cupboard wasstale. There was a jug half full of milk, but the milk had thickened andwould not pour. He continued stumping from room to room long after hewas quite certain of the truth, staring at the staleness and pathoswhich pervades deserted homes. But obviously it was no good hangingabout here. A splutter of unreasonable anger arose. Why the hell hadn'tJane told him she was going away? Or had someone taken her away? Perhapsthere was a note for him. He took a pile of letters off the mantelpiece,but they were only letters he had put there himself to be answered. Thenon the table he noticed an envelope addressed to Mrs. Dimble at her ownhouse over beyond the Wynd. So that damned woman had been here! ThoseDimbles had always, he felt, disliked him. They'd probably asked Jane tostay with them. Been interfering somehow, no doubt. He must go down toNorthumberland and see Dimble.

The idea of being annoyed with the Dimbles occurred to Mark almost as aninspiration. To bluster a little as an injured husband in search of hiswife would be a pleasant change from the attitudes he had recently beencompelled to adopt. On the way down town he stopped to have a drink. Ashe came to the Bristol and saw the N.I.C.E. placard on it, he had almostsaid "Oh damn," and turned away, before he suddenly remembered that hewas himself a high official in the N.I.C.E. and by no means a member ofthat general Public whom the Bristol now excluded. They asked him who hewas at the door and became obsequious when he told them. There was apleasant fire burning. After the gruelling day he had had he feltjustified in ordering a large whisky, and after it he had a second. Itcompleted the change in his mental weather which had begun at the momentwhen he first conceived the idea of having a grievance against theDimbles. The whole state of Edgestow had something to do with it. Therewas an element in him to which all these exhibitions of power suggestedchiefly how much nicer and how much more appropriate it was, all saidand done, to be part of the N.I.C.E. than to be an outsider. Even now. . . had he been taking all this démarche about a murder trial tooseriously? Of course that was the way Wither managed things: he liked tohave something hanging over everyone. It was only a way to keep him atBelbury and to make him send for Jane. And when one came to think of it,why not? She couldn't go on indefinitely living alone. And the wife of aman who meant to have a career and live at the centre of things wouldhave to learn to be a woman of the world. Anyway, the first thing was tosee that fellow Dimble.

He left the Bristol feeling, as he would have said, a different man.Indeed he was a different man. From now onwards till the moment of finaldecision should meet him, the different men in him appeared withstartling rapidity and each seemed very complete while it lasted. Thus,skidding violently from one side to the other, his youth approached themoment at which he would begin to be a person.

III

"Come in," said Dimble in his rooms at Northumberland. He had justfinished with his last pupil for the day and was intending to start outfor St. Anne's in a few minutes. "Oh, it's you, Studdock," he added asthe door opened. "Come in." He tried to speak naturally but he wassurprised at the visit and shocked by what he saw. Studdock's faceappeared to him to have changed since they last met; it had grown fatterand paler and there was a new vulgarity in the expression.

"I've come to ask about Jane," said Mark. "Do you know where she is?"

"I can't give you her address, I'm afraid," said Dimble.

"Do you mean you don't know it?"

"I can't give it," said Dimble.

According to Mark's programme this was the point at which he should havebegun to take a strong line. But he did not feel the same now that hewas in the room. Dimble had always treated him with scrupulouspoliteness and Mark had always felt that Dimble disliked him. This hadnot made him dislike Dimble. It had only made him uneasily talkative inDimble's presence and anxious to please. Vindictiveness was by no meansone of Mark's vices. For Mark liked to be liked. A snub sent him awaydreaming not of revenge but of brilliant jokes or achievements whichwould one day conquer the good will of the man who had snubbed him. Ifhe were ever cruel it would be downwards, to inferiors and outsiders whosolicited his regard, not upwards to those who rejected it. There was agood deal of the spaniel in him.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I don't understand."

"If you have any regard for your wife's safety you will not ask me totell you where she has gone," said Dimble.

"Safety?"

"Safety," repeated Dimble with great sternness.

"Safety from what?"

"Don't you know what has happened?"

"What's happened?"

"On the night of the big riot the Institutional Police attempted toarrest her. She escaped, but not before they had tortured her."

"Tortured her? What do you mean?"

"Burned her with cigars."

"That's what I've come about," said Mark. "Jane--I'm afraid she is on theverge of a nervous breakdown. That didn't really happen, you know."

"The doctor who dressed the burns thinks otherwise."

"Great Scot!" said Mark. "So they really did? But, look here . . ."

Under the quiet stare of Dimble he found it difficult to speak.

"Why have I not been told about this outrage?" he shouted.

"By your colleagues?" asked Dimble drily. "It is an odd question to askme. You ought to understand the workings of the N.I.C.E better than Ido."

"Why didn't you tell me? Why has nothing been done about it? Have youbeen to the police?"

"The Institutional Police?"

"No, the ordinary police."

"Do you really not know that there are no ordinary police left inEdgestow?"

"I suppose there are some magistrates."

"There is the Emergency Commissioner, Lord Feverstone. You seem tomisunderstand. This is a conquered and occupied city."

"Then why, in Heaven's name, didn't you get on to me?"

"You?" said Dimble.

For one moment, the first for many years, Mark saw himself exactly as aman like Dimble saw him. It almost took his breath away.

"Look here," he said. "You don't . . . it's too fantastic! You don'timagine I knew about it! You don't really believe I send policemen aboutto man-handle my own wife!" He had begun on the note of indignation, butended by trying to insinuate a little jocularity. If only Dimble wouldgive even the ghost of a smile: anything to move the conversation on toa different level.

But Dimble said nothing and his face did not relax. He had not, in fact,been perfectly sure that Mark might not have sunk even to this, but outof charity he did not wish to say so.

"I know you've always disliked me," said Mark. "But I didn't know it wasquite as bad as that." And again Dimble was silent, but for a reasonMark could not guess. The truth was that his shaft had gone home.Dimble's conscience had for years accused him of a lack of charitytowards Studdock and he had struggled to amend it: he was strugglingnow.

"Well," said Studdock in a dry voice, after the silence had lasted forseveral seconds, "there doesn't seem to be much more to say. I insist onbeing told where Jane is."

"Do you want her to be taken to Belbury?"

Mark winced. It was as if the other had read the very thought he had hadin the Bristol half an hour ago.

"I don't see, Dimble," he said, "why I should be cross-questioned inthis way. Where is my wife?"

"I have no permission to tell you. She is not in my house nor under mycare. She is well and happy and safe. If you still have the slightestregard for her happiness you will make no attempt to get into touch withher."

"Am I some sort of leper or criminal that I can't even be trusted toknow her address?"

"Excuse me. You are a member of the N.I.C.E. who have already insulted,tortured, and arrested her. Since her escape she has been left aloneonly because your colleagues do not know where she is."

"And if it really was the N.I.C.E. police, do you suppose I'm not goingto have a very full explanation out of them? Damn it, what do you takeme for?"

"I can only hope that you have no power in the N.I.C.E. at all. If youhave no power, then you cannot protect her. If you have, then you areidentified with its policy. In neither case will I help you to discoverwhere Jane is."

"This is fantastic," said Mark. "Even if I do happen to hold a job inthe N.I.C.E. for the moment, you know me."

"I do not know you," said Dimble. "I have no conception of your aimsor motives."

He seemed to Mark to be looking at him not with anger or contempt butwith that degree of loathing which produces in those who feel it a kindof embarrassment--as if he were an obscenity which decent people areforced, for very shame, to pretend that they have not noticed. In thisMark was quite mistaken. In reality his presence was acting on Dimble asa summons to rigid self-control. Dimble was simply trying very hard notto hate, not to despise, above all not to enjoy hating and despising,and he had no idea of the fixed severity which this effort gave to hisface. The whole of the rest of the conversation went on under thismisunderstanding.

"There has been some ridiculous mistake," said Mark. "I tell you I'lllook into it thoroughly. I'll make a row. I suppose some newly enrolledpoliceman got drunk or something. Well, he'll be broken. I----"

"It was the chief of your police, Miss Hardcastle herself, who did it."

"Very well. I'll break her then. Did you suppose I was going to takeit lying down? But there must be some mistake. It can't . . ."

"Do you know Miss Hardcastle well?" asked Dimble. Mark was silenced. Andhe thought (quite wrongly) that Dimble was reading his mind to thebottom and seeing there his certainty that Miss Hardcastle had done thisvery thing and that he had no more power of calling her to account thanof stopping the revolution of the Earth.

Suddenly the immobility of Dimble's face changed, and he spoke in a newvoice. "Have you the means to bring her to book?" he said. "Are youalready as near the centre of Belbury as that? If so, then you haveconsented to the murder of Hingest, the murder of Compton. If so, it wasby your orders that Mary Prescott was raped and battered to death in thesheds behind the station. It is with your approval that criminals--honestcriminals whose hands you are unfit to touch--are being taken from thejails to which British judges sent them on the conviction of Britishjuries and packed off to Belbury to undergo for an indefinite period,out of reach of the law, whatever tortures and assaults on personalidentity you call Remedial Treatment. It is you who have driven twothousand families from their homes to die of exposure in every ditchfrom here to Birmingham or Worcester. It is you who can tell us whyPlace and Rowley and Cummingham (at eighty years of age) have beenarrested, and where they are. And if you are as deeply in it as that,not only will I not deliver Jane into your hands, but I would notdeliver my dog."

"Really--really," said Mark. "This is absurd. I know one or twohigh-handed things have been done. You always get some of the wrong sortin a police force--specially at first. But--I mean to say--what have I everdone that you should make me responsible for every action that anyN.I.C.E. official has taken--or is said to have taken in the gutterpress?"

"Gutter press!" thundered Dimble, who seemed to Mark to be evenphysically larger than he was a few minutes before. "What nonsense isthis? Do you suppose I don't know that you have control of every paperin the country except one? And that one has not appeared this morning.Its printers have gone on strike. The poor dupes say they will not printarticles attacking the people's Institute. Where the lies in all theother papers come from you know better than I."

It may seem strange to say that Mark, having long lived in a worldwithout charity, had nevertheless very seldom met real anger. Malice inplenty he had encountered, but it all operated by snubs and sneers andstabbing in the back. The forehead and eyes and voice of this elderlyman had an effect on him which was stifling and unnerving. At Belburyone used the words "whining" and "yapping" to describe any oppositionwhich the actions of Belbury aroused in the outer world. And Mark hadnever had enough imagination to realise what the "whining" would reallybe like if you met it face to face.

"I tell you I knew nothing about it," he shouted. "Damn it, I'm theinjured party. The way you talk, anyone would think it was your wifewho'd been ill treated."

"So it might have been. So it may be. It may be any man or woman inEngland. It was a woman and a citizen. What does it matter whose wife itwas?"

"But I tell you I'll raise hell about it. I'll break the infernal bitchwho did it, if it means breaking the whole N.I.C.E."

Dimble said nothing. Mark knew that Dimble knew that he was now talkingnonsense. Yet Mark could not stop. If he did not bluster, he would notknow what to say.

"Sooner than put up with this," he shouted, "I'll leave the N.I.C.E."

"Do you mean that?" asked Dimble with a sharp glance. And to Mark, whoseideas were now all one fluid confusion of wounded vanity and jostlingfears and shames, this glance once more appeared accusing andintolerable. In reality it had been a glance of awakened hope: forcharity hopes all things. But there was caution in it: and between hopeand caution Dimble found himself once more reduced to silence.

"I see you don't trust me," said Mark, instinctively summoning to hisface the manly and injured expression which had often served him well inheadmasters' studies.

Dimble was a truthful man. "No," he said after a longish pause. "I don'tquite."

Mark shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

"Studdock," said Dimble, "this is not a time for foolery, orcompliments. It may be that both of us are within a few minutes ofdeath. You have probably been shadowed into the college. And I, at anyrate, don't propose to die with polite insincerities in my mouth. Idon't trust you. Why should I? You are (at least in some degree) theaccomplice of the worst men in the world. Your very coming to me thisafternoon may be only a trap."

"Don't you know me better than that?" said Mark.

"Stop talking nonsense!" said Dimble. "Stop posturing and acting, ifonly for a minute. Who are you to talk like that? They have corruptedbetter men than you or me before now. Straik was a good man once.Filostrato was at least a great genius. Even Alcasan--yes, yes, I knowwho your Head is--was at least a plain murderer: something better thanthey have now made of him. Who are you to be exempt?"

Mark gaped. The discovery of how much Dimble knew had suddenly invertedhis whole picture of the situation.

"Nevertheless," continued Dimble, "knowing all this--knowing that you maybe only the bait in the trap--I will take a risk. I will risk thingscompared with which both our lives are a triviality. If you seriouslywish to leave the N.I.C.E., I will help you."

One moment it was like the gates of Paradise opening--then, at once,caution and the incurable wish to temporise rushed back. The chink hadclosed again.

"I--I'd need to think that over," he mumbled.

"There is no time," said Dimble. "And there is really nothing to thinkabout. I am offering you a way back into the human family. But you mustcome at once."

"It's a question affecting my whole future career."

"Your career!" said Dimble. "It's a question of damnation or--a lastchance. But you must come at once."

"I don't think I understand," said Mark. "You keep on suggesting somekind of danger. What is it? And what powers have you to protect me--orJane--if I do bolt?"

"You must risk that," said Dimble. "I can offer you no security. Don'tyou understand? There is no security for anyone now. The battle hasstarted. I'm offering you a place on the right side. I don't know whichwill win."

"As a matter of fact," said Mark, "I had been thinking of leaving. ButI must think it over. You put things in rather an odd way."

"There is no time," said Dimble.

"Supposing I look you up again to-morrow?"

"Do you know that you'll be able?"

"Or in an hour? Come, that's only sensible. Will you be here in anhour's time?"

"What can an hour do for you? You are only waiting in the hope that yourmind will be less clear."

"But will you be here?"

"If you insist. But no good can come of it."

"I want to think. I want to think," said Mark, and left the room withoutwaiting for a reply.

Mark had said he wanted to think: in reality he wanted alcohol andtobacco. He had thoughts in plenty--more than he desired. One thoughtprompted him to cling to Dimble as a lost child clings to a grown-up.Another whispered to him "Madness. Don't break with the N.I.C.E.They'll be after you. How can Dimble save you? You'll be killed." Athird implored him not, even now, to write off as a total loss hishard-won position in the Inner Ring at Belbury: there must, must be somemiddle course. A fourth recoiled from the idea of ever seeing Dimbleagain: the memory of every tone Dimble had used caused horriblediscomfort. And he wanted Jane, and he wanted to punish Jane for being afriend of Dimble, and he wanted never to see Wither again, and he wantedto creep back and patch things up with Wither somehow. He wanted to beperfectly safe and yet also very nonchalant and daring--to be admired formanly honesty among the Dimbles and yet also for realism and knowingnessat Belbury--to have two more large whiskies and also to think everythingout very clearly and collectedly. And it was beginning to rain and hishead had begun to ache again. Damn the whole thing! Damn, damn! Why hadhe such a rotten heredity? Why had his education been so ineffective?Why was the system of society so irrational? Why was his luck so bad?

It was raining quite hard as he reached the College lodge. Some sort ofvan seemed to be standing in the street outside, and there were three orfour uniformed men in capes. He remembered afterwards how the wetoilskin shone in the lamplight. A torch was flashed in his face.

"Excuse me, sir," said one of the men. "I must ask for your name."

"Studdock," said Mark.

"Mark Gainsby Studdock," said the man, "it is my duty to arrest you forthe murder of William Hingest."

IV

Dr. Dimble drove out to St. Anne's dissatisfied with himself, hauntedwith the suspicion that if he had been wiser, or more perfectly incharity with this very miserable young man, he might have done somethingfor him. "Did I give way to my temper? Was I self-righteous? Did I tellhim as much as I dared?" he thought. Then came the deeper self-distrustthat was habitual with him. "Did you fail to make things clear becauseyou really wanted not to? Just wanted to hurt and humiliate? To enjoyyour own self-righteousness? Is there a whole Belbury inside you, too?"The sadness that came over him had no novelty in it. "And thus," hequoted from Brother Lawrence, "Thus I shall always do, whenever Youleave me to myself."

Once clear of the town, he drove slowly--almost sauntering on wheels. Thesky was red to westward and the first stars were out. Far down below himin a valley he saw the lights already lit in Cure Hardy. "Thank Heavenit at any rate is far enough from Edgestow to be safe," he thought. Thesudden whiteness of a white owl flying low fluttered across the woodytwilight on his left. It gave him a delicious feeling of approachingnight. He was very pleasantly tired; he looked forward to an agreeableevening and an early bed.

"Here he is! Here's Dr. Dimble," shouted Ivy Maggs as he drove up to thefront door of the Manor.

"Don't put the car away, Dimble," said Denniston.

"Oh Cecil!" said his wife; and he saw fear in her face. The wholehousehold seemed to have been waiting for him.

A few moments later, blinking in the lighted kitchen, he saw that thiswas not to be a normal evening. The Director himself was there, seatedby the fire, with the jackdaw on his shoulder and Mr. Bultitude at hisfeet. There were signs that everyone else had had an early supper andDimble found himself almost at once seated at the end of the table andbeing rather excitedly urged to eat and drink by his wife and Mrs.Maggs.

"Don't stop to ask questions, dear," said Mrs. Dimble. "Go on eatingwhile they tell you. Make a good meal."

"You have to go out again," said Ivy Maggs.

"Yes," said the Director. "We're going into action at last. I'm sorry tosend you out the moment you come in: but the battle has started."

"I have already repeatedly urged," said MacPhee, "the absurdity ofsending out an older man like yourself, that's done a day's work forbye,when here am I, a great strapping fellow sitting doing nothing."

"It's no good, MacPhee," said the Director, "you can't go. For one thingyou don't know the language. And for another--it's a time forfrankness--you have never put yourself under the protection of Maleldil."

"I am perfectly ready," said MacPhee, "in and for this emergency, toallow the existence of these eldils of yours and of a being calledMaleldil whom they regard as their king. And I----"

"You can't go," said the Director. "I will not send you. It would belike sending a three-year-old child to fight a tank. Put the other mapon the table where Dimble can see it while he goes on with his meal. Andnow, silence. This is the situation, Dimble. What was under Bragdon wasa living Merlin. Yes, asleep, if you like to call it sleep. And nothinghas yet happened to show that the enemy have found him. Got that? No,don't talk, go on eating. Last night Jane Studdock had the mostimportant dream she's had yet. You remember that in an earlier dream shesaw (or so I thought) the very place where he lay under Bragdon. But--andthis is the important thing--it's not reached by a shaft and a stair. Shedreamed of going through a long tunnel with a very gradual descent. Ah,you begin to see the point. You're right. Jane thinks she can recognisethe entrance to that tunnel: under a heap of stones at the end of acopse with--what was it, Jane?"

"A white gate, sir. An ordinary five-barred gate with a cross-piece. Butthe cross-piece was broken off about a foot from the top. I'd know itagain."

"You see, Dimble? There's a very good chance that this tunnel comes upoutside the area held by the N.I.C.E."

"You mean," said Dimble, "that we can now get under Bragdon withoutgoing into Bragdon."

"Exactly. But that's not all."

Dimble, steadily munching, looked at him.

"Apparently," said the Director, "we are almost too late. He has wakedalready."

Dimble stopped eating.

"Jane found the place empty," said Ransom.

"You mean the enemy have already found him?"

"No. Not quite as bad as that. The place had not been broken into. Heseems to have waked of his own accord."

"My God!" said Dimble.

"Try to eat, darling," said his wife.

"But what does it mean?" he asked, covering her hand with his.

"I think it means that the whole thing has been planned and timed long,long ago," said the Director. "That he went out of Time, into theparachronic state, for the very purpose of returning at this moment."

"A sort of human time-bomb," observed MacPhee, "which is why----"

"You can't go, MacPhee," said the Director.

"Is he out?" asked Dimble.

"He probably is by now," said the Director. "Tell him what it was like,Jane."

"It was the same place," said Jane. "A dark place, all stone, like acellar. I recognised it at once. And the slab of stone was there, but noone lying on it; and this time it wasn't quite cold. Then I dreamedabout this tunnel . . . gradually sloping up from the souterrain. Andthere was a man in the tunnel. Of course I couldn't see him: it waspitch dark. But a great big man. Breathing heavily. At first I thoughtit was an animal. It got colder as we went up the tunnel. There wasair--a little air--from outside. It seemed to end in a pile of loosestones. He was pulling them about just before the dream changed. Then Iwas outside, in the rain. That was when I saw the white gate."

"It looks, you see," said Ransom, "as if they had not yet--or notthen--established contact with him. That is our only chance now. To meetthis creature before they do."

"You will all have observed that Bragdon is very nearly water-logged,"put in MacPhee. "Where exactly you'll find a dry cavity in which a bodycould be preserved all these centuries is a question worth asking. Thatis, if any of you are still concerned with evidence."

"That's the point," said the Director. "The chamber must be under thehigh ground--the gravelly ridge on the south of the wood where it slopesup to the Eaton Road. Near where Storey used to live. That's whereyou'll have to look first for Jane's white gate. I suspect it opens onthe Eaton Road. Or else that other road--look at the map--the yellow onethat runs up into the Y of Cure Hardy."

"We can be there in half an hour," said Dimble, his hand still on hiswife's hand. To everyone in that room the sickening excitement of thelast minutes before battle had come nearer.

"I suppose it must be to-night?" said Mrs. Dimble, rather shamefacedly.

"I am afraid it must, Margaret," said the Director. "Every minutecounts. We have practically lost the war if the enemy once make contactwith him. Their whole plan probably turns on it."

"Of course. I see. I'm sorry," said Mrs. Dimble.

"And what is our procedure, sir?" said Dimble, pushing his plate awayfrom him and beginning to fill his pipe.

"The first question is whether he's out," said the Director. "Itdoesn't seem likely that the entrance to the tunnel has been hidden allthese centuries by nothing but a heap of loose stones. And if it has,they wouldn't be very loose by now. He may take hours getting out."

"You'll need at least two strong men with picks----" began MacPhee.

"It's no good, MacPhee," said the Director. "I'm not letting you go. Ifthe mouth of the tunnel is still sealed, you must just wait there. Buthe may have powers we don't know. If he's out, you must look for tracks.Thank God it's a muddy night. You must just hunt him."

"If Jane is going, sir," said Camilla, "couldn't I go too? I've had moreexperience of this sort of thing than----"

"Jane has to go because she is the guide," said Ransom. "I am afraid youmust stay at home. We in this house are all that is left of Logres. Youcarry its future in your body. As I was saying, Dimble, you must hunt. Ido not think he can get far. The country will, of course, be quiteunrecognisable to him, even by daylight."

"And . . . if we do find him, sir?"

"That is why it must be you, Dimble. Only you know the Great Tongue. Ifthere was eldilic power behind the tradition he represented he mayunderstand it. Even if he does not understand it he will, I think,recognise it. That will teach him he is dealing with Masters. There is achance that he will think you are the Belbury people--his friends. Inthat case you will bring him here at once."

"And if not?"

"Then you must show your hand. That is the moment when the danger comes.We do not know what the powers of the old Atlantean circle were: somekind of hypnotism probably covered most of it. Don't be afraid: butdon't let him try any tricks. Keep your hand on your revolver. You too,Denniston."

"I'm a good hand with a revolver myself," said MacPhee. "And why, in thename of all common sense----"

"You can't go, MacPhee," said the Director. "He'd put you to sleep inten seconds. The others are heavily protected as you are not. Youunderstand, Dimble? Your revolver in your hand, a prayer on your lips,your mind fixed on Maleldil. Then, if he stands, conjure him."

"What shall I say in the Great Tongue?"

"Say that you come in the name of God and all angels and in the power ofthe planets from one who sits to-day in the seat of the Pendragon, andcommand him to come with you. Say it now."

And Dimble, who had been sitting with his face drawn and rather white,between the white faces of the two women, and his eyes on the table,raised his head, and great syllables of words that sounded like castlescame out of his mouth. Jane felt her heart leap and quiver at them.Everything else in the room seemed to have become intensely quiet: eventhe bird, and the bear, and the cat, were still, staring at the speaker.The voice did not sound like Dimble's own: it was as if the words spokethemselves through him from some strong place at a distance--or as ifthey were not words at all but present operations of God, the planets,and the Pendragon. For this was the language spoken before the Fall andbeyond the Moon, and the meanings were not given to the syllables bychance, or skill, or long tradition, but truly inherent in them as theshape of the great Sun is inherent in the little waterdrop. This wasLanguage herself, as she first sprang at Maleldil's bidding out of themolten quicksilver of the star called Mercury on Earth, but Viritrilbiain Deep Heaven.

"Thank you," said the Director in English; and once again the warmdomesticity of the kitchen flowed back upon them. "And if he comes withyou, all is well. If he does not--why then, Dimble, you must rely on yourChristianity. Do not try any tricks. Say your prayers and keep your willfixed in the will of Maleldil. I don't know what he will do. But standfirm. You can't lose your soul, whatever happens; at least, not by anyaction of his."

"Yes," said Dimble. "I understand."

There was a longish pause. Then the Director spoke again.

"Don't be cast down, Margaret," he said. "If they kill Cecil we shallnone of us be let live many hours after him. It will be a shorterseparation than you could have hoped for in the course of Nature. Andnow, gentlemen," he said, "you would like a little time to say yourprayers, and to say good-bye to your wives. It is eight now, as near asmakes no matter. Suppose you all reassemble here at ten past eight,ready to start?"

"Very good," answered several voices. Jane found herself left alone inthe kitchen with Mrs. Maggs and the animals and MacPhee and theDirector.

"You are all right, child?" said Ransom.

"I think so, sir," said Jane. Her actual state of mind was one she couldnot analyse. Her expectation was strung up to the height; something thatwould have been terror but for the joy, and joy but for the terror,possessed her--an all-absorbing tension of excitement and obedience.Everything else in her life seemed small and commonplace compared withthis moment.

"Do you place yourself in the obedience," said the Director, "inobedience to Maleldil?"

"Sir," said Jane, "I know nothing of Maleldil. But I place myself inobedience to you."

"It is enough for the present," said the Director. "This is the courtesyof Deep Heaven: that when you mean well, He always takes you to havemeant better than you knew. It will not be enough for always. He is veryjealous. He will have you for no one but Himself in the end. But forto-night, it is enough."

"This is the craziest business that ever I heard of," said MacPhee.

ELEVEN

Battle Begun

I

"I can't see a thing," said Jane.

"This rain is spoiling the whole plan," said Dimble from the back seat."Is this still Eaton Road, Arthur?"

"I think . . . yes, there's the toll-house," said Denniston who wasdriving.

"But what's the use?" said Jane. "I can't see, even with the windowdown. We might have passed it any number of times. The only thing is toget out and walk."

"I think she's right, sir," said Denniston.

"I say!" said Jane suddenly. "Look! Look! What's that? Stop."

"I can't see a white gate," said Denniston.

"Oh, it's not that," said Jane. "Look over there."

"I can't see anything," said Dimble.

"Do you mean that light?" said Denniston.

"Yes, of course, that's the fire."

"What fire?"

"It's the light," she said, "the fire in the hollow in the little wood.I'd forgotten all about it. Yes, I know: I never told Grace, or theDirector. I'd forgotten that part of the dream till this moment. Thatwas how it ended. It was the most important part really. That was whereI found him--Merlin, you know. Sitting by a fire in a little wood.After I came out of the place underground. Oh, come quickly!"

"What do you think, Arthur?" said Dimble.

"I think we must go wherever Jane leads," answered Denniston.

"Oh, do hurry," said Jane. "There's a gate here. Quick! It's only onefield away."

All three of them crossed the road and opened the gate and went into thefield. Dimble said nothing. He was inwardly reeling under the shock andshame of the immense and sickening fear which had surged up inside him.He had, perhaps, a clearer idea than the others of what sort of thingsmight happen when they reached the place.

Jane, as guide, went first, and Denniston beside her, giving her his armand showing an occasional gleam of his torch on the rough ground. Dimblebrought up the rear. No one was inclined to speak.

The change from the road to the field was as if one had passed from awaking into a phantasmal world. Everything became darker, wetter, moreincalculable. Each small descent felt as if you might be coming to theedge of a precipice. They were following a track beside a hedge; wet andprickly tentacles seemed to snatch at them as they went. WheneverDenniston used his torch, the things that appeared within the circle ofits light--tufts of grass, ruts filled with water, draggled yellow leavesclinging to the wet blackness of many-angled twigs, and once the twogreenish-yellow fires in the eyes of some small animal--had the air ofbeing more commonplace than they ought to have been; as if, for thatmoment's exposure, they had assumed a disguise which they would shuffleoff again the moment they were left alone. They looked curiously small,too; when the light vanished, the cold, noisy darkness seemed a hugething.

The fear which Dimble had felt from the first began to trickle into theminds of the others as they proceeded--like water coming into a ship froma slow leak. They realised that they had not really believed in Merlintill now. They had thought they were believing the Director in thekitchen; but they had been mistaken. The shock was still to take. Outhere, with only the changing red light ahead and the black all round,one really began to accept as fact this tryst with something dead andyet not dead, something dug up, exhumed, from that dark pit of historywhich lies between the ancient Romans and the beginning of the English."The Dark Ages," thought Dimble; how lightly one had read and writtenthose words. But now they were going to step right into that Darkness.It was an age, not a man, that awaited them in the horrible littledingle.

And suddenly all that Britain which had been so long familiar to him asa scholar rose up like a solid thing. He could see it all. Littledwindling cities where the light of Rome still rested--little Christiansites, Camalodunum, Kaerleon, Glastonbury--a church, a villa or two, ahuddle of houses, an earthwork. And then, beginning scarcely astone's-throw beyond the gates, the wet, tangled, endless woods, siltedwith the accumulated decay of autumns that had been dropping leavessince before Britain was an island; wolves slinking, beavers building,wide shallow marshes, dim horns and drummings, eyes in the thickets,eyes of men not only Pre-Roman but Pre-British, ancient creatures,unhappy and dispossessed, who became the elves and ogres and wood-woosesof the later tradition. But worse than the forests, the clearings.Little strongholds with unheard-of kings. Little colleges and covines ofDruids. Houses whose mortar had been ritually mixed with babies' blood.They had tried to do that to Merlin. And now all that age, horriblydislocated, wrenched out of its place in the time series and forced tocome back and go through all its motions yet again with doubledmonstrosity, was flowing towards them and would, in a few minutes,receive them into itself.

Then came a check. They had walked right into a hedge. They wasted aminute, with the aid of the torch, disentangling Jane's hair. They hadcome to the end of a field. The light of the fire, which kept on growingstronger and weaker in fitful alternations, was hardly visible fromhere. There was nothing for it but to set to work and find a gap or agate. They went a long way out of their course before they found one. Itwas a gate that would not open: and as they came down on the far side,after climbing it, they went ankle-deep into water. For a few minutes,plodding slightly uphill, they were out of sight of the fire, and whenit reappeared it was well away on their left and much farther off thananyone had supposed.

Hitherto Jane had scarcely attempted to think of what might lie beforethem. As they went on, the real meaning of that scene in the kitchenbegan to dawn on her. He had sent the men to bid good-bye to theirwives. He had blessed them all. It was likely, then, that this--thisstumbling walk on a wet night across a ploughed field--meant death.Death--the thing one had always heard of (like love), the thing the poetshad written about. So this was how it was going to be. But that was notthe main point. Jane was trying to see death in the new light of all shehad heard since she left Edgestow. She had long ceased to feel anyresentment at the Director's tendency, as it were, to dispose of her--togive her, at one time or in one sense, to Mark, and in another toMaleldil; never, in any sense, to keep her for himself. She acceptedthat. And of Mark she did not think much, because to think of himincreasingly aroused feelings of pity and guilt. But Maleldil. Up tillnow she had not thought of Maleldil either. She did not doubt that theeldils existed; nor did she doubt the existence of this stronger andmore obscure being whom they obeyed . . . whom the Director obeyed, andthrough him the whole household, even MacPhee. If it had ever occurredto her to question whether all these things might be the reality behindwhat she had been taught at school as "religion," she had put thethought aside. The distance between these alarming and operativerealities and the memory, say, of fat Mrs. Dimble saying her prayers,was too wide. The things belonged, for her, to different worlds. On theone hand, terror of dreams, rapture of obedience, the tingling light andsound from under the Director's door, and the great struggle against animminent danger; on the other, the smell of pews, horrible lithographsof the Saviour (apparently seven feet high, with the face of aconsumptive girl), the embarrassment of confirmation classes, thenervous affability of clergymen. But this time, if it was really to bedeath, the thought would not be put aside. Because, really, it nowappeared that almost anything might be true. The world had alreadyturned out to be so very unlike what she had expected. The oldring-fence had been smashed completely. One might be in for anything.Maleldil might be, quite simply and crudely, God. There might be a lifeafter death: a Heaven: a Hell. The thought glowed in her mind for asecond like a spark that has fallen on shavings, and then a secondlater, like those shavings, her whole mind was in a blaze--or with justenough left outside the blaze to utter some kind of protest. "But . . .this is unbearable. I ought to have been told." It did not, at thatmoment, occur to her even to doubt that if such things existed theywould be totally and unchangeably adverse to her.

"Look out, Jane," said Denniston. "That's a tree."

"I--I think it's a cow," said Jane.

"No. It's a tree. Look. There's another."

"Hush," said Dimble. "This is Jane's little wood. We are very closenow."

The ground rose in front of them for about twenty yards and there madean edge against the firelight. They could see the wood quite clearlynow, and also each other's faces, white and blinking.

"I will go first," said Dimble.

"I envy you your nerve," said Jane.

"Hush," said Dimble again.

They walked slowly and quietly up to the edge and stopped. Below them abig fire of wood was burning at the bottom of a little dingle. Therewere bushes all about, whose changing shadows, as the flames rose andfell, made it difficult to see clearly. Beyond the fire there seemed tobe some rude kind of tent made out of sacking, and Denniston thought hesaw an upturned cart. In the foreground, between them and the fire,there was certainly a kettle.

"Is there anyone here?" whispered Dimble to Denniston.

"I don't know. Wait a few seconds."

"Look!" said Jane suddenly. "There! When the flame blew aside."

"What?" said Dimble.

"Didn't you see him?"

"I saw nothing."

"I thought I saw a man," said Denniston.

"I saw an ordinary tramp," said Dimble. "I mean a man in modernclothes."

"What did he look like?"

"I don't know."

"We must go down," said Dimble.

"Can one get down?" said Denniston.

"Not this side," said Dimble. "It looks as if a sort of path came intoit over there to the right. We must go along the edge till we find theway down."

They had all been talking in low voices and the crackling of the firewas now the loudest sound, for the rain seemed to be stopping.Cautiously, like troops who fear the eye of the enemy, they began toskirt the lip of the hollow, stealing from tree to tree.

"Stop!" whispered Jane suddenly.

"What is it?"

"There's something moving."

"Where?"

"In there. Quite close."

"I heard nothing."

"There's nothing now."

"Let's go on."

"Do you still think there's something, Jane?"

"It's quiet now. There was something."

They made a few paces more.

"'St!" said Denniston. "Jane's right. There is something."

"Shall I speak?" said Dimble.

"Wait a moment," said Denniston. "It's just there. Look!--damn it, it'sonly an old donkey!"

"That's what I said," said Dimble. "The man's a gypsy; a tinker orsomething. This is his donkey. Still, we must go down."

They proceeded. In a few moments they found themselves descending arutted grassy path which wound about till the whole hollow opened beforethem; and now the fire was no longer between them and the tent. "Therehe is," said Jane.

"Can you see him?" said Dimble. "I haven't got your eyes."

"I can see him all right," said Denniston. "It is a tramp. Can't yousee him Dimble? An old man with a ragged beard in what looks like theremains of a British warm and a pair of black trousers. Don't you seehis left foot, stuck out, and the toe a bit up in the air?"

"That?" said Dimble. "I thought that was a log. But you've better eyesthan I have. Did you really see a man, Arthur?"

"Well, I thought I did, sir. But I'm not certain now. I think my eyesare getting tired. He's sitting very still. If it is a man, he'sasleep."

"Or dead," said Jane with a sudden shudder.

"Well," said Dimble, "we must go down."

And in less than a minute all three walked down into the dingle and pastthe fire. And there was the tent, and a few miserable attempts atbedding inside it, and a tin plate, and some matches on the ground, andthe dottle of a pipe, but they could see no man.

II

"What I can't understand, Wither," said Fairy Hardcastle, "is why youdon't let me try my hand on the young pup. All these ideas of yours areso half-hearted--keeping him on his toes about the murder, arresting him,leaving him all night in the cells to think it over. Why do you keepmessing about with things that may work or may not?--when twenty minutesof my treatment would turn his mind inside out. I know the type."

Miss Hardcastle was talking, at about ten o'clock that same wet night,to the Deputy Director in his study. There was a third personpresent--Professor Frost.

"I assure you, Miss Hardcastle," said Wither, fixing his eyes not on herbut on Frost's forehead, "you need not doubt that your views on this, orany other matter, will always receive the fullest consideration. But ifI may say so, this is one of those cases where--ah--any grave degree ofcoercive examination might defeat its own end."

"Why?" said the Fairy sulkily.

"You must excuse me," said Wither, "for reminding you--not, of course,that I assume you are neglecting the point, but simply on methodologicalgrounds--it is so important to make everything clear--that we need thewoman--I mean, that it would be of the greatest value to welcome Mrs.Studdock among us--chiefly on account of the remarkable psychical facultyshe is said to possess. In using the word Psychical, I am not, youunderstand, committing myself to any particular theory."

"You mean these dreams?"

"It is very doubtful," said Wither, "what effect it might have on her ifshe were brought here under compulsion and then found her husband--ah--inthe markedly, though no doubt temporarily, abnormal condition which weshould have to anticipate as a result of your scientific methods ofexamination. One would run the risk of a profound emotional disturbanceon her part. The faculty itself might disappear; at least for a longtime."

"We have not yet had Major Hardcastle's report," said Professor Frostquietly.

"No good," said the Fairy. "He was shadowed into Northumberland. Onlythree possible people left the College after him--Lancaster, Lyly, andDimble. I put them in that order of probability. Lancaster is aChristian, and a very influential man. He's in the Lower House ofConvocation. He had a lot to do with the Repton Conference. He's mixedup with several big clerical families. And he's written a lot of books.He has a real stake in their side. Lyly is rather the same type, butless of an organiser. As you will remember, he did a great deal of harmon that reactionary commission about Education last year. Both these aredangerous men. They are the sort of people who get things done--naturalleaders of the other party. Dimble is quite a different type. Exceptthat he's a Christian, there isn't really much against him. He's purelyacademic. I shouldn't think his name is much known, except to otherscholars in his own subject. Not the kind that would make a public man.Impractical . . . he'd be too full of scruples to be much use to them.The others know a thing or two. Lancaster particularly. In fact, he's aman we could find room for on our own side if he held the right views."

"You should tell Major Hardcastle that we have access to most of thesefacts already," said Professor Frost.

"Perhaps," said Wither, "in view of the late hour--we don't wish toovertax your energies, Miss Hardcastle--we might go on to the morestrictly narrative parts of your report."

"Well," said the Fairy, "I had to follow all three. With the resources Ihad at the moment. You'll realise young Studdock was seen setting offfor Edgestow only by good luck. It was a bomb-shell. Half my people werealready busy on the hospital affair. I just had to lay my hands onanyone I could get. I posted a sentry and had six others out of sight ofthe College, in plain clothes of course. As soon as Lancaster came out Itold off the three best to keep him in sight. I've had a wire from themhalf an hour ago from London where Lancaster went off by train. We maybe on to something there. Lyly gave the devil of a lot of trouble. Heappeared to be calling on about fifteen different people in Edgestow.We've got them all noted--I sent the next two of my lads to deal withhim. Dimble came out last. I would have sent my last man off to followhim, but a call came through at that moment from Captain O'Hara, whowanted another car. So I decided to let Dimble go for to-night and sentmy man up with the one he had. Dimble can be got any time. He comes intocollege pretty regularly every day; and he's really a nonentity."

"I do not quite understand," said Frost, "why you had no one inside theCollege to see what staircase Studdock went to."

"Because of your damned Emergency Commissioner," said the Fairy. "We'renot allowed into colleges now, if you please. I said at the time thatFeverstone was the wrong man. He's trying to play on both sides. He'sfor us against the town, but when it comes to us against the Universityhe's unreliable. Mark my words, Wither, you'll have trouble with himyet."

Frost looked at the Deputy Director.

"I am far from denying," said Wither, "though without at all closing mymind to other possible explanations, that some of Lord Feverstone'smeasures may have been injudicious. It would be inexpressibly painful tome to suppose that----"

"Need we keep Major Hardcastle?" said Frost.

"Bless my soul!" said Wither. "How very right of you! I had almostforgotten, my dear lady, how tired you must be, and how very valuableyour time is. We must try to save you for that particular kind of workin which you have shown yourself indispensable. You must not allow us toimpose on your good nature. There is a lot of duller and more routinework which it is only reasonable that you should be spared." He got upand held the door open for her.

"You don't think," said she, "that I ought to let the boys have just alittle go at Studdock? I mean, it seems so absurd to have all thistrouble about getting an address."

And suddenly, as Wither stood with his hand on the door-handle, courtly,patient, and smiling, the whole expression faded out of his face. Thepale lips, open wide enough to show his gums, the white curly head, thepouchy eyes, ceased to make up any single expression. Miss Hardcastlehad the feeling that a mere mask of skin and flesh was staring at her. Amoment later and she was gone.

"I wonder," said Wither as he came back to his chair, "whether we areattaching too much importance to this Studdock woman."

"We are acting on an order dated the 14th of October," said Frost.

"Oh . . . I wasn't questioning it," said Wither with a gesture ofdeprecation.

"Allow me to remind you of the facts," said Frost. "The authorities hadaccess to the woman's mind for only a very short time. They inspectedonly one important dream--a dream, which revealed, though with someirrelevancies, an essential element in our programme. That warned usthat if the woman fell into the hands of any ill-affected persons whoknew how to exploit her faculty, she would constitute a grave danger."

"Oh, to be sure, to be sure. I never intended to deny----"

"That was the first point," said Frost, interrupting him. "The second isthat her mind became opaque to our authorities almost immediatelyafterwards. In the present state of our science we know only one causefor such occultations. They occur when the mind in question has placeditself, by some voluntary choice of its own, however vague, under thecontrol of some hostile organism. The occultation, therefore, whilecutting off our access to the dreams, also tells us that she has, insome mode or other, come under enemy influence. This is in itself agrave danger. But it also means that to find her would probably meandiscovering the enemy's headquarters. Miss Hardcastle is probably rightin maintaining that torture would soon induce Studdock to give up hiswife's address. But as you pointed out, a round-up at theirheadquarters, an arrest, and the discovery of her husband here in thecondition in which the torture would leave him, would producepsychological conditions in the woman which might destroy her faculty.We should thus frustrate one of the purposes for which we want to gether. That is the first objection. The second is, that an attack on enemyheadquarters is very risky. They almost certainly have protection of akind we are not prepared to cope with. And, finally, the man may notknow his wife's address. In that case . . ."

"Oh," said Wither, "there is nothing I should more deeply deplore.Scientific examination (I cannot allow the word Torture in thiscontext) in cases where the patient doesn't know the answer is alwaysa fatal mistake. As men of humanity we should neither of us . . . andthen, if you go on, the patient naturally does not recover . . . and ifyou stop, even an experienced operator is haunted by the fear thatperhaps he did know after all. It is in every way unsatisfactory."

"There is, in fact, no way of implementing our instructions except byinducing Studdock to bring his wife here himself."

"Or else," said Wither, a little more dreamily than usual, "if it werepossible, by inducing in him a much more radical allegiance to our sidethan he has yet shown. I am speaking, my dear friend, of a real changeof heart."

Frost slightly opened and extended his mouth, which was a very long one,so as to show his white teeth.

"That," he said, "is a subdivision of the plan I was mentioning. I wassaying that he must be induced to send for the woman himself. That, ofcourse, can be done in two ways. Either by supplying him with somemotive on the instinctive level, such as fear of us or desire for her;or else by conditioning him to identify himself so completely with theCause that he will understand the real motive for securing her personand act on it."

"Exactly . . . exactly," said Wither. "Your expressions, as always, area little different from those I would choose myself, but . . ."

"Where is Studdock at present?" said Frost.

"In one of the cells here--on the other side."

"Under the impression he has been arrested by the ordinary police?"

"That I cannot answer for. I presume he would be. It does not, perhaps,make much difference."

"And how are you proposing to act?"

"We had proposed to leave him to himself for several hours--to allow thepsychological results of the arrest to mature. I have ventured . . . ofcourse, with every regard for humanity . . . to reckon on the value ofsome slight physical discomforts--he will not have dined, you understand.They have instructions to empty his pockets. One would not wish theyoung man to relieve any nervous tension that may have arisen bysmoking. One wishes the mind to be thrown entirely on its ownresources."

"Of course. And what next?"

"Well, I suppose some sort of examination. That is a point on which Ishould welcome your advice. I mean, as to whether I, personally, shouldappear in the first instance. I am inclined to think that the appearanceof examination by the ordinary police should be maintained a littlelonger. Then at a later stage will come the discovery that he is stillin our hands. He will probably misunderstand this discovery at first--forseveral minutes. It would be well to let him realise only gradually thatthis by no means frees him from the--er--embarrassments arising out ofHingest's death. I take it that some fuller realisation of hisinevitable solidarity with the Institute would then follow. . . ."

"And then you mean to ask him again for his wife?"

"I shouldn't do it at all like that," said Wither. "If I might ventureto say so, it is one of the disadvantages of that extreme simplicity andaccuracy with which you habitually speak (much as we all admire it) thatit leaves no room for fine shades. One had rather hoped for aspontaneous outburst of confidence on the part of the young man himself.Anything like a direct demand----"

"The weakness of the plan," said Frost, "is that you are relying whollyon fear."

"Fear," repeated Wither as if he had not heard the word before. "I donot quite follow the connection of thought. I can hardly suppose you arefollowing the opposite suggestion, once made, if I remember rightly, byMiss Hardcastle."

"What was that?"

"Why," said Wither, "if I understand her aright she thought of takingscientific measures to render the society of his wife more desirable inthe young man's eyes. Some of the chemical resources . . ."

"You mean an aphrodisiac?"

Wither sighed gently and said nothing.

"That is nonsense," said Frost. "It isn't to his wife that a man turnsunder the influence of aphrodisiacs. But as I was saying, I think it isa mistake to rely wholly on fear. I have observed, over a number ofyears, that its results are incalculable: especially when the fear iscomplicated. The patient may get too frightened to move, even in thedesired direction. If we have to despair of getting the woman here withher husband's goodwill, we must use torture and take the consequences.But there are other alternatives. There is desire."

"I am not sure that I am following you. You have rejected the idea ofany medical or chemical approach."

"I was thinking of stronger desires."

Neither at this stage of the conversation nor at any other did theDeputy Director look much at the face of Frost; his eyes, as usual,wandered over the whole room or fixed themselves on distant objects.Sometimes they were shut. But either Frost or Wither--it was difficult tosay which--had been gradually moving his chair, so that by this time thetwo men sat with their knees almost touching.

"I had my conversation with Filostrato," said Frost in his low, clearvoice. "I used expressions which must have made my meaning clear if hehad any notion of the truth. His senior assistant, Wilkins, was presenttoo. The truth is that neither is really interested. What interests themis the fact that they have succeeded--as they think--in keeping the Headalive and getting it to talk. What it says does not really interestthem. As to any question about what is really speaking, they have nocuriosity. I went very far. I raised questions about its mode ofconsciousness--its sources of information. There was no response."

"You are suggesting, if I understand you," said Wither, "a movementtowards this Mr. Studdock along those lines. If I remember rightly,you rejected fear on the ground that its effects could not really bepredicted with the accuracy one might wish. But--ah--would the method nowenvisaged be any more reliable? I need hardly say that I fully realisea certain disappointment which serious-minded people must feel with suchcolleagues as Filostrato and his subordinate, Mr. Wilkins."

"That is the point," said Frost. "One must guard against the error ofsupposing that the political and economic dominance of England by theN.I.C.E. is more than a subordinate object: it is individuals that weare really concerned with. A hard unchangeable core of individualsreally devoted to the same cause as ourselves--that is what we need andwhat, indeed, we are under orders to supply. We have not succeeded sofar in bringing many people in--really in."

"There is still no news from Bragdon Wood?"

"No."

"And you believe that Studdock might really be a suitable person?"

"You must not forget," said Frost, "that his value does not rest solelyon his wife's clairvoyance. The couple are eugenically interesting. Andsecondly, I think he can offer no resistance. The hours of fear in thecell, and then an appeal to desires that undercut the fear, will have analmost certain effect on a character of that sort."

"Of course," said Wither, "nothing is so much to be desired as thegreatest possible unity. You will not suspect me of underrating thataspect of our orders. Any fresh individual brought into that unity wouldbe a source of the most intense satisfaction--to--ah--all concerned. Idesire the closest possible bond. I would welcome an interpenetration ofpersonalities so close, so irrevocable, that it almost transcendsindividuality. You need not doubt that I would open my arms toreceive--to absorb--to assimilate this young man."

They were now sitting so close together that their faces almost touched,as if they had been lovers about to kiss. Frost's pince-nez caught thelight so that they made his eyes invisible: only his mouth, smiling butnot relaxed in the smile, revealed his expression. Wither's mouth wasopen, the lower lip hanging down, his eyes wet, his whole body hunchedand collapsed in his chair as if the strength had gone out of it. Astranger would have thought he had been drinking. Then his shoulderstwitched and gradually he began to laugh. And Frost did not laugh, buthis smile grew moment by moment brighter and also colder, and hestretched out his hand and patted his colleague on the shoulder.Suddenly in that silent room there was a crash. Who's Who had fallenoff the table, swept onto the floor as, with sudden, swift convulsivemovement, the two old men lurched forward towards each other and satswaying to and fro, locked in an embrace from which each seemed to bestruggling to escape. And as they swayed and scrabbled with hand andnail, there arose, shrill and faint at first, but then louder andlouder, a cackling noise that seemed in the end rather an animal than asenile parody of laughter.

III

When Mark was bundled out of the police waggon into the dark and rainand hurried indoors between two constables and left at length alone in alittle lighted room, he had no idea that he was at Belbury. Nor would hehave cared greatly if he had known, for the moment he was arrested hehad despaired of his life. He was going to be hanged.

He had never till now been at close quarters with death. Now, glancingdown at his hand (because his hands were cold and he had beenautomatically rubbing them) it came to him as a totally new idea thatthis very hand, with its five nails and the yellow tobacco-stain on theinside of the second finger, would soon be the hand of a corpse, andlater the hand of a skeleton. He did not exactly feel horror, though onthe physical level he was aware of a choking sensation; what made hisbrain reel was the preposterousness of the idea. This was somethingincredible, yet at the same time quite certain.

There came a sudden uprush of grisly details about execution, suppliedlong since by Miss Hardcastle. But that was a dose too strong for theconsciousness to accept. It hovered before his imagination for afraction of a second, agonising him to a kind of mental scream, and thensank away in a blur. Mere death returned as the object of attention. Thequestion of immortality came before him. He was not in the leastinterested. What had an after-life to do with it? Happiness in someother and disembodied world (he never thought of unhappiness) wastotally irrelevant to a man who was going to be killed. The killing wasthe important thing. On any view, this body--this limp, shaking,desperately vivid thing, so intimately his own--was going to be turnedinto a dead body. If there were such things as souls, this carednothing about them. The choking, smothering sensation gave the body'sview of the matter with an intensity which excluded all else.

Because he felt that he was choking, he looked round the cell for anysign of ventilation. There was, in fact, some sort of grating above thedoor. That ventilator and the door itself were the only objects todetain the eye. All else was white floor, white ceiling, white wall,without a chair or table or book or peg, and with one hard white lightin the centre of the ceiling.

Something in the look of the place now suggested to him for the firsttime the idea that he might be at Belbury and not in an ordinary policestation. But the flash of hope aroused by this idea was so brief as tobe instantaneous. What difference did it make whether Wither and MissHardcastle and the rest had decided to get rid of him by handing himover to the ordinary police or by making away with him in private--asthey had doubtless done with Hingest? The meaning of all the ups anddowns he had experienced at Belbury now appeared to him perfectly plain.They were all his enemies, playing upon his hopes and fears to reducehim to complete servility, certain to kill him if he broke away, andcertain to kill him in the long run when he had served the purpose forwhich they wanted him. It appeared to him astonishing that he could everhave thought otherwise. How could he have supposed that any realconciliation of these people could be achieved by anything he did?

What a fool--a blasted, babyish, gullible fool--he had been! He sat downon the floor, for his legs felt weak, as if he had walked twenty-fivemiles. Why had he come to Belbury in the first instance? Ought not hisvery first interview with the Deputy Director to have warned him, asclearly as if the truth were shouted through a megaphone or printed on aposter in letters six foot high, that here was the world of plot withinplot, crossing and double crossing, of lies and graft and stabbing inthe back, of murder and a contemptuous guffaw for the fool who lost thegame? Feverstone's guffaw, that day he had called him an "incurableromantic," came back to his mind. Feverstone . . . that was how he hadcome to believe in Wither: on Feverstone's recommendation. Apparentlyhis folly went further back. How on earth had he come to trustFeverstone--a man with a mouth like a shark, with his flash manners, aman who never looked you in the face? Jane, or Dimble, would have seenthrough him at once. He had "crook" written all over him. He was fitonly to deceive puppets like Curry and Busby. But then, at the time whenhe first met Feverstone, he had not thought Curry and Busby puppets.With extraordinary clarity, but with renewed astonishment, he rememberedhow he had felt about the Progressive Element at Bracton when he wasfirst admitted to its confidence: he remembered, even moreincredulously, how he had felt as a very junior fellow while he wasoutside it--how he had looked almost with awe at the heads of Curry andBusby bent close together in Common Room, hearing occasional fragmentsof their whispered conversation, pretending himself the while to beabsorbed in a periodical but longing--oh, so intensely longing--for one ofthem to cross the room and speak to him. And then, after months andmonths, it had happened. He had a picture of himself, the odious littleoutsider who wanted to be an insider, the infantile gull, drinking inthe husky and unimportant confidences, as if he were being admitted tothe government of the planet. Was there no beginning to his folly? Hadhe been an utter fool all through from the very day of his birth? Evenas a schoolboy, when he had ruined his work and half broken his hearttrying to get into the society called Grip, and lost his only realfriend in doing so? Even as a child, fighting Myrtle because she wouldgo and talk secrets with Pamela next door?

He himself did not understand why all this, which was now so clear, hadnever previously crossed his mind. He was unaware that such thoughts hadoften knocked for entrance, but had always been excluded for the verygood reason that if they were once entertained it involved ripping upthe whole web of his life, cancelling almost every decision his will hadever made, and really beginning over again as though he were an infant.The indistinct mass of problems which would have to be faced if headmitted such thoughts, the innumerable "somethings" about which"something" would have to be done, had deterred him from ever raisingthese questions. What had now taken the blinkers off was the fact thatnothing could be done. They were going to hang him. His story was atan end. There was no harm in ripping up the web now for he was not goingto use it any more; there was no bill to be paid (in the shape ofarduous decision and reconstruction) for truth. It was a result of theapproach of death which the Deputy Director and Professor Frost hadpossibly not foreseen.

There were no moral considerations at this moment in Mark's mind. Helooked back on his life, not with shame but with a kind of disgust atits dreariness. He saw himself as a little boy in short trousers, hiddenin the shrubbery beside the paling to overhear Myrtle's conversationwith Pamela, and trying to ignore the fact that it was not at allinteresting when overheard. He saw himself making believe that heenjoyed those Sunday afternoons with the athletic heroes of Grip, whileall the time (as he now saw) he was almost homesick for one of the oldwalks with Pearson--Pearson whom he had taken such pains to leave behind.He saw himself in his teens laboriously reading rubbishy grown-up novelsand drinking beer when he really enjoyed John Buchan and stone ginger.The hours that he had spent learning the very slang of each new circlethat attracted him, the perpetual assumption of interest in things hefound dull and of knowledge he did not possess, the almost heroicsacrifice of nearly every person and thing he actually enjoyed, themiserable attempt to pretend that one could enjoy Grip, or theProgressive Element, or the N.I.C.E.--all this came over him with a kindof heartbreak. When had he ever done what he wanted? Mixed with thepeople whom he liked? Or even eaten and drunk what took his fancy? Theconcentrated insipidity of it all filled him with self-pity.

In his normal condition, explanations that laid on impersonal forcesoutside himself the responsibility for all this life of dust and brokenbottles would have occurred at once to his mind and been at onceaccepted. It would have been "the system" or "an inferiority complex"due to his parents, or the peculiarities of the age. None of thesethings occurred to him now. His "scientific" outlook had never been areal philosophy believed with blood and heart. It had lived only in hisbrain, and was a part of that public self which was now falling off him.He was aware, without even having to think of it, that it was hehimself--nothing else in the whole universe--that had chosen the dust andbroken bottles, the heap of old tin cans, the dry and choking places.

An unexpected idea came into his head. This--this death of his--would belucky for Jane. Myrtle long ago, Pearson at school, Denniston while theywere undergraduates, and lastly Jane had been the four biggest invasionsof his life by something from beyond the dry and choking places. Myrtlehe had conquered by becoming the clever brother who won scholarships andmixed with important people. They were really twins, but after a shortperiod in childhood during which she had appeared as an elder sister,she had become more like a younger sister and had remained so eversince. He had wholly drawn her into his orbit: it was her largewondering eyes and naïf answers to his accounts of the circle he was nowmoving in which had provided at each stage most of the real pleasure ofhis career. But for the same reason she had ceased to mediate life frombeyond the dry places. The flower, once safely planted among the tincans, had turned into a tin can itself. Pearson and Denniston he hadthrown away. And he now knew, for the first time, what he had secretlymeant to do with Jane. If all had succeeded, if he had become the sortof man he hoped to be, she was to have been the great hostess--the secrethostess in the sense that only the very esoteric few would know who thatstriking-looking woman was and why it mattered so enormously to secureher good will. Well . . . it was lucky for Jane. She seemed to him, ashe now thought of her, to have in herself deep wells and knee-deepmeadows of happiness, rivers of freshness, enchanted gardens of leisure,which he could not enter but could have spoiled. She was one of thoseother people--like Pearson, like Denniston, like the Dimbles--who couldenjoy things for their own sake. She was not like him. It was well thatshe should be rid of him. Of course she would get over it. She had triedto do her best, but she didn't really care for him. Nobody ever had,much.

At that moment came the sound of a key turning in the lock of thecell-door. Instantly all these thoughts vanished; mere physical terrorof death, drying the throat, rushed back upon him. He scrambled to hisfeet and stood with his back against the farthest wall, staring as hardas if he could escape hanging by keeping whoever entered steadily insight.

It was not a policeman who came in. It was a man in a grey suit whosepince-nez, as he glanced towards Mark and towards the light, becameopaque windows concealing his eyes. Mark knew him at once and knew thathe was at Belbury. It was not this that made him open his own eyes evenwider and almost forget his terror in his astonishment. It was thechange in the man's appearance--or rather the change in the eyes withwhich Mark saw him. In one sense everything about Professor Frost was asit had always been--the pointed beard, the extreme whiteness of forehead,the regularity of features, and the bright Arctic smile. But what Markcould not understand was how he had ever managed to overlook somethingabout the man so obvious that any child would have shrunk away from himand any dog would have backed into the corner with raised hackles andbared teeth. Death itself did not seem more frightening than the factthat only six hours ago he would in some measure have trusted this man,welcomed his confidence, and even made believe that his society was notdisagreeable.

TWELVE

Wet and Windy Night

I

"Well," said Dimble, "there's no one here."

"He was here a moment ago," said Denniston.

"You're sure you did see someone?" said Dimble.

"I thought I saw someone," said Denniston. "I'm not positive."

"If there was anyone he must still be quite close," said Dimble.

"What about giving him a call?" suggested Denniston.

"Hush! Listen!" said Jane. They were all silent for a few moments.

"That's only the old donkey," said Dimble presently, "moving about atthe top."

There was another silence.

"He seems to have been pretty extravagant with his matches," saidDenniston presently, glancing at the trodden earth in the firelight."One would expect a tramp----"

"On the other hand," said Dimble, "one would not expect Merlin to havebrought a box of matches with him from the Fifth Century."

"But what are we to do?" said Jane.

"One hardly likes to think what MacPhee will say if we return with nomore success than this. He will at once point out a plan we ought tohave followed," said Denniston with a smile.

"Now that the rain's over," said Dimble, "we'd better get back to thecar and start hunting for your white gate. What are you looking at,Denniston?"

"I'm looking at this mud," said Denniston, who had moved a few pacesaway from the fire and in the direction of the path by which they haddescended into the dingle. He had been stooping and using his torch. Nowhe suddenly straightened himself. "Look," he said, "there have beenseveral people here. No, don't walk onto it and mess up all the tracks.Look. Can't you see, sir?"

"Aren't they our own footprints?" said Dimble.

"Some of them are pointing the wrong way. Look at that--and that."

"Might they be the tramp himself?" said Dimble. "If it was a tramp."

"He couldn't have walked up that path without our seeing him," saidJane.

"Unless he did it before we arrived," said Denniston.

"But we all saw him," said Jane.

"Come," said Dimble. "Let's follow them up to the top. I don't supposewe shall be able to follow them far. If not, we must get back to theroad and go on looking for the gate."

As they reached the lip of the hollow, mud changed into grass under footand the footprints disappeared. They walked twice round the dingle andfound nothing: then they set out to return to the road. It had turnedinto a fine night: Orion dominated the whole sky.

II

The Deputy Director hardly ever slept. When it became absolutelynecessary for him to do so, he took a drug, but the necessity was rare,for the mode of consciousness he experienced at most hours of day ornight had long ceased to be exactly like what other men call waking. Hehad learned to withdraw most of his consciousness from the task ofliving, to conduct business, even, with only a quarter of his mind.Colours, tastes, smells, and tactual sensations no doubt bombarded hisphysical senses in the normal manner: they did not now reach his ego.The manner and outward attitude to men which he had adopted half acentury ago were now an organisation which functioned almostindependently, like a gramophone, and to which he could hand over hiswhole routine of interviews and committees. While the brain and lipscarried on this work, and built up day by day for those around him thevague and formidable personality which they knew so well, his inmostself was free to pursue its own life. That detachment of the spirit notonly from the senses but even from the reason which has been the goal ofsome mystics was now his.

Hence he was still, in a sense, awake--that is, he was certainly notsleeping--an hour after Frost had left him to visit Mark in his cell.Anyone who had looked into the study during that hour would have seenhim sitting motionless at his table, with bowed head and folded hands.But his eyes were not shut. The face had no expression; the real man wasfar away, suffering, enjoying, or inflicting whatever such souls dosuffer, enjoy, or inflict when the cord that binds them to the naturalorder is stretched out to its utmost but not yet snapped. When thetelephone rang at his elbow he took up the receiver without a start.

"Speaking," he said.

"This is Stone, sir," came a voice. "We have found the chamber."

"Yes."

"It was empty, sir."

"Empty?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you sure, my dear Mr. Stone, that you have found the right place?It is possible . . ."

"Oh yes, sir. It is a little kind of crypt. Stonework and some Romanbrick. And a kind of slab in the middle, like an altar or a bed."

"And am I to understand there was no one there? No sign of occupation?"

"Well, sir, it seemed to us to have been recently disturbed."

"Pray be as explicit as possible, Mr. Stone."

"Well, sir, there was an exit--I mean a tunnel, leading out of it to thesouth. We went up this tunnel at once. It comes out about eight hundredyards away, outside the area of the wood."

"Comes out? Do you mean there is an arch--a gate--a tunnel mouth?"

"Well, that's just the point. We got out to the open air all right. Butobviously something had been smashed-up there quite recently. It lookedas if it had been done by explosives. As if the end of the tunnel hadbeen walled up and had some depth of earth on top of it, and as ifsomeone had recently blasted his way out. There was no end of a mess."

"Continue, Mr. Stone. What did you do next?"

"I used the order you had given me, sir, to collect all the policeavailable and have sent off search-parties for the man you described."

"I see. And how did you describe him to them?"

"Just as you did, sir: an old man with either a very long beard or abeard very roughly trimmed, probably in a mantle, but certainly in somekind of unusual clothes. It occurred to me at the last moment to addthat he might have no clothes at all."

"Why did you add that, Mr. Stone?"

"Well, sir, I didn't know how long he'd been there, and it isn't mybusiness. I'd heard things about clothes preserved in a place like thatand all falling to pieces as soon as the air was admitted. I hope youwon't imagine for a moment that I'm trying to find out anything youdon't choose to tell me. But I just thought it would be as wellto . . ."

"You were quite right, Mr. Stone," said Wither, "in thinking thatanything remotely resembling inquisitiveness on your part might have themost disastrous consequences. I mean, for yourself; for, of course, itis your interests I have chiefly had in view in my choice of methods. Iassure you that you can rely on my support in the very--er--delicateposition you have--no doubt unintentionally--chosen to occupy."

"Thank you very much, sir. I am so glad you think I was right in sayinghe might be naked."

"Oh, as to that," said the Director, "there are a great manyconsiderations which cannot be raised at the moment. And what did youinstruct your search-parties to do on finding any such--er--person?"

"Well, that was another difficulty, sir. I sent my own assistant, FatherDoyle, with one party, because he knows Latin. And I gave InspectorWrench the ring you gave me and put him in charge of the second. Thebest I could do for the third party was to see that it contained someonewho knew Welsh."

"You did not think of accompanying a party yourself?"

"No, sir. You'd told me to ring up without fail the moment we foundanything. And I didn't want to delay the search-parties until I'd gotyou."

"I see. Well, no doubt your action (speaking quite without prejudice)could be interpreted along those lines. You made it quite clear thatthis--ah--Personage--when found, was to be treated with the greatestdeference and--if you won't misunderstand me--caution?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"Well, Mr. Stone, I am, on the whole, and with certain inevitablereservations, moderately satisfied with your conduct of this affair. Ibelieve that I may be able to present it in a favourable light to thoseof my colleagues whose good will you have, unfortunately, not been ableto retain. If you can bring it to a successful conclusion you would verymuch strengthen your position. If not . . . it is inexpressibly painfulto me that there should be these tensions and mutual recriminationsamong us. But you quite understand me, my dear boy. If only I couldpersuade--say Miss Hardcastle and Mr. Studdock--to share my appreciationof your very real qualities, you would need to have no apprehensionsabout your career or--ah--your security."

"But what do you want me to do, sir?"

"My dear young friend, the golden rule is very simple. There are onlytwo errors which would be fatal to one placed in the peculiar situationwhich certain parts of your previous conduct have unfortunately createdfor you. On the one hand, anything like a lack of initiative orenterprise would be disastrous. On the other, the slightest approach tounauthorised action--anything which suggested that you were assuming aliberty of decision which, in all the circumstances, is not reallyyours--might have consequences from which even I could not protect you.But as long as you keep quite clear of these two extremes, there is noreason (speaking unofficially) why you should not be perfectly safe."

Then, without waiting for Mr. Stone to reply, he hung up the receiverand rang his bell.

III

"Oughtn't we to be nearly at the gate we climbed over?" said Dimble.

It was a good deal lighter now that the rain had stopped, but the windhad risen and was roaring about them so that only shouted remarks couldbe heard. The branches of the hedge beside which they were trampingswayed and dipped and rose again so that they looked as if they werelashing the bright stars.

"It's a good deal longer than I remembered," said Denniston.

"But not so muddy," said Jane.

"You're right," said Denniston, suddenly stopping. "It's all stony. Itwasn't like this at all on the way up. We're in the wrong field."

"I think," said Dimble mildly, "we must be right. We turned half leftalong this hedge as soon as we came out of the trees, and I'm sure Iremember----"

"But did we come out of the copse on the right side?" said Denniston.

"If we once start changing course," said Dimble, "we shall go round andround in circles all night. Let's keep straight on. We're bound to cometo the road in the end."

"Hullo!" said Jane sharply. "What's this?"

All listened. Because of the wind, the unidentified rhythmic noise whichthey were straining to hear seemed quite distant at one moment, andthen, next moment, with shouts of "Look out!"--"Go away you greatbrute!"--"Get back"--and the like, all were shrinking back into the hedgeas the plosh-plosh of a horse cantering on soft ground passed closebeside them. A cold gobbet of mud flung up from its hoofs struckDenniston in the face.

"Oh, look! Look!" cried Jane. "Stop him. Quick!"

"Stop him?" said Denniston who was trying to clean his face. "What onearth for? The less I see of that great clod-hopping quadruped, thebetter----"

"Oh, shout out to him, Dr. Dimble," said Jane, in an agony ofimpatience. "Come on. Run! Didn't you see?"

"See what?" panted Dimble, as the whole party, under the influence ofJane's urgency, began running in the direction of the retreating horse.

"There's a man on his back," gasped Jane. She was tired and out ofbreath and had lost a shoe.

"A man?" said Denniston: and then, "By God, sir, Jane's right. Look,look there! Against the sky . . . to your left."

"We can't overtake him," said Dimble.

"Hi! Stop! Come back! Friends--amis--amici," bawled Denniston.

Dimble was not able to shout for the moment. He was an old man, who hadbeen tired before they set out, and now his heart and lungs were doingthings to him of which his doctor had told him the meaning some yearsago. He was not frightened, but he could not shout with a great voice(least of all in the Old Solar language) until he had breathed. Andwhile he stood trying to fill his lungs all the others suddenly cried"Look" yet again: for high among the stars, looking unnaturally largeand many legged, the shape of the horse appeared as it leaped a hedgesome twenty yards away, and on its back, with some streaming garmentblown far out behind him in the wind, the great figure of a man. Itseemed to Jane that he was looking back over his shoulder as though hemocked. Then came a splash and thud as the horse alighted on the farside; and then nothing but wind and starlight again.

IV

"You are in danger," said Frost, when he had finished locking the doorof Mark's cell, "but you are also within reach of a great opportunity."

"I gather," said Mark, "I am at the Institute after all and not in apolice station."

"Yes. That makes no difference to the danger. The Institute will soonhave official powers of liquidation. It has anticipated them. Hingestand Carstairs have both been liquidated. Such actions are demanded ofus."

"If you are going to kill me," said Mark, "why all this farce of amurder charge?"

"Before going on," said Frost, "I must ask you to be strictly objective.Resentment and fear are both chemical phenomena. Our reactions to oneanother are chemical phenomena. Social relations are chemical relations.You must observe these feelings in yourself in an objective manner. Donot let them distract your attention from the facts."

"I see," said Mark. He was acting while he said it--trying to sound atonce faintly hopeful and slightly sullen, ready to be worked upon. Butwithin, his new insight into Belbury kept him resolved not to believeone word the other said, not to accept (though he might feignacceptance) any offer he made. He felt that he must at all costs hold onto the knowledge that these men were unalterable enemies: for already hefelt the old tug towards yielding, towards semi-credulity, inside him.

"The murder charge against you and the alternations in your treatmenthave been part of a planned programme with a well-defined end in view,"said Frost. "It is a discipline through which everyone is passed beforeadmission to the Circle."

Again Mark felt a spasm of retrospective terror. Only a few days ago hewould have swallowed any hook with that bait on it; and nothing but theimminence of death could have made the hook so obvious and the bait soinsipid as it now was. At least, so comparatively insipid. For evennow . . .

"I don't quite see the purpose of it," he said aloud.

"It is, again, to promote objectivity. A circle bound together bysubjective feelings of mutual confidence and liking would be useless.Those, as I have said, are chemical phenomena. They could all, inprinciple, be produced by injections. You have been made to pass througha number of conflicting feelings about the Deputy Director and others inorder that your future association with us may not be based on feelingsat all. In so far as there must be social relations between members ofthe circle it is, perhaps, better that they should be feelings ofdislike. There is less risk of their being confused with the realnexus."

"My future association?" said Studdock, acting a tremulous eagerness.But it was perilously easy for him to act it. The reality might reawakeat any moment.

"Yes," said Frost. "You have been selected as a possible candidate foradmission. If you do not gain admission, or if you reject it, it will benecessary to destroy you. I am not, of course, attempting to work onyour fears. They only confuse the issue. The process would be quitepainless, and your present reactions to it are inevitable physicalevents."

"It--it seems rather a formidable decision," said Mark.

"That is merely a proposition about the state of your own body at themoment. If you please, I will go on to give you the necessaryinformation. I must begin by telling you that neither the DeputyDirector, nor I, are responsible for shaping the policy of theInstitute."

"The Head?" said Mark.

"No. Filostrato and Wilkins are quite deceived about the Head. Theyhave, indeed, carried out a remarkable experiment by preserving it fromdecay. But Alcasan's mind is not the mind we are in contact with whenthe Head speaks."

"Do you mean Alcasan is really . . . dead?" asked Mark. His surpriseat Frost's last statement needed no acting.

"In the present state of our knowledge," said Frost, "there is no answerto that question. Probably it has no meaning. But the cortex and vocalorgans in Alcasan's head are used by a different mind. And now, please,attend very carefully. You have probably not heard of macrobes."

"Microbes?" said Mark in bewilderment. "But of course----"

"I did not say microbes, I said macrobes. The formation of the wordexplains itself. Below the level of animal life we have long known thatthere are microscopic organisms. Their actual results on human life, inrespect of health and disease, have, of course, made up a large part ofhistory: the secret cause was not known till we invented themicroscope."

"Go on," said Mark. Ravenous curiosity was moving like a sort ofground-swell beneath his conscious determination to stand on guard.

"I have now to inform you that there are similar organisms above thelevel of animal life. When I say "above" I am not speaking biologically.The structure of the macrobe, so far as we know it, is of extremesimplicity. When I say that it is above the animal level, I mean that itis more permanent, disposes of more energy, and has greaterintelligence."

"More intelligent than the highest anthropoids?" said Mark. "It must bepretty nearly human, then."

"You have misunderstood me. When I said it transcended the animals, Iwas, of course, including the most efficient animal, Man. The macrobeis more intelligent than Man."

"But how is it in that case that we have had no communication withthem?"

"It is not certain that we have not. But in primitive times it wasspasmodic, and was opposed by numerous prejudices. Moreover theintellectual development of man had not reached the level at whichintercourse with our species could offer any attractions to a macrobe.But though there has been little intercourse, there has been profoundinfluence. Their effect on human history has been far greater than thatof the microbes, though, of course, equally unrecognised. In the lightof what we now know all history will have to be rewritten. The realcauses of all the principal events are quite unknown to the historians;that, indeed, is why history has not yet succeeded in becoming ascience."

"I think I'll sit down, if you don't mind," said Mark, resuming his seaton the floor. Frost remained, throughout the whole conversation,standing perfectly still with his arms hanging down straight at hissides. But for the periodic upward tilt of his head and flash of histeeth at the end of a sentence, he used no gestures.

"The vocal organs and brain taken from Alcasan," he continued, "havebecome the conductors of a regular intercourse between the macrobes andour own species. I do not say that we have discovered this technique;the discovery was theirs, not ours. The circle to which you may beadmitted is the organ of that co-operation between the two species whichhas already created a new situation for humanity. The change, you willsee, is far greater than that which turned the sub-man into the man. Itis more comparable to the first appearance of organic life."

"These organisms, then," said Mark, "are friendly to humanity?"

"If you reflect for a moment," said Frost, "you will see that yourquestion has no meaning except on the level of the crudest popularthought. Friendship is a chemical phenomenon; so is hatred. Both of thempresupposes organisms of our own type. The first step towardsintercourse with the macrobes is the realisation that one must gooutside the whole world of our subjective emotions. It is only as youbegin to do so that you discover how much of what you mistook for yourthought was merely a by-product of your blood and nervous tissues."

"Oh, of course. I didn't quite mean 'friendly' in that sense. I reallymeant, were their aims compatible with our own?"

"What do you mean by our own aims?"

"Well--I suppose--the scientific reconstruction of the human race in thedirection of increased efficiency--the elimination of war and poverty andother forms of waste--a fuller exploitation of nature--the preservationand extension of our species, in fact."

"I do not think this pseudo-scientific language really modifies theessentially subjective and instinctive basis of the ethics you aredescribing. I will return to the matter at a later stage. For themoment, I would merely remark that your view of war and your referenceto the preservation of the species suggest a profound misconception.They are mere generalisations from affectional feelings."

"Surely," said Mark, "one requires a pretty large population for thefull exploitation of nature, if for nothing else? And surely war isdisgenic and reduces efficiency? Even if population needs thinning, isnot war the worst possible method of thinning it?"

"That idea is a survival from conditions which are rapidly beingaltered. A few centuries ago, war did operate in the way you describe. Alarge agricultural population was essential; and war destroyed typeswhich were then still useful. But every advance in industry andagriculture reduces the number of work-people who are required. A large,unintelligent population is now becoming a dead-weight. The realimportance of scientific war is that scientists have to be reserved. Itwas not the great technocrats of Koenigsberg or Moscow who supplied thecasualties in the siege of Stalingrad: it was superstitious Bavarianpeasants and low-grade Russian agricultural workers. The effect ofmodern war is to eliminate retrogressive types, while sparing thetechnocracy and increasing its hold upon public affairs. In the new age,what has hitherto been merely the intellectual nucleus of the race is tobecome, by gradual stages, the race itself. You are to conceive thespecies as an animal which has discovered how to simplify nutrition andlocomotion to such a point that the old complex organs and the largebody which contained them are no longer necessary. That large body istherefore to disappear. Only a tenth part of it will now be needed tosupport the brain. The individual is to become all head. The human raceis to become all Technocracy."

"I see," said Mark. "I had thought--rather vaguely--that the intelligentnucleus would be extended by education."

"That is a pure chimera. The great majority of the human race can beeducated only in the sense of being given knowledge: they cannot betrained into the total objectivity of mind which is now necessary. Theywill always remain animals, looking at the world through the haze oftheir subjective reactions. Even if they could, the day for a largepopulation has passed. It has served its function by acting as a kind ofcocoon for Technocratic and Objective Man. Now, the macrobes, and theselected humans who can co-operate with them, have no further use forit."

"The last two wars, then, were not disasters in your view?"

"On the contrary, they were simply the beginning of the programme--thefirst two of the sixteen major wars which are scheduled to take place inthis century. I am aware of the emotional (that is, the chemical)reactions which a statement like this produces in you, and you arewasting your time in trying to conceal them from me. I do not expect youto control them. That is not the path to objectivity. I deliberatelyraise them in order that you may become accustomed to regard them in apurely scientific light and distinguish them as sharply as possible fromthe facts."

Mark sat with his eyes fixed on the floor. He had felt, in fact, verylittle emotion at Frost's programme for the human race; indeed he almostdiscovered at that moment how little he had ever really cared for thoseremote futures and universal benefits whereon his co-operation with theInstitute had at first been theoretically based. Certainly at thepresent moment there was no room in his mind for such considerations. Hewas fully occupied with the conflict between his resolution not to trustthese men, never again to be lured by any bait into real co-operation,and the terrible strength--like a tide sucking at the shingle as it goesout--of an opposite emotion. For here, here surely at last (so his desirewhispered him) was the true inner circle of all, the circle whose centrewas outside the human race--the ultimate secret, the supreme power, thelast initiation. The fact that it was almost completely horrible did notin the least diminish its attraction. Nothing that lacked the tang ofhorror would have been quite strong enough to satisfy the deliriousexcitement which now set his temples hammering. It came into his mindthat Frost knew all about this excitement, and also about the oppositedetermination, and reckoned securely on the excitement as somethingwhich was certain to carry the day in his victim's mind.

A rattling and knocking which had been obscurely audible for some timenow became so loud that Frost turned to the door. "Go away," he said,raising his voice. "What is the meaning of this impertinence?" Theindistinct noise of someone shouting on the other side of the door washeard, and the knocking went on. Frost's smile widened as he turned andopened it. Instantly a piece of paper was put into his hand. As he readit, he started violently. Without glancing at Mark, he left the cell.Mark heard the door locked again behind him.

V

"What friends those two are!" said Ivy Maggs. She was referring to Pinchthe cat and Mr. Bultitude the bear. The latter was sitting up with hisback against the warm wall by the kitchen fire. His cheeks were so fatand his eyes so small that he looked as if he were smiling. The catafter walking to and fro with erected tail and rubbing herself againsthis belly had finally curled up and gone to sleep between his legs. Thejackdaw, still on the Director's shoulder, had long since put its headbeneath its wing.

Mrs. Dimble, who sat farther back in the kitchen, darning as if for dearlife, pursed her lips a little as Ivy Maggs spoke. She could not go tobed. She wished they would all keep quiet. Her anxiety had reached thatpitch at which almost every event, however small, threatens to become anirritation. But then, if anyone had been watching her expression, theywould have seen the little grimace rapidly smoothed out again. Her willhad many years of practice behind it.

"When we use the word Friends of those two creatures," said MacPhee, "Idoubt we are being merely anthropomorphic. It is difficult to avoid theillusion that they have personalities in the human sense. But there's noevidence for it."

"What's she go making up to him for, then?" asked Ivy.

"Well," said MacPhee, "maybe there'd be a desire for warmth--she's awayin out of the draught there. And there'd be a sense of security frombeing near something familiar. And likely enough some obscuretransferred sexual impulses."

"Really, Mr. MacPhee," said Ivy with great indignation, "it's a shamefor you to say those things about two dumb animals. I'm sure I never didsee Pinch--or Mr. Bultitude either, the poor thing----"

"I said transferred," interrupted MacPhee drily. "And anyway, theylike the mutual friction of their fur as a means of rectifyingirritations set up by parasites. Now, you'll observe----"

"If you mean they have fleas," said Ivy, "you know as well as anyonethat they have no such thing." She had reason on her side, for it wasMacPhee himself who put on overalls once a month and solemnly latheredMr. Bultitude from rump to snout in the wash-house and poured buckets oftepid water over him, and finally dried him--a day's work in which heallowed no one to assist him.

"What do you think, sir?" said Ivy, looking at the Director.

"Me?" said Ransom. "I think MacPhee is introducing into animal life adistinction that doesn't exist there, and then trying to determine onwhich side of that distinction the feelings of Pinch and Bultitude fall.You've got to become human before the physical cravings aredistinguishable from affections--just as you have to become spiritualbefore affections are distinguishable from charity. What is going on inthe cat and the bear isn't one or other of these two things: it is asingle undifferentiated thing in which you can find the germ of what wecall friendship and of what we call physical need. But it isn't eitherat that level. It is one of Barfield's 'ancient unities.'"

"I never denied they liked being together," said MacPhee.

"Well, that's what I said," shouted Mrs. Maggs.

"The question is worth raising, Mr. Director," said MacPhee, "because Isubmit that it points to an essential falsity in the whole system ofthis place."

Grace Ironwood who had been sitting with her eyes half closed suddenlyopened them wide and fixed them on the Ulsterman, and Mrs. Dimble leanedher head towards Camilla and said in a whisper, "I do wish Mr. MacPheecould be persuaded to go to bed. It's perfectly unbearable at a timelike this."

"How do you mean, MacPhee?" asked the Director.

"I mean that there is a half-hearted attempt to adopt an attitudetowards irrational creatures which cannot be consistently maintained.And I'll do the justice to say that you've never tried. The bear is keptin the house and given apples and golden syrup till it's nearbursting----"

"Well, I like that!" said Mrs. Maggs. "Who is it that's always givinghim apples? That's what I'd like to know."

"The bear, as I was observing," said MacPhee, "is kept in the house andpampered. The pigs are kept in a stye and killed for bacon. I would beinterested to know the philosophical rationale of the distinction."

Ivy Maggs looked in bewilderment from the smiling face of the Directorto the unsmiling face of MacPhee.

"I think it's just silly," she said. "Who ever heard of trying to makebacon out of a bear?"

MacPhee made a little stamp of impatience and said something which wasdrowned first by Ransom's laughter and then by a great clap of windwhich shook the window as if it would blow it in.

"What a dreadful night for them!" said Mrs. Dimble.

"I love it," said Camilla. "I'd love to be out in it. Out on a highhill. Oh, I do wish you'd let me go with them, sir."

"You like it!" said Ivy. "Oh, I don't! Listen to it round the cornerof the house. It'd make me feel kind of creepy if I were alone. Or evenif you was upstairs, sir. I always think it's on nights like this thatthey--you know--come to you."

"They don't take any notice of weather one way or the other, Ivy," saidRansom.

"Do you know," said Ivy in a low voice, "that's a thing I don't quiteunderstand. They're so eerie, these ones that come to visit you. Iwouldn't go near that part of the house if I thought there was anythingthere, not if you paid me a hundred pounds. But I don't feel like thatabout God. But He ought to be worse, if you see what I mean."

"He was, once," said the Director. "You are quite right about thePowers. Angels in general are not good company for men in general--evenwhen they are good angels and good men. It's all in St. Paul. But as forMaleldil himself, all that has changed: it was changed by what happenedat Bethlehem."

"It's getting ever so near Christmas now," said Ivy, addressing thecompany in general.

"We shall have Mr. Maggs with us before then," said Ransom.

"In a day or two, sir," said Ivy.

"Was that only the wind?" said Grace Ironwood.

"It sounded to me like a horse," said Mrs. Dimble.

"Here," said MacPhee jumping up. "Get out of the way, Mr. Bultitude,till I get my gum boots. It'll be those two horses of Broad's again,tramping all over my celery trenches. If only you'd let me go to thepolice in the first instance. Why the man can't keep them shut up. . ."--he was bundling himself into his mackintosh as he spoke therest of the speech was inaudible.

"My crutch, please, Camilla," said Ransom. "Come back, MacPhee. We willgo to the door together, you and I. Ladies, stay where you are."

There was a look on his face which some of those present had not seenbefore. The four women sat as if they had been turned to stone, withtheir eyes wide and staring. A moment later Ransom and MacPhee stoodalone in the scullery. The back door was so shaking on its hinges withthe wind that they did not know whether someone were knocking at it ornot.

"Now," said Ransom, "open it. And stand back behind it yourself."

For a second MacPhee worked with the bolts. Then, whether he meant todisobey or not (a point which must remain doubtful) the storm flung thedoor against the wall and he was momentarily pinned behind it. Ransom,standing motionless, leaning forward on his crutch, saw in the lightfrom the scullery, outlined against the blackness, a huge horse, all ina lather of sweat and foam, its yellow teeth laid bare, its nostrilswide and red, its ears flattened against its skull, and its eyesflaming. It had been ridden so close up to the door that its front hoofsrested on the doorstep. It had neither saddle, stirrup nor bridle; butat that very moment a man leapt off its back. He seemed both very talland very fat, almost a giant. His reddish-grey hair and beard were blownall about his face so that it was hardly visible; and it was only afterhe had taken a step forward that Ransom noticed his clothes--the ragged,ill-fitting khaki coat, baggy trousers, and boots that had lost thetoes.

VI

In a great room at Belbury, where the fire blazed and wine and silversparkled on side-tables, and a great bed occupied the centre of thefloor, the Deputy Director watched in profound silence while four youngmen with reverential or medical heedfulness carried in a burden on astretcher. As they removed the blankets and transferred the occupant ofthe stretcher to the bed, Wither's mouth opened wider. His interestbecame so intense that for the moment the chaos of his face appearedordered and he looked like an ordinary man. What he saw was a nakedhuman body, alive, but apparently unconscious. He ordered the attendantsto place hot-water bottles at its feet and raise the head with pillows;when they had done so and withdrawn he drew a chair to the foot of thebed and sat down to study the face of the sleeper. The head was verylarge, though perhaps it looked larger than it was because of theunkempt grey beard and the long and tangled grey hair. The face wasweather-beaten in the extreme and the neck, where visible, already leanand scraggy with age. The eyes were shut and the lips wore a very slightsmile. The total effect was ambiguous. Wither gazed at it for a longtime and sometimes moved his head to see how it looked from a differentangle--almost as if he searched for some trait he could not find and weredisappointed. For nearly a quarter of an hour he sat thus: then the dooropened and Professor Frost came softly into the room.

He walked to the bedside, bent down and looked closely into thestranger's face. Then he walked round to the far side of the bed and didthe same.

"Is he asleep?" whispered Wither.

"I think not. It is more like some kind of trance. What kind I don'tknow."

"You have no doubts, I trust?"

"Where did they find him?"

"In a dingle about quarter of a mile from the entrance to thesouterrain. They had the track of bare feet almost all the way."

"The souterrain itself was empty?"

"Yes. I had a report on that from Stone shortly after you left me."

"You will make provision about Stone?"

"Yes. But what do you think?"--he pointed with his eyes to the bed.

"I think it is he," said Frost. "The place is right. The nudity is hardto account for on any other hypothesis. The skull is the kind Iexpected."

"But the face?"

"Yes. There are certain traits which are a little disquieting."

"I could have sworn," said Wither, "that I knew the look of aMaster--even the look of one who could be made into a Master. Youunderstand me . . . one sees at once that Straik or Studdock might do;that Miss Hardcastle, with all her excellent qualities, would not."

"Yes. Perhaps we must be prepared for great crudities in . . . him.Who knows what the technique of the Atlantean Circle was really like?"

"Certainly, one must not be--ah--narrow-minded. One can suppose that theMasters of that age were not quite so sharply divided from the commonpeople as we are. All sorts of emotional and even instinctive, elementswere perhaps still tolerated in the Great Atlantean which we have had todiscard."

"One not only may suppose it, one must. We should not forget thatthe whole plan consists in the reunion of different kinds of the art."

"Exactly. Perhaps one's association with the Powers--their different timescale and all that--tends to make one forget how enormous the gap in timeis by our human standards."

"What we have here," said Frost, pointing to the sleeper, "is not, yousee, something from the fifth Century. It is the last vestige, survivinginto the fifth Century, of something much more remote. Something thatcomes down from long before the Great Disaster, even from beforeprimitive Druidism; something that takes us back to Numinor, topre-glacial periods."

"The whole experiment is perhaps more hazardous than we realised."

"I have had occasion before," said Frost, "to express the wish that youwould not keep on introducing these emotional pseudo-statements into ourscientific discussions."

"My dear friend," said Wither, without looking at him, "I am quite awarethat the subject you mention has been discussed between you and thePowers themselves. Quite aware. And I don't doubt that you are equallywell aware of certain discussions they have held with me about aspectsof your own methods which are open to criticism. Nothing would be morefutile--I might say more dangerous--than any attempt to introduce betweenourselves those modes of oblique discipline which we properly apply toour inferiors. It is in your own interest that I venture to touch onthis point."

Instead of replying, Frost signalled to his companion. Both men becamesilent, their gaze fixed on the bed: for the Sleeper had opened hiseyes.

The opening of the eyes flooded the whole face with meaning, but it wasa meaning they could not interpret. The Sleeper seemed to be looking atthem, but they were not quite sure that he saw them. As the secondspassed Wither's main impression of the face was its caution. But therewas nothing intense or uneasy about it. It was a habitual, unemphaticdefensiveness which seemed to have behind it years of hard experience,quietly--perhaps even humorously--endured.

Wither rose to his feet, and cleared his throat.

"Magister Merline," he said, "Sapientissime Britonum, secretisecretorum possessor, incredibili quodam gaudio afficimur quod te domumnostram accipere nobis--ah--contingit. Scito nos etiam haud imperitos essemagnae artis--et--ut ita dicam . . ."[1]

[Footnote 1]"Master Merlin, wisest of the Britons, possessor of the secret ofsecrets; it is with inexpressible pleasure that we embrace theopportunity of--ah--welcoming you in our house. You will understandthat we also are not unskilled in the Great Art, and, if I may sayso . . ."

But his voice died away. It was too obvious that the Sleeper was takingno notice of what he said. It was impossible that a learned man of thesixth century should not know Latin. Was there, then, some error in hisown pronunciation? But he felt by no means sure that this man could notunderstand him. The total lack of curiosity, or even interest, in hisface, suggested rather that he was not listening.

Frost took a decanter from the table and poured out a glass of red wine.He then returned to the bedside, bowed deeply, and handed it to thestranger. The latter looked at it with an expression that might (ormight not) be interpreted as one of cunning; then he suddenly sat up inbed, revealing a huge hairy chest and lean, muscular arms. His eyesturned to the table and he pointed. Frost went back to it and touched adifferent decanter. The stranger shook his head and pointed again.

"I think," said Wither, "that our very distinguished guest is trying toindicate the jug. I don't quite know what was provided. Perhaps----"

"It contains beer," said Frost.

"Well, it is hardly appropriate--still, perhaps, we know so little of thecustoms of that age . . ."

While he was still speaking Frost had filled a pewter mug with beer andoffered it to their guest. For the first time a gleam of interest cameinto that cryptic face. The man snatched the mug eagerly, pushed backhis disorderly moustache from his lips, and began to drink. Back andback went the grey head: up and up went the bottom of the tankard: themoving muscles of the lean throat made the act of drinking visible. Atlast the man, having completely inverted the tankard, set it down, wipedhis wet lips with the back of his hand, and heaved a long sigh--the firstsound he had uttered since his arrival. Then he turned his attentiononce more to the table.

For about twenty minutes the two old men fed him--Wither with tremulousand courtly deference, Frost with the deft, noiseless movements of atrained servant. All sorts of delicacies had been provided, but thestranger devoted his attention entirely to cold beef, chicken, pickles,bread, cheese, and butter. The butter he ate neat, off the end of aknife. He was apparently unacquainted with forks, and took the chickenbones in both hands to gnaw them, placing them under the pillow when hehad done. His eating was noisy and animal. When he had eaten, hesignalled for a second pint of beer, drank it at two long draughts,wiped his mouth on the sheet and his nose on his hand, and seemed to becomposing himself for further slumber.

"Ah--er--domine," said Wither with deprecating urgency, "nihil magismihi displiceret quam tibi ullo modo--ah--molestum esse. Attamen, veniatua . . ."[2]

[Footnote 2]"Ah--er--sir--nothing would be further from my wish than to be in anyway troublesome to you. At the same time, with your pardon . . ."

But the man was taking no notice at all. They could not tell whether hiseyes were shut or whether he was still looking at them under half-closedlids; but clearly he was not intending to converse. Frost and Witherexchanged enquiring glances.

"There is no approach to this room, is there," said Frost, "exceptthrough the next one?"

"No," said Wither.

"Let us go out there and discuss the situation. We can leave the doorajar. We shall be able to hear if he stirs."

VII

When Mark found himself left suddenly alone by Frost, his firstsensation was an unexpected lightness of heart. It was not that he hadany release from fears about the future. Rather, in the very midst ofthose fears, a strange sense of liberation had sprung up. The relief ofno longer trying to win these men's confidence, the shuffling off ofmiserable hopes, was almost exhilarating. The straight fight, after thelong series of diplomatic failures, was tonic. He might lose thestraight fight. But at least it was now his side against theirs. And hecould talk of "his side" now. Already he was with Jane and with all shesymbolised. Indeed, it was he who was in the front line: Jane was almosta non-combatant. . . .

The approval of one's own conscience is a very heady draught; andspecially for those who are not accustomed to it. Within two minutesMark had passed from that first involuntary sense of liberation to aconscious attitude of courage, and thence into unrestrained heroics. Thepicture of himself as hero and martyr, as Jack the Giant-Killer stillcoolly playing his hand even in the giant's kitchen, rose up before him,promising that it could blot out forever those other, and unendurablepictures of himself which had haunted him for the last few hours. Itwasn't everyone, after all, who could have resisted an invitation likeFrost's. An invitation that beckoned you right across the frontiers ofhuman life . . . into the something that people had been trying to findsince the beginning of the world . . . a touch on that infinitely secretcord which was the real nerve of all history. How it would haveattracted him once!

Would have attracted him once. . . . Suddenly, like a thing thatleaped to him across infinite distances with the speed of light, desire(salt, black, ravenous, unanswerable desire) took him by the throat. Themerest hint will convey to those who have felt it the quality of theemotion which now shook him, like a dog shaking a rat: for others, nodescription perhaps will avail. Many writers speak of it in terms oflust: a description admirably illuminating from within, totallymisleading from without. It has nothing to do with the body. But it isin two respects like lust as lust shows itself to be in the deepest anddarkest vault of its labyrinthine house. For like lust, it disenchantsthe whole universe. Everything else that Mark had ever felt--love,ambition, hunger, lust itself--appeared to have been mere milk and water,toys for children, not worth one throb of the nerves. The infiniteattraction of this dark thing sucked all other passions into itself: therest of the world appeared blanched, etiolated, insipid, a world ofwhite marriages and white masses, dishes without salt, gambling forcounters. He could not now think of Jane except in terms of appetite:and appetite here made no appeal. That serpent, faced with the truedragon, became a fangless worm. But it was like lust in another respectalso. It is idle to point out to the perverted man the horror of hisperversion: while the fierce fit is on, that horror is the very spice ofhis craving. It is ugliness itself that becomes, in the end, the goal ofhis lechery; beauty has long since grown too weak a stimulant. And so itwas here. These creatures of which Frost had spoken--and he did not doubtnow that they were locally present with him in the cell--breathed deathon the human race and on all joy. Not despite this but because of this,the terrible gravitation sucked and tugged and fascinated him towardsthem. Never before had he known the frightful strength of the movementopposite to nature which now had him in its grip; the impulse to reverseall reluctances and to draw every circle anti-clockwise. The meaning ofcertain pictures, of Frost's talk about "objectivity," of the thingsdone by witches in old times, became clear to him. The image of Wither'sface rose to his memory; and this time he did not merely loathe it. Henoted, with shuddering satisfaction, the signs it bore of a sharedexperience between them. Wither also knew. Wither understood . . .

At the same moment it came back to him that he would probably be killed.As soon as he thought of that, he became once more aware of the cell--thelittle hard white empty place with the glaring light, in which he foundhimself sitting on the floor. He blinked his eyes. He could not rememberthat it had been visible for the last few minutes. Where had he been?His mind was clear now at any rate. This idea of something in commonbetween him and Wither was all nonsense. Of course they meant to killhim in the end unless he could rescue himself by his own wits. What hadhe been thinking and feeling while he forgot that?

Gradually he realised that he had sustained some sort of attack, andthat he had put up no resistance at all; and with that realisation aquite new kind of dread entered his mind. Though he was theoretically amaterialist, he had all his life believed quite inconsistently, and evencarelessly, in the freedom of his own will. He had seldom made a moralresolution: and when he had resolved some hours ago to trust the Belburycrew no further, he had taken it for granted that he would be able to dowhat he resolved. He knew, to be sure, that he might "change his mind":but till he did so, of course he would carry out his plan. It had neveroccurred to him that his mind could thus be changed for him, all in aninstant of time, changed beyond recognition. If that sort of thing couldhappen . . . It was unfair. Here was a man trying (for the first time inhis life) to do what was obviously the right thing--the thing that Janeand the Dimbles and Aunt Gilly would have approved of. You might haveexpected that when a man behaved in that way the universe would back himup. For the relics of such semi-savage versions of Theism as Mark hadpicked up in the course of his life were stronger in him than he knew,and he felt, though he would not have put it into words, that it was "upto" the universe to reward his good resolutions. Yet the very firstmoment you tried to be good, the universe let you down. It revealed gapsyou had never dreamed of. It invented new laws for the express purposeof letting you down. That was what you got for your pains.

The cynics, then, were right. But at this thought, he stopped sharply.Some flavour that came with it had given him pause. Was this the othermood beginning again? Oh, not that, at any price! He clenched his hands.No, no, no! He could not stand this much longer. He wanted Jane: hewanted Mrs. Dimble: he wanted Denniston. He wanted somebody orsomething. "Oh, don't, don't let me go back into it!" he said; and thenlouder, "Don't, don't!" All that could in any sense be called himselfwent into that cry; and the dreadful consciousness of having played hislast card began to turn slowly into a sort of peace. There was nothingmore to be done. Unconsciously he allowed his muscles to relax. Hisyoung body was very tired by this time and even the hard floor wasgrateful to it. The cell also seemed to be somehow emptied and purged,as if it, too, were tired after the conflicts it had witnessed--emptiedlike a sky after rain, tired like a child after weeping. A dimconsciousness that the night must be nearly ended stole over him, and hefell asleep.

THIRTEEN

They have pulled down Deep Heaven on their Heads

I

"Stand! Stand where you are and tell me your name and business," saidRansom.

The ragged figure on the threshold tilted its head a little sidewayslike one who cannot quite hear. At the same moment the wind from theopened door had its way with the house. The inner door, between thescullery and the kitchen, clapped to with a loud bang, isolating thethree men from the women, and a large tin basin fell clattering into thesink. The stranger took a pace farther into the room.

"Sta," said Ransom in a great voice. "In nomine Patris et Filii etSpiritus Sancti, dic mihi qui sis et quam ob causam veneris."[3]

[Footnote 3]"Stand. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost,tell me who you are and why you come."

The Stranger raised his hand and flung back the dripping hair from hisforehead. The light fell full on his face, from which Ransom had theimpression of an immense quietness. Every muscle of this man's bodyseemed as relaxed as if he were asleep, and he stood absolutely still.Each drop of rain from the khaki coat struck the tiled floor exactlywhere the drop before it had fallen.

His eyes rested on Ransom for a second or two with no particularinterest. Then he turned his head to his left, to where the door wasflung back almost against the wall. MacPhee was concealed behind it.

"Come out," said the Stranger, in Latin. The words were spoken almost ina whisper, but so deep that even in that wind-shaken room they made akind of vibration. But what surprised Ransom much more was the fact thatMacPhee immediately obeyed. He did not look at Ransom but at theStranger. Then, unexpectedly, he gave an enormous yawn. The Strangerlooked him up and down and then turned to the Director.

"Fellow," he said in Latin, "tell the Lord of this House that I amcome." As he spoke, the wind from behind him was whipping the coat abouthis legs and blowing his hair over his forehead: but his great massstood as if it had been planted like a tree, and he seemed in no hurry.And the voice, too, was such as one might imagine to be the voice of atree, large and slow and patient, drawn up through roots and clay andgravel from the depths of the Earth.

"I am the Master here," said Ransom, in the same language.

"To be sure!" answered the Stranger. "And yonder whipper-snapper(mastigia) is without doubt your Bishop." He did not exactly smile,but a look of disquieting amusement came into his keen eyes. Suddenly hepoked his head forward so as to bring his face much nearer to theDirector's.

"Tell your master that I am come," he repeated in the same voice asbefore.

Ransom looked at him without the flicker of an eyelid.

"Do you really wish," he said at last, "that I call upon my Masters?"

"A daw that lives in a hermit's cell has learned before now to chatterbook-Latin," said the other. "Let us hear your calling, mannikin(homuncio)."

"I must use another language for it," said Ransom.

"A daw could have Greek also in its bill."

"It is not Greek."

"Let us hear your Hebrew, then."

"It is not Hebrew."

"Nay," answered the other with something like a chuckle, a chuckle deephidden in his enormous chest and betrayed only by a slight movement ofhis shoulders, "if you come to the gabble of barbarians, it will go hardbut I shall out-chatter you. Here is excellent sport."

"It may happen to seem to you the speech of barbarians," said Ransom,"for it is long since it has been heard. Not even in Numinor was itheard in the streets."

The Stranger gave no start and his face remained as quiet as before, ifit did not become quieter; but he spoke with a new interest.

"Your Masters let you play with dangerous toys," he said. "Tell me,slave, what is Numinor?"

"The true West," said Ransom.

"Well . . ." said the other. Then, after a pause, he added, "You havelittle courtesy to guests in this house. It is a cold wind on my back,and I have been long in bed. You see, I have already crossed thethreshold."

"I value that at a straw," said Ransom. "Shut the door, MacPhee," headded in English. But there was no response; and looking round for thefirst time, he saw that MacPhee had sat down in the one chair which thescullery contained and was fast asleep.

"What is the meaning of this foolery?" said Ransom, looking sharply atthe Stranger.

"If you are indeed the Master of this house, you have no need to betold. If not, why should I give account of myself to such as you? Do notfear; your horse-boy will be none the worse."

"This shall be seen to shortly," said Ransom. "In the meantime, I do notfear your entering the house. I have more cause to fear your escaping.Shut the door if you will, for you see my foot is hurt."

The Stranger, without ever taking his eyes off Ransom, swept back hisleft hand behind him, found the door handle, and slammed the door to.MacPhee never stirred. "Now," he said, "what of these Masters of yours?"

"My Masters are the Oyéresu."

"Where did you hear that name?" asked the Stranger. "Or, if you aretruly of the College, why do they dress you like a slave?"

"Your own garments," said Ransom, "are not those of a druid."

"That stroke was well put by," answered the other. "Since you haveknowledge, answer me three questions, if you dare."

"I will answer them if I can. But as for daring, we shall see."

The Stranger mused for a few seconds; then, speaking in a slightlysing-song voice, as though he repeated an old lesson, he asked, in twoLatin hexameters, the following question:

"Who is called Sulva? What road does she walk? Why is the womb barren onone side? Where are the cold marriages?"

Ransom replied, "Sulva is she whom mortals call the Moon. She walks inthe lowest sphere. The rim of the world that was wasted goes throughher. Half of her orb is turned towards us and shares our curse. Herother half looks to Deep Heaven; happy would he be who could cross thatfrontier and see the fields on her farther side. On this side the wombis barren and the marriages cold. There dwell an accursed people, fullof pride and lust. There when a young man takes a maiden in marriagethey do not lie together, but each lies with a cunningly fashioned imageof the other, made to move and to be warm by devilish arts, for realflesh will not please them, they are so dainty (delicati) in theirdreams of lust. Their real children they fabricate by vile arts in asecret place."

"You have answered well," said the Stranger. "I thought there were butthree men in the world that knew this question. But my second may beharder. Where is the ring of Arthur the King? What Lord has such atreasure in his house?"

"The ring of the King," said Ransom, "is on Arthur's finger where hesits in the House of Kings in the cup-shaped land of Abhalljin, beyondthe seas of Lur in Perelandra. For Arthur did not die; but Our Lord tookhim to be in the body till the end of time and the shattering of Sulva,with Enoch and Elias and Moses and Melchisedec the King. Melchisedec ishe in whose hall the steep-stoned ring sparkles on the forefinger of thePendragon."

"Well answered," said the Stranger. "In my college it was thought thatonly two men in the world knew this. But as for my third question, noman knew the answer but myself. Who shall be Pendragon in the time whenSaturn descends from his sphere? In what world did he learn war?"

"In the sphere of Venus I learned war," said Ransom. "In this age Lurgashall descend. I am the Pendragon."

When he had said this he took a step backwards, for the big man hadbegun to move and there was a new look in his eyes. Any who had seenthem as they stood thus face to face would have thought that it mightcome to fighting at any moment. But the Stranger had not moved withhostile purpose. Slowly, ponderously, yet not awkwardly, as though amountain sank like a wave, he sank on one knee; and still his face wasalmost on a level with the Director's.

II

"This throws a quite unexpected burden on our resources," said Wither toFrost, where they both sat in the outer room with the door ajar. "I mustconfess I had not anticipated any serious difficulty about language."

"We must get a Celtic scholar at once," said Frost. "We are regrettablyweak on the philological side. I do not at the moment know who hasdiscovered most about ancient British. Ransom would be the man to adviseus if he were available. I suppose nothing has been heard of him by yourdepartment?"

"I need hardly point out," said Wither, "that Dr. Ransom's philologicalattainments are by no means the only ground on which we are anxious tofind him. If the least trace had been discovered, you may rest assuredthat you would have long since had the--ah--gratification of seeing himhere in person."

"Of course. He may not be in the Earth at all."

"I met him once," said Wither, half closing his eyes. "He was a mostbrilliant man in his way. A man whose penetrations and intuitions mighthave been of infinite value, if he had not embraced the cause ofreaction. It is a saddening reflection----"

"Of course," said Frost, interrupting him. "Straik knows modern Welsh.His mother was a Welsh woman."

"It would certainly be much more satisfactory," said Wither, "if wecould, so to speak, keep the whole matter in the family. There would besomething very disagreeable to me--and I am sure you would feel the sameway yourself--about introducing a Celtic expert from outside."

"The expert would, of course, be provided for as soon as we coulddispense with his services," replied Frost. "It is the waste of timethat is the trouble. What progress have you made with Straik?"

"Oh, really excellent," said the Deputy Director. "Indeed I am almost alittle disappointed. I mean, my pupil is advancing so rapidly that itmay be necessary to abandon an idea which, I confess, rather attractsme. I had been thinking while you were out of the room that it would bespecially fitting and--ah--proper and gratifying if your pupil and minecould be initiated together. We should both, I am sure, have felt . . .But, of course, if Straik is ready some time before Studdock, I shouldnot feel myself entitled to stand in his way. You will understand, mydear fellow, that I am not trying to make this anything like a test caseas to the comparative efficiency of our very different methods."

"It would be impossible for you to do so," said Frost, "since I haveinterviewed Studdock only once, and that one interview has had all thesuccess that could be expected. I mentioned Straik only to find outwhether he were already so far committed that he might properly beintroduced to our guest."

"Oh . . . as to being committed," said Wither, "in some sense . . .ignoring certain fine shades for the moment, while fully recognisingtheir ultimate importance . . . I should not hesitate . . . we should beperfectly justified."

"I was thinking," said Frost, "that there must be someone on duty here.He may wake at any moment. Our pupils--Straik and Studdock--could take itin turns. There is no reason why they should not be useful even beforetheir full initiation. They would, of course, be under orders to ring usup the moment anything happened."

"You think Mr.--ah--Studdock is far enough on?"

"It doesn't matter," said Frost. "What harm can he do? He can't getout. And in the meantime we only want someone to watch. It would be auseful test."

III

MacPhee, who had just been refuting both Ransom and Alcasan's head by atwo-edged argument which seemed unanswerable in the dream but which henever afterwards remembered, found himself violently waked by someoneshaking his shoulder. He suddenly perceived that he was cold and hisleft foot was numb. Then he saw Denniston's face looking into his own.The scullery seemed full of people--Denniston and Dimble and Jane. Theyappeared extremely bedraggled, torn and muddy and wet.

"Are you all right?" Denniston was saying. "I've been trying to wake youfor several minutes."

"All right?" said MacPhee, swallowing once or twice and licking hislips. "Aye, I'm all right." Then he sat upright. "There's been a--a manhere," he said.

"What sort of a man?" asked Dimble.

"Well," said MacPhee, "as to that . . . it's not just so easy . . . Ifell asleep talking to him, to tell you the truth. I can't just bring tomind what we were saying."

The others exchanged glances. Though MacPhee was fond of a little hottoddy on winter nights, he was a sober man: they had never seen him likethis before. Next moment he jumped to his feet.

"Lord save us!" he exclaimed. "He had the Director here. Quick! We mustsearch the house and the garden. It was some kind of impostor or spy. Iknow now what's wrong with me. I've been hypnotised. There was a horse,too. I mind the horse."

This last detail had an immediate effect on his hearers. Denniston flungopen the kitchen door and the whole party surged in after him. For asecond they saw indistinct forms in the deep, red light of a large firewhich had not been attended to for some hours: then, as Denniston foundthe switch and turned on the light, all drew a deep breath. The fourwomen sat fast asleep. The jackdaw slept, perched on the back of anempty chair. Mr. Bultitude, stretched out on his side across the hearth,slept also: his tiny, child-like snore, so disproportionate to his bulk,was audible in the momentary silence. Mrs. Dimble, bunched in whatseemed a comfortless position, was sleeping with her head on the table,a half-darned sock still clasped on her knees. Dimble looked at her withthat uncurable pity which men feel for any sleeper, but specially for awife. Camilla, who had been in the rocking-chair, was curled up in anattitude which was full of grace, like that of an animal accustomed tosleep anywhere. Mrs. Maggs slept with her kind, commonplace mouth wideopen; and Grace Ironwood, bolt upright as if she were awake, but withthe head sagging a little to one side, seemed to submit with austerepatience to the humiliation of unconsciousness.

"They're all right," said MacPhee from behind. "It's just the same as hedid to me. We've no time to wake them. Get on."

They passed from the kitchen into the flagged passage. To all of themexcept MacPhee the silence of the house seemed intense after theirbuffeting in the wind and rain. The lights as they switched them onsuccessively revealed empty rooms and empty passages which wore theabandoned look of indoor midnight--fires dead in the grates, an eveningpaper on a sofa, a clock that had stopped. But no one had reallyexpected to find much else on the ground floor.

"Now for upstairs," said Dimble.

"The lights are on upstairs," said Jane, as they all came to the foot ofthe staircase.

"We turned them on ourselves from the passage," said Dimble.

"I don't think we did," said Denniston.

"Excuse me," said Dimble to MacPhee, "I think perhaps I'd better gofirst."

Up to the first landing they were in darkness; on the second and lastthe light from the first floor fell. At each landing the stair made aright-angled turn, so that till you reached the second you could not seethe lobby on the floor above. Jane and Denniston, who were last, sawMacPhee and Dimble stopped dead on the second landing: their faces inprofile lit up, the backs of their heads in darkness. The Ulsterman'smouth was shut like a trap, his expression hostile and afraid. Dimblewas open-mouthed. Then, forcing her tired limbs to run, Jane got upbeside them and saw what they saw.

Looking down on them from the balustrade were two men, one clothed insweepy garments of red and the other in blue. It was the Director whowore blue, and for one instant a thought that was pure nightmare crossedJane's mind. The two robed figures looked to be two of the same sort . . .and what, after all, did she know of this Director who had conjuredher into his house and made her dream dreams and taught her the fear ofHell that very night? And there they were, the pair of them, talkingtheir secrets and doing whatever such people would do, when they hademptied the house or laid its inhabitants to sleep. The man who had beendug up out of the earth and the man who had been in outer space . . .and the one had told them that the other was an enemy, and now, themoment they met, here were the two of them, run together like two dropsof quicksilver. All this time she had hardly looked at the Stranger. TheDirector seemed to have laid aside his crutch, and Jane had hardly seenhim standing so straight and still before. The light so fell on hisbeard that it became a kind of halo; and on top of his head also shecaught the glint of gold. Suddenly, while she thought of these things,she found that her eyes were looking straight into the eyes of theStranger. Next moment she had noticed his size. The man was monstrous.And the two men were allies. And the Stranger was speaking and pointingat her as he spoke.

She did not understand the words: but Dimble did, and heard Merlinsaying in what seemed to him a rather strange kind of Latin:

"Sir, you have in your house the falsest lady of any at this timealive."

And Dimble heard the Director answer in the same language.

"Sir, you are mistaken. She is doubtless like all of us a sinner: butthe woman is chaste."

"Sir," said Merlin, "know well that she has done in Logres a thing ofwhich no less sorrow shall come than came of the stroke that Balinusstruck. For, sir, it was the purpose of God that she and her lord shouldbetween them have begotten a child by whom the enemies should have beenput out of Logres for a thousand years."

"She is but lately married," said Ransom. "The child may yet be born."

"Sir," said Merlin, "be assured that the child will never be born, forthe hour of its begetting is passed. Of their own will they are barren:I did not know till now that the usages of Sulva were so common amongyou. For a hundred generations in two lines the begetting of this childwas prepared; and unless God should rip up the work of time, such seed,and such an hour, in such a land, shall never be again."

"Enough said," answered Ransom. "The woman perceives that we arespeaking of her."

"It would be great charity," said Merlin, "if you gave order that herhead should be cut from her shoulders; for it is a weariness to look ather."

Jane, though she had a smattering of Latin, had not understood theirconversation. The accent was unfamiliar, and the old Druid used avocabulary that was far beyond her reading--the Latin of a man to whomApuleius and Martianus Capella were the primary classics and whoseelegances resembled those of the Hisperica Famina. But Dimble hadfollowed it. He thrust Jane behind him and called out:

"Ransom! What in heaven's name is the meaning of this?"

Merlin spoke again in Latin, and Ransom was just turning to answer himwhen Dimble interrupted:

"Answer us," he said. "What has happened? Why are you dressed up likethat? What are you doing with that bloodthirsty old man?"

MacPhee, who had followed the Latin even less than Jane, but who hadbeen staring at Merlin as an angry terrier stares at a Newfoundland dogwhich has invaded its own garden, broke into the conversation.

"Dr. Ransom," he said. "I don't know who the big man is and I'm noLatinist. But I know well that you've kept me under your eye all thisnight against my own expressed will, and allowed me to be drugged andhypnotised. It gives me little pleasure, I assure you, to see yourselfdressed up like something out of a pantomime and standing therehand-in-glove with that yogi, or shaman, or priest, or whatever he is.And you can tell him he need not look at me the way he's doing. I'm notafraid of him. And as for my own life and limb--if you, Dr. Ransom, havechanged sides after all that's come and gone, I don't know that I'vemuch more use for either. But though I may be killed, I'm not going tobe made a fool of. We're waiting for an explanation."

The Director looked down on them in silence for a few seconds.

"Has it really come to this?" he said. "Does not one of you trust me?"

"I do, sir," said Jane suddenly.

"These appeals to the passions and emotions," said MacPhee, "are nothingto the purpose. I could cry as well as anyone this moment if I gave mymind to it."

"Well," said the Director, after a pause, "there is some excuse for youall, for we have all been mistaken. So has the enemy. This man isMerlinus Ambrosius. They thought that if he came back he would be ontheir side. I find he is on ours. You, Dimble, ought to realise thatthis was always a possibility."

"That is true," said Dimble. "I suppose it was--well, the look of thething--you and he standing there together: like that. And his appallingbloodthirstiness."

"I have been startled by it myself," said Ransom. "But after all we hadno right to expect that his penal code would be that of the nineteenthcentury. I find it difficult, too, to make him understand that I am notan absolute monarch."

"Is--is he a Christian?" asked Dimble.

"Yes," said Ransom. "As for my clothes, I have for once put on the dressof my office to do him honour, and because I was ashamed. He mistookMacPhee and me for scullions or stable-boys. In his days, you see, mendid not, except for necessity, go about in shapeless sacks of cloth, anddrab was not a favourite colour."

At this point Merlin spoke again. Dimble and the Director, who alonecould follow his speech, heard him say, "Who are these people? If theyare your slaves, why do they do you no reverence? If they are enemies,why do we not destroy them?"

"They are my friends," began Ransom in Latin, but MacPhee interrupted.

"Do I understand, Dr. Ransom," he said, "that you are asking us toaccept this person as a member of our organisation?"

"I am afraid," said the Director, "I cannot put it that way. He is amember of the organisation. And I must command you all to accept him."

"And secondly," continued MacPhee, "I must ask what enquiries have beenmade into his credentials."

"I am fully satisfied," answered the Director. "I am as sure of his goodfaith as of yours."

"But the grounds of your confidence?" persisted MacPhee. "Are we not tohear them?"

"It would be hard," said the Director, "to explain to you my reasons fortrusting Merlinus Ambrosius: but no harder than to explain to him why,despite many appearances which might be misunderstood, I trust you."There was just the ghost of a smile about his mouth as he said this.Then Merlin spoke to him again in Latin and he replied. After thatMerlin addressed Dimble.

"The Pendragon tells me," he said in his unmoved voice, "that you accuseme for a fierce and cruel man. It is a charge I never heard before. Athird part of my substance I gave to widows and poor men. I never soughtthe death of any but felons and heathen Saxons. As for the woman, shemay live for me. I am not master in this house. But would it be such agreat matter if her head were struck off? Do not queens and ladies whowould disdain her as their tire-woman go to the fire for less? Even thatgallows bird (cruciarius) beside you--I mean you, fellow, though youspeak nothing but your own barbarous tongue; you with the face like sourmilk and the voice like a saw in a hard log and the legs like acrane's--even that cutpurse (sector zonarius), though I would have himto the gatehouse, yet the rope should be used on his back, not histhroat."

MacPhee who realised, though without understanding the words, that hewas the subject of some unfavourable comment, stood listening with thatexpression of entirely suspended judgement which is commoner in NorthernIreland and the Scotch lowlands than in England.

"Mr. Director," he said, when Merlin had finished, "I would be verygreatly obliged if----"

"Come," said the Director suddenly, "we have none of us slept to-night.Arthur, will you come and light a fire for our guest in the big room atthe north end of this passage? And would someone wake the women? Askthem to bring him up refreshments. A bottle of Burgundy and whatever youhave cold. And then, all to bed. We need not stir early in the morning.All is going to be very well."

IV

"We're going to have difficulties with that new colleague of ours," saidDimble. He was alone with his wife in their room at St. Anne's late onthe following day.

"Yes," he repeated after a pause. "What you'd call a strong colleague."

"You look very tired, Cecil," said Mrs. Dimble.

"Well, it's been rather a gruelling conference," said he. "He's--he's atiring man. Oh, I know we've all been fools. I mean, we've all beenimagining that because he came back in the twentieth century he'd be atwentieth-century man. Time is more important than we thought, that'sall."

"I felt that at lunch, you know," said his wife, "it was so silly not tohave realised that he wouldn't know about forks. But what surprised meeven more (after the first shock) was how--well, how elegant he waswithout them. I mean you could see it wasn't a case of having no mannersbut of having different ones."

"Oh, the old boy's a gentleman in his own way--anyone can see that. But. . . well, I don't know. I suppose it's all right."

"What happened at the meeting?"

"Well, you see, everything had to be explained on both sides. We'd thedickens of a job to make him understand that Ransom isn't the king ofthis country or trying to become king. And then we had to break it tohim that we weren't the British at all, but the English--what he'd callSaxons. It took him some time to get over that."

"I see."

"And then MacPhee had to choose that moment for embarking on aninterminable explanation of the relations between Scotland and Irelandand England. All of which, of course, had to be translated. It was allnonsense, too. Like a good many people MacPhee imagines he's a Celtwhen, apart from his name, there's nothing Celtic about him any morethan about Mr. Bultitude. By the way Merlinus Ambrosius made a prophecyabout Mr. Bultitude."

"Oh! What was that?"

"He said that before Christmas this bear would do the best deed that anybear had done in Britain except some other bear that none of us had everheard of. He keeps on saying things like that. They just pop out whenwe're talking about something else, and in a rather different voice. Asif he couldn't help it. He doesn't seem to know any more than the bithe tells you at the moment, if you see what I mean. As if something likea camera shutter opened at the back of his mind and closed againimmediately and just one little item came through. It has rather adisagreeable effect."

"He and MacPhee didn't quarrel again, I hope."

"Not exactly. I'm afraid Merlinus Ambrosius wasn't taking MacPhee veryseriously. From the fact that MacPhee is always being obstructive andrather rude and yet never gets sat on, I think Merlinus has concludedthat he is the Director's fool. He seems to have got over his dislikefor him. But I don't think MacPhee is going to like Merlinus."

"Did you get down to actual business?" asked Mrs. Dimble.

"Well, in a way," said Dimble, wrinkling his forehead. "We were all atcross purposes, you see. The business about Ivy's husband being inprison came up, and Merlinus wanted to know why we hadn't rescued him.He seemed to imagine us just riding off and taking the County Jail bystorm. That's the sort of thing one was up against all the time."

"Cecil," said Mrs. Dimble suddenly. "Is he going to be any use?"

"He's going to be able to do things, if that's what you mean. In thatsense there's more danger of his being too much use than too little."

"What sort of things?" asked his wife.

"The universe is so very complicated," said Dr. Dimble.

"So you have said rather often before, dear," replied Mrs. Dimble.

"Have I?" he said with a smile. "How often, I wonder? As often as you'vetold the story of the pony and trap at Dawlish?"

"Cecil! I haven't told it for years."

"My dear, I heard you telling it to Camilla the night before last."

"Oh, Camilla! That was quite different. She'd never heard it before."

"I don't know that we can be certain even about that . . . the universebeing so complicated and all."

For a few minutes there was silence between them.

"But about Merlin?" asked Mrs. Dimble presently.

"Have you ever noticed," said Dimble, "that the universe, and everylittle bit of the universe, is always hardening and narrowing and comingto a point?"

His wife waited as those wait who know by long experience the mentalprocesses of the person who is talking to them.

"I mean this," said Dimble, in answer to the question she had not asked."If you dip into any college, or school, or parish, or family--anythingyou like--at a given point in its history, you always find that there wasa time before that point when there was more elbow-room and contrastsweren't quite so sharp; and that there's going to be a time after thatpoint when there is even less room for indecision and choices are evenmore momentous. Good is always getting better and bad is always gettingworse: the possibilities of even apparent neutrality are alwaysdiminishing. The whole thing is sorting itself out all the time, comingto a point, getting sharper and harder. Like in the poem about Heavenand Hell eating into merry Middle Earth from opposite sides . . . howdoes it go? Something about 'eat every day . . . till all issomethinged away.' It can't be eaten, that wouldn't scan. My memoryhas failed dreadfully these last few years. Do you know the bit,Margery?"

"What you were saying reminded me more of the bit in the Bible about thewinnowing fan. Separating the wheat and the chaff. Or like Browning'sline: 'Life's business being just the terrible choice.'"

"Exactly! Perhaps the whole time-process means just that and nothingelse. But it's not only in questions of moral choice. Everything isgetting more itself and more different from everything else all thetime. Evolution means species getting less and less like one another.Minds get more and more spiritual, matter more and more material. Evenin literature, poetry and prose draw further and further apart."

Mrs. Dimble with the ease born of long practice averted the danger, everpresent in her house, of a merely literary turn being given to theconversation.

"Yes," she said. "Spirit and matter, certainly. That explains why peoplelike the Studdocks find it so difficult to be happily married."

"The Studdocks?" said Dimble, looking at her rather vaguely. Thedomestic problems of that young couple had occupied his mind a good dealless than they had occupied his wife's. "Oh, I see! Yes. I dare say thathas something to do with it. But about Merlin: what it comes to, as faras I can make out, is this. There were still possibilities for a man ofthat age which there aren't for a man of ours. The earth itself was morelike an animal in those days. And mental processes were much more likephysical actions. And there were--well, Neutrals, knocking about."

"Neutrals?"

"I don't mean, of course, that anything can be a real neutral. Aconscious being is either obeying God or disobeying Him. But there mightbe things neutral in relation to us."

"You mean eldils--angels?"

"Well, the word angel rather begs the question. Even the Oyéresuaren't exactly angels in the same sense as our guardian angels are.Technically, they are Intelligences. The point is that while it may betrue at the end of the world to describe every eldil either as an angelor a devil, and may even be true now, it was much less true in Merlin'stime. There used to be things on this earth pursuing their own business,so to speak. They weren't ministering spirits sent to help fallenhumanity, but neither were they enemies preying upon us. Even in St.Paul one gets glimpses of a population that won't exactly fit into ourtwo columns of angels and devils. And if you go back further . . . allthe gods, elves, dwarfs, water-people, fate, longaevi. You and I knowtoo much to think they are just illusions."

"You think there are things like that?"

"I think there were. I think there was room for them then, but theuniverse has come more to a point. Not all rational things perhaps. Somewould be mere wills inherent in matter, hardly conscious. More likeanimals. Others--but I don't really know. At any rate, that is the sortof situation in which one got a man like Merlin."

"It all sounds rather horrible to me."

"It was rather horrible. I mean even in Merlin's time (he came at theextreme tail end of it), though you could still use that sort of life inthe universe innocently, you couldn't do it safely. The things weren'tbad in themselves, but they were already bad for us. They sort ofwithered the man who dealt with them. Not on purpose. They couldn't helpdoing it. Merlinus is withered. He's quite pious and humble and allthat, but something has been taken out of him. That quietness of his isjust a little deadly, like the quiet of a gutted building. It's theresult of having laid his mind open to something that broadens theenvironment just a bit too much. Like polygamy. It wasn't wrong forAbraham, but one can't help feeling that even he lost something by it."

"Cecil," said Mrs. Dimble, "do you feel quite comfortable about theDirector's using a man like this? I mean, doesn't it look a little bitlike fighting Belbury with its own weapons?"

"No. I had thought of that. Merlin is the reverse of Belbury. He's atthe opposite extreme. He is the last vestige of an old order in whichmatter and spirit were, from our modern point of view, confused. For himevery operation on Nature is a kind of personal contact, like coaxing achild or stroking one's horse. After him came the modern man to whomNature is something dead--a machine to be worked, and taken to bits if itwon't work the way he pleases. Finally come the Belbury people, who takeover that view from the modern man unaltered and simply want to increasetheir power by tacking on to it the aid of spirits--extra-natural,anti-natural spirits. Of course they hoped to have it both ways. Theythought the old magia of Merlin, which worked in with the spiritualqualities of Nature, loving and reverencing them and knowing them fromwithin, could be combined with the new goeteia--the brutal surgery fromwithout. No. In a sense, Merlin represents what we've got to get back toin some different way. Do you know that he is forbidden by the rules ofhis order ever to use any edged tool on any growing thing?"

"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Dimble, "there's six o'clock. I'd promisedIvy to be in the kitchen at quarter to. There's no need for you tomove, Cecil."

"Do you know," said Dimble, "I think you are a wonderful woman."

"Why?"

"How many women who had had their own house for thirty years would beable to fit into this menagerie as you do?"

"That's nothing," said Mrs. Dimble. "Ivy had her own house too, youknow. And it's much worse for her. After all, I haven't got my husbandin jail."

"You jolly soon will have," said Dimble, "if half the plans of MerlinusAmbrosius are put into action."

V

Merlin and the Director were meanwhile talking in the Blue Room. TheDirector had put aside his robe and circlet and lay on his sofa. TheDruid sat in a chair facing him, his legs uncrossed, his pale largehands motionless on his knees, looking to modern eyes like an oldconventional carving of a king. He was still robed and beneath the robe,as Ransom knew, had surprisingly little clothing, for the warmth of thehouse was to him excessive and he found trousers uncomfortable. His louddemands for oil after his bath had involved some hurried shopping in thevillage which had finally produced, by Denniston's exertions, a tin ofBrilliantine. Merlinus had used it freely so that his hair and beardglistened and the sweet sticky smell filled the room. That was why Mr.Bultitude had pawed so insistently at the door that he was finallyadmitted and now sat as near the magician as he could possibly get, hisnostrils twitching. He had never smelled such an interesting man before.

"Sir," said Merlin, in answer to the question which the Director hadjust asked him, "I give you great thanks. I cannot, indeed, understandthe way you live, and your house is strange to me. You give me a bathsuch as the Emperor himself might envy, but no one attends me to it: abed softer than sleep itself, but when I rise from it I find I must puton my own clothes with my own hands as if I were a peasant. I lie in aroom with windows of pure crystal so that you can see the sky as clearlywhen they are shut as when they are open, and there is not wind enoughwithin the room to blow out an unguarded taper; but I lie in it alone,with no more honour than a prisoner in a dungeon. Your people eat dryand tasteless flesh, but it is off plates as smooth as ivory and asround as the sun. In all the house there is warmth and softness andsilence that might put a man in mind of paradise terrestrial; but nohangings, no beautified pavements, no musicians, no perfumes, no highseats, not a gleam of gold, not a hawk, not a hound. You seem to me tolive neither like a rich man nor a poor one: neither like a lord nor ahermit. Sir, I tell you these things because you have asked me. They areof no importance. Now that none hears us save the last of the sevenbears of Logres, it is time that we should open counsels to each other."

He glanced at the Director's face as he spoke and then, as if startledby what he saw there, leaned sharply forward.

"Does your wound pain you?" he asked.

Ransom shook his head. "No," he said, "it is not the wound. We haveterrible things to talk of."

"Sir," said Merlinus in a deeper and softer voice, "I could take all theanguish from your heel as though I were wiping it out with a sponge.Give me but seven days to go in and out and up and down and to and fro,to renew old acquaintance. These fields and I, this wood and I, havemuch to say to one another."

As he said this he was leaning forward so that his face and the bear'swere almost side by side, and it almost looked as if those two mighthave been engaged in some kind of furry and grunted conversation. Thedruid's face had a strangely animal appearance: not sensual nor fierce,but full of the patient, unarguing sagacity of a beast. Ransom's,meanwhile, was full of torment.

"You might find the country much changed," he said, forcing a smile.

"No," said Merlin. "I do not reckon to find it much changed." Thedistance between the two men was increasing every moment. Merlin waslike something that ought not to be indoors. Bathed and anointed thoughhe was, a sense of mould, gravel, wet leaves, weedy water, hung abouthim.

"Not changed," he repeated in an almost inaudible voice. And in thatdeepening inner silence of which his face bore witness, one might havebelieved that he listened continually to a murmur of evasive sounds;rustling of mice and stoats, thumping progression of frogs, the smallshock of falling hazel nuts, creaking of branches, runnels trickling,the very growing of grass. The bear had closed its eyes. The whole roomwas growing heavy with a sort of floating anaesthesia.

"Through me," said Merlin, "you can suck up from the Earth oblivion ofall pains."

"Silence," said the Director sharply. He had been sinking down into thecushions of his sofa with his head drooping a little towards his chest.Now he suddenly sat bolt upright. The magician started and straightenedhimself likewise. The air of the room was cleared. Even the bear openedits eyes again.

"No," said the Director. "God's glory, do you think you were dug out ofthe earth to give me a plaster for my heel? We have drugs that couldcheat the pain as well as your earth-magic or better, if it were not mybusiness to bear it to the end. I will hear no more of that. Do youunderstand?"

"I hear and obey," said the magician. "But I meant no harm. If not toheal your own wound, yet for the healing of Logres, you will need mycommerce with field and water. It must be that I should go in and out,and to and fro, renewing old acquaintance. It will not be changed, youknow--not what you would call changed."

Again that sweet heaviness, like the smell of hawthorn, seemed to beflowing back over the Blue Room.

"No," said the Director in a still louder voice, "that cannot be doneany longer. The soul has gone out of the wood and water. Oh, I dare sayyou could awake them--a little. But it would not be enough. A storm, oreven a river-flood, would be of little avail against our present enemy.Your weapon would break in your hands. For the Hideous Strengthconfronts us, and it is as in the days when Nimrod built a tower toreach heaven."

"Hidden it may be," said Merlinus, "but not changed. Leave me to work,Lord. I will wake it. I will set a sword in every blade of grass towound them and the very clods of earth shall be venom to their feet. Iwill----"

"No," said the Director, "I forbid you to speak of it. If it werepossible, it would be unlawful. Whatever of spirit may still linger inthe earth has withdrawn fifteen hundred years further away from us sinceyour time. You shall not speak a word to it. You shall not lift yourlittle finger to call it up. I command you. It is in this age utterlyunlawful." Hitherto he had been speaking sternly and coldly. Now heleaned forward and said in a different voice, "It never was verylawful, even in your day. Remember, when we first knew that you would beawaked, we thought you would be on the side of the enemy. And becauseOur Lord does all things for each, one of the purposes of yourreawakening was that your own soul should be saved."

Merlin sank back into his chair like a man unstrung. The bear licked hishand where it hung, pale and relaxed, over the arm of the chair.

"Sir," said Merlin presently, "if I am not to work for you in thatfashion, then you have taken into your house a silly bulk of flesh, forI am no longer much of a man of war. If it comes to point and edge, Iavail little."

"Not that way either," said Ransom, hesitating like a man who isreluctant to come to the point. "No power that is merely earthly," hecontinued at last, "will serve against the Hideous Strength."

"Then let us all to prayers," said Merlinus. "But there also . . . I wasnot reckoned of much account . . . they called me a devil's son, some ofthem. It was a lie. But I do not know why I have been brought back."

"Certainly, let us stick to our prayers," said Ransom, "now and always.But that was not what I meant. There are celestial powers: createdpowers, not in this Earth, but in the Heavens."

Merlinus looked at him in silence.

"You know well what I am speaking of," said Ransom. "Did not I tell youwhen we first met that the Oyéresu were my masters?"

"Of course," said Merlin. "And that was how I knew you were of thecollege. Is it not our password all over the Earth?"

"A password?" exclaimed Ransom, with a look of surprise. "I did not knowthat."

"But . . . but," said Merlinus, "if you knew not the password, how didyou come to say it?"

"I said it because it was true."

The magician licked his lips which had become very pale.

"True as the plainest things are true," repeated Ransom; "true as it istrue that you sit here with my bear beside you."

Merlin spread out his hands. "You are my father and mother," he said.His eyes, steadily fixed on Ransom, were large as those of an awe-struckchild, but for the rest he looked a smaller man than Ransom had firsttaken him to be.

"Suffer me to speak," he said at last, "or slay me if you will, for I amin the hollow of your hand. I had heard of it in my own days--that somehad spoken with the gods. Blaise, my Master, knew a few words of thatspeech. Yet these were, after all, powers of Earth. For--I need not teachyou, you know more than I--it is not the very Oyéresu, the true powers ofheaven, whom the greatest of our craft meet, but only their earthlywraiths, their shadows. Only the earth-Venus, the earth-Mercurius: notPerelandra herself, not Viritrilbia himself. It is only----"

"I am not speaking of the wraiths," said Ransom. "I have stood beforeMars himself in the sphere of Mars and before Venus herself in thesphere of Venus. It is their strength, and the strength of some greaterthan they, which will destroy our enemies."

"But, Lord," said Merlin, "how can this be? Is it not against theSeventh Law?"

"What law is that?" asked Ransom.

"Has not our Fair Lord made it a law for Himself that He will not senddown the Powers to mend or mar in this earth until the end of allthings? Or is this the end that is even now coming to pass?"

"It may be the beginning of the end," said Ransom, "but I know nothingof that. Maleldil may have made it a law not to send down the Powers.But if men by enginry and natural philosophy learn to fly into theHeavens, and come, in the flesh, among the heavenly powers and troublethem, He has not forbidden the Powers to react. For all this is withinthe natural order. A wicked man did learn so to do. He came flying, by asubtle engine, to where Mars dwells in Heaven and to where Venus dwells,and took me with him as a captive. And there I spoke with the trueOyéresu face to face. You understand me?"

Merlin inclined his head.

"And so the wicked man had brought about, even as Judas brought about,the thing he least intended. For now there was one man in the world--evenmyself--who was known to the Oyéresu and spoke their tongue, neither byGod's miracle nor by magic from Numinor, but naturally, as when two menmeet in a road. Our enemies had taken away from themselves theprotection of the Seventh Law. They had broken by natural philosophy thebarrier which God of His own power would not break. Even so they soughtyou as a friend and raised up for themselves a scourge. And that is whyPowers of Heaven have come down to this house, and in this chamber wherewe are now discoursing, Malacandra and Perelandra have spoken to me."

Merlin's face became a little paler. The bear nosed at his hand,unnoticed.

"I have become a bridge," said Ransom.

"Sir," said Merlin "what will come of this? If they put forth theirpower, they will unmake all middle earth."

"Their naked power, yes," said Ransom. "That is why they will work onlythrough a man."

The magician drew one large hand across his forehead.

"Through a man whose mind is opened to be so invaded," said Ransom; "onewho by his own will once opened it. I take Our Fair Lord to witness thatif it were my task I would not refuse it. But he will not suffer a mindthat still has its virginity to be so violated. And through a blackmagician's mind their purity neither can nor will operate. One who hasdabbled . . . in the days when dabbling had not begun to be evil, or wasonly just beginning . . . and also a Christian man and a penitent. Atool (I must speak plainly) good enough to be so used and not too good.In all these western parts of the world there was only one man who hadlived in those days and could still be recalled. You . . ."

He stopped, shocked at what was happening. The huge man had risen fromhis chair, and stood towering over him. From his horribly opened mouththere came a yell that seemed to Ransom utterly bestial, though it wasin fact only the yell of primitive Celtic lamentation. It was horrifyingto see that withered and bearded face all blubbered with undisguisedtears like a child's. All the Roman surface in Merlinus had been scrapedoff. He had become a shameless, archaic monstrosity, babbling outentreaties in a mixture of what sounded like Welsh and what sounded likeSpanish.

"Silence!" shouted Ransom. "Sit down. You put us both to shame."

As suddenly as it had begun the frenzy ended. Merlin resumed his chair.To a modern it seemed strange that, having recovered his self-control,he did not show the slightest embarrassment at his temporary loss of it.The whole character of the two-sided society in which this man must havelived became clearer to Ransom than pages of history could have made it.

"Do not think," said Ransom, "that for me either it is child's play tomeet those who will come down for your empowering."

"Sir," faltered Merlin, "you have been in Heaven. I am but a man. I amnot the son of one of the Airish Men. That was a lying story. How can I?. . . You are not as I. You have looked upon their faces before."

"Not on all of them," said Ransom. "Greater spirits than Malacandra andPerelandra will descend this time. We are in God's hands. It may unmakeus both. There is no promise that either you or I will save our lives orour reason. I do not know how we can dare to look upon their faces; butI know we cannot dare to look upon God's if we refuse this enterprise."

Suddenly the magician smote his hand upon his knee.

"Mehercule!" he cried. "Are we not going too fast? If you are thePendragon, I am the High Council of Logres, and I will council you. Ifthe Powers must tear me in pieces to break our enemies, God's will bedone. But is it yet come to that? This Saxon king of yours who sits atWindsor, now--is there no help in him?"

"He has no power in this matter."

"Then is he not weak enough to be overthrown?"

"I have no wish to overthrow him. He is the king. He was crowned andanointed by the Archbishop. In the order of Logres I may be Pendragon,but in the order of Britain I am the King's man."

"Is it, then, his great men--the counts and legates and bishops--who dothe evil and he does not know of it?"

"It is--though they are not exactly the sort of great men you have inmind."

"And are we not big enough to meet them in plain battle?"

"We are four men, some women, and a bear."

"I saw the time when Logres was only myself and one man and two boys,and one of those was a churl. Yet we conquered."

"It could not be done now. They have an engine called the Press wherebythe people are deceived. We should die without even being heard of."

"But what of the true clerks? Is there no help in them? It cannot bethat all your priests and bishops are corrupted."

"The Faith itself is torn in pieces since your day and speaks with adivided voice. Even if it were made whole, the Christians are but atenth part of the people. There is no help there."

"Then let us seek help from over sea. Is there no Christian prince inNeustria or Ireland or Benwick who would come in and cleanse Britain ifhe were called?"

"There is no Christian prince left. These other countries are even asBritain, or else sunk deeper still in the disease."

"Then we must go higher. We must go to him whose office it is to putdown tyrants and give life to dying kingdoms. We must call on theEmperor."

"There is no Emperor."

"No Emperor . . ." began Merlin, and then his voice died away. He satstill for some minutes wrestling with a world which he had neverenvisaged. Presently he said, "A thought comes into my mind and I do notknow whether it is good or evil. But because I am the High Council ofLogres I will not hide it from you. This is a cold age in which I haveawaked. If all this west part of the world is apostate, might it not belawful, in our great need, to look further . . . beyond Christendom?Should we not find some even among the heathen who are not whollycorrupt? There were tales in my day of some such: men who knew not thearticles of our most holy Faith but who worshipped God as they could andacknowledged the Law of Nature. Sir, I believe it would be lawful toseek help even there--beyond Byzantium. It was rumoured also that therewas knowledge in those lands--an Eastern circle and wisdom that came Westfrom Numinor. I know not where--Babylon, Arabia, or Cathay. You said yourships had sailed all round the earth, above and beneath."

Ransom shook his head. "You do not understand," he said. "The poison wasbrewed in these West lands but it has spat itself everywhere by now.However far you went you would find the machines, the crowded cities,the empty thrones, the false writings, the barren beds: men maddenedwith false promises and soured with true miseries, worshipping the ironworks of their own hands, cut off from Earth their mother and from theFather in Heaven. You might go East so far that East became West and youreturned to Britain across the great Ocean, but even so you would nothave come out anywhere into the light. The shadow of one dark wing isover all Tellus."

"Is it, then, the end?" asked Merlin.

"And this," said Ransom, ignoring the question, "is why we have no wayleft at all save the one I have told you. The Hideous Strength holds allthis Earth in its fist to squeeze as it wishes. But for their onemistake, there would be no hope left. If of their own evil will they hadnot broken the frontier and let in the celestial Powers, this would betheir moment of victory. Their own strength has betrayed them. They havegone to the gods who would not have come to them, and pulled down DeepHeaven on their heads. Therefore they will die. For though you searchevery cranny to escape, now that you see all crannies closed, you willnot disobey me."

And then, very slowly, there crept back into Merlin's white face, firstclosing his dismayed mouth and finally gleaming in his eyes, that almostanimal expression, earthy and healthy and with a glint of half-humorouscunning.

"Well," he said, "if the earths are stopped the fox faces the hounds.But had I known who you were at our first meeting I think I would haveput the sleep on you as I did on your Fool."

"I am a very light sleeper since I have travelled in the Heavens," saidRansom.

FOURTEEN

"Real Life is Meeting"

I

Since the day and night of the outer world made no difference in Mark'scell, he did not know whether it was minutes or hours later that hefound himself once more awake, once more confronting Frost, and stillfasting. The Professor came to ask if he had thought over their recentconversation. Mark, who judged that some decent show of reluctance wouldmake his final surrender more convincing replied that only one thing wasstill troubling him. He did not quite understand what he in particularor humanity in general stood to gain by co-operation with the Macrobes.He saw clearly that the motives on which most men act, and which theydignify by the names of patriotism or duty to humanity, were mereproducts of the animal organism, varying according to the behaviourpattern of different communities. But he did not yet see what was to besubstituted for these irrational motives. On what ground henceforwardwere actions to be justified or condemned?

"If one insists on putting the question in those terms," said Frost, "Ithink Waddington has given the best answer. Existence is its ownjustification. The tendency to developmental change which we callEvolution is justified by the fact that it is a general characteristicof biological entities. The present establishment of contact between thehighest biological entities and the Macrobes is justified by the factthat it is occurring, and it ought to be increased because an increaseis taking place."

"You think, then," said Mark, "that there would be no sense in askingwhether the general tendency of the universe might be in the directionwe should call Bad?"

"There could be no sense at all," said Frost. "The judgement you aretrying to make turns out on inspection to be simply an expression ofemotion. Huxley himself could only express it by using nakedly emotiveterms such as 'gladiatorial' or 'ruthless.' I am referring to the famousRomanes lecture. When the so-called struggle for existence is seensimply as an actuarial theorem we have, in Waddington's words, 'aconcept as unemotional as a definite integral' and the emotiondisappears. With it disappears that preposterous idea of an externalstandard of value which the emotion produced."

"And the actual tendency of events," said Mark, "would still beself-justified and in that sense 'good' when it was working for theextinction of all organic life, as it presently will?"

"Of course," replied Frost. "If you insist on formulating the problem inthose terms. In reality the question is meaningless. It presupposes ameans-and-end pattern of thought which descends from Aristotle who inhis turn was merely hypostatising elements in the experience of aniron-age, agricultural community. Motives are not the causes of actionbut its by-products. You are merely wasting your time by consideringthem. When you have attained real objectivity you will recognise notsome motives but all motives as merely animal, subjectiveepiphenomena. You will then have no motives and you will find that youdo not need them. Their place will be supplied by something else whichyou will presently understand better than you do now. So far from beingimpoverished your action will become much more efficient."

"I see," said Mark. The philosophy which Frost was expounding was by nomeans unfamiliar to him. He recognised it at once as the logicalconclusion of thoughts which he had always hitherto accepted and whichat this moment he found himself irrevocably rejecting. The knowledgethat his own assumptions led to Frost's position combined with what hesaw in Frost's face and what he had experienced in this very cell,effected a complete conversion. All the philosophers and evangelists inthe world might not have done the job so neatly.

"And that," continued Frost, "is why a systematic training inobjectivity must be given to you. Its purpose is to eliminate from yourmind one by one the things you have hitherto regarded as grounds foraction. It is like killing a nerve. That whole system of instinctivepreferences, whatever ethical, aesthetic, or logical disguise they wear,is to be simply destroyed."

"I get the idea," said Mark, though with an inward reservation that hispresent instinctive desire to batter the Professor's face into a jellywould take a good deal of destroying.

After that Frost took Mark from the cell and gave him a meal in someneighbouring room. It also was lit by artificial light and had nowindow. The Professor stood perfectly still and watched him while heate. Mark did not know what the food was and did not much like it, buthe was far too hungry by now to refuse it if refusal had been possible.When the meal was over Frost led him to the ante-room of the Head andonce more he was stripped and re-clothed in surgeon's overalls and amask. Then he was brought in, into the presence of the gaping anddribbling Head. To his surprise Frost took not the slightest notice ofit. He led him across the room to a narrower little door with a pointedarch, in the far wall. Here he paused and said, "Go in. You will speakto no one of what you find here. I will return presently." Then heopened the door and Mark went in.

The room, at first sight, was an anticlimax. It appeared to be an emptycommittee room with a long table, eight or nine chairs, some pictures,and (oddly enough) a large step-ladder in one corner. Here also therewere no windows; it was lit by an electric light which produced, betterthan Mark had ever seen it produced before, the illusion of daylight--ofa cold, grey place out of doors. This, combined with the absence of afireplace, made it seem chilly though the temperature was not in factvery low.

A man of trained sensibility would have seen at once that the room wasill proportioned, not grotesquely so but sufficiently to producedislike. It was too high and too narrow. Mark felt the effect withoutanalysing the cause and the effect grew on him as time passed. Sittingstaring about him he next noticed the door--and thought at first that hewas the victim of some optical illusion. It took him quite a long timeto prove to himself that he was not. The point of the arch was not inthe centre; the whole thing was lop-sided. Once again, the error was notgross. The thing was near enough to the true to deceive you for a momentand to go on teasing the mind even after the deception had beenunmasked. Involuntarily one kept on shifting the head to find positionsfrom which it would look right after all. He turned round and sat withhis back to it . . . one mustn't let it become an obsession.

Then he noticed the spots on the ceiling. They were not mere specks ofdirt or discoloration. They were deliberately painted on: little roundblack spots placed at irregular intervals on the pale mustard-colouredsurface. There were not a great many of them: perhaps thirty . . . orwas it a hundred? He determined that he would not fall into the trap oftrying to count them. They would be hard to count, they were soirregularly placed. Or weren't they? Now that his eyes were growing usedto them (and one couldn't help noticing that there were five in thatlittle group to the right), their arrangement seemed to hover on theverge of regularity. They suggested some kind of pattern. Their peculiarugliness consisted in the very fact that they kept on suggesting it andthen frustrating the expectation thus aroused. Suddenly he realised thatthis was another trap. He fixed his eyes on the table.

There were spots on the table, too--white ones: shiny white spots, notquite round, and arranged, apparently, to correspond to the spots on theceiling. Or were they? No, of course not . . . ah, now he had it! Thepattern (if you could call it a pattern) on the table was an exactreversal of that on the ceiling. But with certain exceptions. He foundhe was glancing rapidly from the one to the other, trying to puzzle itout. For the third time he checked himself. He got up and began to walkabout. He had a look at the pictures.

Some of them belonged to a school of art with which he was alreadyfamiliar. There was a portrait of a young woman who held her mouth wideopen to reveal the fact that the inside of it was thickly overgrown withhair. It was very skilfully painted in the photographic manner so thatyou could almost feel that hair; indeed you could not avoid feeling ithowever hard you tried. There was a giant mantis playing a fiddle whilebeing eaten by another mantis, and a man with corkscrews instead of armsbathing in a flat, sadly coloured sea beneath a summer sunset. But mostof the pictures were not of this kind. At first sight most of themseemed rather ordinary, though Mark was a little surprised at thepredominance of scriptural themes. It was only at the second or thirdglance that one discovered certain unaccountable details--something oddabout the positions of the figures' feet or the arrangement of theirfingers or the grouping. And who was the person standing between theChrist and the Lazarus? And why were there so many beetles under thetable in the Last Supper? What was the curious trick of lighting thatmade each picture look like something seen in delirium? When once thesequestions had been raised the apparent ordinariness of the picturesbecame their supreme menace--like the ominous surface innocence at thebeginning of certain dreams. Every fold of drapery, every piece ofarchitecture, had a meaning one could not grasp but which withered themind. Compared with these the other, surrealistic, pictures were merefoolery. Long ago Mark had read somewhere of "things of that extremeevil which seems innocent to the uninitiate," and had wondered what sortof things they might be. Now he felt he knew.

He turned his back on the pictures and sat down. He understood the wholebusiness now. Frost was not trying to make him insane; at least not inthe sense Mark had hitherto given to the word "insanity." Frost hadmeant what he said. To sit in the room was the first step towards whatFrost called objectivity--the process whereby all specifically humanreactions were killed in a man so that he might become fit for thefastidious society of the Macrobes. Higher degrees in the asceticism ofanti-nature would doubtless follow: the eating of abominable food, thedabbling in dirt and blood, the ritual performances of calculatedobscenities. They were, in a sense, playing quite fair with him--offeringhim the very same initiation through which they themselves had passedand which had divided them from humanity, distending and dissipatingWither into a shapeless ruin while it condensed and sharpened Frost intothe hard, bright, little needle that he now was.

But after an hour or so this long, high coffin of a room began toproduce on Mark an effect which his instructor had probably notanticipated. There was no return of the attack which he had sufferedlast night in the cell. Whether because he had already survived thatattack, or because the imminence of death had drawn the tooth of hislifelong desire for the esoteric, or because he had (in a fashion)called very urgently for help, the built and painted perversity of thisroom had the effect of making him aware, as he had never been awarebefore, of this room's opposite. As the desert first teaches men to lovewater, or as absence first reveals affection, there rose up against thisbackground of the sour and the crooked some kind of vision of the sweetand the straight. Something else--something he vaguely called the"Normal"--apparently existed. He had never thought about it before. Butthere it was--solid, massive, with a shape of its own, almost likesomething you could touch, or eat, or fall in love with. It was allmixed up with Jane and fried eggs and soap and sunlight and the rookscawing at Cure Hardy and the thought that, somewhere outside, daylightwas going on at that moment. He was not thinking in moral terms at all;or else (what is much the same thing) he was having his first deeplymoral experience. He was choosing a side: the Normal. "All that," as hecalled it, was what he chose. If the scientific point of view led awayfrom "all that," then be damned to the scientific point of view! Thevehemence of his choice almost took his breath away; he had not had sucha sensation before. For the moment he hardly cared if Frost and Witherkilled him.

I do not know how long this mood would have lasted: but while it wasstill at its height Frost returned. He led Mark to a bedroom where afire blazed and an old man lay in bed. The light gleaming on glasses andsilver and the soft luxury of the room so raised Mark's spirits that hefound it difficult to listen while Frost told him that he must remainhere on duty till relieved and must ring up the Deputy Director if thepatient spoke or stirred. He himself was to say nothing; indeed it wouldbe useless if he did, for the patient did not understand English.

Frost retired. Mark glanced round the room. He was reckless now. He sawno possibility of leaving Belbury alive unless he allowed himself to bemade into a dehumanised servant of the Macrobes. Meanwhile, do or diefor it, he was going to have a meal. There were all sorts of delights onthat table. Perhaps a smoke first, with his feet on the fender.

"Damn!" he said as he put his hand into his pocket and found it empty.At the same moment he noticed that the man in the bed had opened hiseyes and was looking at him. "I'm sorry," said Mark, "I didn't mean----"and then stopped.

The man sat up in bed and jerked his head towards the door.

"Ah?" he said enquiringly.

"I beg your pardon," said Mark.

"Ah?" said the man again. And then, "Foreigners, eh?"

"You do speak English, then?" said Mark.

"Ah!" said the man. After a pause of several seconds he said, "Guv'ner!"Mark looked at him. "Guv'ner," repeated the patient with great energy,"you ha'nt got such a thing as a bit of baccy about you? Ah?"

II

"I think that's all we can do for the present," said Mother Dimble."We'll do the flowers this afternoon." She was speaking to Jane and bothwere in what was called the Lodge--a little stone house beside the gardendoor at which Jane had been first admitted to the Manor. Mrs. Dimble andJane had been preparing it for the Maggs family. For Mr. Maggs'ssentence expired to-day and Ivy had gone off by train on the previousafternoon to spend the night with an aunt in the town where he wasimprisoned and to meet him at the prison gates.

When Mrs. Dimble had told her husband how she would be engaged thatmorning, he had said, "Well, it can't take you very long just lighting afire and making a bed." I share Dr. Dimble's sex and his limitation. Ihave no idea what the two women found to do in the Lodge for all thehours they spent there. Even Jane had hardly anticipated it. In Mrs.Dimble's hands the task of airing the little house and making the bedfor Ivy Maggs and her jail-bird husband became something between a gameand a ritual. It woke in Jane vague memories of helping at Christmas orEaster decorations in church when she had been a small child. But italso suggested to her literary memory all sorts of things out ofsixteenth-century epithalamions--age-old superstitions, jokes, andsentimentalities about bridal beds and marriage bowers, with omens atthe threshold and fairies upon the hearth. It was an atmosphereextraordinarily alien to that in which she had grown up. A few weeks agoshe would have disliked it. Was there not something absurd about thatstiff, twinkling archaic world--the mixture of prudery and sensuality,the stylised ardours of the groom and the conventional bashfulness ofthe bride, the religious sanction, the permitted salacities offescennine song, and the suggestion that everyone except the principalsmight be expected to be rather tipsy? How had the human race ever cometo imprison in such a ceremony the most unceremonious thing in theworld? But she was no longer sure of her reaction. What she was sure ofwas the dividing line that included Mother Dimble in that world and lefther outside. Mother Dimble, for all her nineteenth-century propriety, orperhaps because of it, struck her this afternoon as being herself anarchaic person. At every moment she seemed to join hands with somesolemn yet roguish company of busy old women who had been tucking younglovers into beds since the world began with an incongruous mixture ofnods and winks and blessings and tears--quite impossible old women inruffs or wimples who would be making Shakespearean jokes about codpiecesand cuckoldry at one moment and kneeling devoutly at altars the next. Itwas very odd: for, of course, as far as their conversation was concernedthe difference between them was reversed. Jane, in a literary argument,could have talked about codpieces with great sang-froid, while MotherDimble was an Edwardian lady who would simply have ignored such asubject out of existence if any modernised booby had been so unfortunateas to raise it in her presence. Perhaps the weather had some bearing onJane's curious sensations. The frost had ended and it was one of thosedays of almost piercingly sweet mildness which sometimes occur in thebeginning of winter.

Ivy had discussed her own story with Jane only the day before. Mr. Maggshad stolen some money from the laundry that he worked for. He had donethis before he met Ivy and at a time when he had got into bad company.Since he and Ivy had started going out together he had gone "as straightas straight"; but the little crime had been unearthed and come out ofthe past to catch him, and he had been arrested about six weeks aftertheir marriage. Jane had said very little during the telling of thisstory. Ivy had not seemed conscious of the purely social stigmaattaching to petty theft and a term of imprisonment, so that Jane wouldhave had no opportunity to practise, even if she had wished, that almosttechnical "kindness" which some people reserve for the sorrows of thepoor. On the other hand she was given no chance to be revolutionary orspeculative--to suggest that theft was no more criminal than all wealthwas criminal. Ivy seemed to take traditional morality for granted. Shehad been "ever so upset" about it. It seemed to matter a great deal inone way, and not to matter at all in another. It had never occurred toher that it should alter her relations with her husband--as though theft,like ill health, were one of the normal risks one took in gettingmarried.

"I always say, you can't expect to know everything about a boy tillyou're married, not really," she had said.

"I suppose not," said Jane.

"Of course it's the same for them," added Ivy. "My old dad used often tosay he'd never have married mum not if he'd known how she snored. Andshe said herself, 'No, dad, that you wouldn't.'"

"That's rather different, I suppose," said Jane.

"Well, what I say is, if it wasn't that it'd be something else. That'show I look at it. And it isn't as if they hadn't a lot to put up with,too. Because they've sort of got to get married if they're the rightsort, poor things, but, whatever we say, Jane, a woman takes a lot ofliving with. I don't mean what you'd call a bad woman. I remember oneday--it was before you came--Mother Dimble was saying something to theDoctor; and there he was sitting reading something--you know the way hedoes--with his fingers under some of the pages and a pencil in hishand--not the way you or I'd read--and he just said 'Yes, dear,' and weboth of us knew he hadn't been listening. And I said, 'There you are,Mother Dimble,' said I. 'That's how they treat us once they're married.They don't even listen to what we say,' I said. And do you know what shesaid? 'Ivy Maggs,' said she, 'Did it ever come into your mind to askwhether anyone could listen to all we say?' Those were her very words.Of course I wasn't going to give in to it, not before him, so I said,'Yes, they could.' But it was a fair knock-out. You know often I've beentalking to my husband for a long time and he's looked up and asked mewhat I've been saying and, do you know, I haven't been able to remembermyself!"

"Oh, that's different," said Jane. "It's when people drift apart--take upquite different opinions--join different sides. . . ."

"You must be ever so anxious about Mr. Studdock," replied Ivy. "I'dnever be able to sleep a wink if I were in your shoes. But theDirector'll bring it all right in the end. You see if he don't."

Mrs. Dimble went back to the house presently to fetch some little nicetywhich would put the finishing touch to the bedroom in the Lodge. Jane,feeling a little tired, knelt on the window-seat and put her elbows onthe sill and her chin in her hands. The sun was almost hot. The thoughtof going back to Mark if Mark were ever rescued from Belbury was onewhich her mind had long accepted; it was not horrifying to her, but flatand insipid. It was not the less so because at this moment she fullyforgave him for his conjugal crime of sometimes apparently preferringher person to her conversation and sometimes his own thoughts to both.Why should anyone be particularly interested in what she said? This newhumility would even have been pleasant to her if it had been directed toanyone more exciting than Mark. She must, of course, be very differentwith him when they met again. But it was that "again" which so took thesavour out of the good resolution--like going back to a sum one hadalready got wrong and working it out afresh on the same scrawled page ofthe exercise book. "If they met again . . ." she felt guilty at her lackof anxiety. Almost at the same moment she found that she was a littleanxious. For hitherto she had always somehow assumed that Mark wouldcome back. The possibility of his death now presented itself. She had nodirect emotions about herself living afterwards; she just saw the imageof Mark dead, that face dead, in the middle of a pillow, that whole bodyrigid, those hands and arms (for good and ill so different from allother hands and arms) stretched out straight and useless like a doll's.She felt very cold. Yet the sun was hotter than ever--almost impossiblyhot for the time of year. It was very still, too, so still that shecould hear the movements of a small bird which was hopping along thepath outside the window. This path led to the door in the garden wall bywhich she had first entered. The bird hopped on to the threshold of thatdoor, and on to someone's foot. For now Jane saw that someone wassitting on a little seat just inside the door. This person was only afew yards away, and she must have been sitting very quiet for Jane notto have noticed her.

A flame-coloured robe, in which her hands were hidden, covered thisperson from the feet to where it rose behind her neck in a kind of highruff-like collar, but in front it was so low or open that it exposed herlarge breasts. Her skin was darkish and Southern and glowing, almost thecolour of honey. Some such dress Jane had seen worn by a Minoanpriestess on a vase from old Cnossus. The head, poised motionless on themuscular pillar of her neck, stared straight at Jane. It was ared-cheeked, wet-lipped face, with black eyes--almost the eyes of acow--and an enigmatic expression. It was not by ordinary standards at alllike the face of Mother Dimble; but Jane recognised it at once. It was,to speak like the musicians, the full statement of that theme which hadelusively haunted Mother Dimble's face for the last few hours. It wasMother Dimble's face with something left out, and the omission shockedJane. "It is brutal," she thought, for its energy crushed her; but thenshe half changed her mind and thought, "It is I who am weak, trumpery.""It is mocking me," she thought, but then once more changed her mind andthought, "It is ignoring me. It doesn't see me"; for though there was analmost ogreish glee in the face, Jane did not seem to be invited toshare the joke. She tried to look aside from the face--succeeded--and sawfor the first time that there were other creatures present--four or fiveof them--no, more--a whole crowd of ridiculous little men: fat dwarfs inred caps with tassels on them, chubby, gnome-like little men, quiteinsufferably familiar, frivolous, and irrepressible. For there was nodoubt that they, at any rate, were mocking her. They were pointing ather, nodding, mimicking, standing on their heads, turning somersaults.Jane was not yet frightened; partly because the extreme warmth of theair at this open window made her feel drowsy. It was really quiteridiculous for the time of year. Her main feeling was one ofindignation. A suspicion which had crossed her mind once or twicebefore, now returned to her with irresistible force; the suspicion thatthe real universe might be simply silly. It was closely mixed up withthe memories of that grown-up laughter--loud, careless, masculinelaughter on the lips of bachelor uncles--which had often infuriated herin childhood, and from which the intense seriousness of her schooldebating society had offered such a grateful escape.

But a moment later she was very frightened indeed. The giantess rose.They were all coming at her. With a great glow and a noise like fire theflame-robed woman and the malapert dwarfs had all come into the house.They were in the room with her. The strange woman had a torch in herhand. It burned with terrible, blinding brightness, crackling, and sentup a cloud of dense black smoke, and filled the bedroom with a sticky,resinous smell. "If they're not careful," thought Jane, "they'll set thehouse on fire." But she had hardly time to think of that for her wholeattention was fixed by the outrageous behaviour of the little men. Theybegan making hay of the room. In a few seconds the bed was a mere chaos,the sheets on the floor, the blankets snatched up and used by the dwarfsfor tossing the fattest of their company, the pillows hurtling throughthe air, feathers flying everywhere. "Look out! Look out, can't you?"shouted Jane, for the giantess was beginning to touch various parts ofthe room with her torch. She touched a vase on the mantelpiece.Instantly there rose from it a streak of colour which Jane took forfire. She was just moving to try to put it out when she saw that thesame thing had happened to a picture on the wall. And then it happenedfaster and faster all round her. The very top-knots of the dwarfs werenow on fire. But just as the terror of this became unbearable, Janenoticed that what was curling up from everything the torch had touchedwas not flame after all, but vegetation. Ivy and honeysuckle weregrowing up the legs of the bed, red roses were sprouting from the capsof the little men, and from every direction huge lilies rose to herknees and waist, shooting out their yellow tongues at her. The smells,the heat, the crowding, and the strangeness made her feel faint. Itnever occurred to her to think she was dreaming. People mistake dreamsfor visions: no one ever mistook a vision for a dream. . . .

"Jane! Jane!" said the voice of Mrs. Dimble suddenly. "What on earth isthe matter?"

Jane sat up. The room was empty, but the bed had all been pulled topieces. She had apparently been lying on the floor. She felt cold andvery tired.

"What has happened?" repeated Mrs. Dimble.

"I don't know," said Jane.

"Are you ill, child?" asked Mother Dimble.

"I must see the Director at once," said Jane. "It's all right. Don'tbother. I can get up by myself . . . really. But I'd like to see theDirector at once."

III

Mr. Bultitude's mind was as furry and as unhuman in shape as his body.He did not remember, as a man in his situation would have remembered,the provincial zoo from which he had escaped during a fire, nor hisfirst snarling and terrified arrival at the Manor, nor the slow stageswhereby he had learned to love and trust its inhabitants. He did notknow that he loved and trusted them now. He did not know that they werepeople, nor that he was a bear. Indeed he did not know that he existedat all: everything that is represented by the words I and Me andThou was absent from his mind. When Mrs. Maggs gave him a tin ofgolden syrup, as she did every Sunday morning, he did not recogniseeither a giver or a recipient. Goodness occurred and he tasted it. Andthat was all. Hence his loves might, if you wished, be all described ascupboard loves: food and warmth, hands that caressed, voices thatreassured, were their objects. But if by a cupboard love you meantsomething cold or calculating you would be quite misunderstanding thereal quality of the beast's sensations. He was no more like a humanegoist than he was like a human altruist. There was no prose in hislife. The appetencies which a human mind might disdain as cupboard loveswere for him quivering and ecstatic aspirations which absorbed his wholebeing, infinite yearnings, stabbed with the threat of tragedy and shotthrough with the colours of Paradise. One of our race, if plunged backfor a moment in the warm, trembling, iridescent pool of that pre-Adamiteconsciousness, would have emerged believing that he had grasped theabsolute: for the states below reason and the states above it have, bytheir common contrast to the life we know, a certain superficialresemblance. Sometimes there returns to us from infancy the memory of anameless delight or terror, unattached to any delightful or dreadfulthing, a potent adjective floating in a nounless void, a pure quality.At such moments we have experience of the shallows of that pool. Butfathoms deeper than any memory can take us, right down in the centralwarmth and dimness, the bear lived all its life.

To-day an unusual thing had happened to him--he had got out into thegarden without being muzzled. He was always muzzled out of doors, notbecause there was any fear of his becoming dangerous but because of hispartiality for fruit and for the sweeter kinds of vegetables. "'Tisn'tthat he's not tame," as Ivy Maggs had explained to Jane Studdock, "butthat he isn't honest. He wouldn't leave us a thing if we let him havethe run of his teeth." But to-day the precaution had been forgotten andthe bear had passed a very agreeable morning investigating the turnips.Now--in the early afternoon--he had approached the garden wall. There wasa chestnut tree within the wall which the bear could easily climb, andfrom its branches he could drop down on the far side. He was standinglooking up at this tree. Mrs. Maggs would have described his state ofmind by saying, "He knows perfectly well he's not allowed out of thegarden." That was not how it appeared to Mr. Bultitude. He had nomorals: but the Director had given him certain inhibitions. A mysteriousreluctance arose, a clouding of the emotional weather, when the wall wastoo close; but mixed with this there was an opposite impulse to getbeyond that wall. He did not, of course, know why, and was incapableeven of raising the question. If the pressure behind this impulse couldbe translated into human terms at all, it would appear as something morelike a mythology than a thought. One met bees in the garden, but neverfound a bee-hive. The bees all went away, over the wall. And to followbees was the obvious thing to do. I think there was a sense in thebear's mind--one could hardly call it a picture--of endless green landsbeyond the wall, and hives innumerable, and bees the size of sparrows,and waiting there, or else walking, trickling, oozing to meet one,something or someone stickier, sweeter, more golden than honey itself.

To-day, this unrest was upon him in an unusual degree. He was missingIvy Maggs. He did not know that there was any such person and he did notremember her as we know remembering, but there was an unspecified lackin his experience. She and the Director were, in their different ways,the two main factors in his existence. He felt, in his own fashion, thesupremacy of the Director. Meetings with him were to the bear whatmystical experiences are to men, for the Director had brought back withhim from Venus some shadow of man's lost prerogative to ennoble beasts.In his presence Mr. Bultitude trembled on the very borders ofpersonality, thought the unthinkable and did the impossible, wastroubled and enraptured with gleams from beyond his own woolly world,and came away tired. But with Ivy he was perfectly at home--as a savagewho believes in some remote High God is more at home with the littledeities of wood and water. It was Ivy who fed him, chased him out offorbidden places, cuffed him, and talked to him all day long. It was herfirm conviction that the creature "understood every word she said." Ifyou took this literally it was untrue; but in another sense it was notso wide of the mark. For much of Ivy's conversation was the expressionnot of thought but of feeling, and of feelings Mr. Bultitude almostshared--feelings of alacrity, snugness, and physical affection. In theirown way they understood one another pretty well.

Three times Mr. Bultitude turned away from the tree and the wall, buteach time he came back. Then, very cautiously and quietly, he began toclimb the tree. When he got up into the fork he sat there for a longtime. He saw beneath him a steep grassy bank descending to a road. Thedesire and the inhibition were now both very strong. He sat there fornearly half an hour. Sometimes his mind wandered from the point and oncehe nearly went to sleep. In the end he got down on the outside of thewall. When he found that the thing had really happened he became sofrightened that he sat still at the bottom of the grassy bank on thevery edge of the road. Then he heard a noise.

A motor van came into sight. It was driven by a man in the livery of theN.I.C.E. and another man in the same livery sat beside him.

"Hullo . . . I say!" said the second man. "Pull up, Sid. What aboutthat?"

"What?" said the driver.

"Haven't you got eyes in your head?" said the other.

"Gor," said Sid, pulling up. "A bloody great bear. I say--it couldn't beour own bear, could it?"

"Get on," said his mate. "She was in her cage all right this morning."

"You don't think she could have done a bunk? There'd be hell to pay foryou and me. . . ."

"She couldn't have got here if she had done a bunk. Bears don't goforty miles an hour. That ain't the point. But hadn't we better pinchthis one?"

"We haven't got no orders," said Sid.

"No. And we haven't failed to get that blasted wolf either, have we?"

"Wasn't our fault. The old woman what said she'd sell wouldn't sell, asyou're there to witness, young Len. We did our best. Told her thatexperiments at Belbury weren't what she thought. Told her the brutewould have the time of its life and be made no end of a pet. Never toldso many lies in one morning in my life. She'd been got at by someone."

"Course it wasn't our fault. But the boss won't take no notice of that.It's get on or get out at Belbury."

"Get out?" said Sid. "I wish to hell I knew how to."

Len spat over the side and there was a moment's silence.

"Anyway," said Sid presently, "what's the good of taking a bear back?"

"Well, isn't it better than coming back with nothing?" said Len. "Andbears cost money. I know they want another one. And here it is free."

"All right," said Sid ironically, "if you're so keen on it, just hop outand ask him to step in."

"Dope," said Len.

"Not on my bit of dinner, you don't," said Sid.

"You're a bucking good mate to have," said Len, groping in a greasyparcel. "It's a good thing for you I'm not the sort of chap who'd spliton you."

"You done it already," said the driver. "I know all your little games."

Len had by this time produced a thick sandwich and was dabbing it withsome strong-smelling liquid from a bottle. When it was thoroughlysaturated, he opened the door and went a pace forward, still holding thedoor in one hand. He was now about six yards from the bear, which hadremained perfectly still ever since it saw them. He threw the sandwichto it.

Quarter of an hour later Mr. Bultitude lay on his side, unconscious andbreathing heavily. They had no difficulty in tying up his mouth and allfour paws, but they had great difficulty in lifting him into the van.

"That's done something to my ticker," said Sid, pressing his hand to hisleft side.

"Curse your ticker," said Len, rubbing the sweat out of his eyes. "Comeon."

Sid climbed back into the driving seat, sat still for a few seconds,panting and muttering "Christ" at intervals. Then he started his engineup and they drove away.

IV

For some time now Mark's waking life was divided between periods by theSleeper's bedside and periods in the room with the spotted ceiling. Thetraining in objectivity which took place in the latter cannot bedescribed fully. The reversal of natural inclination which Frostinculcated was not spectacular or dramatic, but the details would beunprintable and had, indeed, a kind of nursery fatuity about them whichis best ignored. Often Mark felt that one good roar of coarse laughterwould have blown away the whole atmosphere of the thing: but laughterwas unhappily out of the question. There indeed lay the horror--toperform petty obscenities which a very silly child might have thoughtfunny all under the unchangingly serious inspection of Frost, with astop watch and a note-book and all the ritual of scientific experiment.Some of the things he had to do were merely meaningless. In one exercisehe had to mount the step-ladder and touch some one spot on the ceiling,selected by Frost: just touch it with his forefinger and then come downagain. But either by association with the other exercises or because itreally concealed some significance, this proceeding always appeared toMark to be the most indecent and even inhuman of all his tasks. And dayby day, as the process went on, that idea of the Straight or the Normalwhich had occurred to him during his first visit to this room, grewstronger and more solid in his mind till it became a kind of mountain.He had never before known what an Idea meant: he had always thought tillnow that they were things inside one's own head. But now, when his headwas continually attacked and often completely filled with the clingingcorruption of the training, this Idea towered up above him--somethingwhich obviously existed quite independently of himself and had hard rocksurfaces which would not give, surfaces he could cling to.

The other thing that helped to save him was the Man in the Bed. Mark'sdiscovery that he really could speak English had led to a curiousacquaintance with him. It can hardly be said that they conversed. Bothspoke, but the result was hardly conversation as Mark had hithertounderstood the term. The man was so very allusive and used gesture soextensively that Mark's less sophisticated modes of communication werealmost useless. Thus when Mark explained that he had no tobacco, the manhad slapped an imaginary tobacco pouch on his knee at least six timesand struck an imaginary match about as often, each time jerking his headsideways with a look of such relish as Mark had seldom seen on a humanface. Then Mark went on to explain that though "they" were notforeigners, they were extremely dangerous people and that probably theStranger's best plan would be to preserve his silence.

"Ah," said the Stranger jerking his head again. "Ah. Eh?" And then,without exactly laying his finger on his lips he went through anelaborate pantomime which clearly meant the same thing. And it wasimpossible for a long time to get him off this subject. He went back andback to the theme of secrecy. "Ah," he said, "don't get nothing out ofme. I tell 'ee. Don't get nothing out of me. Eh? I tell 'ee. You and meknows. Ah?" and his look embraced Mark in such an apparently gleefulconspiracy that it warmed the heart. Believing this matter to be nowsufficiently clear, Mark began, "But, as regards the future--" only to bemet by another pantomime of secrecy, followed by the word "Eh?" in atone which demanded an answer.

"Yes, of course," said Mark. "We are both in considerable danger. And----"

"Ah," said the man. "Foreigners. Eh?"

"No, no," said Mark. "I told you they weren't. They seem to think youare, though. And that's why----"

"That's right," interrupted the man. "I know. Foreigners, I call them. Iknow. They get nothing out of me. You and me's all right. Ah."

"I've been trying to think out some sort of plan," said Mark.

"Ah," said the man approvingly.

"And I was wondering," began Mark when the man suddenly leaned forwardsand said with extraordinary energy "I tell 'ee."

"What?" said Mark.

"I got a plan."

"What is it?"

"Ah," said the man winking at Mark with infinite knowingness and rubbinghis belly.

"Go on. What is it?" said Mark.

"How'd it be," said the man, sitting up and applying his left thumb tohis right forefinger as if about to propound the first step in aphilosophical argument, "How'd it be now if you and I made ourselves anice bit of toasted cheese?"

"I meant a plan for escape," said Mark.

"Ah," replied the man. "My old Dad, now. He never had a day's illness inhis life. Eh? How's that for a bit of all right? Eh?"

"It's a remarkable record," said Mark.

"Ah. You may say so," replied the other. "On the road all his life.Never had a stomach-ache. Eh?" and here, as if Mark might not know thatmalady, he went through a long and extraordinarily vivid dumb show.

"Open-air life suited him, I suppose," said Mark.

"And what did he attribute his health to?" asked the man. He pronouncedthe word attribute with great relish, laying the accent on the firstsyllable. "I ask everyone, what did he attribute his health to?"

Mark was about to reply when the man indicated by a gesture that thequestion was purely rhetorical and that he did not wish to beinterrupted.

"He attributed his health," continued the speaker with great solemnity,"to eating toasted cheese. Keeps the water out of the stomach, that'swhat it does, eh? Makes a lining. Stands to reason. Ah!"

In several later interviews Mark endeavoured to discover something ofthe Stranger's own history and particularly how he had been brought toBelbury. This was not easy to do, for though the tramp's conversationwas very autobiographical, it was filled almost entirely with accountsof conversations in which he had made stunning repartees whose pointsremained wholly obscure. Even where it was less intellectual incharacter, the allusions were too difficult for Mark, who was quiteignorant of the life of the roads though he had once written a veryauthoritative article on Vagrancy. But by repeated and (as he got toknow his man) more cautious questioning, he couldn't help getting theidea that the Tramp had been made to give up his clothes to a totalstranger and then put to sleep. He never got the story in so many words.The Tramp insisted on talking as if Mark knew it already, and anypressure for a more accurate account produced only a series of nods,winks, and highly confidential gestures. As for the identity orappearance of the person who had taken his clothes, nothing whatevercould be made out. The nearest Mark ever got to it, after hours of talkand deep potations, was some such statement as "Ah. He was a one!" or"He was a kind of--eh? You know?" or "That was a customer, that was."These statements were made with enormous gusto as though the theft ofthe tramp's clothes had excited his deepest admiration.

Indeed, throughout the man's conversation this gusto was the moststriking characteristic. He never passed any kind of moral judgement onthe various things that had been done to him in the course of hiscareer, nor did he ever try to explain them. Much that was unjust andstill more that was simply unintelligible seemed to be accepted not onlywithout resentment but with a certain satisfaction provided only that itwas striking. Even about his present situation he showed very much lesscuriosity than Mark would have thought possible. It did not make sense,but then the man did not expect things to make sense. He deplored theabsence of tobacco and regarded the "Foreigners" as very dangerouspeople: but the main thing, obviously, was to eat and drink as much aspossible while the present conditions lasted. And gradually Mark fellinto line. The man's breath, and indeed his body, were malodorous, andhis methods of eating were gross. But the sort of continual picnic whichthe two shared carried Mark back into that realm of childhood which wehave all enjoyed before nicety began. Each understood perhaps an eighthpart of what the other said, but a kind of intimacy grew between them.Mark never noticed until years later that here, where there was no roomfor vanity and no more power or security than that of "children playingin a giant's kitchen," he had unawares become a member of a "circle," assecret and as strongly fenced against outsiders as any that he haddreamed of.

Every now and then their téte-à-téte was interrupted. Frost or Witheror both would come in introducing some stranger who addressed the trampin an unknown language, failed completely to get any response, and wasushered out again. The tramp's habit of submission to theunintelligible, mixed with a kind of animal cunning, stood him in goodstead during these interviews. Even without Mark's advice, it wouldnever have occurred to him to undeceive his captors by replying inEnglish. Undeceiving was an activity wholly foreign to his mind. For therest, his expression of tranquil indifference, varied occasionally byextremely sharp looks but never by the least sign of anxiety orbewilderment, left his interrogators mystified. Wither could never findin his face the evil he was looking for: but neither could he find anyof that virtue which would, for him, have been the danger signal. Thetramp was a type of man he had never met. The dupe, the terrifiedvictim, the toady, the would-be accomplice, the rival, the honest manwith loathing and hatred in his eyes, were all familiar to him. But notthis.

And then, one day, there came an interview that was different.

V

"It sounds rather like a mythological picture by Titian come to life,"said the Director with a smile, when Jane had described her experiencein the lodge.

"Yes, but . . ." said Jane, and then stopped. "I see," she began again,"it was very like that. Not only the woman and the . . . thedwarfs . . . but the glow. As if the air were on fire. But I alwaysthought I liked Titian. I suppose I wasn't really taking the picturesseriously enough. Just chattering about 'the Renaissance' the way onedid."

"You didn't like it when it came out into real life?"

Jane shook her head.

"Was it real, sir?" she asked presently. "Are there such things?"

"Yes," said the Director, "it was real enough. Oh, there are thousandsof things within this square mile that I don't know about yet. And Idare say that the presence of Merlinus brings out certain things. We arenot living exactly in the twentieth century as long as he's here. Weoverlap a bit; the focus is blurred. And you yourself . . . you are aseer. You were perhaps bound to meet her. She's what you'll get if youwon't have the other."

"How do you mean, sir?" said Jane.

"You said she was a little like Mother Dimble. So she is. But MotherDimble with something left out. Mother Dimble is friends with all thatworld as Merlinus is friends with the woods and rivers. But he isn't awood or a river himself. She has not rejected it, but she has baptizedit. She is a Christian wife; and you, you know, are not. Neither are youa virgin. You have put yourself where you must meet that Old Woman andyou have rejected all that has happened to her since Maleldil came toEarth. So you get her raw--not stronger than Mother Dimble would findher, but untransformed, demoniac. And you don't like it. Hasn't thatbeen the history of your life?"

"You mean," said Jane slowly, "I've been repressing something."

The Director laughed; just that loud, assured, bachelor laughter whichhad often infuriated her on other lips.

"Yes," he said. "But don't think I'm talking of Freudian repressions. Heknew only half the facts. It isn't a question of inhibitions--inculcatedshame--against natural desire. I'm afraid there's no niche in the worldfor people that won't be either Pagan or Christian. Just imagine a manwho was too dainty to eat with his fingers and yet wouldn't use forks!"

His laughter rather than his words had reddened Jane's cheeks, and shewas staring at him open-mouthed. Assuredly the Director was not in theleast like Mother Dimble: but an odious realisation that he was, in thismatter, on Mother Dimble's side--that he also, though he did not belongto that hot-coloured, archaic world, stood somehow in good diplomaticrelations with it, from which she was excluded--had struck her like ablow. Some old female dream of finding a man who "really understood" wasbeing insulted. She took it for granted, half unconsciously, that theDirector was the most virginal of his sex: but she had not realised thatthis would leave his masculinity still on the other side of the streamfrom herself and even steeper, more emphatic, than that of common men.Some knowledge of a world beyond nature she had already gained fromliving in his house, and more from fear of death that night in thedingle. But she had been conceiving this world as "spiritual" in thenegative sense--as some neutral, or democratic, vacuum where differencesdisappeared, where sex and sense were not transcended but simply takenaway. Now the suspicion dawned upon her that there might be differencesand contrasts all the way up, richer, sharper, even fiercer, at everyrung of the ascent. How if this invasion of her own being in marriagefrom which she had recoiled, often in the very teeth of instinct, werenot, as she had supposed, merely a relic of animal life or patriarchalbarbarism, but rather the lowest, the first, and the easiest form ofsome shocking contact with reality which would have to be repeated--butin ever larger and more disturbing modes--on the highest levels of all?

"Yes," said the Director, "there is no escape. If it were a virginalrejection of the male, He would allow it. Such souls can by-pass themale and go on to meet something far more masculine, higher up, to whichthey must make a yet deeper surrender. But your trouble has been whatold poets called Daungier. We call it Pride. You are offended by themasculine itself: the loud, irruptive, possessive thing--the gold lion,the bearded bull--which breaks through hedges and scatters the littlekingdom of your primness as the dwarfs scattered the carefully made bed.The male you could have escaped, for it exists only on the biologicallevel. But the masculine none of us can escape. What is above and beyondall things is so masculine that we are all feminine in relation to it.You had better agree with your adversary quickly."

"You mean I shall have to become a Christian?" said Jane.

"It looks like it," said the Director.

"But--I still don't see what that had to do with . . . with Mark," saidJane. This was perhaps not perfectly true. The vision of the universewhich she had begun to see in the last few minutes had a curiouslystormy quality about it. It was bright, darting, and overpowering. OldTestament imagery of eyes and wheels for the first time in her life tookon some possibility of meaning. And mixed with this was the sense thatshe had been manoeuvred into a false position. It ought to have been shewho was saying these things to the Christians. Hers ought to have beenthe vivid, perilous world brought against their grey formalised one:hers the quick, vital movements and theirs the stained-glass attitudes.That was the antithesis she was used to. This time, in a sudden flash ofpurple and crimson, she remembered what stained glass was really like.And where Mark stood in all this new world she did not know. Certainlynot quite in his old place. Something which she liked to think of as theopposite of Mark had been taken away. Something civilised, or modern, orscholarly, or (of late) spiritual which did not want to possess her,which valued her for the odd collection of qualities she called"herself," something without hands that gripped and without demands uponher. But if there were no such thing? Playing for time, she asked,

"Who was that Huge Woman?"

"I'm not sure," said the Director. "But I think I can make a guess. Didyou know that all the planets are represented in each?"

"No, sir. I didn't."

"Apparently they are. There is no Oyarsa in Heaven who has not got hisrepresentative on Earth. And there is no world where you could not meeta little unfallen partner of our own black Archon, a kind of other self.That is why there was an Italian Saturn as well as a heavenly one, and aCretan Jove as well as an Olympian. It was these earthly wraiths of thehigh intelligences that men met in old times when they reported thatthey had seen the gods. It was with those that a man like Merlin was (attimes) conversant. Nothing from beyond the Moon ever really descended.What concerns you more, there is a terrestrial as well as a celestialVenus--Perelandra's wraith as well as Perelandra."

"And you think . . .?"

"I do: I have long known that this house is deeply under her influence.There is even copper in the soil. Also--the earth-Venus will be speciallyactive here at present. For it is to-night that her heavenly archtypewill really descend."

"I had forgotten," said Jane.

"You will not forget it once it has happened. All of you had better staytogether--in the kitchen, perhaps. Do not come upstairs. To-night I willbring Merlin before my masters, all five of them--Viritrilbia,Perelandra, Malacandra, Glund, and Lurga. He will be opened. Powers willpass into him."

"What will he do, sir?"

The Director laughed. "The first step is easy. The enemies at Belburyare already looking for experts in archaic western dialects, preferablyCeltic. We shall send them an interpreter! Yes, by the splendour ofChrist, we will send them one. 'Upon them He a spirit of frenzy sent tocall in haste for their destroyer.' They have advertised in the papersfor one! And after the first step . . . well, you know, it will be easy.In fighting those who serve devils one always has this on one's side;their masters hate them as much as they hate us. The moment we disablethe human pawns enough to make them useless to Hell, their own mastersfinish the work for us. They break their tools."

There was a sudden knock on the door and Grace Ironwood entered.

"Ivy is back, sir," she said. "I think you'd better see her. No; she'salone. She never saw her husband. The sentence is over but they haven'treleased him. He's been sent on to Belbury for remedial treatment. Undersome new regulation. Apparently it does not require a sentence from acourt . . . but she's not very coherent. She is in great distress."

VI

Jane had gone into the garden to think. She accepted what the Directorhad said, yet it seemed to her nonsensical. His comparison betweenMark's love and God's (since apparently there was a God) struck hernascent spirituality as indecent and irreverent. "Religion" ought tomean a realm in which her haunting female fear of being treated as athing, an object of barter and desire and possession, would be setpermanently at rest, and what she called her "true self" would soarupwards and expand in some freer and purer world. For still she thoughtthat "Religion" was a kind of exhalation or a cloud of incense,something steaming up from specially gifted souls towards a receptiveheaven. Then, quite sharply, it occurred to her that the Director nevertalked about Religion, nor did the Dimbles nor Camilla. They talkedabout God. They had no picture in their minds of some mist steamingupward: rather of strong, skilful hands thrust down to make and mend,perhaps even to destroy. Supposing one were a thing after all--a thingdesigned and invented by Someone Else and valued for qualities quitedifferent from what one had decided to regard as one's true self?Supposing all those people who, from the bachelor uncles down to Markand Mother Dimble, had infuriatingly found her sweet and fresh when shewanted them to find her also interesting and important, had all alongbeen simply right and perceived the sort of thing she was? SupposingMaleldil on this subject agreed with them and not with her? For onemoment she had a ridiculous and scorching vision of a world in which GodHimself would never understand, never take her with full seriousness.Then, at one particular corner of the gooseberry patch, the change came.

What awaited her there was serious to the degree of sorrow and beyond.There was no form nor sound. The mould under the bushes, the moss on thepath, and the little brick border, were not visibly changed. But theywere changed. A boundary had been crossed. She had come into a world, orinto a Person, or into the presence of a Person. Something expectant,patient, inexorable, met her with no veil or protection between. In thecloseness of that contact she perceived at once that the Director'swords had been entirely misleading. This demand which now pressed uponher was not, even by analogy, like any other demand. It was the originof all right demands and contained them. In its light you couldunderstand them: but from them you could know nothing of it. There wasnothing, and never had been anything, like this. And now there wasnothing except this. Yet also, everything had been like this: only bybeing like this had anything existed. In this height and depth andbreadth the little idea of herself which she had hitherto called medropped down and vanished, unfluttering, into bottomless distance, likea bird in space without air. The name me was the name of a being whoseexistence she had never suspected, a being that did not yet fully existbut which was demanded. It was a person (not the person she had thought)yet also a thing--a made thing, made to please Another and in Him toplease all others--a thing being made at this very moment, without itschoice, in a shape it had never dreamed of. And the making went onamidst a kind of splendour or sorrow or both, whereof she could not tellwhether it was in the moulding hands or in the kneaded lump.

Words take too long. To be aware of all this and to know that it hadalready gone made one single experience. It was revealed only in itsdeparture. The largest thing that had ever happened to her had,apparently, found room for itself in a moment of time too short to becalled time at all. Her hand closed on nothing but a memory, and as itclosed, without an instant's pause, the voices of those who have not joyrose howling and chattering from every corner of her being.

"Take care. Draw back. Keep your head. Don't commit yourself," theysaid. And then more subtly, from another quarter, "You have had areligious experience. This is very interesting. Not everyone does. Howmuch better you will now understand the Seventeenth Century poets!" Orfrom a third direction, more sweetly, "Go on. Try to get it again. Itwill please the Director."

But her defences had been captured and these counter-attacks wereunsuccessful.

FIFTEEN

The Descent of the Gods

I

All the house at St. Anne's was empty, but for two rooms. In thekitchen, drawn a little closer than usual about the fire and with theshutters closed, sat Dimble and MacPhee and Denniston and the women.Removed from them by many a long vacancy of stair and passage, thePendragon and Merlin were together in the Blue Room.

If anyone had gone up the stairs and onto the lobby outside the BlueRoom, he would have found something other than fear that barred hisway--an almost physical resistance. If he had succeeded in forcing hisway forward against it, he would have come into a region of tinglingsounds that were clearly not voices though they had articulation: and ifthe passage were quite dark he would probably have seen a faint light,not like fire or moon, under the Director's door. I do not think hecould have reached the door itself unbidden. Already the whole housewould have seemed to him to be tilting and plunging like a ship in a Bayof Biscay gale. He would have been horribly compelled to feel this earthnot as the base of the universe but as a ball spinning and rollingonwards, both at delirious speed, and not through emptiness but throughsome densely inhabited and intricately structured medium. He would haveknown sensuously, until his outraged senses forsook him, that thevisitants in that room were in it not because they were at rest butbecause they glanced and wheeled through the packed reality of heaven(which men call empty space) to keep their beams upon this spot of themoving earth's hide.

The Druid and Ransom had begun to wait for these visitors soon aftersundown. Ransom was on his sofa. Merlin sat beside him, his handsclasped, his body a little bent forward. Sometimes a drop of sweattrickled coldly down his grey cheek. He had at first addressed himselfto kneel but Ransom forbade him. "See thou do it not!" he had said."Have you forgotten that they are our fellow-servants?" The windows wereuncurtained, and all the light that there was in the room came thence:frosty-red when they began their waiting, but later star-lit.

Long before anything happened in the Blue Room the party in the kitchenhad made their ten o'clock tea. It was while they sat drinking it thatthe change occurred. Up till now they had instinctively been talking insubdued voices, as children talk in a room where their elders are busiedabout some august incomprehensible matter, a funeral, or the reading ofa will. Now of a sudden they all began talking loudly at once, each, notcontentiously but delightedly, interrupting the others. A strangercoming into the kitchen would have thought they were drunk, not soddenlybut gaily drunk: would have seen heads bent close together, eyesdancing, an excited wealth of gesture. What they said, none of the partycould ever afterwards remember. Dimble maintained that they had beenchiefly engaged in making puns. MacPhee denied that he had ever, eventhat night, made a pun, but all agreed that they had beenextraordinarily witty. If not plays upon words, yet certainly plays uponthoughts, paradoxes, fancies, anecdotes, theories laughingly advanced,yet, on consideration, well worth taking seriously, had flowed from themand over them with dazzling prodigality. Even Ivy forgot her greatsorrow. Mother Dimble always remembered Denniston and her husband asthey had stood, one on each side of the fireplace, in a gay intellectualduel, each capping the other, each rising above the other, up and up,like birds or aeroplanes in combat. If only one could have rememberedwhat they said! For never in her life had she heard such talk--sucheloquence, such melody (song could have added nothing to it), suchtoppling structures of double meaning, such sky-rockets of metaphor andallusion.

A moment after that and they were all silent. Calm fell, as suddenly aswhen one goes out of the wind behind a wall. They sat staring upon oneanother, tired and a little self-conscious.

Upstairs this first change had had a different operation. There came aninstant at which both men braced themselves. Ransom gripped the side ofhis sofa: Merlin grasped his own knees and set his teeth. A rod ofcoloured light, whose colour no man can name or picture, darted betweenthem: no more to see than that, but seeing was the least part of theirexperience. Quick agitation seized them: a kind of boiling and bubblingin mind and heart which shook their bodies also. It went to a rhythm ofsuch fierce speed that they feared their sanity must be shaken into athousand fragments. And then it seemed that this had actually happened.But it did not matter: for all the fragments--needle-pointed desires,brisk merriments, lynx-eyed thoughts--went rolling to and fro likeglittering drops and reunited themselves. It was well that both men hadsome knowledge of poetry. The doubling, splitting, and recombining ofthoughts which now went on in them would have been unendurable for onewhom that art had not already instructed in the counterpoint of themind, the mastery of doubled and trebled vision. For Ransom, whose studyhad been for many years in the realm of words, it was heavenly pleasure.He found himself sitting within the very heart of language, in thewhite-hot furnace of essential speech. All fact was broken, splashedinto cataracts, caught, turned inside out, kneaded, slain, and reborn asmeaning. For the lord of Meaning himself, the herald, the messenger, theslayer of Argus, was with them: the angel that spins nearest the sun,Viritrilbia, whom men call Mercury and Thoth.

Down in the kitchen drowsiness stole over them after the orgy ofspeaking had come to an end. Jane, having nearly fallen asleep, wasstartled by her book falling from her hand, and looked about her. Howwarm it was . . . how comfortable and familiar. She had always likedwood fires, but to-night the smell of the logs seemed more thanordinarily sweet. She began to think it was sweeter than it couldpossibly be, that a smell of burning cedar or of incense pervaded theroom. It thickened. Fragrant names hovered in her mind--nard and cassia'sbalmy smells and all Arabia breathing from a box: even something moresubtly sweet, perhaps maddening--why not forbidden?--but she knew it wascommanded. She was too drowsy to think deeply how this could be. TheDimbles were talking together, but in so low a voice that the rest couldnot hear. Their faces appeared to her transfigured. She could no longersee that they were old--only mature, like ripe fields in August, sereneand golden with the tranquillity of fulfilled desire. On her other side,Arthur said something in Camilla's ear. There too . . . but as thewarmth and sweetness of that rich air now fully mastered her brain, shecould hardly bear to look on them: not through envy (that thought wasfar away) but because a sort of brightness flowed from them that dazzledher, as if the god and goddess in them burned through their bodies andthrough their clothes and shone before her in a young double-naturednakedness of rose-red spirit that overcame her. And all about themdanced (as she half saw) not the gross and ridiculous dwarfs which shehad seen that afternoon but grave and ardent spirits, bright winged,their boyish shapes smooth and slender like ivory rods.

In the Blue Room also Ransom and Merlin felt about this time that thetemperature had risen. The windows, they did not see how or when, hadswung open; at their opening the temperature did not drop, for it wasfrom without that the warmth came. Through the bare branches, across theground which was once more stiffening with frost, a summer breeze wasblowing into the room, but the breeze of such a summer as England neverhas. Laden like heavy barges that glide nearly gunwale under, laden soheavily you would have thought it could not move, laden with ponderousfragrance of night-scented flowers, sticky gums, groves that dropodours, and with cool savour of midnight fruit, it stirred the curtains,it lifted a letter that lay on the table, it lifted the hair which had amoment before been plastered on Merlin's forehead. The room was rocking.They were afloat. A soft tingling and shivering as of foam and breakingbubbles ran over their flesh. Tears ran down Ransom's cheeks. He aloneknew from what seas and what islands that breeze blew. Merlin did not:but in him also the inconsolable wound with which man is born waked andached at this touching. Low syllables of prehistoric Celtic self-pitymurmured from his lips. These yearnings and fondlings were, however,only the forerunners of the goddess. As the whole of her virtue seized,focused, and held that spot of the rolling earth in her long beam,something harder, shriller, more perilously ecstatic, came out of thecentre of all the softness. Both the humans trembled--Merlin because hedid not know what was coming, Ransom because he knew. And now it came.It was fiery, sharp, bright, and ruthless, ready to kill, ready to die,outspeeding light: it was Charity, not as mortals imagine it, not evenas it has been humanised for them since the Incarnation of the Word, butthe translunary virtue, fallen upon them direct from the Third Heaven,unmitigated. They were blinded, scorched, deafened. They thought itwould burn their bones. They could not bear that it should continue.They could not bear that it should cease. So Perelandra, triumphantamong planets, whom men call Venus, came and was with them in the room.

Down in the kitchen MacPhee sharply drew back his chair so that itgrated on the tiled floor like a pencil squeaking on a slate. "Man!" heexclaimed, "it's a shame for us to be sitting here looking at the fire.If the Director hadn't got a game leg himself, I'll bet you he'd havefound some other way for us to go to work."

Camilla's eyes flashed towards him. "Go on!" she said, "go on!"

"What do you mean, MacPhee?" said Dimble.

"He means fighting," said Camilla.

"They'd be too many for us, I'm afraid," said Arthur Denniston.

"Maybe so!" said MacPhee. "But maybe they'll be too many for us thisway, too. But it would be grand to have one go at them before the end.To tell you the truth, I sometimes feel I don't greatly care whathappens. But I wouldn't be easy in my grave if I knew they'd won and I'dnever had my hands on them. I'd like to be able to say as an oldsergeant said to me in the first war, about a bit of a raid we did nearMonchy. Our fellows did it all with the butt end, you know. 'Sir,' sayshe, 'did ever you hear anything like the way their heads cracked?'"

"I think that's disgusting," said Mother Dimble.

"That part is, I suppose," said Camilla. "But . . . oh, if one couldhave a charge in the old style. I don't mind anything once I'm on ahorse."

"I can't understand it," said Dimble. "I'm not like you, MacPhee. I'mnot brave. But I was just thinking as you spoke that I don't feel afraidof being killed and hurt as I used to do. Not to-night."

"We may be, I suppose," said Jane.

"As long as we're all together," said Mother Dimble. "It might be . . .no, I don't mean anything heroic . . . it might be a nice way to die."And suddenly all their faces and voices were changed. They were laughingagain, but it was a different kind of laughter. Their love for oneanother became intense. Each, looking on all the rest, thought, "I'mlucky to be here. I could die with these." But MacPhee was humming tohimself:

"King William said, Be not dismayed, for the loss of one commander."

Upstairs it was, at first, much the same. Merlin saw in memory thewintry grass on Badon Hill, the long banner of the Virgin flutteringabove the heavy British-Roman cataphracts, the yellow-haired barbarians.He heard the snap of the bows, the click-click of steel points inwooden shields, the cheers, the howling, the ringing of struck mail. Heremembered also the evening, fires twinkling along the hill, frostmaking the gashes smart, starlight on a pool fouled with blood, eaglescrowding together in the pale sky. And Ransom, it may be, remembered hislong struggle in the caves of Perelandra. But all this passed. Somethingtonic and lusty and cheerily cold, like a sea-breeze, was coming overthem. There was no fear anywhere: the blood inside them flowed as if toa marching-song. They felt themselves taking their places in the orderedrhythm of the universe, side by side with punctual seasons and patternedatoms and the obeying Seraphim. Under the immense weight of theirobedience their wills stood up straight and untiring like caryatides.Eased of all fickleness and all protestings they stood; gay, light,nimble, and alert. They had outlived all anxieties; care was a wordwithout meaning. To live was to share without effort this processionalromp. Ransom knew, as a man knows when he touches iron, the clear, tautsplendour of that celestial spirit who now flashed between them:vigilant Malacandra, captain of a cold orb, whom men call Mars andMavors, and Tyr who put his hand in the wolf-mouth. Ransom greeted hisguests in the tongue of heaven. But he warned Merlin that now the timewas coming when he must play the man. The three gods who had already metin the Blue Room were less unlike humanity than the two whom they stillawaited. In Viritrilbia and Venus and Malacandra were represented thosetwo of the Seven genders which bear a certain analogy to the biologicalsexes, and can therefore be in some measure understood by men. It wouldnot be so with those who were now preparing to descend. These alsodoubtless had their genders, but we have no clue to them. These would bemightier energies: ancient eldils, steersmen of giant worlds which havenever from the beginning been subdued to the sweet humiliations oforganic life.

"Stir the fire, Denniston, for any sake. That's a cold night," saidMacPhee in the kitchen.

"It must be cold outside," said Dimble.

All thought of that; of stiff grass, hen-roosts, dark places in themiddle of woods, graves. Then of the sun's dying, the earth gripped,suffocated, in airless cold, the black sky lit only with stars. Andthen, not even stars: the heat-death of the universe, utter and finalblackness of nonentity from which Nature knows no return. Another life?"Possibly," thought MacPhee. "I believe," thought Denniston. But the oldlife gone, all its times, all its hours and days, gone. Can evenOmnipotence bring back? Where do years go, and why? Man never wouldunderstand it. The misgiving deepened. Perhaps there was nothing to beunderstood.

Saturn, whose name in the heavens is Lurga, stood in the Blue Room. Hisspirit lay upon the house, or even on the whole earth, with a coldpressure such as might flatten the very orb of Tellus to a wafer.Matched against the lead-like burden of his antiquity, the other godsthemselves perhaps felt young and ephemeral. It was a mountain ofcenturies sloping up from the highest antiquity we can conceive, up andup like a mountain whose summit never comes into sight, not to eternitywhere the thought can rest, but into more and still more time, intofreezing wastes and silence of unnameable numbers. It was also stronglike a mountain: its age was no mere morass of time where imaginationcan sink in reverie, but a living, self-remembering duration whichrepelled lighter intelligences from its structure as granite flings backwaves, itself unwithered and undecayed, but able to wither any whoapproached it unadvised. Ransom and Merlin suffered a sensation ofunendurable cold: and all that was strength in Lurga became sorrow as itentered them. Yet Lurga in that room was overmatched. Suddenly a greaterspirit came--one whose influence tempered and almost transformed to hisown quality the skill of leaping Mercury, the clearness of Mars, thesubtler vibration of Venus, and even the numbing weight of Saturn.

In the kitchen his coming was felt. No one afterwards knew how ithappened, but somehow the kettle was put on, the hot toddy was brewed.Arthur--the only musician among them--was bidden to get out his fiddle.The chairs were pushed back, the floor cleared. They danced. What theydanced no one could remember. It was some round dance, no modernshuffling: it involved beating the floor, clapping of hands, leapinghigh. And no one, while it lasted, thought himself or his fellowsridiculous. It may, in fact, have been some village measure, notill-suited to the tiled kitchen: the spirit in which they danced it wasnot so. It seemed to each that the room was filled with kings andqueens, that the wildness of their dance expressed heroic energy, andits quieter movements had seized the very spirit behind all nobleceremonies.

Upstairs his mighty beam turned the Blue Room into a blaze of lights.Before the other angels a man might sink: before this he might die, butif he lived at all he would laugh. If you had caught one breath of theair that came from him, you would have felt yourself taller than before.Though you were a cripple, your walk would have become stately: though abeggar, you would have worn your rags magnanimously. Kingship and powerand festal pomp and courtesy shot from him as sparks fly from an anvil.The ringing of bells, the blowing of trumpets, the spreading out ofbanners, are means used on earth to make a faint symbol of his quality.It was like a long sunlit wave, creamy-crested and arched with emerald,that comes on nine feet tall, with roaring and with terror andunquenchable laughter. It was like the first beginning of music in thehalls of some King so high and at some festival so solemn that a tremorakin to fear runs through young hearts when they hear it. For this wasgreat Glund-Oyarsa, King of Kings, through whom the joy of creationprincipally blows across these fields of Arbol, known to men in oldtimes as Jove and under that name, by fatal but not inexplicablemisprision, confused with his Maker--so little did they dream by how manydegrees the stair even of created being rises above him.

At his coming there was holiday in the Blue Room. The two mortals,momentarily caught up into the Gloria which those five excellentNatures perpetually sing, forgot for a time the lower and more immediatepurpose of their meeting. Then they proceeded to operation. Merlinreceived the powers into him.

He looked different next day. Partly because his beard had been shaved:but also, because he was no longer his own man. No one doubted that hisfinal severance from the body was near. Later in the day MacPhee drovehim off and dropped him in the neighbourhood of Belbury.

II

Mark had fallen into a doze in the tramp's bedroom that day, when he wasstartled, and driven suddenly to collect himself, by the arrival ofvisitors. Frost came in first and held the door open. Two othersfollowed. One was the Deputy Director: the other was a man whom Mark hadnot seen before.

This person was dressed in a rusty cassock and carried in his hand awide-brimmed black hat such as priests wear in many parts of theContinent. He was a very big man, and the cassock perhaps made him lookbigger. He was clean shaven, revealing a large face with heavy andcomplicated folds in it, and he walked with his head a little bowed.Mark decided that he was a simple soul, probably an obscure member ofsome religious order who happened to be an authority on some even moreobscure language. And it was to Mark rather odious to see him standingbetween those two birds of prey--Wither effusive and flattering on hisright and Frost, on his left, stiff as a ramrod, waiting with scientificattention but also, as Mark could now see, with a certain cold dislike,for the result of the new experiment.

Wither talked to the stranger for some moments in a language which Markcould not follow but which he recognised as Latin. "A priest,obviously," thought Mark. "But I wonder where from? Wither knows most ofthe ordinary languages. Would the old chap be a Greek? Doesn't look likea Levantine. More probably a Russian." But at this point Mark'sattention was diverted. The tramp, who had closed his eyes when he heardthe door-handle turning, had suddenly opened them, seen the stranger,and then shut them tighter than before. After this his behaviour waspeculiar. He began emitting a series of very exaggerated snores andturned his back to the company. The stranger took a step nearer to thebed and spoke two syllables in a low voice. For a second or two thetramp lay as he was but seemed to be afflicted with a shivering fit:then, slowly, but with continuous movement, as when the bows of a shipcome round in obedience to the rudder, he rolled round and lay staringup into the other's face. His mouth and his eyes were both opened verywide. From certain jerking of his head and hands and from certainghastly attempts to smile, Mark concluded that he was trying to saysomething, probably of a deprecatory and insinuating kind. What nextfollowed took his breath away. The stranger spoke again: and then, withmuch facial contortion, mixed with coughs and stammers and splutteringand expectoration, there came out of the tramp's mouth, in a highunnatural voice, syllables, words, a whole sentence, in some languagethat was neither Latin nor English. All this time the stranger kept hiseyes fixed on those of the tramp.

The stranger spoke again. This time the tramp replied at much greaterlength and seemed to manage the unknown language a little more easily,though his voice remained quite unlike that in which Mark had heard himtalking for the last few days. At the end of his speech he sat up in bedand pointed to where Wither and Frost were standing. Then the strangerappeared to ask him a question. The tramp spoke for the third time.

At this reply the stranger started back, crossed himself several times,and exhibited every sign of terror. He turned and spoke rapidly in Latinto the other two. Something happened to their faces when he spoke. Theylooked like dogs who have just picked up a scent. Then, with a loudexclamation the stranger caught up his skirts and made a bolt for thedoor. But the scientists were too quick for him. For a few minutes allthree were wrangling there, Frost's teeth bared like an animal's, andthe loose mask of Wither's face wearing, for once, a quite unambiguousexpression. The old priest was being threatened. Mark found that hehimself had taken a step forward. But before he could make up his mindhow to act, the stranger, shaking his head and holding out his hands,had come timidly back to the bedside. It was an odd thing that the trampwho had relaxed during the struggle at the door should suddenly stiffenagain and fix his eyes on this frightened old man as if he were awaitingorders.

More words in the unknown language followed. The tramp once more pointedat Wither and Frost. The stranger turned and spoke to them in Latin,apparently translating. Wither and Frost looked at one another as ifeach waited for his fellow to act. What followed was pure lunacy. Withinfinite caution, wheezing and creaking, down went the whole shakysenility of the Deputy Director, down onto its knees: and half a secondlater with a jerky, metallic movement Frost got down beside him. When hewas down he suddenly looked over his shoulder to where Mark wasstanding. The flash of pure hatred in his face, but hatred, as it were,crystallised so that it was no longer a passion and had no heat in it,was like touching metal in the Arctic where metal burns. "Kneel," hebleated, and instantly turned his head. Mark never could rememberafterwards whether he simply forgot to obey this order or whether hisreal rebellion dated from that moment.

The tramp spoke again, always with his eyes fixed on those of the man inthe cassock. And again the latter translated, and then stood aside.Wither and Frost began going forward on their knees till they reachedthe bedside. The tramp's hairy, dirty hand with its bitten nails wasthrust out to them. They kissed it. Then it seemed that some furtherorder was given them. They rose and Mark perceived that Wither wasgently expostulating in Latin against this order. He kept on indicatingFrost. The words venia tua[4](each time emended to venia vestra)recurred so often that Mark could pick them out. But apparently theexpostulation was unsuccessful: a few moments later Frost and Wither hadboth left the room.

[Footnote 4]"With your kind permission"; or, "If you will pardon me."

As the door shut, the tramp collapsed like a deflated balloon. He rolledhimself to and fro on the bed muttering, "Gor', blimey. Couldn't havebelieved it. It's a knock-out. A fair knock-out." But Mark had littleleisure to attend to this. He found that the stranger was addressinghim, and though he could not understand the words, he looked up.Instantly he wished to look away again and found that he could not. Hemight have claimed with some reason that he was by now an expert in theendurance of alarming faces. But that did not alter the fact that whenhe looked on this he felt himself afraid. Almost before he had time torealise this he felt himself drowsy. A moment later he fell into hischair and slept.

III

"Well?" said Frost, as soon as they found themselves outside the door.

"It is . . . er . . . profoundly perplexing," said the Deputy Director.

They walked down the passage conversing in low tones as they went.

"It certainly looked--I say looked," continued Frost, "as if the man inthe bed were being hypnotised and the Basque priest were in charge ofthe situation."

"Oh, surely, my dear friend, that would be a most disquietinghypothesis."

"Excuse me. I have made no hypothesis. I am describing how it looked."

"And how, on your hypothesis--forgive me, but that is what it is--would aBasque priest come to invent the story that our guest was MerlinusAmbrosius?"

"That is the point. If the man in the bed is not Merlinus, thensomeone else, and someone quite outside our calculations, namely thepriest, knows our whole plan of campaign."

"And that, my dear friend, is why the retention of both these personsand a certain extreme delicacy in our attitude to both is required--atleast until we have some further light."

"They must, of course, be detained."

"I would hardly say detained. It has implications . . . I do notventure to express any doubts at present as to the identity of ourdistinguished guest. There is no question of detention. On the contrary,the most cordial welcome, the most meticulous courtesy . . ."

"Do I understand that you had always pictured Merlinus entering theInstitute as a Dictator rather than a colleague?"

"As to that," said Wither, "my conception of the personal, or evenofficial, relations between us had always been elastic and ready for allnecessary adaptations. It would be a very real grief to me if I thoughtyou were allowing any misplaced sense of your own dignity . . . ah, inshort, provided he is Merlinus . . . you understand me?"

"Where are you taking us at the moment?"

"To my own apartments. If you remember, the request was that we shouldprovide our guest with some clothes."

"There was no request. We were ordered."

To this the Deputy Director made no reply. When both men were in hisbedroom and the door was shut, Frost said, "I am not satisfied. You donot seem to realise the dangers of the situation. We must take intoaccount the possibility that the man is not Merlinus. And if he is notMerlinus, then the priest knows things he ought not to know. To allow animpostor and a spy to remain at large in the Institute is out of thequestion. We must find out at once where that priest gets his knowledgefrom. And where did you get the priest from?"

"I think that is the kind of shirt which would be most suitable," saidWither, laying it on the bed. "The suits are in here. The . . . ah . . .clerical personage said he had come in answer to our advertisement. Iwish to do full justice to the point of view you have expressed, my dearFrost. On the other hand, to reject the real Merlinus . . . to alienatea power which is an integral factor in our plan . . . would be at leastequally dangerous. It is not even certain that the priest would in anyevent be an enemy. He may have made independent contact with theMacrobes. He may be a potential ally."

"Did you think he looked like it? His priesthood is against him."

"All that we now want," said Wither, "is a collar and tie. Forgive mefor saying that I have never been able to share your root and branchattitude to religion. I am not speaking of dogmatic Christianity in itsprimitive form. But within religious circles--ecclesiasticalcircles--types of spirituality of very real value do from time to timearise. When they do they sometimes reveal great energy. Father Doyle,though not very talented, is one of our soundest colleagues: and Mr.Straik has in him the germs of that total allegiance (objectivity is,I believe, the term you prefer) which is so rare. It doesn't do to be inany way narrow."

"What do you actually propose to do?"

"We will, of course, consult the Head at once. I use that term, youunderstand, purely for convenience."

"But how can you? Have you forgotten that this is the night of theinaugural banquet, and that Jules is coming down? He may be here in anhour. You will be dancing attendance on him till midnight."

For a moment Wither's face remained still, the mouth wide open. He hadindeed forgotten that the puppet Director, the dupe of the Institute bywhom it duped the public, was coming that night. But the realisationthat he had forgotten troubled him more than it would have troubledanother. It was like the first cold breath of winter--the first littlehint of a crack in that great secondary self or mental machine which hehad built up to carry on the business of living while he, the realWither, floated far away on the indeterminate frontiers of ghosthood.

"God bless my soul!" he said.

"You have therefore to consider at once," said Frost, "what to do withthese two men this very evening. It is out of the question that theyshould attend the banquet. It would be madness to leave them to theirown devices."

"Which reminds me that we have already left them alone--and withStuddock, too--for over ten minutes. We must go back with the clothes atonce."

"And without a plan?" enquired Frost, though following Wither out of theroom as he said it.

"We must be guided by circumstances," said Wither.

They were greeted on their return by a babble of imploring Latin fromthe man in the cassock. "Let me go," he said; "I entreat you do not, foryour mothers' sakes, do violence to a poor harmless old man. I will tellnothing--God forgive me--but I cannot stay here. This man who says he isMerlinus come back from the dead--he is a diabolist, a worker of infernalmiracles. Look! Look what he did to the poor young man the moment youhad left the room." He pointed to where Mark lay unconscious in hischair. "He did it with his eye, only by looking at him. The evil eye,the evil eye."

"Silence!" said Frost in the same language, "and listen. If you do whatyou are told, no harm will come to you. If you do not, you will bedestroyed. I think that if you are troublesome you may lose your soul aswell as your life; for you do not sound likely to be a martyr."

The man whimpered, covering his face with his hands. Suddenly, not as ifhe wished to but as if he were a machine that had been worked, Frostkicked him. "Get on," he said. "Tell him we have brought such clothes asmen wear now." The man did not stagger when he was kicked.

The end of it was that the tramp was washed and dressed. When this hadbeen done, the man in the cassock said, "He is saying that he must nowbe taken for a journey through all your house and shown the secrets."

"Tell him," said Wither, "that it will be a very great pleasure andprivilege----"

But here the tramp spoke again. "He says," translated the big man,"first that he must see the Head and the beasts and the criminals whoare being tormented. Secondly, that he will go with one of you alone.With you, sir," and here he turned to Wither.

"I will allow no such arrangement," said Frost in English.

"My dear Frost," said Wither, "this is hardly the moment . . . and oneof us must be free to meet Jules."

The tramp had spoken again. "Forgive me," said the man in the cassock,"I must follow what he says. The words are not mine. He forbids you totalk in his presence in a tongue which he cannot, even through me,understand. And he says it is an old habit of his to be obeyed. He isasking now whether you wish to have him for a friend or an enemy."

Frost took a pace nearer to the pseudo-Merlin so that his shouldertouched the rusty cassock of the real one. Wither thought that Frost hadintended to say something but had grown afraid. In reality, Frost foundit impossible to remember any words. Perhaps it was due to the rapidshifts from Latin to English which had been going on. He could notspeak. Nothing but nonsense syllables would occur to his mind. He hadlong known that his continued intercourse with the beings he calledMacrobes might have effects on his psychology which he could notpredict. In a dim sort of way the possibility of complete destructionwas never out of his thoughts. He had schooled himself not to attend toit. Now, it seemed to be descending on him. He reminded himself thatfear was only a chemical phenomenon. For the moment, clearly, he muststep out of the struggle, come to himself, and make a new start later inthe evening. For, of course, this could not be final. At the very worstit could only be the first hint of the end. Probably he had years ofwork before him. He would outlast Wither. He would kill the priest. EvenMerlin, if it was Merlin, might not stand better with the Macrobes thanhimself. He stood aside, and the tramp, accompanied by the real Merlinand the Deputy Director, left the room.

Frost had been right in thinking that the aphasia would be onlytemporary. As soon as they were alone he found no difficulty in saying,as he shook Mark by the shoulder, "Get up. What do you mean by sleepinghere? Come with me to the Objective Room."

IV

Before proceeding to their tour of inspection Merlin demanded robes forthe tramp, and Wither finally dressed him as a Doctor of Philosophy ofthe University of Edgestow. Thus arrayed, walking with his eyes halfshut, and as delicately as if he were treading on eggs, the bewilderedtinker was led upstairs and downstairs and through the zoo and into thecells. Every now and then his face underwent a kind of spasm as if hewere trying to say something; but he never succeeded in producing anywords except when the real Merlin asked him a question and fixed himwith his eye. Of course, all this was not to the tramp what it wouldhave been to anyone who made an educated and wealthy man's demands uponthe universe. It was, no doubt, a "rum do"--the rummest do that had everbefallen him. The mere sensation of being clean all over would have madeit that, even apart from the crimson robe and the fact that his ownmouth kept on uttering sounds he did not understand and without his ownconsent. But it was not by any means the first inexplicable thing thathad been done to him.

Meanwhile, in the Objective Room, something like a crisis had developedbetween Mark and Professor Frost. As soon as they arrived there Mark sawthat the table had been drawn back. On the floor lay a large crucifix,almost life-size, a work of art in the Spanish tradition, ghastly andrealistic. "We have half an hour to pursue our exercises," said Frost,looking at his watch. Then he instructed Mark to trample on it andinsult it in other ways.

Now, whereas Jane had abandoned Christianity in early childhood, alongwith her belief in fairies and Santa Claus, Mark had never believed init at all. At this moment, therefore, it crossed his mind for the veryfirst time that there might conceivably be something in it. Frost, whowas watching him carefully, knew perfectly well that this might be theresult of the present experiment. He knew it for the very good reasonthat his own training by the Macrobes had, at one point, suggested thesame odd idea to himself. But he had no choice. Whether he wished it ornot, this sort of thing was part of the initiation.

"But, look here," said Mark.

"What is it?" said Frost. "Pray be quick. We have only a limited time atour disposal."

"This," said Mark, pointing with an undefined reluctance to the horriblewhite figure on the cross, "this is all surely a pure superstition."

"Well?"

"Well, if so, what is their objective about stamping on the face? Isn'tit just as subjective to spit on a thing like this as to worship it? Imean--damn it all--if it's only a bit of wood, why do anything about it?"

"That is superficial. If you had been brought up in a non-Christiansociety, you would not be asked to do this. Of course it is asuperstition: but it is that particular superstition which has pressedupon our society for a great many centuries. It can be experimentallyshown that it still forms a dominant system in the subconscious of manyindividuals whose conscious thought appears to be wholly liberated. Anexplicit action in the reverse direction is therefore a necessary steptowards complete objectivity. It is not a question for a prioridiscussion. We find in practice that it cannot be dispensed with."

Mark himself was surprised at the emotions he was undergoing. He did notregard the image with anything at all like a religious feeling. Mostemphatically it did not belong to that idea of the Straight or Normal orWholesome which had, for the last few days, been his support againstwhat he now knew of the innermost circle at Belbury. The horrible vigourof its realism was, indeed, in its own way as remote from that Idea asanything else in the room. That was one source of his reluctance. Toinsult even a carved image of such agony seemed an abominable act. Butit was not the only source. With the introduction of this Christiansymbol the whole situation had somehow altered. The thing was becomingincalculable. His simple antithesis of the Normal and the Diseased hadobviously failed to take something into account. Why was the crucifixthere? Why were more than half the poison-pictures religious? He had thesense of new parties to the conflict--potential allies and enemies whichhe had not suspected before. "If I take a step in any direction," hethought, "I may step over a precipice." A donkey-like determination toplant hoofs and stay still at all costs arose in his mind.

"Pray make haste," said Frost.

The quiet urgency of the voice and the fact that he had so often obeyedit before, almost conquered him. He was on the verge of obeying andgetting the whole silly business over, when the defencelessness of thefigure deterred him. The feeling was a very illogical one. Not becauseits hands were nailed and helpless, but because they were only made ofwood and therefore even more helpless, because the thing, for all itsrealism, was inanimate and could not in any way hit back, he paused. Theunretaliating face of a doll--one of Myrtle's dolls--which he had pulledto pieces in boyhood had affected him in the same way, and the memory,even now, was tender to the touch.

"What are you waiting for, Mr. Studdock?" said Frost.

Mark was well aware of the rising danger. Obviously, if he disobeyed,his last chance of getting out of Belbury alive might be gone. Even ofgetting out of this room. The smothering sensation once again attackedhim. He was himself, he felt, as helpless as the wooden Christ. As hethought this, he found himself looking at the crucifix in a newway--neither as a piece of wood nor a monument of superstition but as abit of history. Christianity was nonsense, but one did not doubt thatthe man had lived and had been executed thus by the Belbury of thosedays. And that, as he suddenly saw, explained why this image, though notitself an image of the Straight or Normal, was yet in opposition tocrooked Belbury. It was a picture of what happened when the Straight metthe Crooked, a picture of what the Crooked did to the Straight--what itwould do to him if he remained straight. It was, in a more emphaticsense than he had yet understood, a cross.

"Do you intend to go on with the training or not?" said Frost. His eyewas on the time. He knew that those others were conducting their tour ofinspection and that Jules must have very nearly reached Belbury. He knewthat he might be interrupted at any moment. He had chosen this time forthis stage in Mark's initiation partly in obedience to an unexplainedimpulse (such impulses grew more frequent with him every day), butpartly because he wished, in the uncertain situation which had nowarisen, to secure Mark at once. He and Wither and possibly (by now)Straik were the only full initiates in the N.I.C.E. On them lay thedanger of making any false step in dealing with the man who claimed tobe Merlin and with his mysterious interpreter. For him who took theright steps there was a chance of ousting all the others, of becoming tothem what they were to the rest of the Institute and what the Institutewas to the rest of England. He knew that Wither was waiting eagerly forany slip on his own part. Hence it seemed to him of the utmostimportance to bring Mark as soon as possible beyond that point afterwhich there is no return, and the disciple's allegiance both to theMacrobes and to the teacher who has initiated him becomes a matter ofpsychological, or even physical, necessity.

"Do you not hear what I am saying?" he asked Mark again.

Mark made no reply. He was thinking, and thinking hard because he knewthat if he stopped even for a moment mere terror of death would take thedecision out of his hands. Christianity was a fable. It would beridiculous to die for a religion one did not believe. This Man himself,on that very cross, had discovered it to be a fable, and had diedcomplaining that the God in whom he trusted had forsaken him--had, infact, found the universe a cheat. But this raised a question that Markhad never thought of before. Was that the moment at which to turnagainst the Man? If the universe was a cheat, was that a good reason forjoining its side? Supposing the Straight was utterly powerless, alwaysand everywhere certain to be mocked, tortured, and finally killed by theCrooked, what then? Why not go down with the ship? He began to befrightened by the very fact that his fears seemed to have momentarilyvanished. They had been a safeguard . . . they had prevented him, allhis life, from making mad decisions like that which he was now making ashe turned to Frost and said, "It's all bloody nonsense, and I'm damnedif I do any such thing."

When he said this he had no idea what might happen next. He did not knowwhether Frost would ring a bell or produce a revolver or renew hisdemands. In fact, Frost simply went on staring at him and he staredback. Then he saw that Frost was listening, and he began to listenhimself. A moment later the door opened. The room seemed suddenly to befull of people--a man in a red gown (Mark did not instantly recognise thetramp) and the huge man in the black gown and Wither.

V

In the great drawing-room at Belbury a singularly uncomfortable partywas by now assembled. Horace Jules, Director of the N.I.C.E., hadarrived about half an hour before. They had shown him to the DeputyDirector's study, but the Deputy Director was not there. Then they hadshown him to his own rooms and hoped he would take a long time settlingin. He took a very short time. In five minutes he was downstairs againand on their hands, and it was still much too early for anyone to go anddress. He was now standing with his back to the fire drinking a glass ofsherry and the principal members of the Institute were standing roundhim. Conversation was hanging fire.

Conversation with Mr. Jules was always difficult, because he insisted onregarding himself not as a figure-head but as the real director of theInstitute, and even as the source of most of its ideas. And since, infact, any science he knew was that taught him at the University ofLondon over fifty years ago, and anything else he knew had been acquiredfrom writers like Haeckel and Joseph McCabe and Winwood Reade, it wasnot, in fact, possible to talk to him about most of the things theInstitute was really doing. One was always engaged in inventing answersto questions which were actually meaningless and expressing enthusiasmfor ideas which were out of date and had been crude even in their prime.That was why the absence of the Deputy Director in such interviews wasso disastrous, for Wither alone was master of a conversational stylethat exactly suited Jules.

Jules was a cockney. He was a very little man, whose legs were so shortthat he had unkindly been compared to a duck. He had a turned-up noseand a face in which some original bonhomie had been much interferedwith by years of good living and conceit. His novels had first raisedhim to fame and affluence; later, as editor of the weekly called WeWant to Know he had become such a power in the country that his namewas really necessary to the N.I.C.E.

"And as I said to the Archbishop," observed Jules, "you may not know, mylord, said I, that modern research shows the temple at Jerusalem to havebeen about the size of an English village church."

"God!" said Feverstone to himself, where he stood silent on the fringesof the group.

"Have a little more sherry, Director," said Miss Hardcastle.

"Well, I don't mind if I do," said Jules. "It's not at all bad sherry,though I think I could tell you of a place where we could get somethingbetter. And how are you getting on, Miss Hardcastle, with your reformsof our penal system?"

"Making real headway," she replied. "I think some modification of thePellotoff method----"

"What I always say," remarked Jules, interrupting her, "is, why nottreat crime like any other disease? I've no use for punishment. What youwant to do is to put the man on the right lines--give him a freshstart--give him an interest in life. It's all perfectly simple if youlook at it from that point of view. I dare say you've been reading alittle address on the subject I gave at Northampton."

"I agreed with you," said Miss Hardcastle.

"That's right," said Jules. "I tell you who didn't, though. OldHingest--and by the by, that was a queer business. You never caught themurderer, did you? But though I'm sorry for the old chap, I never didquite see eye to eye with him. Very last time I met him one or two of uswere talking about juvenile offenders, and do you know what he said? Hesaid, 'The trouble with these courts for young criminals nowadays isthat they're always binding them over when they ought to be bending themover.' Not bad, was it? Still, as Wither said--and, by the way, whereis Wither?"

"I think he should be here any moment now," said Miss Hardcastle; "Ican't imagine why he's not."

"I think," said Filostrato, "he have a breakdown with his car. He willbe very desolated, Mr. Director, not to have given you the welcome."

"Oh, he needn't bother about that," said Jules, "I never was one for anyformality, though I did think he'd be here when I arrived. You'relooking very well, Filostrato. I'm following your work with greatinterest. I look upon you as one of the makers of mankind."

"Yes, yes," said Filostrato, "that is the real business. Already webegin----"

"I try to help you all I can on the non-technical side," said Jules."It's a battle I've been fighting for years. The whole question of oursex-life. What I always say is that once you get the whole thing outinto the open, you don't have any more trouble. It's all this Victoriansecrecy which does the harm. Making a mystery of it, I want every boyand girl in the country----"

"God!" said Feverstone to himself.

"Forgive me," said Filostrato, who, being a foreigner, had not yetdespaired of trying to enlighten Jules. "But that is not precisely thepoint."

"Now, I know what you're going to say," interrupted Jules, laying a fatforefinger on the Professor's sleeve. "And I dare say you don't read mylittle paper. But, believe me, if you looked up the first number of lastmonth you'd find a modest little editorial which a chap like you mightoverlook because it doesn't use any technical terms. But I ask you justto read it and see if it doesn't put the whole thing in a nutshell andin a way that the man in the street can understand."

At this moment the clock struck a quarter.

"I say," asked Jules, "what time is this dinner at?" He liked banquets,and specially banquets at which he had to speak.

"At quarter to eight," said Miss Hardcastle.

"You know," said Jules, "this fellow Wither really ought to be here. Imean to say. I'm not particular, but I don't mind telling you, betweenyou and me, that I'm a bit hurt. It isn't the kind of thing a chapexpects, is it?"

"I hope nothing's gone wrong with him," said Miss Hardcastle.

"You'd hardly have thought he'd have gone out anywhere, not on a daylike this," said Jules.

"Ecco," said Filostrato. "Someone come."

It was indeed Wither who entered the room, followed by a company whomJules had not expected to see, and Wither's face had certainly goodreason to look even more chaotic than usual. He had been bustled roundhis own institute as if he were a kind of footman. He had not even beenallowed to have the supply of air turned on for the Head when they madehim take them into the Head's room. And "Merlin" (if it was Merlin) hadignored it. Worst of all, it had gradually become clear to him that thisintolerable incubus and his interpreter fully intended to be present atdinner. No one could be more keenly aware than Wither of the absurdityof introducing to Jules a shabby old priest who couldn't speak English,in charge of what looked like a somnambulist chimpanzee dressed up as aDoctor of Philosophy. To tell Jules the real explanation--even if he knewwhich was the real explanation--was out of the question. For Jules was asimple man to whom the word "medieval" meant only "savage" and in whomthe word "magic" roused memories of The Golden Bough. It was a minornuisance that ever since their visit to the Objective Room he had beencompelled to have both Frost and Studdock in attendance. Nor did it mendmatters that as they approached Jules, and all eyes were fixed uponthem, the pseudo-Merlin collapsed into a chair, muttering, and closedhis eyes.

"My dear Director," began Wither, a little out of breath, "this is oneof the happiest moments of my life. I hope your comfort has been inevery way attended to. It has been most unfortunate that I was calledaway at the very moment when I was expecting your arrival. A remarkablecoincidence . . . another very distinguished person has joined us at thevery same moment. A foreigner . . ."

"Oh," interrupted Jules in a slightly rasping voice, "who's he?"

"Allow me," said Wither, stepping a little to one side.

"Do you mean that?" said Jules. The supposed Merlin sat with his armshanging down on each side of the chair, his eyes closed, his head on oneside, and a weak smile on his face. "Is he drunk? Or ill? And who is he,anyway?"

"He is, as I was observing, a foreigner," began Wither.

"Well, that doesn't make him go to sleep the moment he is introduced tome, does it?"

"Hush!" said Wither, drawing Jules a little out of the group andlowering his voice. "There are circumstances--it would be very difficultto go into it here--I have been taken by surprise and would, if you hadnot been here already, have consulted you at the first possible moment.Our distinguished guest has just undertaken a very long journey and has,I admit, certain eccentricities, and . . ."

"But who is he?" persisted Jules.

"His name is . . . er . . . Ambrosius. Dr. Ambrosius, you know."

"Never 'eard of him," snapped Jules. At another time he might not havemade this admission, but the whole evening was turning out differentlyfrom his expectations and he was losing his temper.

"Very few of us have heard of him yet," said Wither. "But everyonewill have heard of him soon. That is why, without in the least . . ."

"And who's that?" asked Jules, indicating the real Merlin. "He looksas if he were enjoying himself."

"Oh, that is merely Dr. Ambrosius's interpreter."

"Interpreter? Can't he talk English?"

"Unfortunately not. He lives rather in a world of his own."

"And can't you get anyone except a priest to act for him? I don't likethe look of that fellow. We don't want that sort of thing here at all.Hullo! And who are you?"

The last question was addressed to Straik, who had at this moment thrusthis way up to the Director. "Mr. Jules," he said, fixing the latter witha prophetic eye, "I am the bearer of a message to you which you musthear. I----"

"Shut up," said Frost to Straik.

"Really, Mr. Straik, really," said Wither. Between them they shoulderedhim aside.

"Now look 'ere, Mr. Wither," said Jules, "I tell you straight I'm veryfar from satisfied. Here's another parson. I don't remember the nameof any such person coming before me, and it wouldn't have got past me ifit had done, see? You and I'll have to have a very serious conversation.It seems to me you've been making appointments behind my back andturning the place into a kind of seminary. And that's a thing I won'tstand. Nor will the British people."

"I know. I know," said Wither. "I understand your feelings exactly. Youcan rely on complete sympathy. I am eager and waiting to explain thesituation to you. In the meantime, perhaps, as Dr. Ambrosius seemsslightly overcome and the dressing-bell has just sounded . . . oh, I begyour pardon. This is Dr. Ambrosius."

The tramp, to whom the real magician had recently turned, was now risenfrom his chair, and approaching. Jules held out his hand sulkily. Theother, looking over Jules's shoulder and grinning in an inexplicablefashion, seized it and shook it, as if absent-mindedly, some ten orfifteen times. His breath, Jules noticed, was strong and his grip horny.He was not liking Dr. Ambrosius. And he disliked even more the massiveform of the interpreter towering over them both.

SIXTEEN

Banquet at Belbury

I

It was with great pleasure that Mark found himself once more dressingfor dinner and what seemed likely to be an excellent dinner. He got aseat with Filostrato on his right and a rather inconspicuous newcomer onhis left. Even Filostrato seemed human and friendly compared with thetwo initiates, and to the newcomer his heart positively warmed. Henoticed with surprise that the tramp sat at the high table between Julesand Wither, but did not often look in that direction, for the tramp,catching his eye, had imprudently raised his glass and winked at him.The strange priest stood patiently behind the tramp's chair. For therest, nothing of importance happened until the King's health had beendrunk and Jules rose to make his speech.

For the first few minutes anyone glancing down the long tables wouldhave seen what we always see on such occasions. There were the placidfaces of elderly bons viveurs whom food and wine had placed in acontentment which no amount of speeches could violate. There were thepatient faces of responsible but serious diners who had long sincelearned how to pursue their own thoughts while attending to the speechjust enough to respond wherever a laugh or a low rumble of seriousassent was obligatory. There was the usual fidgety expression on thefaces of young men unappreciative of port and hungry for tobacco. Therewas bright over-elaborate attention on the powdered faces of women whoknew their duty to society. But if you have gone on looking down thetables you would presently have seen a change. You would have seen faceafter face look up and turn in the direction of the speaker. You wouldhave seen first curiosity, then fixed attention, then incredulity.Finally, you would have noticed that the room was utterly silent,without a cough or a creak, that every eye was fixed on Jules, and soonevery mouth opened in something between fascination and horror.

To different members of the audience the change came differently. ToFrost it began at the moment when he heard Jules end a sentence with thewords "as gross an anachronism as to trust to calvary for salvation inmodern war." Cavalry thought Frost almost aloud. Why couldn't the foolmind what he was saying. The blunder irritated him extremely.Perhaps--but hullo! what was this? Had his hearing gone wrong? For Julesseemed to be saying that the future density of mankind depended on theimplosion of the horses of Nature. "He's drunk," thought Frost. Then,crystal clear in articulation, beyond all possibility of mistake, came"The madrigore of verjuice must be talthibianised."

Wither was slower to notice what was happening. He had never expectedthe speech to have any meaning as a whole and for a long time thefamiliar catchwords rolled on in a manner which did not disturb theexpectation of his ear. He thought, indeed, that Jules was sailing verynear the wind, that a very small false step would deprive both thespeaker and the audience of even the power to pretend that he was sayinganything in particular. But as long as that border was not crossed, herather admired the speech; it was in his own line. Then he thought:"Come! That's going too far. Even they must see that you can't talkabout accepting the challenge of the past by throwing down the gauntletof the future." He looked cautiously down the room. All was well. But itwouldn't be if Jules didn't sit down pretty soon. In that last sentencethere were surely words he didn't know. What the deuce did he mean byaholibate? He looked down the room again. They were attending toomuch, always a bad sign. Then came the sentence, "The surrogatesesemplanted in a continual of porous variations."

Mark did not at first attend to the speech at all. He had plenty ofother things to think of. The appearance of this spouting popinjay atthe very crisis of his own history was a mere interruption. He was tooendangered and yet also, in some precarious way, too happy to botherabout Jules. Once or twice some phrase caught his ear and made him wantto smile. What first awoke him to the real situation was the behaviourof those who sat near him. He was aware of their increasing stillness.He noticed that everyone except himself had begun to attend. He lookedup and saw their faces. And then first he really listened. "We shallnot," Jules was saying, "we shall not till we can secure the erebationof all prostundiary initems." Little as he cared for Jules, a suddenshock of alarm pierced him. He looked round again. Obviously it was nothe who was mad--they had all heard the gibberish. Except possibly theTramp, who looked as solemn as a judge. He had never heard a speech fromone of these real toffs before and would have been disappointed if hecould understand it. Nor had he ever before drunk vintage port, andthough he did not much like the taste, he had been working away like aman.

Wither had not forgotten for a moment that there were reporters present.That in itself did not matter much. If anything unsuitable appeared into-morrow's paper, it would be child's play for him to say that thereporters were drunk or mad and break them. On the other hand, he mightlet the story pass. Jules was in many respects a nuisance, and thismight be as good an opportunity as any other for ending his career. Butthis was not the immediate question. Wither was wondering whether heshould wait till Jules sat down or whether he should rise and interrupthim with a few judicious words. He did not want a scene. It would bebetter if Jules sat down of his own accord. At the same time there wasby now an atmosphere in that crowded room which warned Wither not todelay too long. Glancing down at the second hand of his watch, hedecided to wait two minutes more. Almost as he did so he knew that hehad misjudged it. An intolerable falsetto laugh rang out from the bottomof the table and would not stop. Some fool of a woman had got hysterics.Immediately Wither touched Jules on the arm, signed to him with a nod,and rose.

"Eh? Blotcher bulldoo?" muttered Jules. But Wither, laying his hand onthe little man's shoulder, quietly but with all his weight, forced himdown into a sitting position. Then Wither cleared his throat. He knewhow to do that so that every eye in the room turned immediately to lookat him. The woman stopped screaming. People who had been sitting deadstill in strained positions moved and relaxed. Wither looked down theroom for a second or two in silence, feeling his grip on the audience.He saw that he already had them in hand. There would be no morehysterics. Then he began to speak.

They ought to have all looked more and more comfortable as he proceeded;and there ought soon to have been murmurs of grave regret for thetragedy which they had just witnessed. That was what Wither expected.What he actually saw bewildered him. The same too attentive silencewhich had prevailed during Jules's speech had returned. Brightunblinking eyes and open mouths greeted him in every direction. Thewoman began to laugh again--or no, this time it was two women. Cosser,after one frightened glance, jumped up, overturning his chair, andbolted from the room.

The Deputy Director could not understand this, for to him his own voiceseemed to be uttering the speech he had resolved to make. But theaudience heard him saying, "Tidies and fugleman--I sheel foor that weall--er--most steeply rebut the defensible, though, I trust, lavatory,Aspasia which gleams to have selected our redeemed inspector thisdeceiving. It would--ah--be shark, very shark, from anyone's debenture . . ."

The woman who had laughed rose hastily from her chair. The man seatednext to her heard her murmur in his ear, "Vood wooloo." He took in themeaningless syllables and her unnatural expression at one moment. Bothfor some reason infuriated him. He rose to help her to move back herchair with one of those gestures of savage politeness which often, inmodern society, serve instead of blows. He wrenched the chair, in fact,out of her hand. She screamed, tripped on a ruck in the carpet and fell.The man on the other side of her saw her fall and saw the first man'sexpression of fury. "Bot are you blammit?" he roared, leaning towardshim with a threatening movement. Four or five people in that part of theroom were now up. They were shouting. At the same time there wasmovement elsewhere. Several of the younger men were making for the door."Bundlemen, bundlemen," said Wither sternly, in a much louder voice. Hehad often before, merely by raising his voice and speaking oneauthoritative word, reduced troublesome meetings to order.

But this time he was not even heard. At least twenty people present wereat that very moment attempting to do the same thing. To each of them itseemed plain that things were just at that stage when a word or so ofplain sense, spoken in a new voice, would restore the whole room tosanity. One thought of a sharp word, one of a joke, one of somethingvery quiet and telling. As a result fresh gibberish in a great varietyof tones rang out from several places at once. Frost was the only one ofthe leaders who attempted to say nothing. Instead, he had pencilled afew words on a slip of paper, beckoned to a servant, and made himunderstand by signs that it was to be given to Miss Hardcastle.

By the time the message was put into her hands the clamour wasuniversal. To Mark it sounded like the noise of a crowded restaurant ina foreign country. Miss Hardcastle smoothed out the paper and stoopedher head to read. The message ran: Blunt frippers intantly to pointedbdeluroid. Purgent. Cost. She crumpled it up in her hand.

Miss Hardcastle had known before she got the message that she was threeparts drunk. She had expected and intended to be so: she knew that lateron in the evening she would go down to the cells and do things. Therewas a new prisoner there--a little fluffy girl of the kind the Fairyenjoyed--with whom she could pass an agreeable hour. The tumult ofgibberish did not alarm her: she found it exciting. Apparently Frostwanted her to take some action. She decided that she would. She rose andwalked the whole length of the room to the door, locked it, put the keyin her pocket, and then turned to survey the company. She noticed forthe first time that neither the supposed Merlin nor the Basque priestwere anywhere to be seen. Wither and Jules, both on their feet, werestruggling with each other. She set out towards them.

So many people had now risen that it took her a long time to reach them.All semblance of a dinner-party had disappeared: it was more like thescene at a London terminus on a bank holiday. Everyone was trying torestore order, but everyone was unintelligible, and everyone, in theeffort to be understood, was talking louder and louder. She shoutedseveral times herself. She even fought a good deal before she reachedher goal.

There came an ear-splitting noise and after that, at last, a few secondsof dead silence. Mark noticed first that Jules had been killed: onlysecondly that Miss Hardcastle had shot him. After that it was difficultto be sure what happened. The stampede and the shouting may haveconcealed a dozen reasonable plans for disarming the murderess, but itwas impossible to concert them. Nothing came of them but kicking,struggling, leaping on tables and under tables, pressing on and pullingback, screams, breaking of glass. She fired again and again. It was thesmell more than anything else which recalled the scene to Mark in laterlife: the smell of the shooting mixed with the sticky compound smell ofblood and port and Madeira.

Suddenly the confusion of cries ran all together into one thinlong-drawn noise of terror. Everyone had become more frightened.Something had darted very quickly across the floor between the two longtables and disappeared under one of them. Perhaps half the peoplepresent had not seen what it was--had only caught a gleam of black andtawny. Those who had seen it clearly could not tell the others: theycould only point and scream meaningless syllables. But Mark hadrecognised it. It was a tiger.

For the first time that evening everybody realised how manyhiding-places the room contained. The tiger might be under any of thetables. It might be in any of the deep bay windows, behind the curtains.There was a screen across one corner of the room, too.

It is not to be supposed that even now none of the company kept theirheads. With loud appeals to the whole room or with urgent whispers totheir immediate neighbours they tried to stem the panic, to arrange anorderly retreat from the room, to indicate how the brute could be luredor scared into the open and shot. But the doom of gibberish frustratedall their efforts. They could not arrest the two movements which weregoing on. The majority had not seen Miss Hardcastle lock the door: theywere pressing towards it, to get out at all costs: they would fight,they would kill if they could, rather than not reach the door. A largemajority, on the other hand, knew that the door was locked. There mustbe another door, the one used by the servants, the one whereby the tigerhad got in. They were pressing to the opposite end of the room to findit. The whole centre of the room was occupied by the meeting of thesetwo waves--a huge football scrum, at first noisy with frantic efforts atexplanation, but soon, as the struggle thickened, almost silent exceptfor the sound of labouring breath, kicking or trampling feet, andmeaningless muttering.

Four or five of these combatants lurched heavily against a table,pulling off the cloth in their fall and with it all the fruit-dishes,decanters, glasses, plates. Out of that confusion with a howl of terrorbroke the tiger. It happened so quickly that Mark hardly took it in. Hesaw the hideous head, the cat's snarl of the mouth, the flaming eyes. Heheard a shot--the last. Then the tiger had disappeared again. Somethingfat and white and bloodied was down among the feet of the scrummers.Mark could not recognise it at first, for the face, from where he stood,was upside down, and the grimaces disguised it until it was quite dead.Then he recognised Miss Hardcastle.

Wither and Frost were no longer to be seen. There was a growling closeat hand. Mark turned, thinking he had located the tiger. Then he caughtout of the corner of his eye a glimpse of something smaller and greyer.He thought it was an Alsatian. If so, the dog was mad. It ran along thetable, its tail between its legs, slavering. A woman, standing with herback to the table, turned, saw it, tried to scream, next moment wentdown as the creature leaped at her throat. It was a wolf. "Ai--ai!!"squealed Filostrato, and jumped on the table. Something else had dartedbetween his feet. Mark saw it streak across the floor and enter thescrum and wake that mass of interlocked terror into new and franticconvulsions. It was some kind of snake.

Above the chaos of sounds which now awoke--there seemed to be a newanimal in the room every minute--there came at last one sound in whichthose still capable of understanding could take comfort.Thud--thud--thud; the door was being battered from the outside. It was ahuge folding door, a door by which a small locomotive could almostenter, for the room was made in imitation of Versailles. Already one ortwo of the panels were splintering. The noise maddened those who hadmade that door their goal. It seemed also to madden the animals. Theydid not stop to eat what they killed, or not more than to take one lickof the blood. There were dead and dying bodies everywhere by now, forthe scrum was by this time killing as many as the beasts. And alwaysfrom all sides went up the voices trying to shout to those beyond thedoor, "Quick! Quick! Hurry!" but shouting only nonsense. Louder andlouder grew the noise at the door. As if in imitation a great gorillaleaped on the table where Jules had sat and began drumming on its chest.Then, with a roar, it jumped down into the crowd.

At last the door gave. Both wings gave. The passage, framed in thedoorway, was dark. Out of the darkness there came a grey snakysomething. It swayed in the air: then began methodically to break offthe splintered wood on each side and make the doorway clear. Then Marksaw distinctly how it swooped down, curled itself round a man--Steele, hethought, but everyone looked different now--and lifted him bodily highoff the floor. After that, monstrous, improbable, the huge shape of theelephant thrust its way into the room: its eyes enigmatic, its earsstanding stiffly out like devil's wings on each side of its head. Itstood for a second with Steele writhing in the curl of its trunk andthen dashed him to the floor. It trampled him. After that it raised headand trunk again and brayed horribly, then plunged straight forward intothe room, trumpeting and trampling--continuously trampling like a girltreading grapes, heavily and soon wetly trampling in a pash of blood andbones, of flesh, wine, fruit, and sodden table-cloth. Something morethan danger darted from the sight into Mark's brain. The pride andinsolent glory of the beast, the carelessness of its killings, seemed tocrush his spirit even as its flat feet were crushing women and men.Here, surely, came the King of the world . . . then everything wentblack and he knew no more.

II

When Mr. Bultitude had come to his senses he had found himself in a darkplace full of unfamiliar smells. This did not very greatly surprise ortrouble him. He was inured to mystery. To poke his head into any sparebedroom at St. Anne's, as he sometimes managed to do, was an adventureno less remarkable than that which had now befallen him. And the smellshere were, on the whole, promising. He perceived that food was in theneighbourhood and--more exciting still--a female of his own species. Therewere a great many other animals about too, apparently, but that wasrather irrelevant than alarming. He decided to go and find both thefemale bear and the food. It was then he discovered that walls met himin three directions and bars in the fourth: he could not get out. This,combined with an inarticulate want for the human companionship to whichhe was accustomed, gradually plunged him into depression. Sorrow such asonly animals know--huge seas of disconsolate emotion with not one littleraft of reason to float on--drowned him fathoms deep. In his own fashionhe lifted up his voice and wept.

And yet, not very far away from him, another, and human, captive wasalmost equally engulfed. Mr. Maggs, seated in a little white cell,chewed steadily on his great sorrow as only a simple man can chew. Aneducated man in his circumstances would have found misery streaked withreflection; would have been thinking how this new idea of cure insteadof punishment, so humane in seeming, had in fact deprived the criminalof all rights and by taking away the name punishment made the thinginfinite. But Mr. Maggs thought all the time simply of one thing: thatthis was the day he had counted on all through his sentence, that he hadexpected by this time to be having his tea at home with Ivy (she'd havegot something tasty for him the first night) and that it hadn'thappened. He sat quite still. About once in every two minutes a singlelarge tear trickled down his cheek. He wouldn't have minded so much ifthey'd let him have a packet of fags.

It was Merlin who brought release to both. He had left the dining-roomas soon as the curse of Babel was well fixed upon the enemies. No onehad seen him go. Wither had once heard his voice calling loud andintolerably glad above the riot of nonsense, "Qui Verbum Deicontempserunt, eis auferetur etiam Verbum hominis" ("They that havedespised the Word of God, from them shall the word of man also be takenaway"). After that he did not see him again, nor the tramp either.Merlin had gone and spoiled his house. He had liberated beasts and men.The animals that were already maimed he killed with an instantaneousmotion of the powers that were in him, swift and painless as the mildshafts of Artemis. To Mr. Maggs he had handed a written message. It ranas follows:

"DEAREST TOM,--I do hope your well and the Director here is one of theright sort and he says to come as quick as you can to the Manor at St.Anne's. And dont go through Edgestow Tom whatever you do but come anyway you can I should think someone had give you a Lift. Everything isall-right no more now. Lots of love ever your own IVY."

The other prisoners he let go where they pleased. The tramp, findingMerlin's back turned on him for a second, and having noticed that thehouse seemed to be empty, made his escape, first into the kitchen andthence, reinforced with all the edibles his pockets would hold, into thewide world. I have not been able to trace him further.

The beasts, except for one donkey who disappeared about the same time asthe tramp, Merlin sent to the dining-room, maddened with his voice andtouch. But he retained Mr. Bultitude. The latter had recognised him atonce as the same man whom he had sat beside in the Blue Room: less sweetand sticky than on that occasion, but recognisably the same. Evenwithout the brilliantine there was that in Merlin which exactly suitedthe bear and at their meeting it "made him all the cheer that a beastcan make a man." He laid his hand on its head and whispered in its ear,and its dark mind was filled with excitement as though some longforbidden and forgotten pleasure were suddenly held out to it. Down thelong, empty passages of Belbury it padded behind them. Saliva drippedfrom its mouth and it was beginning to growl. It was thinking of warm,salt tastes, of the pleasant resistances of bone, of things to crunchand lick and worry.

III

Mark felt himself shaken; then the cold shock of water dashed in hisface. With difficulty he sat up. The room was empty except for thebodies of the distorted dead. The unmoved electric light glared down onhideous confusion--food and filth, spoiled luxury and mangled men, eachmore hideous by reason of the other. It was the supposed Basque priestwho had roused him. Surge, miselle ("Get up, wretched boy"), he said,helping Mark to his feet. Mark rose; he had some cuts and bruises andhis head ached, but he was substantially uninjured. The man held out tohim wine in one of the great silver cups, but Mark turned away from itwith a shudder. He looked with bewilderment on the face of the strangerand found that a letter was being put into his hand. "Your wife awaitsyou," it ran, "at the Manor at St. Anne's on the Hill. Come quickly byroad as best you can. Do not go near Edgestow.--A. DENNISTON." He lookedagain at Merlin and thought his face terrible. But Merlin met his glancewith a look of unsmiling authority, laid a hand on his shoulder, andimpelled him over all the tinkling and slippery havoc to the door. Hisfingers sent a prickly sensation through Mark's skin. He was led down tothe cloakroom, made to fling on a coat and hat (neither were his own)and thence out under the stars, bitter cold and two o'clock in themorning, Sirius bitter green, a few flakes of dry snow beginning tofall. He hesitated. The stranger stood back from him for a second, then,with his open hand, struck him on the back; Mark's bones ached at thememory as long as he lived. Next moment he found himself running as hehad never run since boyhood; not in fear, but because his legs would notstop. When he became master of them again he was half a mile fromBelbury, and looking back he saw a light in the sky.

IV

Wither was not among those killed in the dining-room. He naturally knewall the possible ways out of the room, and even before the coming of thetiger he had slipped away. He understood what was happening, if notperfectly, yet better than anyone else. He saw that the Basqueinterpreter had done the whole thing. And, by that, he knew also thatpowers more than human had come down to destroy Belbury; only one in thesaddle of whose soul rode Mercury himself could thus have unmadelanguage. And this again told him something worse. It meant that his owndark Masters had been completely out in their calculations. They hadtalked of a barrier which made it impossible that powers from DeepHeaven should reach the surface of the Earth: had assured him thatnothing from outside could pass the Moon's orbit. All their polity wasbased on the belief that Tellus was blockaded, beyond the reach of suchassistance and left (as far as that went) to their mercy and his.Therefore he knew that everything was lost.

It is incredible how little this knowledge moved him. It could not,because he had long ceased to believe in knowledge itself. What had beenin his far-off youth a merely aesthetic repugnance to realities thatwere crude or vulgar, had deepened and darkened, year after year, into afixed refusal of everything that was in any degree other than himself.He had passed from Hegel into Hume, thence through Pragmatism, andthence through Logical Positivism, and out at last into the completevoid. The indicative mood now corresponded to no thought that his mindcould entertain. He had willed with his whole heart that there should beno reality and no truth, and now even the imminence of his own ruincould not wake him. The last scene of Dr. Faustus where the man ravesand implores on the edge of Hell is, perhaps, stage fire. The lastmoments before damnation are not often so dramatic. Often the man knowswith perfect clarity that some still possible action of his own willcould yet save him. But he cannot make this knowledge real to himself.Some tiny habitual sensuality, some resentment too trivial to waste on ablue-bottle, the indulgence of some fatal lethargy, seems to him at thatmoment more important than the choice between total joy and totaldestruction. With eyes wide open, seeing that the endless terror is justabout to begin and yet (for the moment) unable to feel terrified, hewatches passively, not moving a finger for his own rescue, while thelast links with joy and reason are severed, and drowsily sees the trapclose upon his soul. So full of sleep are they at the time when theyleave the right way.

Straik and Filostrato were also still alive. They met in one of thecold, lighted passages, so far away from the dining-room that the noiseof the carnage was but a faint murmur. Filostrato was hurt, his rightarm badly mauled. They did not speak--both knew that the attempt would beuseless--but walked on side by side. Filostrato was intending to getround to the garage by a back way: he thought that he might still beable to drive, in a fashion, at least as far as Sterk.

As they rounded a corner they both saw what they had often seen beforebut had expected never to see again--the Deputy Director, stooped,creaking, pacing, humming his tune. Filostrato did not want to go withhim, but Wither, as if noticing his wounded condition, offered him anarm. Filostrato tried to decline it: nonsense syllables came from hismouth. Wither took his left arm firmly; Straik seized the other, themauled arm. Squealing and shivering with pain, Filostrato accompaniedthem perforce. But worse awaited him. He was not an initiate, he knewnothing of the Dark Eldils. He believed that his skill had really keptAlcasan's brain alive. Hence, even in his pain, he cried out with horrorwhen he found the other two drawing him through the ante-room of theHead and into the Head's presence without pausing for any of thoseantiseptic preparations which he had always imposed on his colleagues.He tried vainly to tell them that one moment of such carelessness mightundo all his work. But this time it was in the room itself that hisconductors began undressing. And this time they took off all theirclothes.

They plucked off his, too. When the right sleeve, stiff with blood,would not move, Wither got a knife from the ante-room and ripped it. Inthe end, the three men stood naked before the Head--gaunt, big-bonedStraik, Filostrato a wobbling mountain of fat, Wither an obscenesenility. Then the high ridge of terror from which Filostrato was neveragain to descend, was reached; for what he thought impossible began tohappen. No one had read the dials, adjusted the pressures, or turned onthe air and the artificial saliva. Yet words came out of the dry gapingmouth of the dead man's head. "Adore!" it said.

Filostrato felt his companions forcing his body forwards, then up again,then forwards and downwards a second time. He was compelled to bob upand down in rhythmic obeisance, the others meanwhile doing the same.Almost the last thing he saw on earth was the skinny folds on Wither'sneck shaking like the wattles of a turkey-cock. Almost the last thing heheard was Wither beginning to chant. Then Straik joined in. Then,horribly, he found he was singing himself--

"Ouroborindra!
Ouroborindra!
Ouroborindra ba-ba-hee!"

But not for long. "Another," said the voice, "give me another head."Filostrato knew at once why they were forcing him to a certain place inthe wall. He had devised it all himself. In the wall that separated theHead's room from the ante-chamber there was a little shutter. When drawnback it revealed a window in the wall, and a sash to that window whichcould fall quickly and heavily. But the sash was a knife. The littleguillotine had not been meant to be used like this! They were going tomurder him uselessly, unscientifically! If he were doing it to one ofthem, all would have been different; everything would have been preparedweeks beforehand--the temperature of both rooms exactly right, the bladesterilised, the attachments all ready to be made almost before the headwas severed. He had even calculated what changes the terror of thevictim would probably make in his blood-pressure: the artificialblood-stream would be arranged accordingly, so as to take over its workwith the least possible breach of continuity. His last thought was thathe had underestimated the terror.

The two initiates, red from top to toe, gazed at each other, breathingheavily. Almost before the fat dead legs and buttocks of the Italian hadceased quivering, they were driven to begin the ritual again--

"Ouroborindra!
Ouroborindra!
Ouroborindra ba-ba-hee!"

The same thought struck both of them at one moment--"It will ask foranother." And Straik remembered that Wither had that knife. He wrenchedhimself free from the rhythm with a frightful effort: claws seemed to betearing his chest from inside. Wither saw what he meant to do. As Straikbolted, Wither was already after him. Straik reached the ante-room,slipped in Filostrato's blood. Wither slashed repeatedly with his knife.He had not strength to cut through the neck, but he had killed the man.He stood up, pains gnawing at his old man's heart. Then he saw theItalian's head lying on the floor. It seemed to him good to pick it upand carry it into the inner room: show it to the original Head. He didso. Then he realised that something was moving in the ante-room. Couldit be that they had not shut the outer door? He could not remember. Theyhad come in, forcing Filostrato along between them: it waspossible . . . everything had been so abnormal. He put down hisburden--carefully, almost courteously, even now--and stepped towards thedoor between the two rooms. Next moment he drew back. A great bear,rising to its hind legs as he came in sight of it, had met him in thedoorway--its mouth open, its eyes flaming, its forepaws spread out as iffor an embrace. Was this what Straik had become? He knew (though evennow he could not attend to it) that he was on the very frontier of aworld where such things could happen.

V

No one at Belbury that night had been cooler than Feverstone. He wasneither an initiate like Wither nor a dupe like Filostrato. He knewabout the Macrobes, but it wasn't the sort of thing he was interestedin. He knew that the Belbury scheme might not work, but he knew that ifit didn't he would get out in time. He had a dozen lines of retreat keptopen. He had also a perfectly clear conscience and had played no trickswith his mind. He had never slandered another man except to get his job,never cheated except because he wanted money, never really dislikedpeople unless they bored him. He saw at a very early stage thatsomething was going wrong. One had to guess how far wrong. Was this theend of Belbury? If so, he must get back to Edgestow and work up theposition he had already prepared for himself as the protector of theUniversity against the N.I.C.E. On the other hand, if there were anychance of figuring as the man who had saved Belbury at a moment ofcrisis, that would be definitely the better line. He would wait as longas it was safe. And he waited a long time. He found a hatch throughwhich hot dishes were passed from the kitchen passage into thedining-room. He got through it and watched the scene. His nerves wereexcellent, and he thought he could pull and bolt the shutter in time ifany dangerous animal made for the hatch. He stood there during the wholemassacre, his eyes bright, something like a smile on his face, smokingendless cigarettes and drumming with his hard fingers on the sill of thehatch. When it was all over he said to himself, "Well, I'm damned!" Ithad certainly been a most extraordinary show.

The beasts had all streaked away somewhere. He knew there was a chanceof meeting one or two of them in the passages, but he'd have to riskthat. Danger--in moderation--acted on him like a tonic. He worked his wayto the back of the house and into the garage; it looked as if he must goto Edgestow at once. He could not find his car in the garage--indeed,there were far fewer cars than he had expected. Apparently several otherpeople had had the idea of getting away while the going was good, andhis own car had been stolen. He felt no resentment, and set aboutfinding another of the same make. It took him a longish time, and whenhe had found one he had considerable difficulty in starting her up. Thenight was cold--going to snow, he thought. He scowled, for the first timethat night: he hated snow. It was after two o'clock when he got going.

Just before he started he had the odd impression that someone had gotinto the back of the car behind him. "Who's that?" he asked sharply. Hedecided to get out and see. But to his surprise his body did not obeythis decision: instead it drove the car out of the garage and round tothe front and out into the road. The snow was definitely falling by now.He found he could not turn his head and could not stop driving. He wasgoing ridiculously fast, too, in this damned snow. He had no choice.He'd often heard of cars being driven from the back seat, but now itseemed to be really happening. Then to his dismay he found he had leftthe road. The car, still at a reckless speed, was bumping and leapingalong what was called Gipsy Lane or (by the educated) Wayland Street--theold Roman Road from Belbury to Edgestow, all grass and ruts. "Here! Whatthe devil am I doing?" thought Feverstone. "Am I tight? I'll break myneck at this game if I don't look out!" But on the car went as if drivenby one who regarded this track as an excellent road and the obviousroute to Edgestow.

VI

Frost had left the dining-room a few minutes after Wither. He did notknow where he was going or what he was about to do. For many years hehad theoretically believed that all which appears in the mind as motiveor intention is merely a by-product of what the body is doing. But forthe last year or so--since he had been initiated--he had begun to taste asfact what he had long held as theory. Increasingly, his actions had beenwithout motive. He did this and that, he said thus and thus, and did notknow why. His mind was a mere spectator. He could not understand whythat spectator should exist at all. He resented its existence, evenwhile assuring himself that resentment also was merely a chemicalphenomenon. The nearest thing to a human passion which still existed inhim was a sort of cold fury against all who believed in the mind. Therewas no tolerating such an illusion! There were not, and must not be,such things as men. But never, until this evening, had he been quite sovividly aware that the body and its movements were the only reality,that the self which seemed to watch the body leaving the dining-room andsetting out for the chamber of the Head, was a nonentity. Howinfuriating that the body should have power thus to project a phantomself!

Thus the Frost whose existence Frost denied watched his body go into theante-room, watched it pull up sharply at the sight of a naked andbloodied corpse. The chemical reaction called shock, occurred. Froststooped, turned the body over, and recognised Straik. A moment later hisflashing pince-nez and pointed beard looked into the room of the Headitself. He hardly noticed that Wither and Filostrato lay there dead. Hisattention was fixed by something more serious. The bracket where theHead ought to have been was empty: the metal ring twisted, the rubbertubes tangled and broken. Then he noticed a head on the floor: stoopedand examined it. It was Filostrato's. Of Alcasan's head he found notrace, unless some mess of broken bones beside Filostrato's were it.

Still not asking what he would do, or why, Frost went to the garage. Thewhole place was silent and empty; the snow was thick on the ground bythis. He came up with as many petrol tins as he could carry. He piledall the inflammables he could think of together in the Objective Room.Then he locked himself in by locking the outer door of the ante-room.Whatever it was that dictated his actions then compelled him to push thekey into the speaking-tube which communicated with the passage. When hehad pushed it as far in as his fingers could reach, he took a pencilfrom his pocket and pushed with that. Presently he heard the clink ofthe key falling on the passage floor outside. That tiresome illusion,his consciousness, was screaming in protest: his body, even had hewished, had no power to attend to those screams. Like the clockworkfigure he had chosen to be, his stiff body, now terribly cold, walkedback into the Objective Room, poured out the petrol and threw a lightedmatch into the pile. Not till then did his controllers allow him tosuspect that death itself might not after all cure the illusion of beinga soul--nay, might prove the entry into a world where that illusion ragedinfinite and unchecked. Escape for the soul, if not for the body, wasoffered him. He became able to know (and simultaneously refused theknowledge) that he had been wrong from the beginning, that souls andpersonal responsibility existed. He half saw: he wholly hated. Thephysical torture of the burning was hardly fiercer than his hatred ofthat. With one supreme effort he flung himself back into his illusion.In that attitude eternity overtook him as sunrise in old tales overtakestrolls and turns them into unchangeable stone.

SEVENTEEN

Venus at St. Anne's

I

Daylight came with no visible sunrise as Mark was climbing to thehighest ground in his journey. The white road, still virgin of humantraffic, showed the footprints of here and there a bird and here andthere a rabbit, for the snow-shower was just then coming to its end in aflurry of larger and slower flakes. A big lorry, looking black and warmin that landscape, overtook him. The man put out his head. "GoingBirmingham way, mate?" he asked.

"Roughly," said Mark. "At least I'm going to St. Anne's."

"Where's that, then?" said the driver.

"Up on the hill behind Pennington," said Mark.

"Ah," said the man, "I could take you to the corner. Save you a bit."

Mark got in beside him.

It was mid-morning when the man dropped him at a corner beside a littlecountry hotel. The snow had all lain and there was more in the sky andthe day was extremely silent. Mark went into the little hotel and founda kind elderly landlady. He had a hot bath and a capital breakfast, andthen went to sleep in a chair before a roaring fire. He did not waketill about four. He reckoned he was only a few miles from St. Anne's,and decided to have tea before he set out. He had tea. At the landlady'ssuggestion he had a boiled egg with his tea. Two shelves in the littlesitting-room were filled with bound volumes of The Strand. In one ofthese he found a serial children's story which he had begun to read as achild, but abandoned because his tenth birthday came when he washalf-way through it and he was ashamed to read it after that. Now, hechased it from volume to volume till he had finished it. It was good.The grown-up stories to which, after his tenth birthday, he had turnedinstead of it, now seemed to him, except for Sherlock Holmes, to berubbish. "I suppose I must get on soon," he said to himself.

His slight reluctance to do so did not proceed from weariness--he felt,indeed, perfectly rested and better than he had felt for severalweeks--but from a sort of shyness. He was going to see Jane: andDenniston: and (probably) the Dimbles as well. In fact, he was going tosee Jane in what he now felt to be her proper world. But not his. For henow thought that with all his lifelong eagerness to reach an innercircle he had chosen the wrong circle. Jane was where she belonged. Hewas going to be admitted only out of kindness, because Jane had beenfool enough to marry him. He did not resent it, but he felt shy. He sawhimself as this new circle must see him--as one more little vulgarian,just like the Steeles and the Cossers, dull, inconspicuous, frightened,calculating, cold. He wondered vaguely why he was like that. How didother people--people like Denniston or Dimble--find it so easy to saunterthrough the world with all their muscles relaxed and a careless eyeroving the horizon, bubbling over with fancy and humour, sensitive tobeauty, not continually on their guard and not needing to be? What wasthe secret of that fine, easy laughter which he could not by any effortsimitate? Everything about them was different. They could not even flingthemselves into chairs without suggesting by the very posture of theirlimbs a certain lordliness, a leonine indolence. There was elbow-room intheir lives, as there had never been in his. They were Hearts: he wasonly a Spade. Still, he must be getting on. . . . Of course, Jane was aHeart. He must give her her freedom. It would be quite unjust to thinkthat his love for her had been basely sensual. Love, Plato says, is theson of Want. Mark's body knew better than his mind had known tillrecently, and even his sensual desires were the true index of somethingwhich he lacked and Jane had to give. When she had first crossed the dryand dusty world which his mind inhabited she had been like a springshower; in opening himself to it he had not been mistaken. He had gonewrong only in assuming that marriage, by itself, gave him either poweror title to appropriate that freshness. As he now saw, one might as wellhave thought one could buy a sunset by buying the field from which onehad seen it.

He rang the bell and asked for his bill.

II

That same afternoon Mother Dimble and the three girls were upstairs inthe big room which occupied nearly the whole top floor of one wing atthe Manor, and which the Director called the Wardrobe. If you hadglanced in you would have thought for one moment that they were not in aroom at all but in some kind of forest--a tropical forest glowing withbright colours. A second glance and you might have thought they were inone of those delightful upper rooms at a big shop where carpets standingon end and rich stuffs hanging from the roof make a kind of woven forestof their own. In fact, they were standing amidst a collection of robesof state--dozens of robes which hung, each separate, from its littlepillar of wood.

"That would do beautifully for you, Ivy," said Mother Dimble, liftingwith one hand the fold of a vividly green mantle over which thin twistsand spirals of gold played in a festive pattern. "Come, Ivy," shecontinued, "don't you like it? You're not still fretting about Tom, areyou? Hasn't the Director told you he'll be here to-night or to-morrowmidday at the latest?"

Ivy looked at her with troubled eyes.

"'Tisn't that," she said. "Where'll the Director himself be?"

"But you can't want him to stay, Ivy," said Camilla, "not in continualpain. And his work will be done--if all goes well at Edgestow."

"He has longed to go back to Perelandra," said Mother Dimble. "He's--sortof home-sick. Always, always . . . I could see it in his eyes."

"Will that Merling man come back here?" asked Ivy.

"I don't think so," said Jane. "I don't think either he or the Directorexpected him to. And then my dream last night. It looked as if he was onfire . . . I don't mean burning, you know, but light--all sorts of lightsin the most curious colours shooting out of him and running up and downhim. That was the last thing I saw: Merlin standing there like a kind ofpillar and all those dreadful things happening all round him. And youcould see in his face that he was a man used up to the last drop, if youknow what I mean--that he'd fall to pieces the moment the powers let himgo."

"We're not getting on with choosing our dresses for to-night."

"What is it made of?" said Camilla, fingering and then smelling thegreen mantle. It was a question worth asking. It was not in the leasttransparent, yet all sorts of lights and shades dwelled in its ripplingfolds, and it flowed through Camilla's hands like a waterfall. Ivybecame interested.

"Gor!" she said, "however much a yard would it be?"

"There," said Mother Dimble as she draped it skilfully round Ivy. Thenshe said "Oh!" in genuine amazement. All three stood back from Ivy,staring at her with delight. The commonplace had not exactly gone fromher form and face: the robe had taken it up, as a great composer takesup a folk-tune and tosses it like a ball through his symphony and makesof it a marvel, yet leaves it still itself. A "pert fairy" or "dapperelf," a small though perfect sprightliness, stood before them: but stillrecognisably Ivy Maggs.

"Isn't that like a man!" exclaimed Mrs. Dimble. "There's not a mirror inthe room."

"I don't believe we were meant to see ourselves," said Jane. "He saidsomething about being mirrors enough to one another."

"I would just like to see what I'm like at the back," said Ivy.

"Now, Camilla," said Mother Dimble, "there's no puzzle about you. Thisis obviously your one."

"Oh, do you think that one?" said Camilla.

"Yes, of course," said Jane.

"You'll look ever so nice in that," said Ivy.

It was a long slender thing which looked like steel in colour, though itwas soft as foam to the touch. It wrapped itself close about her loinsand flowed out in a glancing train at her heels. "Like a mermaid,"thought Jane: and then "Like a Valkyrie."

"I'm afraid," said Mother Dimble, "you must wear a coronet with thatone."

"Wouldn't that be rather . . . ?"

But Mother Dimble was already setting it on her head. That reverence (itneed have nothing to do with money value) which nearly all women feelfor jewellery hushed three of them for a moment. There were, perhaps, nosuch diamonds in England. The splendour was fabulous, preposterous.

"What are you all staring at?" asked Camilla, who had seen but one flashas the crown was raised in Mrs. Dimble's hands and did not know that shestood "like starlight, in the spoils of provinces."

"Are they real?" said Ivy.

"Where did they come from, Mother Dimble?" asked Jane.

"Treasure of Logres, dears, treasure of Logres," said Mrs. Dimble."Perhaps from beyond the Moon or before the flood. Now, Jane."

Jane could see nothing specially appropriate in the robe which theothers agreed in putting on her. Blue was, indeed, her colour, but shethought of something a little more austere and dignified. Left to herown judgement, she would have called this a little "fussy." But when shesaw the others all clap their hands, she submitted. Indeed, it did notnow occur to her to do otherwise, and the whole matter was forgotten amoment later in the excitement of choosing a robe for Mother Dimble.

"Something quiet," she said. "I'm an old woman and I don't want to beridiculous."

"This wouldn't do at all," said Camilla, walking down the long row ofhanging splendours, herself like a meteor as she passed against thatbackground of purple and gold and scarlet and soft snow and elusiveopal, of fur, silk, velvet, taffeta, and brocade. "That's lovely," shesaid, "but not for you. And oh!--look at that. But it wouldn't do. Idon't see anything . . ."

"Here! Oh, do come and look! Come here," cried Ivy, as if she wereafraid her discovery would run away unless the others attended to itquickly.

"Oh! Yes, yes, indeed," said Jane.

"Certainly," said Camilla.

"Put it on, Mother Dimble," said Ivy. "You know you got to." It was ofthat almost tyrannous flame colour which Jane had seen in her visiondown in the lodge, but differently cut, with fur about the great copperbrooch that clasped the throat, with long sleeves and hangings fromthem. And there went with it a many-cornered cap. And they had no soonerclasped the robe than all were astonished, none more than Jane, thoughindeed she had had best reason to foresee the result. For now thisprovincial wife of a rather obscure scholar, this respectable and barrenwoman with grey hair and double chin, stood before her, not to bemistaken, as a kind of priestess or sybil, the servant of someprehistoric goddess of fertility--an old tribal matriarch, mother ofmothers, grave, formidable, and august. A long staff, curiously carvedas if a snake twined up it, was apparently part of the costume: they putit in her hand.

"Am I awful?" said Mother Dimble, looking in turn at the three silentfaces.

"You look lovely," said Ivy.

"It is exactly right," said Camilla.

Jane took up the old lady's hand and kissed it. "Darling," she said,"aweful, in the old sense, is just what you do look."

"What are the men going to wear?" asked Camilla suddenly.

"They can't very well go in fancy dress, can they?" said Ivy. "Not ifthey're cooking and bringing things in and out all the time. And I mustsay if this is to be the last night and all I do think we ought to havedone the dinner, anyway. Let them do as they like about the wine. Andwhat they'll do with that goose is more than I like to think, because Idon't believe that Mr. MacPhee ever roasted a bird in his life, whateverhe says."

"They can't spoil the oysters, anyway," said Camilla.

"That's right," said Ivy. "Nor the plum pudding, not really. Still, I'dlike just to go down and take a look."

"You'd better not," said Jane with a laugh. "You know what he's likewhen he's in charge in the kitchen."

"I'm not afraid of him," said Ivy, almost, but not quite, putting outher tongue. And in her present dress the gesture was not uncomely.

"You needn't be in the least worried about the dinner, girls," saidMother Dimble. "He will do it very well. Always provided he and myhusband don't get into a philosophical argument just when they ought tobe dishing up. Let's go and enjoy ourselves. How very warm it is inhere."

"'s lovely," said Ivy.

At that moment the whole room shook from end to end.

"What on earth's that?" said Jane.

"If the war was still on I'd have said it was a bomb," said Ivy.

"Come and look," said Camilla, who had regained her composure soonerthan any of the others and was now at the window which looked westtowards the valley of the Wynd. "Oh, look!" she said again. "No. It'snot fire. And it's not searchlights. And it's not forked lightning. Ugh!. . . there's another shock. And there . . . Look at that. It's asbright as day there beyond the church. What am I talking about, it'sonly three o'clock. It's brighter than day. And the heat!"

"It has begun," said Mother Dimble.

III

At about the same time that morning when Mark had climbed into thelorry, Feverstone, not much hurt but a good deal shaken, climbed out ofthe stolen car. That car had ended its course upside down in a deepditch, and Feverstone, always ready to look on the bright side,reflected as he extricated himself that things might have been worse--itmight have been his own car. The snow was deep in the ditch and he wasvery wet. As he stood up and looked about him he saw that he was notalone. A tall and massive figure in a black cassock was before him,about five yards distant. Its back was towards him, and it was alreadywalking steadily away. "Hi!" shouted Feverstone. The other turned andlooked at him in silence for a second or two; then it resumed its walk.Feverstone felt at once that this was not the sort of man he would geton with--in fact he had never liked the look of anyone less. Nor couldhe, in his broken and soaking pumps, follow the four-mile-an-hour strideof those booted feet. He did not attempt it. The black figure came to agate, there stopped and made a whinnying noise. He was apparentlytalking to a horse across the gate. Next moment (Feverstone did notquite see how it happened) the man was over the gate and on the horse'sback and off at a canter across a wide field that rose milk-white to thesky-line.

Feverstone had no idea where he was, but clearly the first thing to dowas to reach a road. It took him much longer than he expected. It wasnot freezing now and deep puddles lay hidden beneath the snow in manyplaces. At the bottom of the first hill he came to such a morass that hewas driven to abandon the track of the Roman road and try strikingacross the fields. The decision was fatal. It kept him for two hourslooking for gaps in hedges and trying to reach things that looked likeroads from a distance but turned out to be nothing of the sort when onereached them. He had always hated the country and always hated weather,and he was not at any time fond of walking.

Near twelve o'clock he found a road with no signposts that led him anhour later into a main road. Here, thank heavens, there was a fairamount of traffic, both cars and pedestrians, all going one way. Thefirst three cars took no notice of his signals. The fourth stopped."Quick. In you get," said the driver.

"Going to Edgestow?" asked Feverstone, his hand on the door.

"Good Lord, no!" said the other. "There's Edgestow!" (and he pointedbehind him)--"if you want to go there." The man seemed surprised andconsiderably excited.

In the end there was nothing for it but walking. Every vehicle was goingaway from Edgestow, none going towards it. Feverstone was a littlesurprised. He knew all about the exodus (indeed, it had been part of hisplan to clear the city as far as possible), but he had supposed it wouldbe over by now. But all that afternoon as he splashed and slippedthrough the churned snow, the fugitives were still passing him. We have,naturally, hardly any first-hand evidence for what happened in Edgestowthat afternoon and evening. But we have plenty of stories as to how somany people came to leave it at the last moment. They filled the papersfor weeks and lingered in private talks for months, and in the endbecame a joke. "No, I don't want to hear how you got out of Edgestow"came to be a catch phrase. But behind all the exaggerations thereremains the undoubted truth that a quite astonishing number of citizensleft the town just in time. One had had a message from a dying father;another had decided quite suddenly, and he couldn't just say why, to goand take a little holiday: another went because the pipes in his househad been burst by the frost and he thought he might as well go away tillthey were put right. Not a few had gone because of some trivial eventwhich seemed to them an omen--a dream, a broken looking-glass, tea-leavesin a cup. Omens of a more ancient kind had also revived during thiscrisis. One had heard his donkey, another her cat, say "as clear asclear," "Go away." And hundreds were still leaving for the oldreason--because their houses had been taken from them, their livelihooddestroyed, and their liberties threatened by the Institutional Police.

It was at about four o'clock that Feverstone found himself flung on hisface. That was the first shock. They continued, increasing in frequency,during the hours that followed--horrible shudderings, and soon heavings,of the earth, and a growing murmur of widespread subterranean noise. Thetemperature began to rise. Snow was disappearing in every direction andat times he was knee-deep in water. Haze from the melting snow filledthe air. When he reached the brow of the last steep descent intoEdgestow he could see nothing of the city: only fog through whichextraordinary coruscations of light came up to him. Another shock senthim sprawling. He now decided not to go down: he would turn and followthe traffic--work over to the railway line and try to get to London. Thepicture of a steaming bath at his club, of himself on the fender of thesmoking-room telling this whole story, rose in his mind. It would besomething to have survived both Belbury and Bracton. He had survived agood many things in his day and believed in his luck.

He was already a few paces down the hill when he made this decision, andhe turned at once. But instead of going up he found he was stilldescending. As if he were in shale on a mountain slope, instead of on ametalled road, the ground slipped away backwards where he trod on it.When he arrested his descent he was thirty yards lower. He began again.This time he was flung off his feet, rolled head over heels, stones,earth, grass, and water pouring over him and round him in riotousconfusion. It was as when a great wave overtakes you while you arebathing, but this time it was an earth wave. He got to his feet onceagain; set his face to the hill. Behind him the valley seemed to haveturned into Hell. The pit of fog had been ignited and burned withblinding violet flame, water was roaring somewhere, buildings crashing,mobs shouting. The hill in front of him was in ruins--no trace of road,hedge, or field, only a cataract of loose raw earth. It was also farsteeper than it had been. His mouth and hair and nostrils were full ofearth. The slope was growing steeper as he looked at it. The ridgeheaved up and up. Then the whole wave of earth rose, arched, trembled,and with all its weight and noise poured down on him.

IV

"Why Logres, sir?" said Camilla.

Dinner was over at St. Anne's and they sat at their wine in a circleabout the dining-room fire. As Mrs. Dimble had prophesied, the men hadcooked it very well: only after their serving was over and the boardcleared had they put on their festal garments. Now all sat at their easeand all diversely splendid: Ransom crowned, at the right of the hearth,Grace Ironwood in black and silver opposite him. It was so warm thatthey had let the fire burn low, and in the candlelight the court dressesseemed to glow of themselves.

"Tell them, Dimble," said Ransom. "I will not talk much from now on."

"Are you tired, sir?" said Grace. "Is the pain bad?"

"No, Grace," he replied, "it isn't that. But now that it's so verynearly time for me to go, all this begins to feel like a dream. A happydream, you understand: all of it, even the pain. I want to taste everydrop. I feel as though it would be dissolved if I talked much."

"I suppose you got to go, sir?" said Ivy.

"My dear," said he, "what else is there to do? I have not grown a day oran hour older since I came back from Perelandra. There is no naturaldeath to look forward to. The wound will only be healed in the worldwhere it was got."

"All this has the disadvantage of being clean contrary to the observedlaws of Nature," observed MacPhee. The Director smiled without speaking,as a man who refuses to be drawn.

"It is not contrary to the laws of Nature," said a voice from the cornerwhere Grace Ironwood sat, almost invisible in the shadows. "You arequite right. The laws of the universe are never broken. Your mistake isto think that the little regularities we have observed on one planet fora few hundred years are the real unbreakable laws; whereas they are onlythe remote results which the true laws bring about more often than not;as a kind of accident."

"Shakespeare never breaks the real laws of poetry," put in Dimble. "Butby following them he breaks every now and then the little regularitieswhich critics mistake for the real laws. Then the little critics call ita 'licence.' But there's nothing licentious about it to Shakespeare."

"And that," said Denniston, "is why nothing in Nature is quiteregular. There are always exceptions. A good average uniformity, but notcomplete."

"Not many exceptions to the law of death have come my way," observedMacPhee.

"And how," said Grace with much emphasis, "how should you expect tobe there on more than one such occasion? Were you a friend of Arthur'sor Barbarossa's? Did you know Enoch or Elijah?"

"Do you mean," said Jane, "that the Director . . . the Pendragon . . .is going where they went?"

"He will be with Arthur, certainly," said Dimble. "I can't answer forthe rest. There are people who have never died. We do not yet know why.We know a little more than we did about the How. There are many placesin the universe--I mean, this same physical universe in which our planetmoves--where an organism can last practically for ever. Where Arthur is,we know."

"Where?" said Camilla.

"In the Third Heaven, in Perelandra. In Aphallin, the distant islandwhich the descendants of Tor and Tinidril will not find for a hundredcenturies. Perhaps alone?" . . . he hesitated and looked at Ransom, whoshook his head.

"And that is where Logres comes in, is it?" said Camilla. "Because hewill be with Arthur?"

Dimble was silent for a few minutes, arranging and rearranging thefruit-knife and fruit-fork on his plate.

"It all began," he said, "when we discovered that the Arthurian story ismostly true history. There was a moment in the Sixth Century whensomething that is always trying to break through into this countrynearly succeeded. Logres was our name for it--it will do as well asanother. And then . . . gradually we began to see all English history ina new way. We discovered the haunting."

"What haunting?" asked Camilla.

"How something we may call Britain is always haunted by something we maycall Logres. Haven't you noticed that we are two countries? After everyArthur, a Mordred; behind every Milton, a Cromwell: a nation of poets, anation of shopkeepers; the home of Sidney--and of Cecil Rhodes. Is it anywonder they call us hypocrites? But what they mistake for hypocrisy isreally the struggle between Logres and Britain."

He paused and took a sip of wine before proceeding.

"It was long afterwards," he said, "after the Director had returned fromthe Third Heaven, that we were told a little more. This haunting turnedout to be not only from the other side of the invisible wall. Ransom wassummoned to the bedside of an old man then dying in Cumberland. His namewould mean nothing to you if I told it. That man was the Pendragon, thesuccessor of Arthur and Uther and Cassibelaun. Then we learned thetruth. There has been a secret Logres in the very heart of Britain allthese years; an unbroken succession of Pendragons. That old man was theseventy-eighth from Arthur: our Director received from him the officeand the blessing; to-morrow we shall know, or to-night, who is to be theeightieth. Some of the Pendragons are well known to history, though notunder that name. Others you have never heard of. But in every age theyand the little Logres which gathered round them have been the fingerswhich gave the tiny shove or the almost imperceptible pull, to prodEngland out of the drunken sleep or to draw her back from the finaloutrage into which Britain tempted her."

"This new history of yours," said MacPhee, "is a wee bit lacking indocuments."

"It has plenty," said Dimble with a smile. "But you do not know thelanguage they're written in. When the history of these last few monthscomes to be written in your language, and printed, and taught inschools, there will be no mention in it of you and me, nor of Merlin andthe Pendragon and the Planets. And yet in these months Britain rebelledmost dangerously against Logres and was defeated only just in time."

"Aye," said MacPhee, "and it could be right good history withoutmentioning you and me or most of those present. I'd be greatly obligedif anyone would tell me what we have done--always apart from feedingthe pigs and raising some very decent vegetables."

"You have done what was required of you," said the Director. "You haveobeyed and waited. It will often happen like that. As one of the modernauthors has told us, the altar must often be built in one place in orderthat the fire from heaven may descend somewhere else. But don't jump toconclusions. You may have plenty of work to do before a month is passed.Britain has lost a battle, but she will rise again."

"So that, meanwhile, is England," said Mother Dimble. "Just this swayingto and fro between Logres and Britain?"

"Yes," said her husband. "Don't you feel it? The very quality ofEngland. If we've got an ass's head it is by walking in a fairy wood.We've heard something better than we can do, but can't quite forget it. . . can't you see it in everything English--a kind of awkward grace, ahumble, humorous incompleteness? How right Sam Weller was when he calledMr. Pickwick an angel in gaiters! Everything here is either better orworse than----"

"Dimble!" said Ransom. Dimble, whose tone had become a littleimpassioned, stopped and looked towards him. He hesitated and (as Janethought) almost blushed before he began again.

"You're right, sir," he said with a smile. "I was forgetting what youhave warned me always to remember. This haunting is no peculiarity ofours. Every people has its own haunter. There's no special privilege forEngland--no nonsense about a chosen nation. We speak about Logres becauseit is our haunting, the one we know about."

"All this," said MacPhee, "seems a very roundabout way of saying thatthere's good and bad men everywhere."

"It's not a way of saying that at all," answered Dimble. "You see,MacPhee, if one is thinking simply of goodness in the abstract, one soonreaches the fatal idea of something standardised--some common kind oflife to which all nations ought to progress. Of course there areuniversal rules to which all goodness must conform. But that's only thegrammar of virtue. It's not there that the sap is. He doesn't make twoblades of grass the same: how much less two saints, two nations, twoangels. The whole work of healing Tellus depends on nursing that littlespark, on incarnating that ghost, which is still alive in every realpeople, and different in each. When Logres really dominates Britain,when the goddess Reason, the divine clearness, is really enthroned inFrance, when the order of Heaven is really followed in China--why, thenit will be spring. But meantime, our concern is with Logres. We've gotBritain down but who knows how long we can hold her down? Edgestow willnot recover from what is happening to her to-night. But there will beother Edgestows."

"I wanted to ask about Edgestow," said Mother Dimble. "Aren't Merlin andthe eldils a trifle . . . well, wholesale. Did all Edgestow deserveto be wiped out?"

"Who are you lamenting?" said MacPhee. "The jobbing town council that'dhave sold their own wives and daughters to bring the N.I.C.E. toEdgestow?"

"Well, I don't know much about them," said she. "But in the university.Even Bracton itself. We all knew it was a horrible College, of course.But did they really mean any great harm with all their fussy littleintrigues? Wasn't it more silly than anything else?"

"Och aye," said MacPhee. "They were only playing themselves. Kittensletting on to be tigers. But there was a real tiger about and their playended by letting her in. They've no call to complain if, when thehunter's after her, he lets them have a bit of a lead in their guts,too. It'll learn them not to keep bad company."

"Well, then, the fellows of other colleges. What about Northumberlandand Duke's?"

"I know," said Denniston. "One's sorry for a man like Churchwood. I knewhim well; he was an old dear. All his lectures were devoted to provingthe impossibility of ethics, though in private life he'd have walked tenmiles rather than leave a penny debt unpaid. But all the same . . . wasthere a single doctrine practised at Belbury which hadn't been preachedby some lecturer at Edgestow? Oh, of course, they never thought anyonewould act on their theories! No one was more astonished than they whenwhat they'd been talking of for years suddenly took on reality. But itwas their own child coming back to them: grown up and unrecognisable,but their own."

"I'm afraid it's all true, my dear," said Dimble. "Trahison desclercs. None of us are quite innocent."

"That's nonsense, Cecil," said Mrs. Dimble.

"You are all forgetting," said Grace, "that nearly everyone except thevery good (who were ripe for fair dismissal) and the very bad, hadalready left Edgestow. But I agree with Arthur. Those who have forgottenLogres sink into Britain. Those who call for Nonsense will find that itcomes."

At that moment she was interrupted. A clawing and whining noise at thedoor had become audible.

"Open the door, Arthur," said Ransom. A moment later the whole partyrose to its feet with cries of welcome, for the new arrival was Mr.Bultitude.

"Oh, I never did," said Ivy. "The pore thing! And all over snow, too.I'll just take him down to the kitchen and get him something to eat.Wherever have you been, you bad thing? Eh? Just look at the state you'rein."

V

For the third time in ten minutes the train gave a violent lurch andcame to a standstill. This time the shock put all the lights out.

"This is really getting a bit too bad," said a voice in the darkness.The four other passengers in the first-class compartment recognised itas belonging to the well-bred, bulky man in the brown suit; thewell-informed man who at earlier stages of the journey had told everyoneelse where they ought to change and why one now reached Sterk withoutgoing through Stratford and who it was that really controlled the line.

"It's serious for me," said the same voice. "I ought to be in Edgestowby now." He got up, opened the window, and stared out into the darkness.Presently one of the other passengers complained of the cold. He shutthe window and sat down.

"We've already been here for ten minutes," he said presently.

"Excuse me. Twelve," said another passenger.

Still the train did not move. The noise of two men quarrelling in aneighbouring compartment became audible.

Suddenly a shock flung them all together in the darkness. It was as ifthe train, going at full speed, had been unskilfully pulled up.

"What the devil's that?" said one.

"Open the doors."

"Has there been a collision?"

"It's all right," said the well-informed man in a loud, calm voice."Putting on another engine. And doing it very badly. It's all these newengine-drivers they've got in lately."

"Hullo!" said someone. "We're moving."

Slow and grunting, the train began to go.

"It takes its time getting up speed," said someone.

"Oh, you'll find it'll start making up for lost time in a minute," saidthe well-informed man.

"I wish they'd put the lights on again," said a woman's voice.

"We're not getting up speed," said another.

"We're losing it. Damn it! Are we stopping again?"

"No. We're still moving--oh!!"--once more a violent shock hit them. It wasworse than the last one. For nearly a minute everything seemed to berocking and rattling.

"This is outrageous!" exclaimed the well-informed man, once more openingthe window. This time he was more fortunate. A dark figure waving alantern was walking past beneath him.

"Hi! Porter! Guard!" he bellowed.

"It's all right, ladies and gentlemen, it's all right, keep your seats,"shouted the dark figure, marching past and ignoring him.

"There's no good letting all that cold air in, sir," said the passengernext the window.

"There's some sort of light ahead," said the well-informed man.

"Signal against us?" asked another.

"No. Not a bit like that. The whole sky's lit up. Like a fire, or likesearchlights."

"I don't care what it's like," said the chilly man. "If only--oh!"

Another shock. And then, far away in the darkness, vague disastrousnoise. The train began to move again, still slowly, as if it weregroping its way.

"I'll make a row about this," said the well-informed man. "It's ascandal."

About half an hour later the lighted platform of Sterk slowly loomedalongside.

"Station Announcer calling," said a voice. "Please keep your seats foran important announcement. Slight earthquake shock and floods haverendered the line to Edgestow impassable. No details available.Passengers for Edgestow are advised . . ."

The well-informed man, who was Curry, got out. Such a man always knowsall the officials on a railway, and in a few minutes he was standing bythe fire in the ticket-collector's office getting a further and privatereport of the disaster.

"Well, we don't exactly know yet, Mr. Curry," said the man. "There'sbeen nothing coming through for about an hour. It's very bad, you know.They're putting the best face on it they can. There's never been anearthquake like it in England from what I can hear. And there's thefloods, too. No, sir, I'm afraid you'll find nothing of Bracton College.All that part of the town went almost at once. It began there, Iunderstand. I don't know what the casualties'll be. I'm glad I got myold Dad out last week."

Curry always in later years regarded this as one of the turning-pointsof his life. He had not up till then been a religious man. But the wordthat now instantly came into his mind was "Providential." You couldn'treally look at it any other way. He'd been within an ace of taking theearlier train: and if he had . . . why, he'd have been a dead man bynow. It made one think. The whole College wiped out! It would have to berebuilt. There'd be a complete (or almost complete) new set of Fellows,a new Warden. It was Providential again that some responsible personshould have been spared to deal with such a tremendous crisis. Therecouldn't be an ordinary election, of course. The College Visitor (whowas the Lord Chancellor) would probably have to appoint a new Warden andthen, in collaboration with him, a nucleus of new Fellows. The more hethought of it, the more fully Curry realised that the whole shaping ofthe future college rested with the sole survivor. It was almost likebeing a second founder. Providential--providential. He saw already inimagination the portrait of that second founder in the new-built hall,his statue in the new-built quadrangle, the long, long chapterconsecrated to him in the College History. All this time, and withoutthe least hypocrisy, habit and instinct had given his shoulders justsuch a droop, his eyes such a solemn sternness, his brow such a noblegravity, as a man of good feeling might be expected to exhibit onhearing such news. The ticket-collector was greatly edified. "You couldsee he felt it bad," as he said afterwards. "But he could take it. He'sa fine old chap."

"When is the next train to London?" asked Curry. "I must be in townfirst thing to-morrow morning."

VI

Ivy Maggs, it will be remembered, had left the dining-room for thepurpose of attending to Mr. Bultitude's comfort. It therefore surprisedeveryone when she returned in less than a minute with a wild expressionon her face.

"Oh, come quick, someone. Come quick!" she gasped. "There's a bear inthe kitchen."

"A bear, Ivy?" said the Director. "But of course----"

"Oh, I don't mean Mr. Bultitude, sir. There's a strange bear; anotherone."

"Indeed!"

"And it's eaten up all what was left of the goose and half the ham andall the junket, and now it's lying along the table eating everything asit goes along and wriggling from one dish to another and a-breaking allthe crockery. Oh, do come quick! There'll be nothing left."

"And what line is Mr. Bultitude taking about all this, Ivy?" askedRansom.

"Well, that's what I want someone to come and see. He's carrying onsomething dreadful, sir. I never see anything like it. First of all hejust stood lifting up his legs in a funny way as if he thought he coulddance, which we all know he can't. But now he's got up on the dresser onhis hind legs and there he's kind of bobbing up and down, making theawfullest noise--squeaking like--and he's put one foot into the plumpudding already and he's got his head all mixed up in the string ofonions and I can't do nothing with him, really I can't."

"This is very odd behaviour for Mr. Bultitude. You don't think, my dear,that the stranger might be a she bear?"

"Oh, don't say that, sir!" exclaimed Ivy with extreme dismay.

"I think that's the truth, Ivy. I strongly suspect that this is thefuture Mrs. Bultitude."

"It'll be the present Mrs. Bultitude if we sit here talking about itmuch longer," said MacPhee, rising to his feet.

"Oh dear, what shall we do?" said Ivy.

"I am sure Mr. Bultitude is quite equal to the situation," replied theDirector. "At present the lady is refreshing herself. Sine Cerere etBaccho, Dimble. We can trust them to manage their own affairs."

"No doubt, no doubt," said MacPhee. "But not in our kitchen."

"Ivy, my dear," said Ransom, "you must be very firm. Go into the kitchenand tell the strange bear I want to see her. You wouldn't be afraid,would you?"

"Afraid? Not me. I'll show her who's the Director here. Not that itisn't only natural for her."

"What's the matter with that Jackdaw?" said Dr. Dimble.

"I think it's trying to get out," said Denniston. "Shall I open thewindow?"

"It's warm enough to have the window open, anyway," said the Director.And as the window was opened Baron Corvo hopped out and there was ascuffle and a chattering just outside.

"Another love affair," said Mrs. Dimble. "It sounds as if Jack had founda Jill. . . . What a delicious night!" she added. For as the curtainswelled and lifted over the open window, all the freshness of amidsummer night seemed to be blowing into the room. At that moment, alittle farther off, came a sound of whinnying.

"Hullo!" said Denniston, "the old mare is excited, too."

"'Sh! Listen!" said Jane.

"That's a different horse," said Denniston.

"It's a stallion," said Camilla.

"This," said MacPhee with great emphasis, "is becoming indecent!"

"On the contrary," said Ransom, "decent, in the old sense, decens,fitting, is just what she is. Venus herself is over St. Anne's."

"She comes more near the Earth than she was wont," quoted Dimble, "tomake men mad."

"She is nearer than any astronomer knows," said Ransom. "The work atEdgestow is done, the other gods have withdrawn. She waits still, andwhen she returns to her sphere I will ride with her."

Suddenly in the semi-darkness Mrs. Dimble's voice cried sharply, "Lookout! Look out! Cecil! I'm sorry. I can't stand bats. They'll get in myhair!" Cheep cheep went the voices of the two bats as they flickeredto and fro above the candles. Because of their shadows they seemed to befour bats instead of two.

"You'd better go, Margaret," said the Director. "You and Cecil hadbetter both go. I shall be gone very soon now. There is no need of longgood-byes."

"I really think I must go," said Mother Dimble. "I can't stand bats."

"Comfort Margaret, Cecil," said Ransom. "No. Do not stay. I'm not dying.Seeing people off is always folly. It's neither good mirth nor goodsorrow."

"You mean us to go, sir?" said Dimble.

"Go, my dear friends. Urendi Maleldil."

He laid his hands on their heads: Cecil gave his arm to his wife andthey went.

"Here she is, sir," said Ivy Maggs, re-entering the room a moment later,flushed and radiant. A bear waddled at her side, its muzzle white withjunket and its cheeks sticky with gooseberry jam. "And--oh, sir!" sheadded.

"What is it, Ivy?" said the Director.

"Please, sir, it's poor Tom. It's my husband. And if you don't mind----"

"You've given him something to eat and drink, I hope?"

"Well, yes, I have. There wouldn't have been nothing if those bears hadbeen there much longer."

"What has Tom got, Ivy?"

"I give him the cold pie and the pickles (he always was a great one forpickles) and the end of the cheese and a bottle of stout, and I've putthe kettle on so as we can make ourselves--so as he can make himself anice cup of tea. And he's enjoying it ever so, sir, and he said wouldyou mind him not coming up to say how d'you do because he never was muchof a one for company if you take my meaning."

All this time the strange bear had been standing perfectly still withits eyes fixed on the Director. Now he laid his hand on its flat head."Urendi Maleldil," he said. "You are a good bear. Go to your mate--buthere he is," for at that moment the door, which was already a littleajar, was pushed further open to admit the enquiring and slightlyanxious face of Mr. Bultitude. "Take her, Bultitude. But not in thehouse. Jane, open the other window, the French window. It is like anight in July." The window swung open and the two bears went blunderingout into the warmth and the wetness. Everyone noticed how light it hadbecome.

"Are those birds all daft that they're singing at quarter to twelve?"asked MacPhee.

"No," said Ransom. "They are sane. Now, Ivy, you want to go and talk toTom. Mother Dimble has put you both in the little room half-way up thestairs, not in the lodge, after all."

"Oh, sir," said Ivy, and stopped. The Director leaned forward and laidhis hand on her head. "Of course you want to go," he said. "Why, he'shardly had time to see you in your new dress yet. Have you no kisses togive him?" he said, and kissed her. "Then give him mine, which are notmine but by derivation. Don't cry. You are a good woman. Go and healthis man. Urendi Maleldil--we shall meet again."

"What's all yon squealing and squeaking?" said MacPhee. "I hope it's notthe pigs got loose. For I tell you there's already as much carrying onabout this house and garden as I can stand."

"I think it's hedgehogs," said Grace Ironwood.

"That last sound was somewhere in the house," said Jane.

"Listen!" said the Director, and for a short time all were still. Thenhis face relaxed into a smile. "It's my friends behind the wainscot," hesaid. "There are revels there, too--

"So geht es in Snützepützhaüsel
Da singen und tanzen die Maüsel!"

"I suppose," said MacPhee drily, producing his snuff-box from under theash-coloured and slightly monastic-looking robe in which, contrary tohis own judgement, the others had seen fit to clothe him, "I suppose wemay think ourselves lucky that no giraffes, hippopotami, elephants, orthe like have seen fit to--God almighty, what's that?" For as he spoke, along grey flexible tube came in between the swaying curtains and,passing over MacPhee's shoulder, helped itself to a bunch of bananas.

"In the name of Hell, where's all them beasts coming from?" he said.

"They are the liberated prisoners from Belbury," said the Director. "Shecomes more near the Earth than she was wont to--to make Earth sane.Perelandra is all about us and Man is no longer isolated. We are now aswe ought to be--between the angels who are our elder brothers and thebeasts who are our jesters, servants, and playfellows."

Whatever MacPhee was attempting to say in reply was drowned by anear-splitting noise from beyond the window.

"Elephants! Two of them," said Jane weakly. "Oh, the celery! And therose beds!"

"By your leave, Mr. Director," said MacPhee sternly, "I'll just drawthese curtains. You seem to forget there are ladies present."

"No," said Grace Ironwood in a voice as strong as his, "there will benothing unfit for anyone to see. Draw them wider. How light it is!Brighter than moonlight: almost brighter than day. A great dome of lightstands over the whole garden. Look! The elephants are dancing. How highthey lift their feet. And they go round and round. And oh, look!--howthey lift their trunks. And how ceremonial they are. It is like a minuetof giants. They are not like the other animals. They are a sort of gooddaemons."

"They are moving away," said Camilla.

"They will be as private as human lovers," said the Director. "They arenot common beasts."

"I think," said MacPhee, "I'll away down to my office and cast someaccounts. I'd feel easier in my mind if I were inside and the doorlocked before any crocodiles or kangaroos start courting in the middleof all my files. There'd better be one man about the place keep his headthis night, for the rest of you are clean daft. Good night, ladies."

"Good-bye, MacPhee," said Ransom.

"No, no," said MacPhee, standing well back but extending his hand."You'll speak none of your blessings over me. If ever I take toreligion, it won't be your kind. My uncle was Moderator of the GeneralAssembly. But there's my hand. What you and I have seen together . . .but no matter for that. And I'll say this, Dr. Ransom, that with allyour faults (and there's no man alive knows them better than myself) youare the best man, taking you by and large, that ever I knew or heard of.You are . . . you and I . . . but there are the ladies crying. I don'trightly know what I was going to say. I'm away this minute. Why would aman want to lengthen it? God bless you, Dr. Ransom. Ladies, I'll wishyou a good night."

"Open all the windows," said Ransom. "The vessel in which I must ride isnow almost within the air of this World."

"It is growing brighter every minute," said Denniston.

"Can we be with you to the very end?" said Jane.

"Child," said the Director, "you should not stay till then."

"Why, sir?"

"You are waited for."

"Me, sir?"

"Yes. Your husband is waiting for you in the lodge. It was your ownmarriage chamber that you prepared. Should you not go to him?"

"Must I go now?"

"If you leave the decision with me, it is now that I would send you."

"Then I will go, sir. But--but--am I a bear or a hedgehog?"

"More. But not less. Go in obedience and you will find love. You willhave no more dreams. Have children instead. Urendi Maleldil."

VII

Long before he reached St. Anne's, Mark had come to realise that eitherhe himself or else the world about him was in a very strange condition.The journey took him longer than he expected, but that was perhaps fullyaccounted for by one or two mistakes that he made. Much harder toexplain was the horror of light to the west, over Edgestow, and thethrobbings and bouncings of the earth. Then came the sudden warmth andthe torrents of melted snow rolling down the hillside. Everything becamea mist: and then, as the lights in the west vanished, this mist grewsoftly luminous in a different place--above him, as though the lightrested on St. Anne's. And all the time he had the curious impressionthat things of very diverse shapes and sizes were slipping past him inthe haze--animals, he thought. Perhaps it was all a dream; or perhaps itwas the end of the world: or perhaps he was dead. But in spite of allperplexities, he was conscious of extreme well-being. His mind was illat ease, but as for his body--health and youth and pleasure and longingseemed to be blowing towards him from the cloudy light upon the hill. Henever doubted that he must keep on.

His mind was not at ease. He knew that he was going to meet Jane, andsomething was beginning to happen to him which ought to have happened tohim far earlier. That same laboratory outlook upon love which hadforestalled in Jane the humility of a wife, had equally forestalled inhim, during what passed for courtship, the humility of a lover. Or ifthere had ever arisen in him at some wiser moment the sense of "Beautytoo rich for use, for earth too dear," he had put it away from him.False theories, at once prosaic and fanciful, had made it seem to him amood frowsty, unrealistic, and outmoded. Now, belated, after all favourshad been conceded, the unexpected misgiving was coming over him. Hetried to shake it off. They were married, weren't they? And they weresensible, modern people? What could be more natural, more ordinary?

But then certain moments of unforgettable failure in their short marriedlife rose in his imagination. He had thought often enough of what hecalled Jane's "moods." This time at last he thought of his own clumsyimportunity. And the thought would not go away. Inch by inch all thelout and clown and clod-hopper in him was revealed to his own reluctantinspection; the coarse, male boor with horny hands and hobnailed shoesand beefsteak jaw, not rushing in--for that can be carried off--butblundering, sauntering, stumping in where great lovers, knights andpoets, would have feared to tread. An image of Jane's skin, so smooth,so white (or so he now imagined it) that a child's kiss might make amark on it, floated before him. How had he dared? Her driven snow, hermusic, her sacrosanctity, the very style of all her movements . . . howhad he dared? And dared, too, with no sense of daring, nonchalantly, incareless stupidity! The very thoughts that crossed her face from momentto moment, all of them beyond his reach, made (had he but had the wit tosee it) a hedge about her which such as he should never have had thetemerity to pass. Yes, yes--of course it was she who had allowed him topass it: perhaps in luckless, misunderstanding pity. And he had takenblackguardly advantage of that noble error in her judgement; had behavedas if he were native to that fenced garden and even its naturalpossessor.

All this, which should have been uneasy joy, was torment to him, for itcame too late. He was discovering the hedge after he had plucked therose, and not only plucked it but torn it all to pieces and crumpled itwith hot, thumb-like, greedy fingers. How had he dared? And who thatunderstood could forgive him? He knew now what he must look like in theeyes of her friends and equals. Seeing that picture, he grew hot to theforehead, alone there in the mist.

The word Lady had made no part of his vocabulary save as a pure form,or else in mockery. He had laughed too soon.

Well, he would release her. She would be glad to be rid of him. Rightlyglad. It would now almost have shocked him to believe otherwise. Ladiesin some noble and spacious room, discoursing in cool ladyhood together,either with exquisite gravity or with silver laughter--how should theynot be glad when the intruder had gone?--the loud-voiced or tongue-tiedcreature, all boots and hands, whose true place was in the stable. Whatshould he do in such a room--where his very admiration could only beinsult, his best attempts to be either grave or gay could only revealunbridgeable misunderstanding? What he had called her coldness seemednow to be her patience. Whereof the memory scalded. For he loved hernow. But it was all spoiled: too late to mend matters.

Suddenly the diffused light brightened and flushed. He looked up andperceived a great lady standing by a doorway in a wall. It was not Jane,not like Jane. It was larger, almost gigantic. It was not human, thoughit was like a woman divinely tall, part naked, part wrapped in aflame-coloured robe. Light came from it. The face was enigmatic,ruthless, he thought, inhumanly beautiful. It was opening the door forhim. He did not dare disobey ("Surely," he thought, "I must have died")and he went in: found himself in some place of sweet smells and brightfires, with food and wine and a rich bed.

VIII

And Jane went out of the big house with the Director's kiss upon herlips and his words in her ears, into the liquid light and supernaturalwarmth of the garden and across the wet lawn (birds were everywhere) andpast the seesaw and the greenhouse and the piggeries, going down all thetime, down to the lodge, descending the ladder of humility. First shethought of the Director, then she thought of Maleldil. Then she thoughtof her obedience and the setting of each foot before the other became akind of sacrificial ceremony. And she thought of children, and of painand death. And now she was half-way to the lodge, and thought of Markand of all his sufferings. When she came to the lodge she was surprisedto see it all dark and the door shut. As she stood at the door with onehand on the latch, a new thought came to her. How if Mark did not wanther--not to-night, nor in that way, nor any time, nor in any way? How ifMark were not there, after all? A great gap--of relief or ofdisappointment, no one could say--was made in her mind by this thought.Still she did not move the latch. Then she noticed that the window, thebedroom window, was open. Clothes were piled on a chair inside the roomso carelessly that they lay over the sill: the sleeve of a shirt--Mark'sshirt--even hung over down the outside wall. And in all this damp, too.How exactly like Mark! Obviously it was high time she went in.

THE END.

[End of That Hideous Strength, by C. S. Lewis]