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CHAPTER 1.
Arbuthnot Begins His Story.
WAS born forty years ago in this very Devonshire
I village in which I write, but not in the same house.
Now | live in the Priory, an ancient place with pan
elled rooms, beautiful gardens and a green, undulating
park studded with great timber trees, the whole nestling
in a rich Devonshire landscape with its hills and valleys
and its scarped faces of red sandstone; and, at a distance,
liee the sea,
There are little towns quite near, too, that live for the
most part on visitors, but these are so hidden away by the
contours of the ground that from the Priory one cannot
see them. Such is Fuleombe, where I live, though for
obvious reasons I do not give its real name.
Many years ago my father, the Rev. Humphrey Ar
buthinot,” whose only child 1 was and after whom 1 am
also named Humphrey, was the viear of this place, with
which our family is said to have some rather vague heredi
tary connection. He was a recluse and a widower, for
my mother, a Bcotchwoman, died shortly after my birth,
Being very high church for those days he was not popu.
lar with the family that owned the Priory before me.
I mention this fact because owing to it as a boy I
made up my mind that one day I would buy that place
and sit in his seat, a wild enough idea at the tjme. Yet
it became ingrained in me, ag do such aspirations of our
youth, and when the opportunity arose in after years I
carried it out.
By the poor people, however, of all the district round,
for the parish itself is very small, my father was much
beloved, although he did practise confession, wear vest
ments and set lighted candles on the altar, But my
father’s preaching, in a learned fashion, was very good,
indeed. For my part, I feel I owe much to these high
church views. e
I have said that my father was learned; but this is a
mild deseription; for never did I know any one quite so
learned. But if I should begin to drift into an analysis
of my father's abilities, 1 would never stop. And yet,
mark this, with it all his name is as dead to the world to
day as though he had never been.
Now 1 am going to be frank about myself, for with
out frankness there is no value in such a record as this.
The fact is that I inherite(:l most of my father’s abilities.
In addition, I have a practical side which he lacked. Also,
I have a spiritnal sense, mayhap mystical would be the
better term, which was missing from his nature.
80, to be honest, in a sense, I believe myself to be my
father's superior and 1 know that he agreed with me.
Yorther, 1 had another advantage over my father. 1 was
born much better looking. He was small and dark, a
little man with deep-set eyes and beetling brows. 1/am
also dark, but tall above the average and well-made.
Until T went up to Oxford, my father educated me,
partly because he knew he could do it better than ur)r
one else and partly to save school expenses, The experi
ment was aucceuitfl, in the main, a 8 my love of all out
door sports saved me from booominf o milksop., This
was shown when at last I went to ¢ollege with a scholar
ship, for there I did very well, indeed.
Here 1 had better set out my shortcomings, which in
their sum have made a failure of me. Yes, failure in the
highest sense, though I trust what Stevenson calls a
“faithful failure.’”” These have their root in fastidious
ness and a lack of perseverence,
On leaving college with some rolputntion. 1 was called
to the Bar, where owing to certain solicitor and o%or
connections 1 had a good opening. Also, o#ini to the
excellence of my memory and powers of work, I began
very well, making money even during my first {nr. After
~ward, however, my conseience smote me sorely, so much
50, that I eame to the conclusiom that the practise of law
was not suited to an honest man and took to nuthonhlr.
My first book was an enormous success. The whole
world talked,of it. A leading journal, delighted to have
discovered some one, wrote it up; and other journals fol.
lowed suit to be in the movement. It sold like wildfire
and must have had some merits for it is still read, though
few know that I wrote it, since it was published under a
pseudonym,
1 wes much elated and set to work to write another,
and, as | believed, a much better book. Unfortunately, my
father, from whom the secret could no longer be kept,
sternly disapproved of both these books, which I admit
were written from a var{ radical foint of view. The re
snlt was our first quarrel, and before it was made up he
died very suddenly.
Now again my fastidiousness and lack of perseverance
did their work, and I solemnly swore that I wonld nev.
write another book, an oath which I have kept until thi:
moment—at least so far as publication is soncerned.
As I sat down to think things over, the truth of am
ancient adage struck sharply upon my mind-—namely,
that mnnedv' is power. I had some eapital as the result
of my father's death, about £B,OOO in all, plus a little
more that my two books had brought in, & what way
could T employ it to the best advantage?
1 remembered that a cousin of myin.ha'n Was a suo
cessful stock broker. T went to him and made a partner
ship .mnmmont, whereby in three years eousin re
‘tired and betook himself to cudcn{nc -fix was his
hobby. Then came an extraordinary time of boom. 1
made a bold stroke, and won. On a certain Baturda
:lhfi? wflso books were made up I found that I was vofl{
For the next year I worked as few have d
at
the end of it discovered that I was the owner :?: ;Tlduo.
and a half in hard cash. T was so tired out that this dis.
covery did not excite me at_all. I felt utterl weary of
all wealth hunting. I reflected, rather late {n the day
perhaps, on the ruin that speculation was bringing to
:l‘;?tusba.lnds and ;neo more considered whether it were a
able career for an upright man. I h :
should T o take it Mt Tay LWy
Was now once more a man without i
though I was the possessor of a considoar:lblo:ogo!::::::
no.mfu like the millions of which I had dreamed, bu
n
P 1
e
o
ta
2
Y VAT
Greater [hon She
still enough. It was at this time that I bought the Ful
combe property.
The beautifying and furnishing of the house and the
restoration of the church in memory of my father, oc
cupied and amused me for a year or go, but when they
were finigshed time began to hang heavy on my hands.
My neighbors were few and, with all due deference
to them, extremely dull. Also, I was radical in my views
and had written certain ‘‘dreadful’’ and somewhat
socialistic books in the form of fietion, So they both
feared and mistrusted me, As I had not married and
showed no inclination to do so, their women kin also, ont
of their intimate knowledge, proclaimed that I led an
immoral life, though a little reflection would have shown
them that this could not be true.
I now had no ambition whatever. I did not even wish
to purchase a peerage or a baronetcy, and, as in my
father’s case, my tastes were so m and catholic that
1 could not lose miuelf in any omlc?fythem.
My lonesome friendlessness oppressed me so much
that at last I took steps to mitigate it. In My college
I had two particular friends whom I think I must have
selected because they were so absolutely different from
myself, They wére named
Bastin and Bickley. '
Bastin — Basil was his
Christian name--was an un
eouth, shock-headed person of
large, rugged frame and
equally rugged honesty with
& mind that
was almost
incredibly '
simple, He
was 80 pain
fully good
that one felt
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he had booked a first-class ticket straight to Heaven; in
deed, that his guardian angels had tied it round his neck
at birth lest he should lose it, already numbered and dated
like an identification disc. I need hardly add that he
went into the Church; indeed, he could not have gone
anywhere else. It absorbed him naturally, as doubtless
Heaven will in due course. :
However, I always loved Bastin because of his J)er
fectly brutal way of telling one what he conceived to
be the truth,
My other friend, Bickley, was a person of quite dif
ferentecharacter. Like Bastin, he was learned, but his
tendencies ran another way. If Bastin’s omniverous
throat could swallow a camel, especially a theological
camel, Bickley's would strain at the smallest gnat, espe
-~ cially a theological gnat.
’{he very best and most upright of men, he yet be
lieved in nothing that he could not taste, see or Zlndle.
Naturally, as the church had claimed Bastin, so medicine
elaimed Bickley.
Just at this time I received a letter written in the
large, sprawling hand of Bastin. It went straight to the
ml'nt, saying that he had seen in a chureh paper that the
ineumbent had resigned the living of Fulcombe which
was in my gifl. He would, therefors, be obliged if fwould
give it to him, as the place he had at Yorkshire did not
suit bis wife's health,
Afterward, I learned that what did not suit Mrs. Bas
tin was the organist, who was pretty. She was by nature
a woman with so insanely jealous a umgqnment that she
sctually managed to be suspicious of astin, whom ghe
captured in an unguarded moment when he was thinking
of l&x?ogh::&;he. eN w .
t engaging honesty he set out all his own
disabilities, which, he added, would probably render him
unsuijtable for the place he &cdrod to fill.
He made only a slight allusion to my humble self in
all those serawly pages. It was a long while gince I had
received am epistle which made me laugh so mueh, anck
of course, I gave him the living by return of post an
even informed him that I would increase its stipend to a
surl which I considered suitable to the position.
Thus it came about that the Rev. Basil Bastin took
over the living at Fulcombe. The person whom I eould
.mot tolerate was his wife, who to my fancy more re-
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sembled a vessel—a very unattractive vessel—full of vine
gar, than a woman, She was small, plain, flat, sandy
haired and odious, quite obsessed, moreover, with her
jealousies of the Rev, Basil, at whom it pleased her to
suppose every woman in the countryside under fifty was
throwing herself. Here I will confess-that to the best of
my ability I took care that they did in outward seeming,
—that is, whenever she was present—instructing them to
sit aside with him in darkened corners, to present him with
flowers, the traditional embroidered slippers, markers
and the like. Well, it was my only way of coming even
with the woman, which I think she knew, for she hated
me poisonously.
So much for Basil Bastin. ' Now for Biekley. I found
upon investigation that he was not at all comfortable in
his London practise, which was of a nature uncongenial
to him. After reflection, I made a suggestion to him. I
offered to appoint him doetor to the estate and also give
him charge of a cottage hospital which I was endowing,
with liberty to build and arrange it as he liked. Further,
I would guarantee for three years whatever income he was
earning as a surgeon in London.
“Everything is quite well my darling,” she whispered in a
faint voice. “Go where you seem called to go, far away.
Oh! the wonderful place in which you will find me, not
knowing that you have found me.”
He thanked me warmly and in the end acted on the
idea, His advent was a great boon to me, for whenever
he had a spare evening he would drop in to dinner, and
from our absolutely opposite standpoints we discussed
“all things human and divine. Thus I was enabled te
sharpen my wits upon the hard steel of his clear intelleot,
which was yet in a sense so limited.
I never converted him to my way of thinking and he
never converted me to his, any more than he converted
Bastin, for whom, queerly enough, he had a strong liking.
They often pounded away at each other, Bickley gen
erally getting the best of it in the argument, but Bastin
could never be convinced that he was wrong. B oay
Such were my two most intimate friends, although I
eadmit it was rather like the equator cultivating close
relationships with the North and South Poles. However,
we were all very happy together, since there are few
things that bind men more closely than profound differ
enees of opinion,
Now, I must turn to my more intimate affairs. After
all, it is impossible for a man to satisfy his soul with the
husks of wealth, luxury and indolence, supplemented :fl
occasional theologioalrind other arguments betwecen
friends. Becoming profoundly convinced of this truth, I
asked Bickley and Bastin for their opinions as to my best
future course. Bickley proved a barren draw. He rubbed
his nose and feebly suggested that I go in for scientific
research.
Bastin’s idea was that I should get married and have
8 large family, which might possibly advantage the
nation, though of such things no one could be quite sure.
“Look here, my friend,”’ I said earnestly. ‘‘Will you
answer me a plain question! Have you found marriage
such a success that you consider it your duty to recoms
mend it to others? And if you have, why have you not
got the large family of which you speak?’’
““Of course not,”” he replied with his usual frankness,
‘“‘lndeed, it is in many wuys so disagreeable that I am’
convinced it must be right and for the good of all con
cerned. As regards the family 1 am sure Ido not know,
but Sarah never liked babies, which perhaps has some
thing to do with it,”” and he sighed, adding, ‘““You see,
Arbuthnot, we have to take things as we find them in this
world, and hope for a better.”’
“Which is just what I am trying to do, you unillumi-.
nating old donkey,”’ I exclaimed, and left him there shalk.
ing his head over matters in general, but I think prinei. |
pally over Sarah.
CHAPTER 111.
e The Inevitable Woman, ‘
OW what Bastin said about marriage stuck in my
N mind, as his, blundering remarks had a way of
doing, perhaps because of the grain of honest
truth with which they often were permeated. Probably
in.my position it was more or less my duty to marry. But,
I had never experienced any. leaning that way. I liked
women, but they also repelled me. While they attracted
one part of my nature they revolted another part. So I J
simply dismissed the whole matter from my mind.
Finally, I sought refuge in the last expedient of weary
Englishmen—travel, learning much, but always to find
that, after all, there is no new thing under the sun; that
with certain variations it is the same over and over again,
No, I will make an exception—the East did interest mo en
ormously. There I came into tonch with certain thinkers
who opened my eyes to a great deal,
I became a dreamer with only one longing—the long.
ing for wisdom, for that spirit touch which should open
my eyes and enable me to see. It happened strangely
enough that when I seemed to have little interest in the J
things of the world, and least of all in women, those’
things came back to me and in the llugo of Woman the
Inev?uble.‘ Probably it was so deereed from the begin- \
:ling, since it is written that no man can live to himself
one,
It happened thus: 1 went to Rome on my way home
from Ind'za. On the day after my arrival I wrote my name
in the book of our Minister to Italy, Sir Alfred Upton,
not because I wished him to ask me to dinner, but for the
reason that I had heard of him as a man of archeological
tastes and thought that he might enable me to see thi
which otherwise I would not see. As it chanced, heuéfi
ask me to dinner on the following night, I accepted, and/
found myself one of a considerable party, some of them |
distinguished peoflo who wore orders.
Then it was that for the first time I saw Natalie, for,
owing to a mistake of my driver I had arrived rather late
and had not been introduced to her, As Sir Alfred Up
ton’s only daughter, her mother being dead, she was
seated at the end of the table behind a fanlike arrange
ment of white Madonna lilies, and she bent forward and
was looking at me in such a fashion that her head from
that distance seemed as though it were surrounded and
crowned with lilies,
Then she withdrew herself behind the sereen of lilies,
and for the rest of that dinner, which I thought was never
coming to an end, I practically saw her no more. Only
I noted as she passed out that, although not tall, she was
well-rounded and graceful in shape, and that her hands
were ))aculiarly small and delicate. {
Afterward, in the drawing room, her father, with whom!
I had had some talk at the table, introduced her to me,
saying :
‘““My daughter is the real archeologist, Mr. Arbuth
not, and I think that if you ask her she may be able to
helHou."
en he bustled away to some of his other guests.
We talked of the places and things that I more par
ticularly desired to see and—well, the end of it was that
I went iwk to myiotol in love with Natalie, and, as she
afterward confessed, she was also deeply in love with me,
It was a eurious affair; more like meeting a very old
friend from whom ome had been separated by circum,
stances for a score of years or so than anything else. We
were, 80 to lgnk, intimate from the first; we knew all
about each other, although here and there was something
new, something different which we could not remember.’
On one point I am absolutely clear; it was not solenlg
the everyday and ancient appeal of woman to man a
man to woman which drew us together. It was some
thing more ; something entirely beyond that elementary
impulse,
One evening in the shelter of the solemn walls of the
great Coliseum at Rome, which at that hour were shut
to all except ourselves, we confessed our love, and be
came betrothed within a month of our first meeting.
Within three we were married, for what was thers to
prevent or delay? Naturally, Sir Alfred was greatli
floued, seeing that he had small private resources an
was able to make le provision for his ddughter. ‘
Everybody was .;l‘:fighted and everything went a 8
smoothly as a sledge sliding down & slope of frozen snow
Only the mists of time hid whatever might be at the end
of the slope. Probably a plain, at the worst the upward
rise of ordinary life. That is what we thought, if we ‘
thou‘ht at all. Certainly we never dreamed of a preck
pice.” Why should we?
- And gt we ought to have done so, because we ought
to have known that smooth surfaces without impediment
to the runners always end in something of the kind. I
am bound to say that when we returned home to Ful
combe, where, of courss, we met with a great reception,
including the ringing (out of tuneg] of the new peal of ,
bells that I had given to the church, Bastin made hast®
to point this out. )
Bickley, however, took exception to his remarks. o
‘“‘Since yon talk of the death of people’s wives,’’ hs
told him, ‘‘l will tell you something about your own, & !
a doctor, which I can do, as I never attended her. Tt ls
highly probable that she will die before Mrs. Arbuthnot
vnv}xo,is quite a healthful person, with a good prospect of
e. ’
‘‘Perhaps,’’ said Bastin. ‘‘lf so, it will be God’s will
and I do not complain’’ (here Bickley snorted), ‘‘though
Ido not see what you can know about it,”’ and he sprang |
up indignantly and left the room.
I followed him, ¢
Let it not be supposed from the above that there wi¢
any ill-feeling between Bastin and Bickley. On the cor
tm;{, they were much attached to each other, and eah
would go out of his way to help the other if oppor
tunity arose.
Here I may state that Bickley’s keen professional 78
was not mistaken when he diagnosed Mrs. Bastin’s statd
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