BROTHER COPAS

by

ARTHUR THOMAS QUILLER-COUCH. 

1911

TO THE GENTLE READER. 

In a former book of mine, _Sir John Constantine_, I expressed(perhaps extravagantly) my faith in my fellows and in their capacityto treat life as a noble sport. In _Brother Copas_ I try to expresssomething of that corellative scorn which must come sooner or laterto every man who puts his faith into practice. . I have that faithstill; but that

 "He who would love his fellow men Must not expect too much of them"

is good counsel if bad rhyme. I can only hope that both the faithand the scorn are sound at the core. 

For the rest, I wish to state that St. Hospital is a society whichnever existed. I have borrowed for it certain features from theHospital of St. Cross, near Winchester. I have invented a fewexternal and all the internal ones. My "College of Noble Poverty"harbours abuses from which, I dare to say, that nobler institution isentirely free. St Hospital has no existence at all outside of myimagining. 

 ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH. 

The Haven, Fowey. February 16th, 1911. 

"And a little Child shall lead them. "--ISAIAH xi. 6. 

CONTENTS. 

Chapter

 I. THE MASTER OF ST. HOSPITAL. 

 II. THE COLLEGE OF NOBLE POVERTY. 

 III. BROTHER COPAS HOOKS A FISH. 

 IV. CORONA COMES. 

 V. BROTHER COPAS ON RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCES. 

 VI. GAUDY DAY. 

 VII. LOW AND HIGH TABLES. 

 VIII. A PEACE-OFFERING. 

 IX. BY MERE RIVER. 

 X. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 

 XI. BROTHER COPAS ON THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

 XII. MR. ISIDORE TAKES CHARGE. 

 XIII. GARDEN AND LAUNDRY. 

 XIV. BROTHER COPAS ON THE HOUSE OF LORDS. 

 XV. CANARIES AND GREATCOATS. 

 XVI. THE SECOND LETTER. 

 XVII. PUPPETS. 

 XVIII. THE PERVIGILIUM. 

 XVIX. MERCHESTER PREPARES. 

 XX. NAUGHTINESS, AND A SEQUEL. 

 XXI. RECONCILIATION. 

 XXII. MR. SIMEON MAKES A CLEAN BREAST. 

 XXIII. CORONA'S BIRTHDAY. 

 XXIV. FINIS CORONAT OPUS. 

 CONCLUSION. 

BROTHER COPAS. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE MASTER OF ST. HOSPITAL. 

 'As poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things . . . '

The Honourable and Reverend Eustace John Wriothesley Blanchminster, D. D. , Master of St. Hospital-by-Merton, sat in the oriel of hislibrary revising his Trinity Gaudy Sermon. He took pains with theseannual sermons, having a quick and fastidious sense of literarystyle. "It is, " he would observe, "one of the few pleasurablecapacities spared by old age. " He had, moreover, a scholarly habitof verifying his references and quotations; and if the original, however familiar, happened to be in a dead or foreign language, wouldhave his secretary indite it in the margin. His secretary, Mr. Simeon, after taking the Sermon down from dictation, had made out afair copy, and stood now at a little distance from the corner of thewriting-table, in a deferential attitude. 

The Master leaned forward over the manuscript; and a ray of afternoonsunshine, stealing in between a mullion of the oriel and the edge ofa drawn blind, touched his bowed and silvery head as if with abenediction. He was in his seventy-third year; lineal andsole-surviving descendant of that Alberic de Blanchminster (Albericusde Albo Monasterio) who had founded this Hospital of Christ's Poor in1137, and the dearest, most distinguished-looking old clergymanimaginable. An American lady had once summed him up as a Doctor ofDivinity in Dresden china; and there was much to be allowed to thesimile when you noted his hands, so shapely and fragile, or hiscomplexion, transparent as old ivory--and still more if you hadleisure to observe his saintliness, so delicately attuned to thisworld. 

"_As having nothing, and yet possessing all things_. "--The Masterlaid his forefinger upon the page and looked up reproachfully. "os meden echontes--my good Simeon, is it possible? A word so commonas os! and after all these years you make it perispomenon!"

Mr. Simeon stammered contrition. In the matter of Greek accents heknew himself to be untrustworthy beyond hope. "I can't tell how itis, sir, but that os always seems to me to want a circumflex, beingan adverb of sorts. " On top of this, and to make things worse, hepleaded that he had left out the accent in os ptochoi, just above. 

"H'm--as poor, and yet thankful for small mercies, " commented theMaster with gentle sarcasm. He had learnt in his long life toeconomise anger. But he frowned as he dipped a pen in the ink-potand made the correction; for he was dainty about his manuscripts asabout all the furniture of life, and a blot or an erasure annoyedhim. "Brother Copas, " he murmured, "never misplaces an accent. "

Mr. Simeon heard, and started. It was incredible that the Master, who five-and-twenty years ago had rescued Mr. Simeon from a schoolfor poor choristers and had him specially educated for the sake ofhis exquisite handwriting, could be threatening dismissal over acircumflex. Oh, there was no danger! If long and (until the otherday) faithful service were not sufficient, at least there wasguarantee in the good patron's sense of benefits conferred. Moreover, Brother Copas was not desirable as an amanuensis. . . . None the less, poor men with long families will start at the shadowof a fear; and Mr. Simeon started. 

"Master, " he said humbly, choosing the title by which his patronliked to be addressed, "I think Greek accents must come by gift ofthe Lord. "

"Indeed?"

The Master glanced up. 

"I mean, sir"--Mr. Simeon extended a trembling hand and rested hisfingers on the edge of the writing-table for support--"that one manis born with a feeling for them, so to speak; while another, thoughyou may teach and teach him--"

"In other words, " said the Master, "they come by breeding. It isvery likely. "

He resumed his reading:

 '--and yet possessing all things. We may fancy St. Paul's actual words present in the mind of our Second Founder, the Cardinal Beauchamp, as their spirit assuredly moved him, when he named our beloved house the College of Noble Poverty. His predecessor, Alberic de Blanchminster, had called it after Christ's Poor; and the one title, to be sure, rests implicit in the other; for the condescension wherewith Christ made choice of His associates on earth has for ever dignified Poverty in the eyes of His true followers. '

"And you have spelt 'his' with a capital 'H'--when you know mydislike of that practice!"

Poor Mr. Simeon was certainly not in luck to-day. The truth is that, frightened by the prospect of yet another addition to his family(this would be his seventh child), he had hired out his needy pen toone of the Canons Residentiary of Merchester, who insisted on usingcapitals upon all parts of speech referring, however remotely, toeither of the Divine Persons. The Master, who despised Canon Tarboltfor a vulgar pulpiteer, and barely nodded to him in the street, wasnot likely to get wind of this mercenage; but if ever he did, therewould be trouble. As it was, the serving of two masters afflictedMr. Simeon's conscience while it distracted his pen. 

"I will make another fair copy, " he suggested. 

"I fear you must. Would you mind drawing back that curtain?My eyes are troublesome this afternoon. Thank you. "--

 'Nevertheless it was well done of the great churchman to declare his belief that the poor, as poor, are not only blessed--as Our Lord expressly says--but noble, as Our Lord implicitly taught. Nay, the suggestion is not perhaps far-fetched that, as Cardinal Beauchamp had great possessions, he took this occasion to testify how in his heart he slighted them. Or again--for history seems to prove that he was not an entirely scrupulous man, nor entirely untainted by self-seeking--that his tribute to Noble Poverty may have been the assertion, by a spirit netted among the briars of this world's policy, that at least it saw and suspired after the way to Heaven. _Video meliora, proboque_--

 "O limed soul, that struggling to be free Art more engaged!"

 'But he is with God: and while we conjecture, God knows. 

 'Lest, however, you should doubt that the finer spirits of this world have found Poverty not merely endurable but essentially noble, let me recall to you an anecdote of Saint Francis of Assisi. It is related that, travelling towards France with a companion, Brother Masseo, he one day entered a town wherethrough they both begged their way, as their custom was, taking separate streets. Meeting again on the other side of the town, they spread out their alms on a broad stone by the wayside, whereby a fair fountain ran; and Francis rejoiced that Brother Masseo's orts and scraps of bread were larger than his own, saying, "Brother Masseo, we are not worthy of such treasure. " "But how, " asked Brother Masseo, "can one speak of treasure when there is such lack of all things needful? Here have we neither cloth, nor knife, nor plate, nor porringer, nor house, nor table, nor manservant, nor maidservant. " Answered Francis, "This and none else it is that I account wide treasure; which containeth nothing prepared by human hands, but all we have is of God's own providence--as this bread we have begged, set out on a table of stone so fine, beside a fountain so clear. Wherefore, " said he, "let us kneel together and pray God to increase our love of this holy Poverty, which is so noble that thereunto God himself became a servitor. "'

The declining sun, slanting in past the Banksia roses, touchedthe edge of a giant amethyst which the Master wore, by inheritanceof office, on his forefinger; and, because his hand trembled alittle with age, the gem set the reflected ray dancing in asmall pool of light, oval-shaped and wine-coloured, on the whitemargin of the sermon. He stared at it for a moment, tracing itmistakenly to a glass of Rhone wine--a _Chateau Neuf du Pape_ of a datebefore the phylloxera--that stood neglected on the writing-table. (By his doctor's orders he took a glass of old wine and a biscuitevery afternoon at this hour as a gentle digestive. )

Thus reminded, he reached out a hand and raised the wine to his lips, nodding as he sipped. 

"In Common Room, Simeon, we used to say that no man was reallyeducated who preferred Burgundy to claret, but that on the lowerRhone all tastes met in one ecstasy. . . . I'd like to have youropinion on this, now; that is, if you will find the decanter and aglass in the cupboard yonder--and if you have no conscientiousobjection. "

Mr. Simeon murmured, amid his thanks, that he had no objection. 

"I am glad to hear it. . . . Between ourselves, there is alwayssomething lacking in an abstainer--as in a man who has never learntGreek. It is difficult with both to say what the lack precisely is;but with both it includes an absolute insensibility to theshortcoming. "

Mr. Simeon could not help wondering if this applied to poor men whoabstained of necessity. He thought not; being, for his part, conscious of a number of shortcomings. 

"Spirits, " went on the Master, wheeling half-about in hisrevolving-chair and crossing one shapely gaitered leg over another, "Spirits--and especially whisky--eat out the health of a man andleave him a sodden pulp. Beer is honest, but brutalising. Wine--certainly any good wine that can trace its origin back beyondthe Reformation--is one with all good literature, and indeed withcivilisation. _Antiquam exquirite matrem_: all three come from theMediterranean basin or from around it, and it is only the ill-bornwho contemn descent. "

"Brother Copas--" began Mr. Simeon, and came to a halt. 

He lived sparely; he had fasted for many hours; and standing there hecould feel the generous liquor coursing through him--nay could almosthave reported its progress from ganglion to ganglion. He blessed it, and at the same moment breathed a prayer that it might not affect hishead. 

"Brother Copas--?"

Mr. Simeon wished now that he had not begun his sentence. The invigorating _Chateau Neuf du Pape_ seemed to overtake and chaseaway all uncharitable thoughts. But it was too late. 

"Brother Copas--you were saying--?"

"I ought not to repeat it, sir. But I heard Brother Copas say theother day that the teetotallers were in a hopeless case; being mostlyreligious men, and yet having to explain in the last instance why OurLord, in Cana of Galilee, did not turn the water into ginger-pop. "

The Master frowned and stroked his gaiters. 

"Brother Copas's tongue is too incisive. Something must be forgivento one who, having started as a scholar and a gentleman, findshimself toward the close of his days dependent on the bread ofcharity. "

It was benignly spoken; and to Mr. Simeon, who questioned nothing hispatron said or did, no shade of misgiving occurred that, taken downin writing, it might annotate somewhat oddly the sermon on the table. It was spoken with insight too, for had not his own poverty, or thefear of it, sharpened Mr. Simeon's tongue just now and prompted himto quote Brother Copas detrimentally? The little man did not shapethis accusation clearly against himself, for he had a rambling head;but he had also a sound heart, and it was uneasy. 

"I ought not to have told it, sir. . . . I ask you to believe that Ihave no ill-will against Brother Copas. "

The Master had arisen, and stood gazing out of the window immersed inhis own thoughts. 

"Eh? I beg your pardon?" said he absently. 

"I--I feared, sir, you might think I said it to his prejudice. "

"Prejudice?" the Master repeated, still with his back turned, andstill scarcely seeming to hear. "But why in the world? . . . Ah, there he goes!--and Brother Bonaday with him. They are off to theriver, for Brother Copas carries his rod. What a strange fascinationhas that dry-fly fishing! And I can remember old anglers discussingit as a craze, a lunacy. "

He gazed out, still in a brown study. The room was silent save forthe ticking of a Louis Seize clock on the chimney-piece; and Mr. Simeon, standing attentive, let his eyes travel around upon theglass-fronted bookcases, filled with sober riches in vellum and giltleather, on the rare prints in black frames, the statuette of _DianeChasseresse_, the bust of Antinous, the portfolios containing otherprints, the Persian carpets scattered about the dark bees'-waxedfloor, the Sheraton table with its bowl of odorous peonies. 

"Eh? I beg your pardon--" said the Master again after three minutesor so, facing around with a smile of apology. "My wits werewool-gathering, over the sermon--that little peroration of mine doesnot please me somehow. . . . I will take a stroll to the home-parkand back, and think it over. . . . Thank you, yes, you may gather upthe papers. We will do no more work this afternoon. "

"And I will write out another fair copy, sir. "

"Yes, certainly; that is to say, of all but the last page. We willtake the last page to-morrow. "

For a moment, warmed by the wine and by the Master's cordiality ofmanner, Mr. Simeon felt a wild impulse to make a clean breast, confess his trafficking with Canon Tarbolt and beg to be forgiven. But his courage failed him. He gathered up his papers, bowed andmade his escape. 

CHAPTER II. 

THE COLLEGE OF NOBLE POVERTY. 

If a foreigner would apprehend (he can never comprehend) this Englandof ours, with her dear and ancient graces, and her foibles as ancientand hardly less dear; her law-abidingness, her staid, God-fearingcitizenship; her parochialism whereby (to use a Greek idiom) sheperpetually escapes her own notice being empress of the world; herinveterate snobbery, her incurable habit of mistaking symbols andwords for realities; above all, her spacious and beautiful sense oftime as builder, healer and only perfecter of worldly things; let himgo visit the Cathedral City, sometime the Royal City, of Merchester. He will find it all there, enclosed and casketed--"a box where sweetscompacted lie. "

Let him arrive on a Saturday night and awake next morning to the noteof the Cathedral bell, and hear the bugles answering from thebarracks up the hill beyond the mediaeval gateway. As he sits downto breakfast the bugles will start sounding nigher, with music absurdand barbarous, but stirring, as the Riflemen come marching down theHigh Street to Divine Service. In the Minster to which they wend, their disused regimental colours droop along the aisles; tattered, ahundred years since, in Spanish battlefields, and by age worn almostto gauze--"strainers, " says Brother Copas, "that in their time haveclarified much turbid blood. " But these are guerdons of yesterday incomparison with other relics the Minster guards. There is royal dustamong them--Saxon and Dane and Norman--housed in painted chests abovethe choir stalls. "_Quare fremuerunt gentes?_" intone thechoristers' voices below, Mr. Simeon's weak but accurate tenor amongthem. "_The kings of the earth stand up, and the rulers take counseltogether_ . . . " The Riflemen march down to listen. As they go byta-ra-ing, the douce citizens of Merchester and their wives anddaughters admire from the windows discreetly; but will attend _their_Divine Service later. This, again, is England. 

Sundays and week-days at intervals the Cathedral organ throbs acrossthe Close, gently shaking the windows of the Deanery and the Canons'houses, and interrupting the chatter of sparrows in their ivy. Twice or thrice annually a less levitical noise invades, when ourState visits its Church; in other words, when with trumpeters andjavelin-men the High Sheriff escorts his Majesty's Judges to hear theAssize Sermon. On these occasions the head boy of the great School, which lies a little to the south of the Cathedral, by custom presentsa paper to the learned judge, suing for a school holiday; and hislordship, brushing up his Latinity, makes a point of acceding in thebest hexameters he can contrive. At his time of life it comes easierto try prisoners; and if he lie awake, he is haunted less by his dayin Court than by the fear of a false quantity. 

The School--with its fourteenth-century quadrangles, fenced citywardsbehind a blank brewhouse-wall (as though its Founder's firstprecaution had been to protect learning from siege), and itsprecincts opening rearwards upon green playing-fields andriver-meads--is like few schools in England, and none in any othercountry; and is proud of its singularity. It, too, has its stream oflife, and on the whole a very gracious one, with its young, carelessvoices and high spirits. It lies, as I say, south of the Close;beyond the northward fringe of which you penetrate, under archway orby narrow entry, to the High Street, where another and different tidecomes and goes, with mild hubbub of carts, carriages, motors--ladiesshopping, magistrates and county councillors bent on business of theshire, farmers, traders, marketers. . . . This traffic, too, is allvery English and ruddy and orderly. 

Through it all, picturesque and respected, pass and repass thebedesmen of Saint Hospital: the Blanchminster Brethren in black gownswith a silver cross worn at the breast, the Beauchamp Brethren ingowns of claret colour with a silver rose. The terms of the twinbequests are not quite the same. To be a Collegian of Christ's Poorit is enough that you have attained the age of sixty-five, so reducedin strength as to be incapable of work; whereas you can become aCollegian of Noble Poverty at sixty, but with the proviso thatmisfortune has reduced you from independence (that is to say, from amoderate estate). The Beauchamp Brethren, who are the fewer, inclineto give themselves airs over the Blanchminsters on the strength ofthis distinction: like Dogberry, in their time they have "hadlosses. " But Merchester takes, perhaps, an equal pride in thepensioners of both orders. 

Merchester takes an even fonder pride in St. Hospital itself--thatcompact and exquisite group of buildings, for the most part Norman, set in the water-meadows among the ambient streams of Mere. It liesa mile or so southward of the town, and some distance below theSchool, where the valley widens between the chalk-hills and, inlandyet, you feel a premonition that the sea is not far away. All visitors to Merchester are directed towards St. Hospital, andthey dote over it--the American visitors especially; because nowherein England can one find the Middle Ages more compendiously summarisedor more charmingly illustrated. Almost it might be a toy model ofthose times, with some of their quaintest customs kept going insmooth working order. But it is better. It is the real thing, genuinely surviving. No visitor ever finds disappointment in apilgrimage to St. Hospital: the inmates take care of that. 

The trustees, or governing body, are careful too. A few years ago, finding that his old lodgings in the quadrangle were too narrow forthe Master's comfort, they erected a fine new house for him, justwithout the precincts. But though separated from the Hospital by aroadway, this new house comes into the picture from many points ofview, and therefore not only did the architect receive instructionsto harmonise it with the ancient buildings, but where he left off thetrustees succeeded, planting wistarias, tall roses and selected iviesto run up the coigns and mullions. Nay, it is told that to encouragethe growth of moss they washed over a portion of the walls (theservants' quarters) with a weak solution of farmyard manure. These conscientious pains have their reward, for to-day, at a littledistance, the Master's house appears no less ancient than the rest ofthe mediaeval pile with which it composes so admirably. 

With the Master himself we have made acquaintance. In the words ofan American magazine, "the principal of this old-time foundation, Master E. J. Wriothesley (pronounced 'Wrottesley') Blanchminster, maybe allowed to fill the bill. He is founder's kin, and just sweet. "

The Master stepped forth from his rose-garlanded porch, crossed theroad, and entered the modest archway which opens on the first, orouter, court. He walked habitually at a short trot, with his headand shoulders thrust a little forward and his hands clasped behindhim. He never used a walking-stick. 

The outer court of St. Hospital is plain and unpretending, with abrewhouse on one hand and on the other the large kitchen with itsoffices. Between these the good Master passed, and came to a secondand handsomer gate, with a tower above it, and three canopied nichesin the face of the tower, and in one of the niches--the others areempty--a kneeling figure of the great cardinal himself. The passageway through the tower is vaulted and richly groined, andin a little chamber beside it dwells the porter, a part of whose dutyit is to distribute the Wayfarers' Dole--a horn of beer and a manchetof bread--to all who choose to ask for it. The Master halted amoment to give the porter good evening. 

"And how many to-day, Brother Manby?"

"Thirty-three, Master, including a party of twelve that came inmotor-cars. I was jealous the cast wouldn't go round, for they allinsisted on having the dole, and a full slice, too--the gentlemendeclaring they were hungry after their drive. But, " added BrotherManby, with a glance at a card affixed by the archway and announcingthat tickets to view the hospital could be procured at sixpence ahead, "they were most appreciative, I must say. "

The Master smiled, nodded, and passed on. He gathered that someonehad profited by something over and above the twelve sixpences. 

But how gracious, how serenely beautiful, how eloquent of peace andbenediction, the scene that met him as he crossed the threshold ofthe great quadrangle! Some thousands of times his eyes had rested onit, yet how could it ever stale?

"_In the evening there shall be light_. "--The sun, declining in acloudless west behind the roof-ridge and tall chimneys of theBrethren's houses, cast a shadow even to the sundial that stood forcentre of the wide grass-plot. All else was softest gold--goldveiling the sky itself in a powdery haze; gold spread full along thefront of the 'Nunnery, ' or row of upper chambers on the eastern lineof the quadrangle, where the three nurses of St. Hospital have theirlodgings; shafts of gold penetrating the shaded ambulatory below;gold edging the western coigns of the Norman chapel; gold rayed andslanting between boughs in the park beyond the railings to the south. Only the western side of the quadrangle lay in shadow, and in theshadow, in twos and threes, beside their doors and tiny flower-plots(their pride), sat the Brethren, with no anxieties, with no care butto watch the closing tranquil hour: some with their aged wives(for the Hospital, as the Church of England with her bishops, allowsa Brother to have one wife, but ignores her existence), some inmonastic groups, withdrawn from hearing of women's gossip. 

The Master chose the path that, circumventing the grass-plot, led himpast these happy-looking groups and couples. To be sure, it was nothis nearest way to the home-park, where he intended to think out hisperoration; but he had plenty of time, and moreover he delighted toexchange courtesies with his charges. For each he had a greeting--

--"Fine weather, fine weather, Brother Dasent! Ah, this is the timeto get rid of the rheumatics! Eh, Mrs. Dasent? I haven't seen himlooking so hale for months past. "

--"A beautiful evening, Brother Clerihew--yes, beautifulindeed. . . . You notice how the swallows are flying, both high andlow, Brother Woolcombe? . . . Yes, I think we are in for a spell ofit. "

--"Ah, good evening, Mrs. Royle! What wonderful ten-week stocks!I declare I cannot grow the like of them in my garden. And what aperfume! But it warns me that the dew is beginning to fall, andBrother Royle ought not to be sitting out late. We must run norisks, Nurse, after his illness?"

The Master appealed to a comfortable-looking woman who, at hisapproach, had been engaged in earnest talk with Mrs. Royle--talk towhich old Brother Royle appeared to listen placidly, seated in hischair. 

--And so on. He had a kindly word for all, and all answered hissalutations respectfully; the women bobbing curtseys, the old menoffering to rise from their chairs. But this he would by no meansallow. His presence seemed to carry with it a fragrance of his own, as real as that of the mignonette and roses and sweet-Williams amidwhich he left them embowered. 

When he had passed out of earshot, Brother Clerihew turned to BrotherWoolcombe and said--

"The silly old '--' is beginning to show his age, seemin' to me. "

"Oughtn't to, " answered Brother Woolcombe. "If ever a man had a softjob, it's him. "

"Well, I reckon we don't want to lose him yet, anyhow--'specially ifColt is to step into his old shoes. "

Brother Clerihew's reference was to the Reverend Rufus Colt, Chaplainof St. Hospital. 

"They never would!" opined Brother Woolcombe, meaning by "they" thegoverning body of Trustees. 

"Oh, you never know--with a man on the make, like Colt. Push carrieseverything in these times. "

"Colt's a hustler, " Brother Woolcombe conceded. "But, damn it all, they _might_ give us a gentleman!"

"There's not enough to go round, nowadays, " grunted Brother Clerihew, who had been a butler, and knew. "Master Blanchminster's the realthing, of course . . . " He gazed after the retreating figure of theMaster. "Seemed gay as a goldfinch, he did. D'ye reckon Colt hastold him about Warboise?"

"I wonder. Where is Warboise, by the way?"

"Down by the river, taking a walk to cool his head. Ibbetson's wifegave him a dressing-down at tea-time for dragging Ibbetson into therow. Threatened to have her nails in his beard--I heard her. That woman's a terror. . . . All the same, one can't helpsympathising with her. 'You can stick to your stinkingProtestantism, ' she told him, 'if it amuses you to fight theChaplain. You're a widower, with nobody dependent. But don't youteach my husband to quarrel with his vittles. '"

"All the same, when a man has convictions--"

"Convictions are well enough when you can afford 'em, " BrotherClerihew grunted again. "But up against Colt--what's the use?And where's his backing? Ibbetson, with a wife hanging on to hiscoat-tails; and old Bonaday, that wouldn't hurt a fly; and Copas, standing off and sneering. "

"A man might have all the pains of Golgotha upon him before ever_you_ turned a hair, " grumbled Brother Dasent, a few yards away. 

He writhed in his chair, for the rheumatism was really troublesome;but he over-acted his suffering somewhat, having learnt in forty-fiveyears of married life that his spouse was not over-ready withsympathy. 

"T'cht!" answered she. "I ought to know what they're like by thistime, and I wonder, for my part, you don't try to get accustomed to'em. Dying one can understand: but to be worrited with a man'sailments, noon and night, it gets on the nerves. . . . "

"You're _sure_?" resumed Mrs. Royle eagerly, but sinking her voice--for she could hardly wait until the Master had passed out of earshot. 

"Did you ever know me spread tales?" asked the comfortable-lookingNurse. "Only, mind you, I mentioned it in the strictest secrecy. This is such a scandalous hole, one can't be too careful. . . . Butdown by the river they were, consorting and God knows what else. "

"At his age, too! Disgusting, I call it. "

"Oh, _she's_ not particular! My comfort is I always suspected thatwoman from the first moment I set eyes on her. Instinct, I s'pose. 'Well, my lady, ' says I, 'if you're any better than you should be, then I've lived all these years for nothing. '"

"And him--that looked such a broken-down old innocent!"

"They get taken that way sometimes, late in life. "

Nurse Turner sank her voice and said something salacious, whichcaused Mrs. Royle to draw a long breath and exclaim that she couldnever have credited such things--not in a Christian land. Her oldhusband, too, overheard it, and took snuff with a senile chuckle. 

"Gad, that's spicy!" he crooned. 

The Master, at the gateway leading to the home-park, turned for alook back on the quadrangle and the seated figures. Yes, they madean exquisite picture. Here--

 "Here where the world is quiet"--

Here, indeed, his ancestor had built a haven of rest. 

 "From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. "

As the lines floated across his memory, the Master had a mind toemploy them in his peroration (giving them a Christian trend, ofcourse) in place of the sonnet he had meant to quote. This wouldinvolve reconstructing a longish paragraph; but they had touched hismood, and he spent some time pacing to and fro under the trees beforehis taste rejected them as facile and even cheap in comparison withWordsworth's--

 "Men unto whom sufficient for the day, And minds not stinted or untill'd are given, --Sound healthy children of the God of heaven-- Are cheerful as the rising sun in May. "

"Yes, yes, " murmured the Master, "Wordsworth's is the better. But what a gift, to be able to express a thought just _so_--with thatfreshness, that noble simplicity! And even with Wordsworth it wasfugitive, lost after four or five marvellous years. No one not beinga Greek has ever possessed it in permanence. . . . "

Here he paused at the sound of a footfall on the turf close behindhim, and turned about with a slight frown; which readily yielded, however, and became a smile of courtesy. 

"Ah, my dear Colt! Good evening!"

"Good evening, Master. "

Mr. Colt came up deferentially, yet firmly, much as a nurse in a goodfamily might collect a straying infant. He was a tall, noticeablywell-grown man, a trifle above thirty, clean shaven, with a squareand obstinate chin. He wore no hat, and his close black hair showeda straight middle parting above his low and somewhat protuberantforehead. The parting widened at the occiput to a well-kept tonsure. At the back the head wanted balance; and this lent a suggestion ofbrutality--of "thrust"--to his abounding appearance of strength. He walked in his priestly black with the gait and carriage proper toa heavy dragoon. 

"A fine evening, indeed. Are you disengaged?"

"Certainly, certainly"--in comparison with Mr. Colt's grave voice theMaster's was almost a chirrup--"whether for business or for thepleasure of a talk. Nothing wrong, I hope?"

For a moment or two the Chaplain did not answer. He seemed to beweighing his words. At length he said--

"I should have reported at once, but have been thinking it over. At Early Celebration this morning Warboise insulted the wafer. "

"Dear, dear, you don't say so!"

--"Took it from me, held it derisively between finger and thumb, andmuttered. I could not catch all that he said, but I distinctly heardthe words 'biscuit' and 'Antichrist. ' Indeed, he confesses to havingused them. His demeanour left no doubt that he was insolent of setpurpose. . . . I should add that Ibbetson, who was kneeling next tohim and must have overheard, walked back from the altar-rail straightout of chapel; but his wife assures me that this was purely acoincidence, and due to a sudden weakness of the stomach. "

"You have spoken to Warboise?"

"Yes, and he is defiant. Says that bread is bread, and--when Ipressed him for a definition--asked (insolently again) if theTrustees had authorised our substituting biscuit for bread in theWayfarers' Dole. Advised us to 'try it on' there, and look out forletters in the _Merchester Observer_. He even threatened--if you'llbelieve me--to write to the Press himself. In short, he was beyondall self-control. "

"I was afraid, " murmured the Master, flushing a little in hisdistress, "you would not introduce this--er--primitive use--or, Ishould say, restore it--without trouble. Brother Warboise has strongProtestant prejudices; passionate, even. "

"And ignorant. "

"Oh, of course, of course! Still--"

"I suggest that, living as he does on the Church's benefaction, eating the bread of her charity--"

The Chaplain paused, casting about for a third phrase to expressBrother Warboise's poor dependence. 

The Master smiled whimsically. 

"'The bread'--that's just it, he would tell you . . . And Alberic deBlanchminster, moreover, was a layman, not even in any of the minororders; so that, strictly speaking--"

"But he left his wealth expressly to be administered by the Church. . . . Will you forgive me, Master, if I repeat very respectfully thesuggestion I made at the beginning? If you could see your way to becelebrant at the early office, your mere presence would silence thesemutineers. The Brethren respect your authority without question, and, the ice once broken, they would come to heel as one man. "

The Master shook his head tremulously, in too much of a flurry evento note the Chaplain's derangement of metaphors. 

"You cannot guess how early rising upsets me. Doctor Ainsley, indeed, positively forbids it. . . . I can sympathise, you see, withIbbetson . . . And, for Brother Warboise, let us always remember thatSt. Hospital was not made, and cannot be altered, in a day--even forthe better. Like England, it has been built by accretions, bytraditions; yes, and by traditions that apparently conflict--by thatof Brother Ingman, among others. . . . 

"We who love St. Hospital, " continued the Master, still tremulously, "have, I doubt not, each his different sense of the _genius loci_. Warboise finds it, we'll say, in the person of Peter Ingman, Protestant and martyr. But I don't defend his behaviour. I willsend for him to-morrow, and talk to him. I will talk to him veryseverely. "

CHAPTER III. 

BROTHER COPAS HOOKS A FISH. 

"Well, " said Brother Copas, "since the fish are not rising, let ustalk. Or rather, you can tell me all about it while I practisecasting. . . . By what boat is she coming?"

"By the _Carnatic_, and due some time to-morrow. I saw it in thenewspaper. "

"Well?--" prompted Brother Copas, glancing back over his shoulder asBrother Bonaday came to a halt. 

The bent little man seemed to have lost the thread of his speech ashe stood letting his gentle, tired eyes follow the flight of theswallows swooping and circling low along the river and over themeadow-grasses. 

"Well?--" prompted Brother Copas again. 

"Nurse Branscome will go down to meet her. "

"And then?--"

"I am hoping the Master will let her have my spare room, " saidBrother Bonaday vaguely. 

Here it should be explained that when the Trustees erected a newhouse for the Master his old lodgings in the quadrangle had beencarved into sets of chambers for half a dozen additional Brethren, and that one of these, differing only from the rest in that itcontained a small spare room, had chanced to be allotted to BrotherBonaday. He had not applied for it, and it had grieved him to findhis promotion resented by certain of the Brethren, who let slip fewoccasions for envy. For the spare room had been quite useless to himuntil now. Now he began to think it might be, after all, a specialgift of Providence. 

"You have spoken to the Master?" asked Brother Copas. 

"No: that is to say, not yet. "

"What if he refuses?"

"It will be very awkward. I shall hardly know what to do. . . . Findher some lodging in the town, perhaps; there seems no other way. "

"You should have applied to the Master at once. "

Brother Bonaday considered this, while his eyes wandered. 

"But why?" he asked. "The boat had sailed before the letter reachedme. She was already on her way. Yes or no, it could make nodifference. "

"It makes this difference: suppose that the Master refuses, you havelost four days in which you might have found her a suitable lodging. What's the child's name, by the by?

"Corona, it seems. "

"Seems?"

"She was born just after her mother left me and went to America, having a little money of her own saved out of our troubles. " AgainBrother Copas, in the act of making a cast, glanced back over hisshoulder, but Brother Bonaday's eyes were on the swallows. "In 1902 it was, the year of King Edward's coronation: yes, that willbe why my wife chose the name. . . . I suppose, as you say, "Brother Bonaday went on after a pause, "I ought to have spoken to theMaster at once; but I put it off, the past being painful to me. "

"Yet you told Nurse Branscome. "

"Someone--some woman--had to be told. The child must be met, yousee. "

"H'm. . . . Well, I am glad, anyway, that you told me whilst therewas yet a chance of my being useful; being, as you may or may nothave observed, inclined to jealousy in matters of friendship. "

This time Brother Copas kept his face averted, and made a fresh castacross stream with more than ordinary care. The fly dropped closeunder the far bank, and by a bare six inches clear of a formidablealder. He jerked the rod backward, well pleased with his skill. 

"That was a pretty good one, eh?"

But clever angling was thrown away upon Brother Bonaday, whompreoccupation with trouble had long ago made unobservant. Brother Copas reeled in a few feet of his line. 

"You'll bear in mind that, if the Master should refuse and you'reshort of money for a good lodging, I have a pound or two laid by. We must do what we can for the child; coming, as she will, from theother side of the world. "

"That is kind of you, Copas, " said Brother Bonaday slowly, hiseyes fixed now on the reel, the whirring click of which drew hisattention, so that he seemed to address his speech to it. "It is very kind, and I thank you. But I hope the Master will notrefuse: though, to tell you the truth, there is another smalldifficulty which makes me shy of asking him a favour. "

"Eh? What is it?"

Brother Bonaday twisted his thin fingers together. "I--I hadpromised, before I got this letter, to stand by Warboise. I feelrather strongly on these matters, you know--though, of course, not sostrongly as he does--and I promised to support him. Which makes itvery awkward, you see, to go and ask a favour of the Master just whenyou are (so to say) defying his authority. . . . While if I hide itfrom him, and he grants the favour, and then next day or the dayafter I declare for Warboise, it will look like treachery, eh?"

"Damn!" said Brother Copas, still winding in his line meditatively. "There is no such casuist as poverty. And only this morning I waspromising myself much disinterested sport in the quarrelling of youChristian brethren. . . . But isn't that Warboise coming along thepath? . . . Yes, the very man! Well, we must try what's to be done. "

"But I have given him my word, remember. "

Brother Copas, if he heard, gave no sign of hearing. He had turnedto hail Brother Warboise, who came along the river path with eyesfastened on the ground, and staff viciously prodding in time with hissteps. 

"Hallo, Warboise! Halt, and give the countersign!"

Brother Warboise halted, taken at unawares, and eyed the twodoubtfully from under his bushy grey eyebrows. They were Beauchampboth, he Blanchminster. He wore the black cloak of Blanchminster, with the silver cross _patte_ at the breast, and looked--so Copasmurmured to himself--"like Caiaphas in a Miracle Play. " His mouthwas square and firm, his grey beard straightly cut. He had been astationer in a small way, and had come to grief by vending only thosenewspapers of which he could approve the religious tendency. 

"The countersign?" he echoed slowly and doubtfully. 

He seldom understood Brother Copas, but by habit suspected him oflevity. 

"To be sure, among three good Protestants! '_Bloody end to thePope!_' is it not?"

"You are mocking me, " snarled Brother Warboise, and with that struckthe point of his staff passionately upon the pathway. "You are aGallio, and always will be: you care nothing for what is heaven andearth to us others. But you have no right to infect Bonaday, here, with your poison. He has promised me. " Brother Warboise faced uponBrother Bonaday sternly, "You promised me, you know you did. "

"To be sure he promised you, " put in Brother Copas. "He has justbeen telling me. "

"And I am going to hold him to it! These are not times forfalterers, halters between two opinions. If England is to be savedfrom coming a second time under the yoke of Papacy, men will have tocome out in their true colours. He that is not for us is againstus. "

Brother Copas reeled in a fathom of line with a contemplative, judicial air. 

"Upon my word, Warboise, I'm inclined to agree with you. Idon't pretend to share your Protestant fervour: but hang it!I'm an Englishman with a sense of history, and that is what no singleone among your present-day High Anglicans would appear to possess. If a man wants to understand England he has to start with one or twosimple propositions, of which the first--or about the first--is thatEngland once had a reformation, and is not going to forget it. But that is just what these fellows would make-believe to ignore. A fool like Colt--for at bottom, between ourselves, Colt is a fool--says 'Reformation? There was no such thing: we don't acknowledgeit. ' As the American said of some divine who didn't believe ineternal punishment, 'By gosh, he'd better not!'"

"But England _is_ forgetting it!" insisted Brother Warboise. "Look at the streams of Papist monks she has allowed to pour inever since France took a strong line with her monastic orders. Look at those fellows--College of St. John Lateran, as they callthemselves--who took lodgings only at the far end of this village. In the inside of six months they had made friends with everybody. "

"They employ local tradesmen, and are particular in paying theirdebts, I'm told. "

"Oh, " said Brother Warboise, "They're cunning!"

Brother Copas gazed at him admiringly, and shot a glance at BrotherBonaday. But Brother Bonaday's eyes had wandered off again to theskimming swallows. 

"Confessed Romans and their ways, " said Brother Warboise, "one isprepared for, but not for these wolves in sheep's clothing. Why, only last Sunday-week you must have heard Colt openly preachingthe confessional!"

"I slept, " said Brother Copas. "But I will take your word for it. "

"He did, I assure you; and what's more--you may know it or not--Royleand Biscoe confess to him regularly. "

"They probably tell him nothing worse than their suspicions of youand me. Colt is a vain person walking in a vain show. "

"You don't realise the hold they are getting. Look at the money theysqueeze out of the public; the churches they restore, and the newones they build. And among these younger Anglicans, I tell you, Coltis a force. "

"My good Warboise, you have described him exactly. He is a force--and nothing else. He will bully and beat you down to get his way, but in the end you can always have the consolation of presenting himwith the shadow, which he will unerringly mistake for the substance. I grant you that to be bullied and beaten down is damnably unpleasantdiscipline, even when set off against the pleasure of fooling such afellow as Colt. But when a man has to desist from pursuit ofpleasure he develops a fine taste for consolations: and this is goingto be mine for turning Protestant and backing you in this business. "

"_You?_"

"Your accent is so little flattering, Warboise, that I hardly dare toadd the condition. Yet I will. If I stand in with you in resistingColt, you must release Bonaday here. Henceforth he's out of thequarrel. "

"But I do not understand. " Brother Warboise regarded Brother Copasfrom under his stiff grey eyebrows. "Why should Bonaday back out?"

"That is his affair, " answered Brother Copas smoothly, almost beforeBrother Bonaday was aware of being appealed to. 

"But--you don't mind my saying it--I've never considered you as aProtestant, quite; not, at least, as an earnest one. "

"That, " said Brother Copas, "I may be glad to remember, later on. But come; I offer you a bargain. Strike off Bonaday and enlist me. A volunteer is proverbially worth two pressed men; and as aProtestant I promise you to shine. If you must have my reason, orreasons, say that I am playing for safety. "

Here Brother Copas laid down his rod on the grassy bank and felt forhis snuff-box. As he helped himself to a pinch he slyly regarded thefaces of his companions; and his own, contracting its muscles to takethe dose, seemed to twist itself in a sardonic smile. 

"Unlike Colt, " he explained, "I read history sometimes, and observeits omens. You say that our clergy are active just now in buildingand restoring churches. Has it occurred to you that they were neverso phenomenally active in building and rebuilding as on the very eveof the Reformation crash? Ask and inquire, my friend, whatproportion of our English churches are Perpendicular; get from anyhandbook the date of that style of architecture; and apply the omenif you will. "

"That sounds reassuring, " said Brother Warboise. "And so you reallythink we Protestants are going to win?"

"God forbid! What I say is, that the High Anglicans will probablylose. "

"One never knows when you are joking or when serious. " BrotherWarboise, leaning on his staff, pondered Brother Copas's face. It was a fine face; it even resembled the conventional portrait ofDante, but--I am asking the reader to tax his imagination--withhumorous wrinkles set about the eyes, their high austerity cleantaken away and replaced by a look of very mundane shrewdness, andlastly a grosser chin and mouth with a touch of the laughing faun intheir folds and corners. "You are concealing your real reasons, "said Brother Warboise. 

"That, " answered Brother Copas, "has been defined for the truefunction of speech. . . . But I am quite serious this time, and I askyou again to let Brother Bonaday off and take me on. You will findit worth while. "

Brother Warboise could not see for the life of him why, at a timewhen it behoved all defenders of the reformed religion to standshoulder to shoulder, Brother Bonaday should want to be let off. 

"No?" said Brother Copas, picking up his rod again. "Well, those aremy terms . . . And, excuse me, but was not that a fish over yonder?They are beginning to rise. . . . "

Brother Warboise muttered that he would think it over, and resumedhis walk. 

"He'll agree, safe enough. And now, no more talking!"

But after a cast or two Brother Copas broke his own injunction. 

"A Protestant! . . . I'm doing a lot for you, friend. But you mustgo to the Master this very evening. No time to be lost, I tell you!Why, if he consent, there are a score of small things to be bought tomake the place fit for a small child. Get out pencil and paper andmake a list. . . . Well, where do we begin?"

"I--I'm sure I don't know, " confessed Brother Bonaday helplessly. "I never, so to speak, had a child before, you see. "

"Nor I . . . But damn it, man, let's do our best and take things inorder! When she arrives--let me see--the first thing is, she'll behungry. That necessitates a small knife and fork. Knife, fork andspoon; regular godfather's gift. You must let me stand godfather andsupply 'em. You don't happen to know if she's been christened, bythe way?"

"No--o. I suppose they look after these things in America?"

"Probably--after a fashion, " said Brother Copas with a fine smile. "Heavens! if as a Protestant I am to fight the first round overInfant Baptism--"

"There _is_ a font in the chapel. "

"Yes. I have often wondered why. "

Brother Copas appeared to meditate this as he slowly drew back hisrod and made a fresh cast. Again the fly dropped short of the alderstump by a few inches, and fell delicately on the dark water belowit. There was a splash--a soft gurgling sound dear to the angler'sheart. Brother Copas's rod bent and relaxed to the brisk whirr ofits reel as a trout took fly and hook and sucked them under. 

Then followed fifteen minutes of glorious life. Even BrotherBonaday's slow blood caught the pulse of it. He watched, not daringto utter a sound, his limbs twitching nervously. 

But when the fish--in weight well over a pound--had been landed andlay, twitching too, in the grasses by the Mere bank, Brother Copas, after eyeing it a moment with legitimate pride, slowly wound up hisreel. 

"And I am to be a Protestant! . . . Saint Peter--King Fisherman--forgive me!"

CHAPTER IV. 

CORONA COMES. 

When Nurse Branscome reached the docks and inquired at what hour the_Carnatic_ might be expected, the gatekeeper pointed across a maze ofdock-basins, wharves, tramway-lines, to a far quay where the greatsteamship lay already berthed. 

"She've broken her record by five hours and some minutes, " heexplained. "See that train just pulling out of the station?That carries her mails. "

Nurse Branscome--a practical little woman with shrewd grey eyes--neither fussed over the news nor showed any sign of that haste whichis ill speed. Scanning the distant vessel, she begged to be told theshortest way alongside, and noted the gatekeeper's instructions verydeliberately, nodding her head. They were intricate. At the closeshe thanked him and started, still without appearance of hurry, andreached the _Carnatic_ without a mistake. She arrived, too, apicture of coolness, though the docks lay shadeless to the afternoonsun, and the many tramway-lines radiated a heat almost insufferable. 

The same quiet air of composure carried her unchallenged up a gangwayand into the great ship. A gold-braided junior officer, on duty atthe gangway-head, asked politely if he could be of service to her. She answered that she had come to seek a steerage passenger--a littlegirl named Bonaday. 

"Ach!" said a voice close at her elbow, "that will be our liddleKorona!"

Nurse Branscome turned. The voice belonged to a blond, middle-agedGerman, whose gaze behind his immense spectacles was of thefriendliest. 

"Yes--Corona: that is her name. "

"So!" said the middle-aged German. "She is with my wive at thismoment. If I may ascort you? . . . We will not then drouble MisterSmid' who is so busy. "

He led the way forward. Once he turned, and in the faint lightbetween-decks his spectacles shone palely, like twin moons. 

"I am habby you are come, " he said. "My wive will be habby. . . . I told her a dozzen times it will be ol' right--the ship has arrivedbefore she is agspected. . . . But our liddle Korona is so agscited, so imbatient for her well-beloved England. "

He pronounced "England" as we write it. 

"So!" he proclaimed, halting before a door and throwing it open. 

Within, on a cheap wooden travelling-trunk, sat a stout woman and achild. The child wore black weeds, and had--as Nurse Branscome notedat first glance--remarkably beautiful eyes. Her right hand layimprisoned between the two palms of the stout woman, who, looking up, continued to pat the back of it softly. 

"A friendt--for our Mees Korona!"

"Whad did I not tell you?" said the stout woman to the child, cooingthe words exultantly, as she arose to meet the visitor. 

The two women looked in each other's eyes, and each divined that theother was good. 

"Good afternoon, " said Nurse Branscome. "I am sorry to be late. "

"But it is we who are early. . . . We tell the liddle one she musthave bribed the cabdain, she was so craved to arr-rive!"

"Are you related to her?"

"Ach, no, " chimed in husband and wife together as soon as theyunderstood. "But friendts--friendts, Korona--_hein?_"

The husband explained that they had made the child's acquaintance onthe first day out from New York, and had taken to her at once, seeingher so forlorn. He was a baker by trade, and by name Muller; and heand his wife, after doing pretty well in Philadelphia, were returninghome to Bremen, where his brother (also a baker) had opened aprosperous business and offered him a partnership. 

--"Which he can well afford, " commented Frau Muller. "For my husbandis beyond combetition as a master-baker; and at the end all will goto his brother's two sons. . . . We have not been gifen children ofour own. "

"Yet home is home, " added her husband, with an expansive smile, "though it be not the Vaterland, Mees Korona--_hein?_" He eyed thechild quizzically, and turned to Nurse Branscome. "She is badrioticso as you would nevar think--

 "'Brit-ons nevar, nevar, nev-ar-will be Slavs!'"

He intoned it ludicrously, casting out both hands and snapping hisfingers to the tune. 

The child Corona looked past him with a gaze that put aside thesefoolish antics, and fastened itself on Nurse Branscome. 

"I think I shall like you, " she said composedly and with the clearestEnglish accent. "But I do not quite know who you are. Are youfetching me to Daddy?"

"Yes, " said Nurse Branscome, and nodded. 

She seldom or never wasted words. Nods made up a good part of herconversation always. 

Corona stood up, by this action conveying to the grown-ups--for she, too, economised speech--that she was ready to go, and at once. Youth is selfish, even in the sweetest-born of natures. Baker Muller and his good wife looked at her wistfully. She had comeinto their childless life, and had taken unconscious hold on it, scarce six days ago--the inside of a week. They looked at herwistfully. Her eyes were on Nurse Branscome, who stood for thefuture. Yet she remembered that they had been kind. Herr Muller, kind to the last, ran off and routed up a seaman to carry her box tothe gangway. There, while bargaining with a porter, Nurse Branscomehad time to observe with what natural good manners the child sufferedherself to be folded in Frau Muller's ample embrace, and how prettilyshe shook hands with the good baker. She turned about, even once ortwice, to wave her farewells. 

"But she is naturally reserved, " Nurse Branscome decided. "Well, she'll be none the worse for that. "

She had hardly formed this judgment when Corona went a straight wayto upset it. A tuft of groundsel had rooted itself close beside thetraction rails a few paces from the waterside. With a little cry--almost a sob--the child swooped upon the weed, and plucking it, pressed it to her lips. 

"I promised to kiss the first living thing I met in England, " sheexplained. 

"Then you might have begun with me, " said Nurse Branscome, laughing. 

"Oh, that's good--I like you to laugh! This is real England, merryEngland, and I used to 'spect it was so good that folks went aboutlaughing all the time, just because they lived in it. "

"Look here, my dear, you mustn't build your expectations too high. If you do, we shall all disappoint you; which means that you willsuffer. "

"But that was a long time ago. I've grown since. . . . And I didn'tkiss you at first because it makes me feel uncomfortable kissingfolks out loud. But I'll kiss you in the cars when we get to them. "

But by and by, when they found themselves seated alone in athird-class compartment, she forgot her promise, being lost in wonderat this funny mode of travelling. She examined the parcels' rackoverhead. 

"'_For light articles only_, '" she read out. "But-but how do wemanage when it's bedtime?"

"Bless the child, we don't sleep in the train! Why, in little overan hour we shall be at Merchester, and that's home. "

"Home!" Corona caught at the word and repeated it with a shiver ofexcitement. "Home--in an hour?"

It was not that she distrusted; it was only that she could not focusher mind down to so small a distance. 

"And now, " said Nurse Branscome cheerfully, as they settledthemselves down, "are you going to tell me about your passage, or amI to tell you about your father and the sort of place St. Hospitalis? Or would you, " added this wise woman, "just like to sit stilland look out of window and take it all in for a while?"

"Thank you, " answered Corona, "that's what I want, ezactly. "

She nestled into her corner as the train drew forth beyond thepurlieus and dingy suburbs of the great seaport and out into thecountry--our south country, all green and glorious with summer. Can this world show the like of it, for comfort of eye and heart?

Her eyes drank, devoured it. --Cattle knee-deep in green pasture, belly-deep in green water-flags by standing pools; cattle restingtheir long flanks while they chewed the cud; cattle whisking theirtails amid the meadow-sweet, under hedges sprawled over with wildrose and honeysuckle. --White flocks in the lengthening shade of elms;wood and copse; silver river and canal glancing between alders, hawthorns, pollard willows; lichened bridges of flint and brick;ancient cottages, thatched or red-tiled, timber-fronted, bulging outin friendliest fashion on the high road; the high road looping itsway from village to village, still between hedges. Corona had neverbefore set eyes on a real hedge in the course of her young life; butall this country--right away to the rounded chalk hills over whichthe heat shimmered--was parcelled out by hedges--hedges by thehundred--and such hedges!

"It's--it's like a garden, " she stammered, turning around and meetinga question in Nurse Branscome's eyes. "It's all so lovely and tinyand bandboxy. However do they find the time for it?"

"Eh, it takes time, " said Nurse Branscome, amused. "You'll findthat's the main secret with us over here. But--disappointed, areyou?"

"Oh, no--no--no!" the child assured her. "It's ten times lovelierthan ever I 'spected--only, " she added, cuddling down for anotherlong gaze, "it's different--different in size. "

"England's a little place, " said Nurse Branscome. "In the colonies--I won't say anything about the States, for I've never seen them; butI've been to Australia in my time, and I expect with Canada it's muchthe same or more so--in the colonies everything's spread out; buthome here, I heard Brother Copas say, if you want to feel how greatanything is, you have to take it deep-ways, layer below layer. "

Corona knit her small brow. 

"But Windsor Castle is a mighty big place?" she said hopefully. 

"Oh, yes!"

"Well, I'm glad of that anyway. "

"But why, dear?"

"Because, " said Corona, "that is where the King lives. I used tocall him _my_ King over on the Other Side, because my name is Corona, and means I was born the year he was crowned. They make out theydon't hold much stock in kings, back there; but that sort of talkdidn't take me in, because when you _have_ a King of your own youknow what it feels like. And, anyway, they had to allow that KingEdward is a mighty big one, and that he is always making peace forall the world. . . . So now you know why I'm glad about WindsorCastle. "

"I'm afraid it is not quite clear to me yet, " said Nurse Branscome, leading her on. 

"I can't 'splain very well. "--The child could never quite compass thesound "ex" in words where a consonant followed. --"I'm no good at'splaining. But I guess if the job was up to you to make peace forall-over-the-world, you'd want to sit in a big place, sort of emptyan' quiet, an' feel like God. " Corona gazed out of window again. "You can tell he's been at it, too, hereabouts; but somehow I didn't'spect it to be all lying about in little bits. "

They alighted from the idling train at a small country stationembowered in roses, the next on this side of Merchester and but ashort three-quarters of a mile from St. Hospital, towards which theyset out on foot by a meadow-path and over sundry stiles, a porterfollowing (or rather making a _detour_ after them along the highroad) and wheeling Corona's effects on a barrow. From the firststile Nurse Branscome pointed out the grey Norman buildings, thechapel tower, the clustering trees; and supported Corona with a handunder her elbow as, perched on an upper bar with her knees againstthe top rail, she drank in her first view of home. 

Her first comment--it shaped itself into a question, or rather intotwo questions--gave Nurse Branscome a shock: it was so infantile incomparison with her talk in the train. 

"Does daddy live there? And is he so very old, then?"

Then Nurse Branscome bethought her that this mite had never yet seenher father, and that he was not only an aged man but a broken-downone, and in appearance (as they say) older than his years. A great pity seized her for Corona, and in the rush of pity all heroddities and grown-up tricks of speech (Americanisms apart) explainedthemselves. She was an old father's child. Nurse Branscome wasmidwife enough to know what freakishness and frailty belong tochildren begotten by old age. Yet Corona, albeit gaunt with growing, was lithe and well-formed, and of a healthy complexion and a clear, though it inclined to pallor. 

"Your father is not a young man, " she said gently. "You must beprepared for that, dear. . . . And of course his dress--the dress ofthe Beauchamp Brethren--makes him look even older than he is. "

"What is it?" asked Corona, turning about as well as she could on thestile and putting the direct question with direct eyes. 

"It's a long gown, a gown of reddish-purple, with a silver rose atthe breast. "

"Save us!" exclaimed this unaccountable child. "'Seems I'd betterstart right in by asking what news of the Crusades. "

In the spare room pertaining to Brother Bonaday he and Brother Copaswere (as the latter put it) making very bad weather with theirpreparations. They supposed themselves, however, to have plenty oftime, little guessing that the captain of the _Carnatic_ had beenbreaking records. In St. Hospital one soon learns to neglectmankind's infatuation for mere speed; and yet, strange to say, Brother Copas was discoursing on this very subject. 

He had produced certain purchases from his wallet, and disposed themon the chest of drawers which was to serve Corona for dressing-table. They included a cheap mirror, and here he felt himself on safeground; but certain others--such as a gaudily-dressed doll, priced at1s. 3d. , a packet of hairpins, a book of coloured photographs, entitled _Souvenir of Royal Merchester_--he eyed more dubiously. He had found it hard to bear in mind the child's exact age. "But she was born in Coronation Year. I have told you that over andover, " Brother Bonaday would protest. "My dear fellow, I know youhave; but the devil is, that means something different every time. "

--"The purpose of all right motion, " Brother Copas was saying, "is toget back to the point from which you started. Take the sun itself, or any created mass; take the smallest molecule in that mass; takethe world whichever way you will--"

 'Behold the world, how it is whirled round! And, for it so is whirl'd, is named so. '

"(There's pretty etymology for you!) All movement in a straight lineis eccentric, lawless, or would be were it possible, which I doubt. Why this haste, then, in passing given points? If man did it in anoble pride, as a _tour de force_, to prove himself so much thecleverer than the brute creation, I could understand it; but ifthat's his game, a speck of radium beats him in a common canter. I read in a scientific paper last week, in a signed article whichbore every impress of truth, that there's a high explosive that willrun a spark from here to Paris while you are pronouncing its name. Yet extend that run, and run it far and fast as you will, it can onlycome back to your hand. . . . Which, " continued Brother Copas, raising his voice, for Brother Bonaday had toddled into thesitting-room to see if the kettle boiled, "reminds me of a story Ipicked up in the Liberal Club the other day, the truth of itguaranteed. Ten or eleven years ago the Mayor of Merchester died onthe very eve of St. Giles's Fair. The Town Council met, and somewere for stopping the shows and steam roundabouts as a mark ofrespect, while others doubted that the masses (among whom the Mayorhad not been popular) would resent this curtailing of their fun. In the end a compromise was reached. The proprietor of theroundabouts was sent for, and the show-ground granted to him, oncondition that he made his steam-organ play hymn tunes. He accepted, and that week the merrymakers revolved to the strains of 'Nearer, myGod, to Thee. ' It sounds absurd; but when you come to reflect--"

Brother Copas broke off, hearing a slight commotion in the next room. Brother Bonaday, kneeling and puffing at the fire which refused toboil the water, had been startled by voices in the entry. Lookingup, flushed of face, he beheld a child on the threshold, with NurseBranscome standing behind her. 

"Daddy!"

Brother Copas from one doorway, Nurse Branscome from the other, sawBrother Bonaday's face twitch as with a pang of terror. He aroseslowly from his knees, and very slowly--as if his will struggledagainst some invisible, detaining force--held out both hands. Corona ran to them; but, grasped by them, drew back for a moment, scanning him before she suffered herself to be kissed. 

"My, what a dear old dress! . . . Daddy, you _are_ a dude!"

CHAPTER V. 

BROTHER COPAS ON RELIGIOUS DIFFERENCE. 

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Simeon!"

In the British Isles--search them all over--you will discover no moreagreeable institution of its kind than the Venables Free Library, Merchester; which, by the way, you are on no account to confuse withthe Free Public Library attached to the Shire Hall. In the latteryou may study the newspapers with all the latest financial, policeand betting news, or borrow all the newest novels--even this novelwhich I am writing, should the Library Sub-Committee of the TownCouncil (an austerely moral body) allow it to pass. In the VenablesLibrary the books are mostly mellowed by age, even when naughtiest(it contains a whole roomful of Restoration Plays, an unmatchedcollection), and no newspapers are admitted, unless you count themonthly and quarterly reviews, of which _The Hibbert Journal_ is thenewest-fangled. By consequence the Venables Library, though open toall men without payment, has few frequenters; "which, " says BrotherCopas, "is just as it should be. "

But not even public neglect will account for the peculiar charm ofthe Venables Library. That comes of the building it inhabits:anciently a town house of the Marquesses of Merchester, abandonedat the close of the great Civil War, and by them never againinhabited, but maintained with all its old furniture, and from timeto time patched up against age and weather--happily not restored. When, early in the last century, the seventh Marquess of Merchestervery handsomely made it over to a body of trustees, to house acollection of books bequeathed to the public by old Dean Venables, Merchester's most scholarly historian, it was with a stipulation thatthe amenities of the house should be as little as possible disturbed. The beds, to be sure, were removed from the upper rooms, and the oldcarpets from the staircase; and the walls, upstairs and down, linedwith bookcases. But a great deal of the old furniture remains; and, wandering at will from one room to another, you look forth throughlatticed panes upon a garth fenced off from the street with railingsof twisted iron-work and overspread by a gigantic mulberry-tree, theboughs of which in summer, if you are wise enough to choose awindow-seat, will filter the sunlight upon your open book, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. 

Lastly, in certain of the rooms smoking is permitted; some bygonetrustee--may earth lie lightly on him!--having discovered and taughtthat of all things a book is about the most difficult to burn. You may smoke in 'Paradise, ' for instance. By this name, for whatreason I cannot tell, is known the room containing the Greek andLatin classics. 

Brother Copas, entering Paradise with a volume under his arm, foundMr. Simeon seated there alone with a manuscript and a Greek lexiconbefore him, and gave him good evening. 

"Good evening, Brother Copas! . . . You have been a stranger to usfor some weeks, unless I mistake?"

"You are right. These have been stirring times in politics, and forthe last five or six weeks I have been helping to save my country, atthe Liberal Club. "

Mr. Simeon--a devoted Conservative--came as near to frowning as hisgentle nature would permit. 

"You disapprove, of course, " continued Brother Copas easily. "Well, so--in a sense--do I. We beat you at the polls; not inMerchester--we shall never carry Merchester--though even inMerchester we put up fight enough to rattle you into a blue funk. But God help the pair of us, Mr. Simeon, if our principles are to bejudged by the uses other men make of 'em! I have had enough of myfellow-Liberals to last me for some time. . . . Why are you studyingLiddell and Scott, by the way?"

"To tell the truth, " Mr. Simeon confessed, "this is my fair copy ofthe Master's Gaudy Sermon. I am running it through and correctingthe Greek accents. I am always shaky at accents. "

"Why not let me help you?" Brother Copas suggested. "Upon my word, you may trust me. I am, as nearly as possible, impeccable with Greekaccents, and may surely say so without vanity, since the gift is asuseless as any other of mine. "

Mr. Simeon, as we know, was well aware of this. 

"I should be most grateful, " he confessed, in some compunction. "But I am not sure that the Master--if you will excuse me--would careto have his sermon overlooked. Strictly speaking, indeed, I oughtnot to have brought it from home: but with six children in a verysmall house--and on a warm evening like this, you understand--"

"I once kept a private school, " said Brother Copas. 

"They are high-spirited children, I thank God. " Mr. Simeon sighed. "Moreover, as it happened, they wanted my Liddell and Scott to playat forts with. "

"Trust me, my dear sir. I will confine myself to the Master'smarginalia without spying upon the text. "

Brother Copas, as Mr. Simeon yielded to his gentle insistence, laidhis own book on the table, and seated himself before the manuscript, which he ran through at great speed. 

"H'm--h'm . . . Psyche here is _oxyton_--here and always . . . Andanoetos proparoxyton: you have left it unaccented. "

"I was waiting to look it up, having some idea that it held acontraction. "

Brother Copas dipped pen and inserted the accent without comment. 

"I see nothing else amiss, " he said, rising. 

"It is exceedingly kind of you. "

"Well, as a matter of fact it is; for I came here expressly tocultivate a bad temper, and you have helped to confirm me in a goodone. . . . Oh, I know what you would say if your politeness allowed:'Why, if bad temper's my object, did I leave the Liberal Club andcome here?' Because, my dear sir, at the Club--though there'splenty--it's of the wrong sort. I wanted a _religiously_ bad temper, and an intelligent one to boot. "

"I don't see what religion and bad temper have to do with oneanother, " confessed Mr. Simeon. 

"That is because you are a good man, and therefore your religiondoesn't matter to you. "

"But really, " Mr. Simeon protested, flushing; "though one doesn'twillingly talk of these inmost things, you must allow me to say thatmy religion is everything to me. "

"You say that, and believe it. Religion, you believe, coloursall your life, suffuses it with goodness as with a radiance. But actually, my friend, it is your own good heart that colours andthrows its radiance into your religion. "

 'O lady, we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does Nature live'--

"--Or religion either. . . . Pardon me, but a thoroughly virtuous or athoroughly amiable man is not worth twopence as a touchstone for acreed; he would convert even Mormonism to a thing of beauty. . . . Whereas the real test of any religion is--as I saw it excellentlywell put the other day--'not what form it takes in a virtuous mind, but what effects it produces on those of another sort. ' Well, I havebeen studying those effects pretty well all my life, and they may besummed up, roughly but with fair accuracy, as Bad Temper. "

"Good men or bad, " persisted Mr. Simeon, "what _can_ the Christianreligion do but make them both better?"

"_Which_ Christian religion? Catholic or Protestant? Anglican orNonconformist? . . . I won't ask you to give away your own side. So we'll take the Protestant Nonconformists. There are a good manydown at the Club: you heard some of the things they said and printedduring the Election; and while your charity won't deny that they arereligious--some of 'em passionately religious--you will make haste toconcede that their religion and their bad temper were pretty wellinseparable. They would say pretty much the same of youAnglo-Catholics. "

"You will not pretend that we show bad temper in anything like thesame degree. "

"Why should you? . . . I don't know that, as a fact, there is much tochoose between you; but at any rate the worse temper belongs veryproperly to the under dog. Your Protestant is the under dog inEngland to-day; socially, if not politically. . . . Yes, andpolitically, too; for he may send what majority he will to the Houseof Commons pledged to amend the Education Act of 1902: he does it invain. The House of Lords--which is really not a political but asocial body, the citadel of a class--will confound his politics, frustrate his knavish tricks. Can you wonder that he loses histemper, sometimes inelegantly? And when the rich Nonconformist tiresof striving against all the odds--when he sets up his carriage andhis wife and daughters find that it won't carry them where they hadhoped--when he surrenders to their persuasions and goes over to theenemy--why, then, can you wonder that his betrayed coreligionistsroar all like bears or foam like dogs and run about the city? . . . I tell you, my dear Mr. Simeon, this England of ours stands in realperil to-day of merging its class warfare in religious differences. "

"You mean it, of course, the other way about--of merging our religionin class warfare. "

"I mean it as I said it. Class warfare is among Englishmen a quitenormal, healthy function of the body politic: it keeps the bloodcirculating. It is when you start infecting it with religion thetrouble begins. . . . We are a sane people, however, on the whole;and every sane person is better than his religion. "

"How can you say such a thing?"

"How can you gainsay it--nay, or begin to doubt it--if only you willbe honest with yourself? Consider how many abominable thingsreligion has taught, and man, by the natural goodness of his heart, has outgrown. Do you believe, for example, that an unchristenedinfant goes wailing forth from the threshold of life into an eternityof punishment? Look me in the face, you father of six! No, ofcourse you don't believe it. Nobody does. And the difference is notthat religion has ceased to teach it--for it hasn't--but that menhave grown decent and put it, with like doctrines, silently aside indisgust. So it has happened to Satan and his fork: they have become'old hat. ' So it will happen to all the old machinery of hell: theoperating decency of human nature will grow ashamed of it--that isall . . . Why, if you look into men's ordinary daily conduct--whichis the only true test--they _never_ believed in such things. Do yousuppose that the most frantic Scotch Calvinist, when he was his doucedaily self and not temporarily intoxicated by his creed, ever treatedhis neighbours in practice as men predestined to damnation?Of course he didn't!"

"But religion, " objected Mr. Simeon, "lifts a man out of himself--hisdaily self, as you call it. "

"It does that, by Jove!" Brother Copas felt for his snuff-box. "Why, what else was I arguing?"

"And, " pursued Mr. Simeon, his voice gaining assurance as it happenedon a form of words he had learnt from somebody else, "the efficacy ofreligion is surely just here, that it lifts the individual man out ofhis personality and wings him towards Abba, the all-fatherly--as Iheard it said the other day, " he added lamely. 

"Good Lord!"--Brother Copas eyed him over a pinch. "You musthave been keeping pretty bad company, lately. Who is it? . . . That sounds a trifle too florid even for Colt--the sort of thing Coltwould achieve if he could . . . Upon my word, I believe you must havebeen sitting under Tarbolt!"

Mr. Simeon blushed guiltily to the eyes. But it was ever themischief with Brother Copas's worldly scent that he overran it on thestronger scent of an argument. 

"But it's precisely a working daily religion, a religion thatbelongs to a man when he _is_ himself, that I'm after, " he ran on. "You fellows hold that a sound religious life will ensure you aneternity of bliss at the end. Very well. You fellows know that theyears of a man's life are, roughly, threescore and ten. (Actually itworks out far below that figure, but I make you a present of thedifference. ) Very well again. I take any average Christian agedforty-five, and what sort of premium do I observe him paying--I won'tsay on a policy of Eternal Bliss--but on any policy a business-likeInsurance Company would grant for three hundred pounds? There _is_the difference too, " added Brother Copas, "that _he_ gets the eternalbliss, while the three hundred pounds goes to his widow. "

Brother Copas took a second pinch, his eyes on Mr. Simeon's face. He could not guess the secret of the pang that passed over it--thatin naming three hundred pounds he had happened on the precise sum inwhich Mr. Simeon was insured, and that trouble enough the poor manhad to find the yearly premium, due now in a fortnight's time. But he saw that somehow he had given pain, and dexterously slid offthe subject, yet without appearing to change it. 

"For my part, " he went on, "I know a method by which, if madeArchbishop of Canterbury and allowed a strong hand, I would undertaketo bring, within ten years, every Dissenter in England within theChurch's fold. "

"What would you do?"

"I would lay, in one pastoral of a dozen sentences, the strictestorders on my clergy to desist from all politics, all fighting; todisdain any cry, any struggle; to accept from Dissent any rebuff, persecution, spoliation--while steadily ignoring it. In every parishmy Church's attitude should be this: 'You may deny me, hate me, persecute me, strip me: but you are a Christian of this parish andtherefore my parishioner; and therefore I absolutely defy you toescape my forgiveness or my love. Though you flee to the uttermostparts of the earth, you shall not escape these: by these, as surelyas I am the Church, you shall be mine in the end. ' . . . And do youthink, Mr. Simeon, any man in England could for ever resist thatappeal? A few of us agnostics, perhaps. But we are human souls, after all; and no one is an agnostic for the fun of it. We should betempted--sorely tempted--I don't say rightly. "

Mr. Simeon's eyes shone. The picture touched him. 

"But it would mean that the Church must compromise, " he murmured. 

"That is precisely what it would not mean. It would mean that allher adversaries must compromise; and with love there is only onecompromise, which is surrender. . . . But, " continued Brother Copas, resuming his lighter tone, "this presupposes not only a sensibleArchbishop but a Church not given up to anarchy as the Church ofEngland is. Let us therefore leave speculating and follow our noses;which with me, Mr. Simeon--and confound you for a pleasantcompanion!--means an instant necessity to cultivate bad temper. "

He picked up his volume from the table and walked off with it to thewindow-seat. 

"You are learning bad temper from a book?" asked Mr. Simeon, takingoff his spectacles and following Brother Copas with mild eyes ofwonder. 

"Certainly. . . . If ever fortune, my good sir, should bring you(which God forbid!) to end your days in our College of Noble Poverty, you will understand the counsel given by the pilot to Pantagruel andhis fellow-voyagers--that considering the gentleness of the breezeand the calm of the current, as also that they stood neither in hopeof much good nor in fear of much harm, he advised them to let theship drive, nor busy themselves with anything but making good cheer. I have done with all worldly fear and ambition; and therefore inworking up a hearty Protestant rage (to which a hasty promise commitsme), I can only tackle my passion on the intellectual side. Those fellows down at the Club are no help to me at all. . . . Mybook? It is the last volume of Mr. Froude's famous _History ofEngland_. Here's a passage now--

 "'The method of Episcopal appointments, instituted by Henry VIII, as a temporary expedient, and abolished under Edward as an unreality, was re-established by Elizabeth, not certainly because she believed that the invocation of the Holy Ghost was required for the completeness of an election which her own choice had already determined, not because the bishops obtained any gifts or graces in their consecration which she herself respected, but because the shadowy form of an election, with a religious ceremony following it, gave them the semblance of spiritual independence, the semblance without the substance, which qualified them to be the instruments of the system which she desired to enforce. They were tempted to presume on their phantom dignity, till a sword of a second Cromwell taught them the true value of their Apostolic descent. . . . 

"That's pretty well calculated to annoy, eh? Also, by the way, inits careless rapture it twice misrelates the relative pronoun; andFroude was a master of style. Or what do you say to this?--

 "'But neither Elizabeth nor later politicians of Elizabeth's temperament desired the Church of England to become too genuine. It has been more convenient to leave an element of unsoundness at the heart of an institution which, if sincere, might be dangerously powerful. The wisest and best of its bishops have found their influence impaired, their position made equivocal, by the element of unreality which adheres to them. A feeling approaching to contempt has blended with the reverence attaching to their position, and has prevented them from carrying the weight in the councils of the nation which has been commanded by men of no greater intrinsic eminence in other professions. '

"Yet another faulty relative!

 "'Pretensions which many of them would have gladly abandoned have connected their office with a smile. The nature of it has for the most part filled the Sees with men of second-rate abilities. The latest and most singular theory about them is that of the modern English Neo-Catholic, who disregards his bishop's advice, and despises his censures; but looks on him nevertheless as some high-bred, worn-out animal, useless in himself, but infinitely valuable for some mysterious purpose of spiritual propagation. '"

Brother Copas laid the open volume face-downward on his knee--atrivial action in itself; but he had a conscience about books, andwould never have done this to a book he respected. 

"Has it struck you, Mr. Simeon, " he asked, "that Froude is sodiabolically effective just because in every fibre of him he is atone with the thing he attacks?"

"He had been a convert of the Tractarians in his young days, I haveheard, " said Mr. Simeon. 

"Yes, it accounts for much in him. Yet I was not thinking of that--which was an experience only, though significant. The man's wholecast of mind is priestly despite himself. He has all thepriesthood's alleged tricks: you can never be sure that he is notfaking evidence or garbling a quotation. . . . My dear Mr. Simeon, truly it behoves us to love our enemies, since in this world they areoften the nearest we have to us. "

CHAPTER VI. 

GAUDY DAY. 

In the sunshine, on a lower step of the stone stairway that leads upand through the shadow of a vaulted porch to the Hundred Men's Hall, or refectory, Brother Biscoe stood with a hand-bell and rang todinner. Brother Biscoe was a charming old man to look upon; veryfrail and venerable, with a somewhat weak face; and as seniorpensioner of the hospital he enjoyed the privilege of ringing todinner on Gaudy Days--twenty-seven strokes, distinct and separatelycounted--one for each brother on the two foundations. 

The Brethren, however, loitered in groups before their doorways, along the west side of the quadrangle, awaiting a signal from theporter's lodge. Brother Manby, there, had promised to warn them assoon as the Master emerged from his lodging with the other Trusteesand a few distinguished guests--including the Bishop of Merchester, Visitor of St. Hospital--on their way to dine. The procession wouldtake at least three minutes coming through the outer court--ampletime for the Brethren to scramble up the stairway, take their places, and assume the right air of reverent expectancy. 

As a rule--Brother Copas, standing on the gravel below Brother Biscoeand counting the strokes for him, begged him to note it--they werenone so dilatory. But gossip held them. His shrewd glance travelledfrom group to group, and between the strokes of the bell he countedthe women-folk. 

"They are all at their doors, " he murmured. "For a look at the dearBishop, think you?"

"They are watching to see what Warboise will do, " quavered BrotherBiscoe. "Oh, I know!"

"The women don't seem to be taking much truck with Warboise or hisPetition. See him over there, with Plant and Ibbetson only. . . . And Ibbetson's only there because his wife has more appetising fishto fry. But she's keeping an eye on him--watch her! Poor woman, foronce she's discovering Rumour to be almost too full of tongues. "

"I wonder you're not over there too, lending Warboise support, "suggested Brother Biscoe. "Royle told me last night that you hadjoined the Protestant swim. "

"But I am here, you see, " Brother Copas answered sweetly; "and justfor the pleasure of doing you a small service. "

Even this did not disarm the old man, whose temper was malignant. 

"Well, I wish you joy of your crew. A secret drinker like Plant, forinstance! And your friend Bonaday, in his second childhood--"

"Bonaday will have nothing to do with us. "

"Ah?" Brother Biscoe shot him a sidelong glance. "He's morepleasantly occupied, perhaps?--if it's true what they tell me. "

"It never is, " said Brother Copas imperturbably; "though I haven't anotion to what you refer. "

"But surely you've heard?"

"Nothing: and if it concerns Bonaday, you'd best hold your tonguejust now; for here he is. "

Brother Bonaday in fact, with Nurse Branscome and Corona, at thatmoment emerged from the doorway of his lodgings, not ten pacesdistant from the steps of the Hundred Men's Hall. The three paused, just outside--the Nurse and Corona to await the procession ofVisitors, due now at any moment. Brother Bonaday stood and blinkedin the strong sunlight: but the child, catching sight of BrotherCopas as he left Brother Biscoe and hurried towards her, ran to meethim with a friendly nod. 

"I've come out to watch the procession, " she announced. "That's allwe women are allowed; while you--Branny says there's to be ducks andgreen peas! Did you know that?"

"Surely you must have observed my elation?"

Brother Copas stood and smiled at her, leaning on his staff. 

"The Bishop wears gaiters they tell me; and the Master too. I sawthem coming out of Chapel in their surplices, and the Chaplain withthe Bishop's staff: but Branny wouldn't let me go to the service. She said I must be tired after my journey. So I went to the lodgeinstead and made friends with Brother Manby. I didn't, " said Coronacandidly, "make very good weather with Brother Manby, just at first. He began by asking 'Well, and oo's child might _you_ be?'--and whenI told him, he said, 'Ow's anyone to know _that_?' That amused me, of course. "

"Did it?" asked Brother Copas in slight astonishment. 

"Because, " the child explained, "I'd been told that English peopledropped their h's; but Brother Manby was the first I'd heard doingit, and it seemed too good to be true. _You_ don't drop your h's;and nor does Daddy, nor Branny. "

Brother Copas chuckled. 

"Don't reproach us, " he pleaded. "You see, you've taken us atunawares more or less. But if it really please you--"

"You are very kind, " Corona put in; "but I guess that sort of thingmust come naturally, to be any good. You can't think how naturallyBrother Manby went on dropping them; till by and by he told me what amort of Americans came here to have a look around. Then, of course, I saw how he must strike them as the real thing. "

Brother Copas under lowered eyebrows regarded the young face. It wasinnocent and entirely serious. 

"So I said, " she went on, "that I came from America too, and it was along way, and please would he hurry up with the bread and beer?After that we made friends, and I had a good time. "

"Are you telling me that you spent the forenoon drinking beer in theporter's lodge?"

Corona's laugh was like the bubbling of water in a hidden well. 

"It wasn't what you might call a cocktail, " she confided. "Thetiredest traveller wouldn't ask for crushed ice to it, not with asolid William-the-Conqueror wall to lean against. "

Brother Copas admitted that the tenuity of the Wayfarer's Ale had notalways escaped the Wayfarer's criticism. He was about to explainthat, in a country of vested interests, publicans and teetotallersagreed to require that beer supplied _gratis_ in the name of charitymust be innocuous and unenticing. But at this moment Brother Manbysignalled from his lodge that the procession was approaching acrossthe outer court, and he hurried away to join the crowd of Brethren intheir scramble upstairs to the Hundred Men's Hall. 

The procession hove in sight; in number about a dozen, walkingtwo-and-two, headed by Master Blanchminster and the Bishop. Nurse Branscome stepped across to the child and stood by her, whispering the names of the dignitaries as they drew near. The dear little gaitered white-headed clergyman--the one in thecollege cap--was the Master; the tall one, likewise in gaiters, theBishop. 

"--and the gentleman behind him is Mr. Yeo, the Mayor of Merchester. That's the meaning of his chain, you know. "

"Why, is he dangerous?" asked Corona. 

"His chain of office, dear. It's the rule in England. "

"You don't say! . . . Over in America we've never thought of that: welet our grafters run loose. But who's the tall one next to him?My! but can't you see him, Branny, with his long legs crossed?"

Branny was puzzled. 

"--on a tomb, in chain armour, with his hands _so_. " Corona put hertwo palms together, as in the act of prayer. 

"Oh, I see! Well, as it happens, his house has a private chapel withfive or six of just those tombs--all of his ancestors. He's Sir JohnShaftesbury, and he's pricked for High Sheriff next year. One of theoldest families in the county; in all England, indeed. Everyoneloves and respects Sir John. "

"Didn't I say so!" The small palms were pressed togetherecstatically. "And does he keep a dwarf, same as they used to?"

"Eh? . . . If you mean the little man beside him, with thestraw-coloured gloves, that's Mr. Bamberger; Mr. Julius Bamberger, our Member of Parliament. "

"Say that again, please. "

The child looked up, wide-eyed. 

"He's our Member of Parliament for Merchester; immensely rich, theysay. "

"Well, " decided Corona after a moment's thought, "I'm going topretend he isn't, anyway. I'm going to pretend Sir John found himand brought him home from Palestine. "

Branny named, one by one, the rest of the Trustees, all persons ofimportance. 

Mr. Colt and the Bishop's chaplain brought up the rear. 

The procession came to a halt. Old Warboise had not followed in thewake of the Brethren, but stood at the foot of the stairway, andleaned there on his staff. His face was pale, his jaw set square toperform his duty. His hand trembled, though, as he held out a paper, accosting the Bishop. 

"My lord, " he said, "some of the Brethren desire you as Visitor toread this Petition. "

"Hey?" interrupted the Master, taken by surprise. "Tut--tut--my goodWarboise, what's the meaning of this?"

"Very sorry, Master, " Brother Warboise mumbled: "and meaning nodisrespect to you, that have always ruled St. Hospital like agentleman. But a party must reckon with his conscience. "

The Bishop eyed the document dubiously, holding it between finger andthumb. 

"Some affair of discipline?" he asked, turning to the Master. 

"Romanisers, my lord--Romanisers: that's what's the matter!" answeredBrother Warboise, lifting his voice and rapping the point of hisstaff on the gravel. 

Good Master Blanchminster, shocked by this address, lifted his eyesbeyond Warboise and perceived the womenkind gathered around theirdoorways, listening. Nothing of the sort had happened in all hislong and beneficent rule. He was scandalised. He lost his temper. 

"Brother Warboise, " he said severely, "whatever your grievances--andI will inquire into it later--you have chosen a highly indecorousand, er, offensive way of obtruding it. At this moment, sir, we aregoing together to dine and to thank God for many mercies vouchsafedto us. If you have any sense of these you will stand aside now andfollow us when we have passed. His lordship will read your petitionat a more convenient opportunity. "

"Quite so, my good man. " The Bishop took his cue and pocketed thepaper, nodding shortly. The procession moved forward and mounted thestaircase, Brother Warboise stumping after it at a little distance, scowling as he climbed, scowling after the long back and wideshoulders of Mr. Colt as they climbed directly ahead of him. 

Around their tables in the Hundred Men's Hall the Brethren weregathered expectant. 

"Buzz for the Bishop--here he comes!" quoted Brother Copas, and stoodforth ready to deliver the Latin grace as the visitors found theirplaces at the high table. 

St. Hospital used a long Latin grace on holy-days; "and, " BrotherCopas had once observed, "the market-price of Latinity in Englandwill ensure that we always have at least one Brother capable ofrepeating it. "

" . . . _Gratias agimus pro Alberico de Albo Monasterio, in fidedefuncto_--"

Here Brother Copas paused, and the Brethren responded "_Amen!_"

"_Ac pro Henrico de Bello Campo, Cardinali_. "

As the grace proceeded Brother Copas dwelt on the broad vowels withgusto. 

". .. _Itaque precamur; Miserere nostri, te quaesumus Domine, tuisquedonis, quae de tua benignitate percepturi sumus, benedicito. Per Jesum Christum, Dominum nostrum. Amen_. "

His eyes wandered down to the carving-table, where Brother Biscoestood ready, as his turn was, to direct and apportion the helpings. He bowed to the dignitaries on the dais, and walked to his place atthe board next to Brother Warboise. 

"Old Biscoe's carving, " he announced as he took his seat. "You and Iwill have to take a slice of _odium theologicum_ together, for auldlang syne. "

Sure enough, when his helping of duck came to him, it was the back. Brother Warboise received another back for his portion. 

"Courage, Brother Ridley!" murmured Copas, "you and I this day haveraised a couple of backs that will not readily be put down. "

Nurse Branscome had been surprised when Brother Warboise accosted theBishop. She could not hear what he said, but guessed that somethingunusual was happening. A glance at the two or three groups of womenconfirmed this, and when the procession moved on, she walked acrossto the nearest, taking Corona by the hand. 

The first she addressed happened to be Mrs. Royle. 

"Whatever was Brother Warboise doing just now?" she asked. 

Mrs. Royle hunched her shoulders, and turned to Mrs. Ibbetson. 

"There's worse scandals in St. Hospital, " said she with a sniff, "than ever old Warboise has nosed. Eh, ma'am?"

"One can well believe that, Mrs. Royle, " agreed Mrs. Ibbetson, fixingan eye of disapproval on the child. 

"And I am quite sure of it, " agreed Nurse Branscome candidly; "thoughwhat you mean is a mystery to me. "

CHAPTER VII. 

LOW AND HIGH TABLES. 

"This, " said Brother Copas sweetly, turning over his portion of roastduck and searching for some flesh on it, "is not a duck at all, but apelican, bird of wrath. See, it has devoured its own breast. "

Beside the dais, at the eastern end of the Hundred Men's Hall, anancient staircase leads to an upper chamber of which we shallpresently speak; and on the newel-post of this staircase stands oneof the curiosities of St. Hospital--a pelican carved in oak, vulningits breast to feed its young. Brother Copas, lifting a pensive eyefrom his plate, rested it on this bird, as though comparing notes. 

"The plague take your double meanings!" answered Brother Warboisegruffly. "Not that I understand 'em, or want to. 'Tis enough, Isuppose, that the Master preached about it this morning, and calledit the bird of love, to set you miscalling it. "

"Not a bit, " Brother Copas replied. "As for the parable of thePelican, the Master has used it in half a dozen sermons; and you hadit by heart at least as long ago as the day before yesterday, when Ihappened to overhear you pitching it to a convoy of visitors as youshowed them the staircase. I hope they rewarded you for thesentiment of it. "

"Look here, " fired up Brother Warboise, turning over _his_ portion ofduck, "if it's poor I am, it don't become you to mock me. And if Ihaven't your damned book-learning, nor half your damned cleverness, maybe you've not turned either to such account in life as to make aboast of it. And if you left me just now to stand up alone to theMaster, it don't follow I take pleasure in your sneering at him. "

"You are right, my dear fellow, " said Brother Copas; "and also youare proving in two or three different ways that I was right just now. Bird of love--bird of wrath--they are both the same thing. But, withall submission, neither you nor the Master have the true parable, which I found by chance the other day in an old book called the_Ancren Riwle. Ancren_, brother, means 'anchoresses, ' recluses, women separated, and living apart from the world pretty much as byrights we men should be living in St. Hospital; and _riwle_ is'rule, ' or an instruction of daily conduct. It is a sound old book, written in the thirteenth century by a certain good Bishop Poore(excellent name!) for a household of such good women at Tarrent, onthe River Stour; and it contains a peck of counsel which might bepreached not only upon the scandal-mongering women who are the curseof this place--yes, and applied; for it recommends here and there, awhipping as salutary--but even, _mutatis mutandis_, upon usBrethren--"

"We've had one sermon, to-day, " growled Brother Warboise. 

"I am correcting it. This book tells of the Pelican that she is apeevish bird and so hasty of temper that, when her young ones molesther, she kills them with her beak; and soon after, being sorry, shemoans, smites her own breast with the same murderous beak, and sodraws blood, with which (says the Bishop) 'she then quickeneth herslain birds. ' But I, being no believer in miracles, think he isright as to the repentance but errs about the bringing back to life. In this world, Brother, that doesn't happen; and we poor angry devilsare left wishing that it could. "

Brother Warboise, playing with knife and fork, looked up sharply fromunder fierce eyebrows. 

"The moral?" pursued Brother Copas. "There are two at least: thefirst, that here we are, two jolly Protestants, who might be ascomfortable as rats in a cheese--you conscious of a duty performed, and I filled with admiration of your pluck--and lo! when old Biscoeannoys us by an act of petty spite, we turn, not on him, but on oneanother. You, already more angry with yourself than with Biscoe, suddenly take offence with me because I didn't join you in standingbetween a good man and his dinner; while I, with a spoilt meal of myown for a grievance, choose to feel an irrational concern for theMaster's, turn round on my comrade who has spoilt _that_, and ask, What the devil is wrong with Protestantism, that it has never anounce of tact? Or why, if it aims to be unworldly, must it alwaysovershoot its mark and be merely inhuman?"

Brother Warboise put nine-tenths of this discourse aside. 

"You think it has spoilt the Master's dinner?" he asked anxiously, with a glance towards the high table. 

"Not a doubt of it, " Brother Copas assured him. "Look at the oldboy, how nervously he's playing with his bread. "

"I never meant, you know--"

"No, of course you didn't; and there's my second moral of thePelican. She digs a bill into her dearest, and then she's sorry. At the best of her argument she's always owing her opponentan apology for some offence against manners. She has no_savoir-faire_. " Here Brother Copas, relapsing, let the cloud ofspeculation drift between him and Brother Warboise's remorse. "_Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus_--I reverence the pluckof a man who can cut himself loose from all that; for the worst losshe has to face (if he only knew it) is the inevitable loss ofbreeding. For the ordinary gentleman in this world there's eitherCatholicism or sound Paganism; no third choice. "

In truth Master Blanchminster's dinner was spoilt for him. He sat distraught, fingering his bread between the courses whichhe scarcely tasted, and giving answers at random, after pauses, tothe Bishop's small-talk. He was wounded. He had lived for years alife as happy as any that can fall to the lot of an indolent, unambitious man, who loves his fellows and takes a delight in theirgratitude. St. Hospital exactly suited him. He knew its history. His affection, like an ivy, clung about its old walls andincorporated itself in the very mortar that bound them. He loved tospy one of its Brethren approaching in the street; to anticipate andacknowledge the deferential salute; to see himself as father of ahappy family, easily controlling it by good will, in the right ofgood birth. 

He had been a reformer, too. The staircase beside the dais led to anupper chamber whence, through a small window pierced in the wall, former Masters had conceived it their duty to observe the behaviourof the Brethren at meals. In his sixth year of office MasterBlanchminster had sent for masons to block this window up. The act of espial had always been hateful to him: he preferred totrust his brethren, and it cost far less trouble. For close uponthirty years he had avoided their dinner-hour on all but Gaudy Days. 

He had been warming a serpent, and it had bitten him. The woundstung, too. Angry he was at Warboise's disloyalty; angrier at themanner of it. If these old men had a grievance, or believed theyhad, at least they might have trusted him first with it. Had he everbeen tyrannical, harsh, unsympathetic even, that instead of coming tohim as to their father and Master they should have put this publicaffront on him and appealed straight away to the Bishop? To be sure, the Statutes provided that the Bishop of Merchester, as Visitor, hadpower to inquire into the administration of St. Hospital and toremedy abuses. But everyone knew that within living memory, and fora hundred years before, this power had never been invoked. Doubtlessthese malcontents, whoever they might be--and it disquieted MasterBlanchminster yet further that he could not guess as yet who theywere or how many--had kept to the letter of their rights. But goodHeaven! had _he_ in all these years interpreted his rule by theletter, and not rather and constantly by the spirit?

Brother Copas was right. Warboise's action had been inopportune, offensive, needlessly hurting a kindly heart. But the Master, whileindignant with Warboise, could not help feeling just a reflex touchof vexation with Mr. Colt. The Chaplain no doubt was a stalwartsoldier, fighting the Church's battle; but her battle was not to bewon, her rolling tide of conquest not to be set going, in such abackwater as St. Hospital. Confound the fellow! Why could not theseyoung men leave old men alone?

Thus it happened that the Master, immersed in painful thoughts, missed the launching of the Great Idea, which was to trouble him andindeed all Merchester until Merchester had done with it. 

The idea was Mr. Bamberger's. 

("Why, of course it was, " said Brother Copas later; "ideas, good andbad, are the mission of his race among the Gentiles. ")

Mr. Bamberger, having taken his seat, tucked a corner of hisdinner-napkin between his collar and the front of his hairy throat. Adaptable in most things, in feeding and in the conduct of a napkinhe could never subdue old habit to our English custom, and to-day, moreover, he wore a large white waistcoat, which needed protection. This seen to, he gazed around expansively. 

"A picture, by George!"--Mr. Bamberger ever swore by our Englishpatron saint. "Slap out of the Middle Ages, and priceless. "

(He actually said "thlap" and "pritheless, " but I resign at theoutset any attempt to spell as Mr. Bamberger pronounced. )

"--Authentic, too! To think of this sort of thing taking placeto-day in Merchester, England's ancient capital. Eh, Master?Eh, Mr. Mayor?"

Master Blanchminster awoke so far out of his thoughts as to correctthe idiom. 

"Undoubtedly Merchester was the capital of England before Londoncould claim that honour. "

"Aye, " agreed his Worship, "there's no end of antikities inMerchester, for them as takes an interest in such. Dead-and-aliveyou may call us; but, as I've told the Council more than once, they're links with the past in a manner of speaking. "

"But these antiquities attract visitors, or ought to. "

"They do: a goodish number, as I've told the Council more than once. "

"Why shouldn't they attract more?"

"I suppose they would, if we had more of 'em, " answered his Worshipthoughtfully. "When I said just now that we had no end ofantikities, it was in a manner of speaking. There's the Cathedral, of course, and the old Palace--or what's left of it, and St. Hospitalhere. But there's a deal been swept away within my recollection. We must move with the times. "

At this point the inspiration came upon Mr. Bamberger. He laid downthe spoon in his soup and hurriedly caught at the rim of his plate asa vigilant waiter swept a hand to remove it. 

"Hold hard, young man!" said Mr. Bamberger, snatching at his spoonand again fixing his eye on the Mayor. "You ought to have a Pageant, Sir. "

"A what?"

"A Pageant; that's what we want for Merchester--something toadvertise the dear old place and bring grist to our mills. I've often wondered if we could not run something of the sort. "

This was not a conscious falsehood, but just a word or two ofpolitical patter, dropped automatically, absently. In truth, Mr. Bamberger, possessed by his inspiration, was wondering why thedeuce it had never occurred to him until this moment. Still morecurious, too, that it had never occurred to his brother Isidore!This Isidore, after starting as a _croupier_ at Ostend and pushing onto the post of _Directeur des Fetes Periodiques_ to the municipalityof that watering-place, had made a sudden name for himself bystage-managing a Hall of Odalisques at the last Paris Exposition, and, crossing to London, had accumulated laurels by directing popularentertainments at Olympia (Kensington) and Shepherd's Bush. One great daily newspaper, under Hebrew control, habitually alludedto him as the Prince of Pageantists. Isidore saw things on a grandscale, and was, moreover, an excellent brother. Isidore (said Mr. Julius Bamberger to himself) would find all the History of England inMerchester and rattle it up to the truth of music. 

Aloud he said--

"This very scene we're looking on, f'r instance!"

"There would be difficulties in the way of presenting it in the openair, " hazarded his Worship. 

Mr. Bamberger, never impatient of stupidity, opined that this couldbe got over easily. 

"There's all the material made to our hand. Eh, Master?--these oldpensioners of yours--in a procession? The public is alwayssentimental. "

Master Blanchminster, rousing himself out of reverie, made guardedanswer that such an exhibition might be instructive, historically, for schoolchildren. 

"An institution like this, supported by endowments, don't needadvertising, of course--not for its own sake, " said Mr. Bamberger. "I was thinking of what might be done indirectly for Merchester. But--you'll excuse me, I must ride a notion when I get astride ofone--St. Hospital would be no more than what we call an episode. We'd start with Alfred the Great--maybe before him; work down to theCathedral and its consecration and Sir John, here--that is, ofcourse, his ancestor--swearing on the Cross to depart for Jerusalem. "

Sir John--a Whig by five generations of descent--glanced at Mr. Bamberger uneasily. He had turned Unionist when Mr. Gladstoneembraced Home Rule; and now, rather by force of circumstance than bychoice, he found himself Chairman of the Unionist Committee forMerchester; in fact he, more than any man, was responsible for Mr. Bamberger's representing Merchester in Parliament, and sometimeswondered how it had all come about. He answered these rarequestionings by telling himself that Disraeli, whose portrait hung inhis library, had also been a Jew. But he did not quite understandit, or what there was in Mr. Bamberger that personally repelled him. 

At any rate Sir John was a pure Whig and to your pure Whig personaldignity is everything. 

"So long, " murmured he, "as you don't ask me to dress up and makemyself a figure of fun. "

The Bishop had already put the suggestion, so far as it concernedhim, aside with a tolerant smile, which encouraged everything fromwhich he, _bien entendu_, was omitted. 

Mr. Bamberger, scanning the line of faces with a Jew's patientcunning, at length encountered the eye of Mr. Colt, who at thefarther end of the high table was leaning forward to listen. 

"You're my man, " thought Mr. Bamberger. "Though I don't know yourname and maybe you're socially no great shakes; a chaplain by yourlook, and High Church. You're the useful one in this gang. "

He lifted his voice. 

"You won't misunderstand me, Master, " he said. "I named theCathedral and the Crusades because, in Merchester, history cannot getaway from the Church. It's _her_ history that any pageant ofMerchester ought to illustrate primarily--must, indeed: _her_ pastglories, some day (please God) to be revived. "

"And, " said Mr. Bamberger some months later, in private converse withhis brother Isidore, "that did it, though I say it who shouldn't. I froze on that Colt straight; and Colt, you'll allow, was trumps. "

For the moment little more was said. The company at the high table, after grace--a shorter one this time, pronounced by the Chaplain--bowed to the Brethren and followed the Master upstairs to the littleroom which had once served for espial-chamber, but was now curtainedcosily and spread for dessert. 

"By the way, Master, " said the Bishop, suddenly remembering thePetition in his pocket, and laughing amicably as he dropped a lump ofsugar into his coffee, "what games have you been playing in St. Hospital, that they accuse you of Romanising?"

The Master's ivory face flushed at the question. 

"That was old Warboise, " he answered nervously. "I must apologisefor the annoyance. "

"Not at all--not at all! It amused me, rather, to be reminded that, as Visitor, I am a person in St. Hospital, and still reckoned animportant one. 'Made me feel like an image in a niche subjected to asudden dusting. Who is this--er, what-d'-ye-call-him? Warboise?An eccentric?"

"I will not say that. Old and opinionated, rather; a militantProtestant--"

"Ah, we know the sort. Shall we glance over his screed? You permitme?"

"I was about to suggest your doing so. To tell the truth, I amcurious to be acquainted with the charge against me. "

The Bishop smiled, drew forth the paper from his pocket adjusted hisgold-rimmed eyeglasses and read--

 "To the Right Rev. Father in God, Walter, Lord Bishop of Merchester. 

 "My Lord, --We the undersigned, being Brethren on the Blanchminster and Beauchamp foundations of St. Hospital's College of Noble Poverty by Merton, respectfully desire your lordship's attention to certain abuses which of late have crept into this Society; and particularly in the observances of religion. 

 "We contend (1) that, whereas our Reformed and Protestant Church, in Number XXII of her Articles of Religion declares the Romish doctrine of purgatory inter alia to be a fond thing vainly invented, etc. , and repugnant to the Word of God, yet prayers for the dead have twice been publicly offered in our Chapel and the practice defended, nay recommended, from its pulpit. 

 "(2) That, whereas in Number XXVIII of the same Articles the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper is defined in intention, and the definition expressly cleared to repudiate several practices not consonant with it, certain of these have been observed of late in our Chapel, to the scandal of the Church, and to the pain and uneasiness of souls that were used to draw pure refreshment from these Sacraments--"

The Bishop paused. 

"I say, Master, this Brother Warboise of yours can write passableEnglish. "

"Warboise? Warboise never wrote that--never in his life. "

Master Blanchminster passed a hand over his forehead. 

"It's Copas's handwriting!" announced Mr. Colt, who had drawn closeand, unpermitted, was staring over the Bishop's shoulder at themanuscript. 

The Bishop turned half about in his chair, slightly affronted by thisoffence against good manners; but Mr. Colt was too far excited toguess the rebuke. 

"Turn over the page, my lord. "

As the Bishop turned it, on the impulse of surprise, Mr. Colt pointeda forefinger. 

"There it is--half-way down the signatures! 'J. Copas, ' written inthe same hand!"

CHAPTER VIII. 

A PEACE-OFFERING. 

 "'Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week!'"

Quoted Brother Copas from one of his favourite poems. This was inthe kitchen, three days later, and he made one of the crowd edging, pushing, pressing, each with plate in hand, around the great tablewhere the joints stood ready to be carved and distributed. For saveon Gaudy Days and great festivals of the Church, the Brethren dine intheir own chambers, not in Hall; and on three days of the week mustfend for themselves on food purchased out of their small allowances. But on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays they fetch it fromthe kitchen, taking their turns to choose the best cuts. And thiswas Thursday and, as it happened, Brother Copas stood first on therota. 

The rota hung on the kitchen wall in a frame of oak canopied withfaded velvet--an ingenious and puzzling contrivance, somewhat likethe calendar prefixed to the Book of Common Prayer, with the names ofthe Brethren inserted on movable cards worn greasy with handling. In system nothing could be fairer; but in practice, human naturebeing what it is, and the crowd without discipline, the press andclamour about the table made choosing difficult for the weaker ones. 

"Brother Copas to choose! Brother Clerihew to divide!"

"Aye, " sang out Brother Copas cheerfully, "and I'll take my timeabout it. Make room, Woolcombe, if you please, and take your elbowout of my ribs--don't I know the old trick? And stop pushing--youbehind there! . . . 'Rats in a hamper, swine in a sty, wasps in abottle. '--Mrs. Royle, ma'am, I am very sorry for your husband'srheumatism, but it does not become a lady to show this indecenthaste. "

"Indecent?" shrilled Mrs. Royle. "Indecent, you call me?--you thatpretend to ha' been a gentleman! I reckon, if indecency's the matterin these times, I could talk to one or two of ye about it. "

"Not a doubt of _that_, ma'am. . . . But really you ladies have noright here: it's clean against the rules, and the hubbub you provokeis a scandal. "

"Do you mean to insinuate, sir--"

"With your leave, ma'am, I mean to insinuate myself between yourperson and the table from which at this moment you debar me. Ah!" exclaimed Brother Copas as the cook whipped off the first of thegreat dish-covers, letting loose a cloud of savoury steam. He sniffed at it. 

"What's this? Boiled pork, and in June! We'll have a look at theothers, please . . . Roast leg of mutton, boiled neck and scrag ofmutton--aha! You shall give me a cut of the roast, please; and startat the knuckle end. Yes, Biscoe--_at the knuckle end_. "

Hate distorted Brother Biscoe's patriarchal face. He came second onthe rota, and roast knuckle of mutton was the tit-bit dearest of allto his heart, as Brother Copas knew. Brother Biscoe also had apassion for the two first cutlets of a mutton-neck; but he thoughtnothing of this in his rage. 

"Please God it'll choke ye!" he snarled. 

"Dear Brother, " said Copas amiably, "on Monday last you helped me tothe back of a duck. "

"Hurry up there!" shouted Brother Woolcombe, and swung round. "Are we all to get cold dinner when these two old fools have donewrangling?"

"Fool yourself, Woolcombe!" Brother Biscoe likewise swung about. "Here's Copas has brought two plates! Isn't it time to speak up, when a rogue's caught cheating?"

One or two cried out that he ought to lose his turn for it. 

"My friends, " said Brother Copas, not at all perturbed, "the secondplate is for Brother Bonaday's dinner, when his turn arrives. He has a heart-attack to-day, and cannot come for himself. "

"A _heart_-attack!" sniggered Mrs. Royle, her voice rising shrillabove the din. "Oh, save us if we didn't all know _that_ news!"

Laughter crackled like musketry about Brother Copas's ears, laughterto him quite meaningless. It was plain that all shared some jokeagainst his friend Bonaday; but he had no clue. 

"And, " pursued Mrs. Royle, "here's his best friend tellin' us as 'tisa scandal the way women push themselves into St. Hospital--'whenthey're not wanted, ' did I hear you say, sir? Yes, 'a scandal' hesaid, and 'indecent'; which I leave it to you is pretty stronglanguage as addressed to a woman what has her marriage lines I shouldhope!"

Brother Copas, bewildered by this onslaught--or, as he put it later, comparing the encounter with that between Socrates and Gorgias theSophist--drenched with that woman's slop-pail of words and blindedfor the moment, received his portion of mutton and drew aside, vanquished amid peals of laughter, of which he guessed only from itsnote that the allusion had been disgusting. Indeed, the wholeatmosphere of the kitchen sickened him; even the portion of muttoncooling on his plate raised his gorge in physical loathing. But Brother Bonaday lay helpless in his chamber, without food. Remembering this, Brother Copas stood his ground and waited, with thespare plate ready for the invalid's portion. 

The babel went on as one after another fought for the spoil. They had forgotten him, and those at the back of the crowd had founda new diversion in hustling old Biscoe as he struggled to get awaywith his two cutlets of half-warm mutton. 

Brother Copas held his gaze upon the joints. His friend's turn cameall but last on the rota; and by perversity--but who could blame it, in the month of June?--everyone eschewed the pork and bid emulouslyfor mutton, roast or boiled. He knew that Brother Bonaday abhorredpork, which, moreover, was indigestible, and by consequence bad for aweak heart. He stood and watched, gradually losing all hope exceptto capture a portion of the mutton near the scrag-end. As for theleg, it had speedily been cleaned to the bone. 

At the last moment a ray of hope shot up, as an expiring candleflames in the socket. Brother Inchbald--a notoriously stingy man--whose turn came immediately before Brother Bonaday's, seemed to doubtthat enough of the scrag remained to eke out a full portion; and benttowards the dish of pork, fingering his chin. Copas seized themoment to push his empty plate towards the mutton, stealthily, as oneforces a card. 

As he did so, another roar of laughter--coarser than before--drew himto glance over his shoulder. The cause of it was Nurse Branscome, entering by way of the refectory, with a hot plate held in a napkinbetween her hands. 

She paused on the threshold, as though the ribaldry took her in theface like a blast of hot wind. 

"Oh, I am late!" she cried. "I came to fetch Brother Bonaday'sdinner. Until five minutes ago no one told me--"

"It's all right, " called back Brother Copas, still looking over hisshoulder while his right hand extended the plate. "His turn is justcalled, and I am getting it for him. "

Strange to say, his voice reached the Nurse across an almost deadsilence; for the laughter had died down at sight of a child--Corona--beside her in the doorway. 

"But your plate will be cold. Here, change it for mine!"

"Well thought upon! Wait a second!"

But before Brother Copas could withdraw the plate a dollop of meathad been dumped upon it. 

"Eh? but wait--look here!--"

He turned about, stared at the plate, stared from the plate to thedish of scrag. The meat on the plate was pork, and the dish of scragwas empty. Brother Inchbald had changed his mind at the last momentand chosen mutton. 

The Brethren, led by Mrs. Royle, cackled again at sight of hisdismay. One or two still hustled Brother Biscoe as he fought his wayto the foot of the refectory steps, at the head of which NurseBranscome barred the exit, with Corona holding fast by her hand andwondering. 

"But what is it all about?" asked the child. 

"Hush!" The Nurse squeezed her hand, meaning that she must havecourage. "We have come too late, and the dinner is all shared up--orall of it that would do your father good. "

"But"--Corona dragged her small hand loose--"there is plenty left;and when they know he is sick they will make it all right. . . . If you please, sir, " she spoke up, planting her small body in frontof Brother Biscoe as he would have pushed past with his plate, "myfather is sick, and Nurse says he must not eat the meat that's lefton the dish there. Won't you give me that on your plate?"

She stretched out a hand for it, and Brother Biscoe, spent withsenile wrath at this last interruption of his escape, was snatchingback the food, ready to curse her, when Brother Copas came battlingthrough the press, holding both his plates high and hailingcheerfully. 

"I forgot, " he panted, and held up the plate in his left hand. "Bonaday can have the knuckle. I had first choice to-day. "

"He ought not to eat roasted meat, " said Nurse Branscome slowly. "I am sorry. You are good and will be disappointed. The smallestbit of boiled, now--were it only the scrag--"

"Why, " bustled Brother Copas, "Brother Biscoe has the very thing, then--the two best cutlets at the bottom of the neck. And, what'smore, he'll be only too glad to exchange 'em for the roast knucklehere, as I happen to know. "

He thrust the tit-bit upon Brother Biscoe, who hesitated a momentbetween hate and greed, and snatched the cutlets from him before hatecould weigh down the balance. 

Brother Biscoe, clutching the transferred plate, fled ungraciously, without a word of thanks. Nurse Branscome stayed but a moment tothank Brother Copas for his cleverness, and hurried off with Coronato hot-up the plate of mutton for the invalid. 

They left Brother Copas eyeing his dismal pork. 

"And in June, too!" he murmured. "No: a man must protect himself. I'll have to eke out to-day on biscuits. "

CHAPTER IX. 

BY MERE RIVER. 

Brother Bonaday's heart-attacks, sharp while they lasted, were soonover. Towards evening he had so far recovered that the Nurse saw noharm in his taking a short stroll, with Brother Copas for _socius_. 

The two old men made their way down to the river as usual, and thereBrother Copas forced his friend to sit and rest on a bench beside theclear-running water. 

"We had better not talk, " he suggested, "but just sit quiet and letthe fresh air do you good. "

"But I wish to talk. I am quite strong enough. "

"Talk about what?"

"About the child. . . . We must be getting her educated, I suppose. "

"Why?"

Brother Bonaday, seated with palms crossed over the head of hisstaff, gazed in an absent-minded way at the water-weeds trailing inthe current. 

"She's an odd child; curiously shrewd in some ways and curiouslyinnocent in others, and for ever asking questions. She put me ateaser yesterday. She can read pretty well, and I set her to read achapter of the Bible. By and by she looked up and wanted to know whyGod lived apart from His wife!"

Brother Copas grunted his amusement. 

"Did you tell her?"

"I invented some answer, of course. I don't believe it satisfiedher--I am not good at explanation--but she took it quietly, as if sheput it aside to think over. "

"The Athanasian Creed is not easily edited for children. . . . If shecan read, the likelihood is she can also write. Does a girl need tolearn much beyond that? No, I am not jesting. It's a question uponwhich I have never quite made up my mind. "

"I had hoped to find you keener, " said Brother Bonaday with a smallsigh. "Now I see that you will probably laugh at what I am going toconfess. . . . Last night, as I sat a while before going to bed, Ifound myself hearkening for the sound of her breathing in the nextroom. After a bit, when a minute or so went by and I could hearnothing, a sort of panic took me that some harm had happened to her:till I could stand it no longer, but picked up the lamp and crept infor a book. There she lay sleeping, healthy and sound, and prettierthan you'd ever think. . . . I crept back to my chair, and a foolishsort of hope came over me that, with her health and wits, and beingbrought up unlike other children, she might come one day to be alittle lady and the pride of the place, in a way of speaking--"

"A sort of Lady Jane Grey, in modest fashion--is that what you mean?"suggested Brother Copas--

 'Like Her most gentle, most unfortunate, Crowned but to die--who in her chamber sate Musing with Plato, tho' the horn was blown, And every ear and every heart was won, And all in green array were chasing down the sun. '

--"Well, if she's willing, as unofficial godfather I might make astart with the Latin declensions. It would be an experiment: I'venever tried teaching a girl. And I never had a child of my own, Brother; but I can understand just what you dreamed, and the Lordpunish me if I feel like laughing. "

He said it with an open glance at his friend. But it found noresponsive one. Brother Bonaday's brow had contracted, as with aspasm of the old pain, and his eyes still scrutinised the trailingweeds in Mere river. 

"If ever a man had warning to be done with life, " said BrotherBonaday after a long pause, "I had it this forenoon. But it'swonderful what silly hopes a child will breed in a man. "

Brother Copas nodded. 

"Aye, we'll have a shot with her. But--Oh, good Lord! Here's theChaplain coming. "

"Ah, Copas--so here you are!" sung out Mr. Colt as he approached withhis long stride up the tow-path. "Nurse Branscome told me I shouldfind you here. Good evening, Bonaday!"

He nodded. 

Copas stood up and inclined his body stiffly. 

"I hope, sir, " was his rebuke, "I have not wholly forfeited the titleof Brother?"

The Chaplain flushed. 

"I bring a message, " he said. "The Master wishes to see you, athalf-past six. "

"That amounts to a command. "

Brother Copas pulled out his watch. 

"I may as well warn you, " the Chaplain pursued. "You will bequestioned on your share in that offensive Petition. As it appears, you were even responsible for composing it. "

Brother Copas's eyebrows went up. 

"Is it possible, sir, that you recognised the style? . . . Ah, no;the handwriting must have been your index. The Bishop showed it toyou, then?"

"I--er--have been permitted to glance it over. "

"Over his shoulder, if I may make a guess, " murmured Brother Copas, putting his watch away and searching for his snuff-box. 

"Anyway, you signed it: as Bon--as Brother Bonaday here was toosensible to do: though, " added Mr. Colt, "_his_ signature one couldat least have respected. "

Brother Copas tapped his snuff-box, foreseeing comedy. 

"And why not mine, sir?"

"Oh, come, come!" blurted the Chaplain. "I take you to be a man ofsome education. "

"Is that indeed the reason?"

"A man of some education, I say. "

"And I hear you, sir. " Brother Copas bowed. "'Praise from SirRichard Strahan is praise indeed'--though my poor friend here seemsto get the backhand of the compliment. "

"And it is incredible you should go with the ignorant herd andbelieve us Clergy of the Church of England to be heading for Rome, asyour Petition asserts. "

Brother Copas slowly inhaled a pinch. 

"In England, Mr. Chaplain, the ignorant herd has, by the admission ofother nations, a practical political sense, and a somewhat downrightway with it. It sees you reverting to many doctrines and uses fromwhich the Reformation cut us free--or, if you prefer it, cut usloose; doctrines and uses which the Church of Rome has taught andpractised without a break. It says--this ignorant herd--'If thesefellows are not heading for Rome, then where the dickens _are_ theyheading?' Forgive this blunt way of putting it, but the question isnot so blunt as it looks. It is on the contrary extremely shrewd;and until you High Anglicans answer it candidly, the ignorant herdwill suspect--and you know, sir, the lower classes are incurablysuspicious--either that yourselves do not know, or that you know andwon't tell. "

"You say, " answered Mr. Colt, "that we revert to many doctrines anduses which, since the Romish clergy preach and practise them, areignorantly supposed to belong to Rome. But 'many' is not 'all'; nordoes it include the most radical doctrine of all. How can we intendRomanising while we deny the supreme authority of the Pope?--orBishop of Rome, as I should prefer to call him. "

"Fairly countered, " replied Brother Copas, taking another pinch;"though the ignorant herd would have liked better an answer to itsquestion. You deny the supreme authority of the Pope? Very well. Whose, then, do you accept?"

"The authority of Christ, committed to His Church. "

"Oh, la, la, la! . . . I should have said, Whose authoritativeinterpretation of Christ's authority?"

"The Church's. "

"Aye? Through whose mouth? We shall get at something definite intime. . . . I'll put it more simply. You, sir, are a plain priest inholy orders, and it's conceivable that on some point of use ordoctrine you may be in error. Just conceivable, hey? At all events, you may be accused of it. To whom, then, do you appeal? To theKing?--Parliament?--the Court of Arches, or any other Court? Not abit of it. Well, let's try again. Is it to the Archbishop ofCanterbury? Or to your own Diocesan?"

"I should appeal to the sanction of the Church Catholic as given inher ancient Councils. "

"And again--as nowadays interpreted by whom? Let us pass a hundredpossible points on which no Council bothered its head, and on whichconsequently it has left no decision. Who's the man, anywhere, totake you by the scruff of the neck and chastise you for an error?"

"Within the limits of conscience I should, of course, bow to myDiocesan. "

"Elastic limits, Mr. Colt! and, substituting Brother Warboise'sconscience for yours, precisely the limits within which BrotherWarboise bows to you! Anarchy will obey anything 'within the limitsof conscience'--that's precisely what anarchy means; and even so andto that extent will you obey Bishop or Archbishop. In your heart youdeny their authority; in speech, in practice, you never lose anoccasion of flouting them and showing them up for fools. Take thisEducation Squabble for an example. The successor to the Chair ofAugustine, good man--he's, after all, your Metropolitan--runs arounddoing his best to discover a way out, to patch up a 'concordat, ' asthey call it? What's the effect, upon any Diocesan Conference?Up springs subaltern after subaltern, fired with zeal to give hiscommander away. 'Our beloved Archbishop, in his saintlytrustfulness, is bargaining away our rights as Churchmen'--all theindiscipline of a middle-class private school (and I know what thatis, Mr. Colt, having kept one) translated into the sentimentalerotics of a young ladies' academy!"

Mr. Colt gasped. 

"And so, believe me, sir, " concluded Brother Copas, snapping downthe lid of his snuff-box, "this country of ours did not get rid ofthe Pope in order to make room for a thousand and one Popelings, eachin his separate parish practising what seems right in his own eyes. At any rate, let us say, remembering the parable of the room sweptand garnished, it intended no such result. Let us agree, Mr. Chaplain, to economise in Popes, and to condemn that business ofAvignon. So the ignorant herd comes back on you with two questions, which in effect are one: 'If not mere anarchists, what authority ownyou? And if not for Rome, for what in the world _are_ you heading?'You ask Rome to recognise your Orders. --_Mais, soyez consequent, monsieur_. "

It was Mr. Colt's turn to pull out his watch. 

"Permit me to remind you, " he said, "that you, at any rate, have toown an authority, and that the Master will be expecting you atsix-thirty sharp. For the rest, sir, you cannot think thatthoughtful Churchmen have no answer to these questions, if put byanyone with the right to put them. But _you_--not even acommunicant! Will you dare to use these arguments to the Master, forinstance?"

"He had the last word there, " said Brother Copas, pocketing hissnuff-box and gazing after the Chaplain's athletic figure as it swungaway up the tow-path. "He gave me no time to answer that one suitsan argument to the adversary. The Master? Could I present anythingso crude to one who, though lazy, is yet a scholar?--who hascertainly fought this thing through, after his lights, and would getme entangled in the Councils of Carthage and Constance, St. Cyprianand the rest? . . . Colt quotes the ignorant herd to me, and I puthim the ignorant herd's question--without getting a reply. "

"You did not allow him much time for one, " said Brother Bonadaymildly. 

Brother Copas stared at him, drew out his watch again, and chuckled. 

"You're right. I lose count of time, defending my friends; and thisis your battle I'm fighting, remember. "

He offered his arm, and the two friends started to walk back towardsSt. Hospital. They had gone but a dozen yards when a childish voicehailed them, and Corona came skipping along the bank. 

"Daddy! you are to come home at once! It's past six o'clock, andBranny says the river fog's bad for you. "

"Home?" echoed Brother Bonaday inattentively. The word had beenunfamiliar to him for some years, and his old brain did not grasp itfor a moment. His eyes seemed to question the child as she stoodbefore him panting, her hair dishevelled. 

"Aye, Brother, " said Copas with a glance at him, "you'll have to getused to it again, and good luck to you! What says the pessimist, that American fellow?--"

 'Nowhere to go but out, Nowhere to come but back '--

"Missy don't agree with her fellow-countryman, eh?"

His eye held a twinkle of mischief. 

"He _isn't_ my fellow-countryman!" Corona protested vehemently. "I'm English--amn't I, Daddy?"

"There, there--forgive me, little one! And you really don't want toleave us, just yet?"

"Leave you?" The child took Brother Bonaday's hand and hugged itclose. "Uncle Copas, if you won't laugh I want to tell yousomething--what they call confessing. " She hesitated for a moment. "Haven't you ever felt you've got something inside, and how awfulgood it is to confess and get it off your chest?"

Brother Copas gave a start, and eyed his fellow-Protestant. 

"Well?" he said after a pause. 

"Well, it's this way, " confessed Corona. "I can't say my prayers yetin this place--not to get any heft on them; and that makes me feelbad, you know. I start along with 'Our Father, which art in heaven, 'and it's like calling up a person on the 'phone when he's close atyour elbow all the time. Then I say 'God bless St. Hospital, ' andthere I'm stuck; it don't seem I want to worry God to oblige beyondthat. So I fetch back and start telling how glad I am to be home--asif God didn't know--and that bats me up to St. Hospital again. I got stone-walled that way five times last night. What's the senseof asking to go to heaven when you don't particularly want to?"

"Child, " Brother Copas answered, "keep as honest as that and pegaway. You'll find your prayers straighten themselves out all right. "

"Sure? . . . Well, that's a comfort: because, of course, I don't wantto go to hell either. It would never do. . . . But why are youpuckering up your eyes so?"

"I was thinking, " said Brother Copas, "that I might start teachingyou Latin. Your father and I were discussing it just now. "

"Would he like me to learn it?"

"It's the only way to find out all that St. Hospital means, includingall it has meant for hundreds of years. . . . Bless me, is that thequarter chiming? Take your father's hand and lead him home, child. _Venit Hesperus, ite capellae_. "

"What does that mean?"

"It's Latin, " said Brother Copas. "It's a--a kind of absolution. "

CHAPTER X. 

THE ANONYMOUS LETTER. 

Although the month was June and the evening warm, MasterBlanchminster sat huddled in his armchair before a bright fire. A table stood at his elbow, with some books upon it, his untastedglass of wine, and half a dozen letters--his evening's post. But the Master leaned forward, spreading his delicate fingers to thewarmth and, between them, gazing into the core of the blaze. 

The butler ushered in Brother Copas and withdrew, after a glance atthe lights. Two wax candles burned upon the writing-table in theoriel, and on the side-table an electric lamp shaded with green silkfaintly silhouetted the Master's features. Brother Copas, standing alittle within the doorway, remarked to himself that the old gentlemanhad aged of late. 

"Ah, Brother Copas? Yes, I sent for you, " said the Master, rousinghimself as if from a brown study. "Be seated, please. "

He pointed to a chair on the opposite side of the hearth; and BrotherCopas, seating himself with a bow, spread the worn skirt of hisBeauchamp robe, and arranged its folds over his knees. The firelightsparkled upon the Beauchamp rose on his breast, and seemed to holdthe Master's eye as he looked up after a pause. 

"You guess, no doubt, why I sent for you?"

Brother Copas inclined his head. 

"It concerns the Petition which Brother Warboise presented to theBishop last Monday. I am not complaining just now of his fashion ofprocedure, which I may hazard was not of your suggesting. "

"It was not, Master. I may say so much, having warned him that Ishould say it if questioned. "

"Yet you wrote out and signed the Petition, and, if I may hazardagain, composed it?"

"I did. "

"I have, " said Master Blanchminster, studying the back of his handsas he held his palms to the fire, "no right to force any man'sconscience. But it seemed to me, if I may say so, that while allwere forcibly put, certain of your arguments ignored--or, let merather say, passed over--points which must have occurred to a man ofyour learning. Am I mistaken?"

"You understand, Master, " said Brother Copas, slightly embarrassed, and slightly the more embarrassed because the Master, after askingthe question, seemed inclined to relapse into his own thoughts, "the Petition was not mine only. I had to compose it for all thesignatories; and that, in any public business, involves striking amean. "

"I understand even more, " said the Master, rousing himself, andreaching for a copy of the Petition, which lay among his papers. "I understand that I have no right to cross-question a man on hisshare in a document which six or eight others have signed. Shall it be further understood"--he looked up with a quick smile ofgoodness, whereat Brother Copas felt ashamed--"that I sent for you asa friend, and that you may speak frankly, if you will so honour me, without fear of my remembering a word to your inconvenience?"

"And since you so honour me, Master, " said Brother Copas, "I am readyto answer all you ask. "

"Well, then, I have read with particular interest, what you have tosay here about the practice of Confession. (This, by the way, is atyped copy, with which the Bishop has been kind enough to supply me. )You have, I assume, no belief in it or in the efficacy of theAbsolution that follows it. "

The Master, searching for a paragraph, did not perceive that BrotherCopas flushed slightly. 

"And, " he continued, as he found the passage and laid his finger onit, "although you set out your arguments with point--with fairness, too, let me add--I am perhaps not very far wrong in guessing that youhave for Confession an instinctive dislike which to your own mindmeans more than any argument you use. "

The Master looked up with a smile; but by this time Brother Copas'sflush had faded. 

"You may say that, Master, of the whole document. I am an old man--far too old to have my beliefs and disbeliefs quickened by argument. They have long since hardened into prejudices; and, speakinggenerally, I have a prejudice against this setting of old men by theears with a lot of Neo-Catholic stuff which irritates half of uswhile all are equally past being provoked to any vital good. "

The Master sighed, for he understood. 

"I, too, am old, " he answered, "older even than you; and as deathdraws nearer I incline with you, to believe that the fewer our wordson these questions that separate us the better. (There's a finepassage to that effect in one of Jowett's Introductions, you mayremember--the _Phaedo_, I think. ) Least said is soonest mended, andgood men are too honest to go out of the world professing more thanthey know. Since we are opening our minds a little beyond our wont, let me tell you exactly what is my own prejudice, as you would callit. To me Confession has been a matter of happy experience--I amspeaking now of younger days, at Cuddesdon--"

"Ah!" breathed Copas. 

"And the desire to offer to others what has been a great blessing tomyself, has at times been very strong. But I recognised that thegeneral English mind--yes, I'll grant you, the general _healthy_English mind--had its prejudice too; a prejudice so sturdy againstConfession, that it seemed to me I should alienate more souls than Iattracted and breed more ill-temper than charity to cover it. So--weakly perhaps--I never spoke of it in sermons, and byconsequence no Brother of St. Hospital has ever sought from me thatcomfort which my conscience all the while would have approved ofgiving. "

Brother Copas bowed his head for sign that he understood. 

"But--excuse me, Master--you say that you found profit in Confessionat Cuddesdon; that is, when I dare say your manhood was young and inferment. Be it granted that just at such a crisis, Confession may besalutary. Have you found it profitable in later life?"

"I cannot, " the Master answered, "honestly say more than that nodoubt of it has ever occurred to me, and for the simple reason that Ihave not tried. But I see at what you are driving--that we of St. Hospital are too old to taste its benefit? . . . Yet I should havethought that even in age it might bring comfort to some; and, if so, why should the others complain?"

"For the offence it carries as an infraction of the reformed doctrineunder which they supposed themselves to order their lives andworship. They contend, Master, that they are all members of oneSociety; and if the doctrine of that Society be infringed to comfortA or B, it is to that extent weakened injuriously for C and D, whohave been building their everlasting and only hope on it, and havegrown too old to change. "

"But, " answered Master Blanchminster, pinning his finger on theparagraph, "you admit here that even the reformed Church, in theOrder for the Visitation of the Sick, enjoins Confession andprescribes a form of Absolution. Now if a man be not too old for itwhen he is dying, _a fortiori_ he cannot be too old for it at anyprevious time. "

Brother Copas rubbed his hands together softly, gleefully. He adoreddialectic. 

"With your leave, Master, " he replied, "dying is a mighty singularbusiness. The difference between it and growing old cannot betreated as a mere matter of degree. Now one of the points I make isthat the Church, by expressly allowing Confession on this singularoccasion, while saying nothing about it on any other, therebyinferentially excludes it on all others--or discountenances it, tosay the least. "

"There I join issue with you, maintaining that all such occasions arecovered by the general authority bestowed at Ordination with thelaying-on of hands--'Whose sins thou dost forgive they are forgiven, 'etc. To construe an open exhortation in one of her offices as asilent denunciation in all the rest seems to me--"

For the next few minutes the pair enjoyed themselves to the top oftheir bent; until, as the Master pushed aside some papers on thetable to get at his Prayer Book--to prove that No. XXV of theArticles of Religion did not by its wording disparage Absolution--hiseye fell on a letter which lay uppermost. He paused midway in asentence, picked the thing up and held it for a moment disgustfullybetween forefinger and thumb. 

"Brother Copas, " he said with a change of voice, "we lose ourselvesin logomachy, and I had rather hark back to a word you let drop awhile ago about the Brotherhood. You spoke of 'setting old men bythe ears. ' Do you mean it seriously--that our Brethren, just now, are not dwelling in concord?"

"God bless your innocent old heart!" murmured Brother Copas under hisbreath. Aloud he said, "Men of the Brethren's age, Master, are notalways amiable; and the tempers of their womenfolk are sometimesunlovely. We are, after all, failures in life, and to have livednight and day beside any one of us can be no joke. "

The Master, with his body half-turned towards the reading-lamp, stillheld the letter and eyed it at arm's length. 

"I observed, " he said after a while, "that Brother Bonaday did notsign your Petition. Yet I had supposed him to be an Evangelical, andeveryone knows you two to be close friends. " The Master mused again. "Pardon me, but he has some reason, of course?"

"He has. "

--"Which you are not at liberty to tell me?"

"That is so. "

"Ah, well, " said the Master, turning and facing about on BrotherCopas with a sudden resolve. "I wonder if--to leave this matter ofthe Petition--you can tell me something else concerning your friend;something which, if you can answer it so as to help him, will alsolift a sad weight off my mind. If you cannot, I shall equally forgetthat the question was ever put or the answer withheld. . . . To becandid, when you were shown in I was sitting here in great distressof mind. "

"Surely not about Bonaday, Master?" said Brother Copas, wondering. 

"About Bonaday, yes. " The Master inclined his head. "Poison--it hasbeen running through my thoughts all the while we have been talking. I suppose I ought not to show you this; the fire is its only properreceptacle--"

"Poison?" echoed Brother Copas. "And about Bonaday? who, good soul, never hurt a fly!"

"I rejoice to hear you say it, " said the Master, plainly relieved, and he appeared half-minded to withdraw and pocket the scrap of paperfor which Copas held out a hand. "It is an anonymous letter, and--er--evidently the product of a foul mind--"

Brother Copas took it and, fumbling for his glasses, gazedaround in search of the handiest light by which to read it. Master Blanchminster hurried to catch up the electric lamp and set iton the mantel-shelf above his shoulder. Its coil of silk-braidedwire dragging across the papers on the table, one or two dropped onthe floor; and whilst the Master stooped to collect them BrotherCopas read the letter, first noting at a glance that the paper wascheap and the handwriting, though fairly legible, at once uneducatedand painfully disguised. 

It ran--

 "Master, --This is to warn you that you are too kind and anyone can take you in. It wasn't enough Bonaday should get the best rooms in S. Hospital but now you give him leave for this child which every one in S. Hospital knows is a bastard. If you want to find the mother, no need to go far. Why is Nurse B--hanging about his rooms now. Which they didn't carry it so far before, but they was acquainted years ago, as is common talk. God knows my reasons for writing this much are honest, but I hate to see your goodness put upon, and a scandal which the whole S. Hospital feels bitter about--such letchery and wickedness in our midst, and nobody knowing how to put a stop to it all. 

 "Yours obdtly. , "A Well Wisher. "

"The handwriting, " said Brother Copas, "is a woman's, thoughdisguised. "

The Master, erect again, having collected his papers, eyed BrotherCopas as if surprised by his calm tone. 

"You make nothing of it, then?"

"P'st!"

"I--I was hoping so. " The Master's voice was tremulous, apologetic. "It came by this evening's post, not half an hour ago. . . . I am notused to receive such things: yet I know what ought to be done withthem--toss them into the fire at once and dismiss them from yourmind. I make no doubt I should have burnt it within another tenminutes: as for cleansing one's mind of it so quickly, that must be acounsel of perfection. But you were shown in, and I--I made certainthat you could contradict this disgraceful report and set my mind atrest. Forgive me. "

"Ah, Master"--Brother Copas glanced up with a quick smile--"it almost looks as if you were right after all, and one is never tooold to confess!" He bent and held the edge of the paper close to theblaze. "May I burn it?"

"By all means. "

"Nay, then, I won't. But since you have freely parted with it, may Ikeep it? . . . I have had some little experience with manuscripts, and it is just possible I may trace this to the writer--who isassuredly a woman, " added Brother Copas, studying the letter again. "You have my leave to do so. "

"And you ask no further question?"

The Master hesitated. At length he said firmly--

"None. I have no right. How can so foul a thing confer any right?"

Brother Copas was silent for a space. 

"Nay, that is true, Master; it cannot. . . . Nevertheless, I willanswer what was in your mind to ask. When I came into the room youwere pondering this letter. The thought of it--pah!--mixed itself upwith a thought of the appointment you had set for me--with thePetition; and the two harked back together upon a question you put tome just now. 'Why was not Brother Bonaday among the signatories?'Between them they turned that question into a suspicion. Guilty menare seldom bold: as the Scots say, 'Riven breeks sit still. ' . . . Was not this, or something like it, in your mind, sir?"

"I confess that it was. "

"Why then, Master, I too will confess--I that came to you to denouncethe practice. Of what this letter hints Bonaday is innocent as--asyou are. He approved of the Petition and was on the point of signingit; but he desired your good leave to make a home for his child. Between parent and Protestant my friend was torn, and moreoverbetween conscience and loyalty. He could not sue for this favourfrom you, his soul weighted with an intention to go straightway anddo what must offend you. "

Master Blanchminster faced Brother Copas squarely, standing of asudden erect. It seemed to add inches to his stature. 

"Had he so poor a trust in me, after these years?"

"No, Master. " Brother Copas bent his head. "That is where I come in. All this is but preparatory. . . . I am a fraud--as little Protestantas Catholic. I found my friend in straits, and made a bargain withthose who were pressing him--"

"Do I understand, Brother Copas, that this Petition--of which all thestrength lies in its scholarship and wording--is yours, and that onthese terms only you have given me so much pain?"

"You may put it so, Master, and I can say no more than 'yes'--thoughI might yet plead that something is wrong with St. Hospital, and--"

"Something is very wrong with St. Hospital, " interrupted the Mastergravely. "This letter--if it come from within our walls--But I afterall, as its Master, am ultimately to blame. " He paused for a momentand looked up with a sudden winning smile. "We have both confessedsome sins. Shall we say a prayer together, Brother?"

The two old men knelt by the hearth there. Together in silence theybowed their heads. 

CHAPTER XI. 

BROTHER COPAS ON THE ANGLO-SAXON. 

"You ought to write a play, " said Mrs. Simeon. 

Mr. Simeon looked up from his dinner and stared at his wife as thoughshe had suddenly taken leave of her senses. She sat holding a forkerect and close to her mouth, with a morsel of potato ready to bepopped in as soon as she should finish devouring a paragraph of_The People_ newspaper, folded beside her plate. In a general wayMrs. Simeon was not a reader; but on Mondays (washing-days) sheregularly had the loan of a creased copy of _The People_ from aneighbour who, having but a couple of children, could afford to buyand peruse it on the day of issue. There is much charity among theworking poor. 

"I--I beg your pardon, my dear?" Mr. Simeon murmured, after gentlyadmonishing his second son (Eustace, aged 11, named after the Master)for flipping bread pills across the table. "I am afraid I did notcatch--"

"I see there's a man has made forty thousand pounds by writing one. And he did it in three weeks, after beginning as a clerk in thestationery. . . . Forty thousand pounds, only think! That's what Icall turning cleverness to account. "

"But, my love, I don't happen to be clever, " protested Mr. Simeon. 

His wife swallowed her morsel of potato. She was a worn-lookingblonde, peevish, not without traces of good looks. She wore thesleeves of her bodice rolled up to the elbows, and her wrists andforearms were bleached by her morning's work at the wash-tub. 

"Then I'm sure I don't know what else you are!" said she, looking athim straight. 

Mr. Simeon sighed. Ever on Mondays he returned at midday to a housefilled with steam and the dank odour of soap-suds, and to the worstof the week's meagre meals. A hundred times he had reproachedhimself that he did ungratefully to let this affect him, for his wife(poor soul) had been living in it all day, whereas his morning hadbeen spent amid books, rare prints, statuettes, soft carpets, all thedelicate luxuries of Master Blanchminster's library. Yet he couldnot help feeling the contrast; and the children were always at theirmost fractious on Mondays, chafed by a morning in school after twodays of freedom. 

"Where are you going this afternoon?" his wife asked. 

"To blow the organ for Windeatt. "

Dr. Windeatt (Mus. Doc. Oxon. ) was the Cathedral organist. 

"Has he offered to pay you?"

"Well--it isn't _pay_ exactly. There was an understanding that if Iblew for him this afternoon--old Brewer being laid up with theshingles--he would take me through that tenor part in the new_Venite Exultemus_. It's tricky, and yesterday morning I slurred ithorribly. "

"Tc'ht! A man of your education blowing an organ, and for nothing!If there was any money in it one wouldn't mind so much. . . . But youlet yourself be put upon by anybody. "

Mr. Simeon was silent. He knew that to defend himself would be tocourt a wrangle, reproaches, tears perhaps, all unseemly before thechildren; and, moreover, what his wife said was more than halfdeserved. 

"Daddy, why _don't_ you write a play?" demanded the five-year-oldAgatha. "And then mammy would have a carriage, and I'd go to a realboarding-school with canaries in the window like they have at MissDickinson's. "

The meal over, Mr. Simeon stole away to the Cathedral. He wasunhappy; and as he passed through Friars' Gateway into the Close, thesight of the minster, majestical above its green garth, for once gaveno lift to his spirit. The great central tower rose against a sky ofclearest blue, strong and foursquare as on the day when its Normanbuilders took down their scaffolding. White pigeons hovered orperched on niche and corbel. But fortitude and aspiration alike haddeserted Mr. Simeon for the while. Life--hard life and poverty--hadsubdued him to be one of the petty, nameless crowd this Cathedral hadseen creep to their end in its shadow. . . . "What should suchcreatures as I do, crawling between earth and heaven?" A thousandthousand such as Mr. Simeon had listened or lifted their voice to itsanthems--had aspired for the wings of a dove, to fly away and be atrest. Where now were all their emotions? He entered by a side-doorof the western porch. The immense, solemn nave, if it did not catchhis thoughts aloft, at least hushed them in awe. To Mr. SimeonMerchester Cathedral was a passion, nearer, if not dearer, than wifeor children. 

He had arrived ten minutes ahead of the appointed time. As he walkedtowards the great organ he heard a child's voice, high-pitched andclear, talking behind the traceries of the choir screen. He supposedit the voice of some irreverent chorister, and stepping aside torebuke it, discovered Corona and Brother Copas together gazing up atthe coffins above the canopy. 

"And is King Alfred really up there?--the one that burnt the cakes?--and if so, which?" Corona was asking, too eager to think of grammar. 

Brother Copas shrugged his shoulders. 

"What's left of him is up there somewhere. "

 'Here are sands, ignoble things Dropped from the ruined sides of kings. '

"--But the Parliament troopers broke open the coffins and mixed thedust sadly. The Latin says so. '_In this and the neighbouringchests_' (or caskets, as you say in America), '_confounded in a timeof Civil Fury, reposes what dust is left of_--' Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Simeon! This young lady has laid forcible hands on me to giveher an object-lesson in English history. Do you, who know ten timesmore of the Cathedral than I, come to my aid. "

"If you are looking for King Alfred, " answered Mr. Simeon, beaming on Corona through his glasses, "there's a tradition that hisdust lies in the second chest to the right . . . A tradition only. No one really knows. "

Corona shifted her position some six paces to the right, and tiltedher gaze up at the coffer as though she would crick her neck. 

"Aye, missie"--Mr. Simeon still beamed--"they're up there, the royalones--Dane and Norman and Angevin; and not one to match the greatAnglo-Saxon that was father of us all. "

Brother Copas grunted impatiently. 

"My good Simeon, you ought to be ashamed of yourself! God forbidthat one should decry such a man as Alfred was. But the pedantry ofFreeman and his sect, who tried to make 'English' a conterminous nameand substitute for 'Anglo-Saxon, ' was only by one degree lessoffensive than the ignorance of your modern journalist who degradesEnglishmen by writing them down (or up, the poor fool imagines) asAnglo-Saxons. In truth, King Alfred was a noble fellow. No one inhistory has struggled more pluckily to rekindle fire in an effeterace or to put spirit into an effete literature by pretending thatboth were of the prime. "

"Come, come, " murmured Mr. Simeon, smiling. "I see you are off uponone of your hobbies. . . . But you will not tell me that the finerugged epic of _Beowulf_, to which the historians trace back all thatis noblest in our poetry, had lost its generative impulse even soearly as Alfred's time. That were too extravagant!"

"_Brekekekex, ten brink, ten brink!_" snapped Brother Copas. "All the frogs in chorus around Charon's boat! Fine ruggedfiddlestick--have you ever read _Beowulf_?"

"In translation only. "

"You need not be ashamed of labour saved. I once spent a month ortwo in mastering Anglo-Saxon, having a suspicion of Germans when theytalk about English literature, and a deeper suspicion of Englishcritics who ape them. Then I tackled _Beowulf_, and found it to bewhat I guessed--no rugged national epic at all, but a blown-out bagof bookishness. Impulse? Generative impulse?--the thing is wind, Itell you, without sap or sinew, the production of some conscientiousAnglo-Saxon whose blue eyes, no doubt, watered with the effort ofinflating it. I'll swear it never drew a human tear otherwise. . . . That's what the whole Anglo-Saxon race had become when Alfred aroseto galvanise 'em for a while--a herd of tall, flabby, pale-eyed men, who could neither fight, build, sing, nor enforce laws. And so ourEngland--wise as Austria in mating--turned to other nuptials andmarried William the Norman. Behold then a new breed; the countrycovered with sturdy, bullet-headed, energetic fellows, who are nosooner born than they fly to work--hammers going, scaffolds climbing;cities, cathedrals springing up by magic; and all to a new song thatcame with some imported workmen from the Provence--"

 'Quan la douss' aura venta Deves vostre pays'--

"And so--pop!--down the wind goes your pricked bladder of a _Beowulf_:down the wind that blows from the Mediterranean, whence the arts andthe best religions come. "

Mr. Simeon rubbed the side of his jaw thoughtfully. 

"Ah, " said he, "I remember Master Blanchminster saying something ofthe sort the other day. He was talking of wine. "

"Yes--the best religions and the best wine: they go together. Could ever an Anglo-Saxon have built _that_, think you?" demandedBrother Copas with a backward jerk of the head and glance up at thevaulted roof. "But to my moral. --All this talk of Anglo-Saxons, Celts, and the rest is rubbish. We are English by chemical action ofa score of interfused bloods. That man is a fool who speaks asthough, at this point of time, they could be separated: had he thepower to put his nonsense into practice he would be a wicked fool. And so I say, Mr. Simeon, that the Roundheads--no pure Anglo-Saxon, by the way, ever had a round head--who mixed up the dead dust in thecaskets aloft there, were really leaving us a sound historicallesson--"

But here Mr. Simeon turned at the sound of a brisk footstep. Dr. Windeatt had just entered by the western door. 

"You'll excuse me? I promised the Doctor to blow the organ for him. "

"Do people blow upon organs?" asked Corona, suddenly interested. "I thought they played upon them the same as pianos, only with littlethings that pulled out at the sides. "

"Come and see, " Mr. Simeon invited her, smiling. 

The three went around to the back of the organ loft. By and by whenMr. Simeon began to pump, and after a minute, a quiet _adagio_, rising upon a throb of air, stole along the aisles as though an angelspoke in it, or the very spirit of the building, tears sprang intothe child's eyes and overflowed. She supposed that Mr. Simeon alonewas working this miracle. . . . Blinking more tears away, she staredat him, meeting his mild, half-quizzical gaze as he stooped and roseand stooped again over the bellows. 

Brother Copas, touching her elbow, signed to her to come away. She obeyed, very reluctantly. By a small doorway in the southernaisle she followed him out into the sunshine of the Cathedral Close. 

"But how does he do it?" she demanded. "He doesn't look a bit as ifhe could do anything like that--not in repose. "

Brother Copas eyed her and took snuff. "He and the like of him don'ttouch the stops, my dear. He and the like of him do better; theysupply the afflatus. "

 O ye holy and humble Men of heart, bless ye the Lord: praise Him, and magnify Him for ever!

Mr. Simeon worked mechanically, heaving and pressing upon the bellowsof the great organ. His mind ran upon Master Copas's disparagementof _Beowulf_ and the Anglo-Saxons. It was ever the trouble that heremembered an answer for Brother Copas after Brother Copas had gone. . . . Why had he not bethought him to cite Caedmon, at any rate, against that sweeping disparagement? How went the story?--

 Caedmon was a lay brother, a tender of cattle at the Abbey of Whitby under the Abbess Hilda who founded it. Until somewhat spent in years he had never learnt any poems. Therefore at a feast, when all sang in turn, so soon as he saw the harp coming near him, he would rise and leave the table and go home. Once when he had gone thus from the feast to the stables, where he had night-charge of the beasts, as he yielded himself to sleep One stood over him and said, greeting him by name, "Caedmon, sing some song to me. " "I cannot sing, " he said, "and for this cause left I the feast. " "But you shall sing to me, " said the Vision. "Lord, what shall I sing?" "Sing the Creation, " said the Vision. Caedmon sang, and in the morning remembered what he had sung . . . 

"If this indeed happened to Caedmon, and late in life" (mused Mr. Simeon, heaving on the bellows of the great organ), "might not evensome such miracle befall me?"

 Lord, I have loved the habitation of Thy house, and the place where Thine honour dwelleth. 

"I might even write a play, " thought Mr. Simeon. 

CHAPTER XII. 

MR. ISIDORE TAKES CHARGE. 

"Uncle Copas, " said Corona, as the two passed out through the smalldoorway in the southern aisle and stood blinking in the sunshine, "I want you next to show me what's left of the old Castle where thekings lived: that is, if you're not tired. "

"Tired, child? 'Tis our business--'tis the Brethren's business--to act as guides around the relics of Merchester. By fetching a verysmall circuit we can take the Castle on our way, and afterwards walkhome along the water-meads, my favourite path. "

Corona slipped her hand into his confidentially. Together they leftthe Close, and passing under the King's Gate, turned down CollegeStreet, which led them by the brewhouse and outer porch of the greatSchool. A little beyond it, where by a conduit one of the Mere'shurrying tributaries gushed beneath the road, they came to a regimentof noble elms guarding a gateway, into which Brother Copas turnedaside. A second and quite unpretentious gateway admitted them to agreen meadow, in shape a rough semicircle, enclosed by ruinatedwalls. 

"You may come here most days of the month, " said Brother Copas, holding the gate wide, "and never meet a soul. 'Tis thetranquillest, most forsaken spot in the city's ambit. "

But here, as Corona caught her breath, he turned and stared. The enclosure was occupied by a squad of soldiers at drill. 

They wore uniforms of khaki, and, dressed up with their backs to thegateway, were performing the simple movements of foot drill in faceof a choleric sergeant-major, who shouted the words of command, andof a mounted officer who fronted the squad, silent, erect in saddle, upon a strapping bay. Some few paces behind this extremely militarypair stood a couple of civilian spectators side by side, in attire--frock-coats, top-hats, white waistcoats--which at a little distancegave them an absurd resemblance to a brace of penguins. 

"Heavens!" murmured Brother Copas. "Is it possible that Bambergerhas become twins? One never knows of what these Jews arecapable. . . . "

His gaze travelled from the two penguins to the horseman in khaki. He put up a shaking hand to shade it. 

"Colt? Colt in regimentals? Oh, this must be vertigo!"

At a word from the sergeant-major the squad fell out and stood inloose order, plainly awaiting instructions. Mr. Colt--yes, indeed itwas the Chaplain--turned his charger's head half-about as the twofrock-coated civilians stepped forward. 

"Now, Mr. Bamberger, my men are at your disposal. "

"I t'ank you, Reverent Mr. Major--if zat is ze form to address you--"began Mr. Bamberger's double. 

"'Major, ' _tout court_, if you please, " Mr. Colt corrected him. "One drops the 'reverend' while actually on military duty. "

"So? Ach, pardon!--I should haf known. . . Now Ze first is, we get zeangle of view, where to place our Grandt Standt so ze backgrount mekze most pleasing pigture. At ze same time ze Standt must nottresbass--must not imbinge, _hein_?--upon our stage, ourwhat-you-call-it area. Two t'ousand berformers--we haf not too moochroom. I will ask you, Mr. Major, first of all to let your men--zeyhaf tent-pegs, _hein_?--to let your men peg out ze area as I direct. Afterwards, with your leaf, you shall place z'em here--z'ere--ingroups, zat I may see in some sort how ze groups combose, as we say. Himmel! what a backgroundt! Ze Cathedral, how it lifts over zetrees--Bar-fect! Now, if you will follow me a few paces to ze right, here . . . Ach! see yonder, by ze gate! Zat old man in ze redpurple _poncho_--haf ze berformers already begon to aszemblezemselves? . . . "

Mr. Colt slewed his body about in the saddle. 

"Eh? . . . Oh, that's Brother Copas, one of our Beauchamp Brethren. Mediaeval he looks, doesn't he? I assure you, sir, we keep thegenuine article in Merchester. "

"You haf old men dressed like _zat_? . . . My dear Julius, I see zisBageant retty-made!"

"It was at St. Hospital--the almshouse for these old fellows--thatthe notion first came into my head. "

"Sblendid! . . . We will haf a Brocession of them; or, it may be, awhole Ebisode. . . . Will you bid him come closer, Mr. Major, zat Imay study ze costume in its detail?"

"Certainly. " Mr. Colt beckoned to Brother Copas, who came forwardstill holding Corona by the hand. "Brother Copas, Mr. IsidoreBamberger here--brother of Our Member--desires to make youracquaintance. "

"I am honoured, " said Brother Copas politely. 

"Ach, so!" burst in Mr. Isidore. "I was telling the major how moch Iadmire zat old costume of yours. "

"It is not for sale, however. " Brother Copas faced the two Hebrewswith his ironical smile. "I am sorry to disappoint you, sirs, but Ihave no old clothes to dispose of, at present. "

"No offence, no offence, I hope?" put in Mr. Julius. "My brother, sir, is an artist--"

"Be easy, sir: I am sure that he intended none. For the rest, "pursued Brother Copas with a glance at Mr. Colt and a twinkle, "if we had time, all four of us here, to tell how by choice ornecessity we come to be dressed as we are, I dare say our storiesmight prove amusing as the Calenders' in _The Arabian Nights_. "

"You remind me, " said Mr. Isidore, "zat I at any rate must not keepzese good Territorials standing idle. Another time--at yourservice--"

He waved a hand and hurried off to give an instruction to thesergeant-major. His brother followed and overtook him. 

"Damn it all, Isidore! You might remember that Merchester is myconstituency, and my majority less than half a hundred. "

"_Hein_? For what else am I here but to helb you to increase it?"

"Then why the devil start by offending that old chap as you did?"

"Eh? I offended him somehow. Zat is certain: zough why on earth heshould object to having his dress admired--" Mr. Isidore checked hisspeech upon a sudden surmise. "My goot Julius, you are not tellingme he has a Vote!"

"You silly fool, of course he has!"

"Gott in himmel! I am sorry, Julius. . . . I--I sobbosed, in England, that paupers--"

"State-paupers, " corrected his brother. "Private paupers, like theBrethren of St. Hospital, rank as tenants of their living-rooms. "

"I shall never gombrehend the institutions of zis country, " groanedMr. Isidore. 

"Never mind: make a Pageant of 'em, " said his brother grimly. "I'll forgive you this time, if you'll promise me to be morecareful. "

"I'll do more, Julius. I'll get aroundt ze old boy somehow: mek himbivot-man in a brocession, or something of the sort. I got anyamount of tagt, once I know where to use it. "

"Smart man, Our Member!" commented Mr. Colt, gazing after the pair. "And Mr. Isidore doesn't let the grass grow under his feet, hey?"

"Has an eye for detail, too, " answered Brother Copas, taking snuff. "See him there, upbraiding his brother for want of tact towards afree and independent elector. . . . But--excuse me--for what purposeare these two parcelling out the Castle Meadow?"

"You've not heard? There's a suggestion--and I may claim some sharein the credit of it, if credit there be--to hold a Pageant here nextsummer, a Merchester Pageant. Mr. Bamberger's full of it. What's your idea?"

"A capital notion, " said Brother Copas slowly. "Since _jam pridemSyrus in Tamesin defluxit Orontes_, I commend any attempt to educateMr. Bamberger and his tribe in the history of this England theyinvade. But, as you say, this proposed Pageant is news to me. I never seem to hear any gossip. It had not even reached me, Mr. Chaplain, that you were deserting St. Hospital to embrace a militarycareer. "

"Nor am I. . . . At Cambridge I ever was an ardent volunteer. Here in Merchester (though this, too, may be news to you) I have foryears identified myself with all movements in support of nationaldefence. The Church Lads' Brigade, I may say, owed its inception tome; likewise the Young Communicants' Miniature Rifle Association; andfor three successive years our Merchester Boy Scouts have elected mePresident and Scoutmaster. It has been a dream of my life, BrotherCopas, to link up the youth of Britain in preparation to defend theMotherland, pending that system of compulsory National Service which(we all know) must eventually come. And so when Sir JohnShaftesbury, as Chairman of our County Territorial Force Association, spoke to the Lord-Lieutenant, who invited me to accept a majority inthe Mershire Light Infantry, Second Battalion, Territorial--"

"I can well understand, sir, " said Brother Copas, as Mr. Colt drewbreath; "and I thank you for telling me so much. No wonder Sir Johnenlisted such energy as yours! Yet--to be equally frank with you--Iam sorry. "

"You disapprove of National Service?"

"I approve of it with all my heart. Every young man should preparehimself to fight, at call, for his country. But the devotion shouldbe voluntary. "

"Ah, but suppose our young men will not? Suppose they prefer toattend football matches--"

"That, sir--if I may respectfully suggest it--is your business toprevent. And I might go on to suggest that the clergy, by preachingcompulsory military service, lay themselves open, as avowedsupporters of 'law and order, ' to a very natural suspicion. We will suppose that you get your way, and every young Briton isbound, on summons, to mobilise. We will further suppose aConservative Government in power, and confronted with a devastatingstrike--shall we say a railwaymen's strike? What more easy than tocall out one-half of the strikers on service and oblige them, underpain of treason, to coerce the other half? Do you suppose that thisnation will ever forget Hounslow Heath?"

"Let us, then, " said Mr. Colt, "leave arguing this question ofcompulsory National Service until another occasion, when I shall hopeto convince you. For the moment you'll allow it to be every man'sduty, as a citizen, to carry arms for his country?"

"Every man's, certainly--if by that you exclude priests. "

"Why exclude priests?"

"Because a priest, playing at warfare, must needs be mixing up thingsthat differ. As I see it, Mr. Colt, your Gospel forbids warfare; andif you consent to follow an army, your business is to hold a crossabove human strife and point the eyes of the dying upward, to rest onit, thus rebuking men's passions with a vision of life's ultimatepeace. "

"Yet a Bishop of Beauvais (as I read) once thought it not unmeet tocharge with a mace at the head of a troop; and our own dearArchbishop Maclagan of York, as everyone knows, was once lieutenantin a cavalry regiment!"

"Oh, la, la!" chuckled Brother Copas. "Be off, then, to yourTerritorials, Mr. Chaplain! I see Mr. Isidore, yonder, losing histemper with the squad as only an artist can. . . . But--believe anold man, dear sir--you on your horse are not only misreading theSermon but mistaking the Mount!"

Mr. Colt rode off to his squad, and none too soon; for the men, startled by Mr. Isidore's sudden onslaught of authority and theexplosive language in which he ordered them hither and thither, cursing one for his slowness with the measuring-tape, taking anotherby the shoulders and pushing him into position, began to show signsof mutiny. Mr. Julius Bamberger mopped a perspiring brow as he ranabout vainly trying to interpose. 

"Isidore, this is damned nonsense, I tell you!"

"You leave 'em to me, " panted Mr. Isidore. "Tell me I don'tunderstand managing a crowd like this! It's part of ze _method_, mygoot Julius. Put ze fear of ze Lord into 'em, to start wiz. Zey gromble at first; Zen zey findt zey like it: in the endt zey lofyou. _Hein_? It is not for nozzing zey call me ze BageantKing! . . . "

The old man and the child, left to themselves, watched theseoperations for a while across the greensward, over which the elms nowbegan to lengthen their shadows. 

"The Chaplain was right, " said Brother Copas. "Mr. Isidore certainlydoes not let the grass grow under his feet. "

"If I were the grass, I shouldn't want to, " said Corona. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

GARDEN AND LAUNDRY. 

"The nasty pigs!"

Nurse Branscome's face, usually composed and business-like(as a nurse's should be), was aflush between honest shame and equallyhonest scorn. 

"To be sure, " said Brother Copas soothingly. He had met her bychance in the ambulatory on her way from Brother Bonaday's rooms. On a sudden resolve he had told her of the anonymous letter, notshowing it, but conveying (delicately as he might) its substance. "To be sure, " he repeated. "But I am thinking--"

"As if I don't know your thoughts!" she interrupted vigorously. "You are thinking that, to save scandal, I had better cease myattendance on Brother Bonaday, and hand over the case to NurseTurner. That I could do, of course; and if _he_ knows of it, I certainly shall. Have you told him?"

Brother Copas shook his head. 

"No. What is more, I have not the smallest intention of tellinghim. "

"Thank you. . . . Oh, but it is vile--vile!"

"So vile that, believe me, I had great difficulty in telling you. "

"I am sure you had. . . . I can hand over the case to Nurse Turner, of course; in fact, it came on her _rota_, but she asked me as afavour to take it, having her hands full just then with Brother Royleand Brother Dasent's rheumatics. It will be hard, though, to give upthe child. " Nurse Branscome flushed again. "Oh, yes--you are agentleman, Brother Copas, and will not misunderstand! I have taken agreat liking for the child, and she will ask questions if I suddenlydesert her. You see the fix? . . . Besides, Nurse Turner--I hope Iam not becoming like one of these people, but I must say it--NurseTurner has not a nice mind. "

"There we get at it, " said Brother Copas. "As a fact, you were farfrom reading my thoughts just now. They did not (forgive me) concernthemselves with you or your wisest line of conduct. You are a grownwoman, and know well enough that honesty will take care of its own inthe end. I was thinking rather of Corona. As you say, she has laidsome hold upon the pair of us. She has a pathetic belief in all theinmates of St. Hospital--and God pity us if our corruption infectsthis child! . . . You take me?"

Nurse Branscome looked at him squarely. 

"If I could save her from that!"

"You would risk appearances?"

"Gladly. . . . Will you show me the letter?"

Brother Copas shook his head. 

"You must take it on faith from me for a while . . . At any rateuntil I find out who in St. Hospital begins her 'w's' with a curllike a ram's horn. Did you leave the child with her father?"

"No; she had run out to the kitchen garden. Since she has discoveredit she goes there regularly twice a day, morning and evening. I can't think why, and she won't tell. She is the queerest child. "

The walled kitchen garden of St. Hospital lies to the south, betweenthe back of the "Nunnery" and the River Mere. It can be reached fromthe ambulatory by a dark, narrow tunnel under the nurses' lodgings. The Brethren never went near it. For years old Battershall, thegardener, had dug there in solitude--day in, day out--and had grownhis vegetables, hedged in from all human intercourse, nor grumblingat his lot. 

Corona, exploring the precincts, had discovered this kitchen garden, found it to her mind, and thereafter made free of it with thecheerfullest _insouciance_. The dark tunnel, to begin with, put herin mind of some adventure in a fairy tale she could not recall; butit opened of a sudden and enchantingly upon sunshine and beds ofonions, parsley, cabbages, with pale yellow butterflies hovering. Old Battershall, too, though taciturn, was obviously not displeasedby her visits. He saw that while prying here and there--especiallyamong the parsley beds, for what reason he could not guess--the childstole no fruit, did no harm. She trampled nothing. She lifted noleaf to harm it. When she stopped to speak with him her talk was"just nonsense, you know. " Unconsciously, by the end of the thirdday he had looked up twice or thrice from his delving, asking himselfwhy she was late. 

And what (do you suppose) did Corona seek in the kitchen garden?She too, unknowing, was lonely. Unknowing, this child felt a needfor children, companions. Uncle Copas's doll--well meant and pricedat 1s. 3d. --had somehow missed to engage her affections. She couldnot tell him so, but she hated it. 

Like every woman-child of her age she was curious about babies. She had heard, over in America, that babies came either at earlymorning or at shut of eve, and were to be found in parsleybeds. Now old Mr. Battershall grew parsley to make you proud. At the Merchester Rural Gardening Show he regularly took first prize;his potting-shed, in the north-east angle of the wall, was paperedwith winning tickets from bench to roof. At first when he saw Coronamoving about the bed, lifting the parsley leaves, he had a mind tochide her away; for, as he put it, "Children and chicken be alwaysa-pickin'--the mischief's in their natur'. " Finding, however, thatshe did no damage, yet harked back to the parsley again and again, heset her down for an unusually intelligent child, who somehow knewgood gardening when she saw it. 

"Glad to see you admirin' it, missie, " he said one morning, coming upbehind her unperceived. 

Corona, in the act of upturning a leaf, started and drew back herhand. Babies--she could not tell why--made their appearance in thisworld by stealth, and must be searched for furtively. 

"A mort o' prizes I've took with that there parsley one time andanother, " pursued Mr. Battershall, not perceiving the flush of guilton her face (for his eyesight was, in his own words, not so young asit used to be). "Goodbody's Curly Mammoth is the strain, and I don'tcare who knows it, for the secret's not in the strain, but in the wayo' raisin' it. I grows for a succession, too. Summer or winterthese six-an'-twenty years St. Hospital's ne'er been without a finebed o' parsley, I thank the Lord!"

Six-and-twenty years. . . . It was comforting in a way to know thatparsley grew here all the seasons round. But--six-and-twenty years, and not one child in the place save herself, who had come over fromAmerica! Yet Mr. Battershall was right; it _seemed_ excellentparsley. 

"You don't find that anything comes and--and takes away--" shehazarded, but came to a full stop. 

"There's slugs, " answered Mr. Battershall stolidly, "and there'ssnails. Terrible full o' snails the old wall was till I got theMaster to repoint it. "

"Would snails--"

"Eh?" he asked as she hesitated. 

"They might take away the--the flowers, for instance. "

Old Battershall guffawed. 

"You wasn' sarchin' for flowers, was you? Dang me, but that's a good'un! . . . I don't raise my own seed, missie, if that's your meanin';an' that bein' so, he'd have to get up early as would find a flowerin my parsley. "

Ah, this might explain it! As she eyed him, her childish mindsearching the mystery, yet keeping its own secret, Corona resolved tosteal down to the garden one of these fine mornings very earlyindeed. 

"Now I'll tell you something about parsley, " said Mr. Battershall;"something very curious, and yet it must be true, for I heard theMaster tell it in one of his sermons. The ancients, by which I meanthe Greeks, set amazin' store by the yerb. There was a kind ofAthletic Sports--sort of Crystal Palace meetin'--_the_ great event, as you might say, and attractin' to sportsmen all over Greece--"

"All over what?"

"Greece. Which is a country, missy, or, at any rate, was so. The meeting was held every four years; and what d'ye suppose was thetop prize, answerin', as you may say, to the Championship Cup?Why, a wreath o' parsley! 'Garn!' says you. And 'Parsley!' saysyou. Which a whole wreath of it might cost fivepence at theoutside. . . . "

Now Corona, whose mind was ever picking up and hoarding such trifles, had heard Uncle Copas two days before drop a remark that the Greeksknew everything worth knowing. Plainly, then, the parsley held somewonderful secret after all. She must contrive to outwit oldBattershall, and get to the garden ahead of him, which would not beeasy, by the way. 

To begin with, on these summer mornings old Battershall rose with thelark, and boasted of it; and, furthermore, the door of her father'sbedroom stood open all night. To steal abroad she must pass it, andhe was the lightest of sleepers. She did not intend to be beaten, though; and meanwhile she punctually visited the parsley morning andevening. 

Heaven knows how the day-dream came to take possession of her. She was not consciously lonely. She worshipped this marvellous newhome. Sometimes in her rambles she had to pinch herself to makesure this was all really happening. But always in her rambles shesaw St. Hospital peopled with children--boys, girls, and littletoddlers--chasing one another across the lawns, laughing athide-and-seek in the archways, bruising no flower-bed, filling oldsouls with glee. They were her playmates, these innocents of herfancy, the long day through. At evening in her prayers she calledthem home, and they came reluctant--

 No, no, let us play, for it is yet day And we cannot go to sleep; Besides, in the sky the little birds fly And the hills are all covered with sheep. 

The tunnel was populous with them as she passed through it from thegarden to the ambulatory, and at the end of the tunnel she came plumpupon Branny and Uncle Copas in converse. They started guiltily. 

"I've been looking for you this half-hour, " said Brother Copas, recovering himself. "Didn't a certain small missy make anappointment with me to be shown the laundry and its wonders?And isn't this Tuesday--ironing day?"

"You promised to show it to me _some time_, " answered Corona, who waspunctilious in small matters; "but you never fixed any time inp'tic'lar. "

"Oh, then I must have made the appointment with myself! Never mind;come along now, if you can spare the time. "

Nurse Branscome nodded and left them, turning in at the stairwaywhich led to her quarters in the Nunnery. At the foot of it shepaused to call after them--

"Mind, Corona is not to be late for her tea! I've invited myselfthis evening, and there is to be a plum cake in honour of theoccasion. "

Brother Copas and Corona passed down the ambulatory and by theporter's lodge to the outer court. Of a sudden, within a few pacesof the laundry, Brother Copas halted to listen. 

"You had better stop here for a moment, " he said, and walked forwardto the laundry door, the hasp of which he lifted after knockingsharply with his staff. He threw the door open and looked in, surveying the scene with an angry disgust. 

"Hallo! More abominations?" exclaimed Brother Copas. 

The quarrel had started in the forenoon over a dirty trick played byBrother Clerihew, the ex-butler. (Brother Clerihew had a name forunderhand practice; indeed, his inability to miss a chance of it hadcost him situation after situation, and finally landed him in St. Hospital. ) This time he had played it upon poor old dodderingBrother Ibbetson. Finding Ibbetson in the porter's gateway, withcharge of a lucrative-looking tourist and in search of the key of theRelique Room, he noted that the key, usually handed out by PorterManby, hung on a hook just within the doorway; but old Ibbetson, being purblind, could not see it, or at all events could notrecognise it, and Manby happened to be away at the brewhouse on someerrand connected with the Wayfarers' Dole. Brother Clerihew, who hadleft him there, sent Ibbetson off on a chase in the wrong direction, loitered around for a couple of minutes chatting about the weather, and then, with a remark that it was shameful to keep gentlefolkswaiting so, looked casually in at the doorway. 

"Why the key is here all the time!" he exclaimed. "If you are in anyhurry, sir, permit me to take brother Ibbetson's place, and show youround. Oh, " he added falsely, seeing the visitor hesitate, "it won'thurt _him_ at all! I don't like to mention it, but any smallgratuities bestowed on the Brethren are carried to a common fund. "

Ibbetson, harking back from a vain search to find his bird had flown, encountered Porter Manby returning with Brother Warboise from thebrew-house, and tremulously opened up his distress. 

"Eh?" snapped Warboise, after exchanging glances with the Porter. "Clerihew said Manby was in the kitchen, did he? But he'd left us atthe brewhouse not a minute before. "

"And the key! gone from the hook!" chimed in Porter Manby, "whereI'll swear I left it. This is one of Clerihew's monkeyings, youbet. "

"I'll monkey him, " growled Brother Warboise. 

The three kept sentry, knowing that Clerihew must sooner or laterreturn with his convoy, there being no other exit. When at length hehove in sight with his convoy his face wore an uneasy, impudentsmile. He was the richer by half a crown. They stood aside and lethim brazen it past them; but Manby and Ibbetson were still waitingfor him as he came back alone. Ibbetson was content with a look ofreproach. Manby told him fair and straight that he was a swindlingcur. But meanwhile Warboise had stumped off and told Ibbetson'swife. This done, he hurried off, and catching Clerihew by the stepsof the Hundred Men's Hall, threatened the rogue with his staff. Manby caught them in altercation, the one aiming impotent blows, theother evading them still with his shameless grin, and separated them. Brother Ibbetson looked on, feebly wringing his hands. 

But Mrs. Ibbetson was worth three of her husband, and a notoriousscold. In the laundry, later on, she announced within earshot ofMrs. Clerihew that, as was well beknown, Clerihew had lost his lastthree places for bottle-stealing; and Mrs. Royle, acknowledged viragoof St. Hospital, took up the accusation and blared it obscenely. For a good five minutes the pair mauled Mrs. Clerihew, who, with anair of high gentility, went on ironing shirts. She had been a lady'smaid when Clerihew married her, and could command, as a rule, a high-bred, withering sneer. Unhappily, the united attack of Mrs. Ibbetson and Mrs. Royle goaded her so far beyond the bounds ofbreeding that of a sudden she upped and called the latter a bitch;whereupon, feeling herself committed, this ordinarily demure womanstraightened her spine and followed up the word with a torrent offilthy invective that took the whole laundry aback. 

Her success was but momentary. Mrs. Royle had a character tomaintain. Fetching a gasp, she let fly the dirtiest word one womancan launch at another, and on the instant made a grab at Mrs. Clerihew's brow. . . . It was a matter of notoriety in St. Hospitalthat Mrs. Clerihew wore a false "front. " The thing came away in Mrs. Royle's clutch, and amid shrieks of laughter Mrs. Royle tossed it toMrs. Ibbetson, who promptly clapped down a hot flat-iron upon it. The spectators rocked with helpless mirth as the poor woman strove tocover her bald brows, while the thing hissed and shrivelled tonothing, emitting an acrid odour beneath the relentless flat-iron. 

"Ladies! ladies!" commanded Brother Copas. "A visitor, if youplease!"

The word--as always in St. Hospital--instantly commanded a hush. The women fled back to their tables, and started ironing, goffering, crimping for dear life, with irons hot and cold. Brother Copas, witha chuckle, leant back and beckoned Corona in from the yard. 

At sight of her on the threshold Mrs. Royle broke into a coarselaugh. It found no echo, and died away half-heartedly. For onething, there might yet be a real visitor behind the child; foranother, these women stood in some little awe of Brother Copas, whopaid well for his laundry-work, never mixed himself up with gossip, and moreover had a formidable trick of lifting his hat whenever hepassed one of these viragoes, and after a glance at her face, fixingan amused stare at her feet. 

"Pardon me, ladies, " said he; "but my small laundry-work has hithertogone, as you know, to old Mrs. Vigurs in St. Faith's Road. Last weekshe sent me word that she could no longer undertake it, the factbeing that she has just earned her Old Age Pension and is retiringupon it. I come to ask if one of you will condescend to take herplace and oblige me. "

He paused, tasting the fun of it. As he well knew, they all fearedand hated him for his trick of irony; but at least half a dozen ofthem desired his custom, for in St. Hospital (where nothing escapednotice) Brother Copas's fastidious extravagance in body-linen and hispunctuality in discharging small debts were matters of commonknowledge. Moreover, in their present mood each of these women saw achance of spiting another by depriving her of the job. 

Brother Copas eyed them with an amiable smile. 

"Come, " he said, "don't all speak at once! . . . I'll not ask you tobid for my little contract just now when I see you are all so busy. But seriously, I invite tenders, and will ask any one of you whocares for my custom to send me (say by to-morrow evening) a list ofher prices in a sealed envelope, each envelope to bear the words'Washing List' in an upper corner, that I may put all the tendersaside and open them together. Eh? What do you say, ladies?"

"I shall be happy for one, " said Mrs. Clerihew, laying stress on theaspirate. She was always careful of this, having lived withgentlefolks. She burned to know if Brother Copas had heard her callMrs. Royle a bitch. Mrs. Royle (to do her justice) when enragedrecked neither what she said nor who overheard. But Mrs. Clerihew, between her lapses, clung passionately to gentility and the world'sesteem. She was conscious, moreover, that without her false "front"she must be looking a fright. . . . In short, the wretched womanrushed into speech because for the moment anything was more tolerablethan silence. 

"I thank you, ma'am. "

Neither voice nor look betrayed that Brother Copas had overheard orperceived anything amiss. 

Mrs. Clerihew, baffled, began desperately to curry favour. 

"And you've brought Brother Bonaday's pretty child, I see. . . . Stepover here, my dear, and watch me--when I've heated this iron. 'Crimping, ' they call it, and I've done it for titled folks in mytime. One of these days, I hope, you'll be going into good serviceyourself. There's nothing like it for picking up manners. "

She talked for talking's sake, in a carneying tone, while her bosomstill heaved from the storm of battle. 

Mrs. Royle attempted a ribald laugh, but it met with no success, andher voice died down under a disapproving hush. 

Mrs. Clerihew talked on, gaining confidence. She crimpedbeautifully, and this was the more remarkable because (as Coronanoted) her hand shook all the while. 

In short, the child had, as she put it, quite a good time. 

When it was time to be going she thanked Mrs. Clerihew very prettily, and walked back with Brother Copas to her father's room. They foundNurse Branscome there and the table already laid for tea; there was aplum cake, too. 

After tea Branny told them all very gravely that this must be herlast visit. She was giving over the care of Corona's fatherto Nurse Turner, whose "case" it had really been from the first. She explained that the nurses, unless work were extra heavy, had totake their patients in a certain order, by what she called a _rota_. 

"But he's bettering every day now, so I don't mind. " She noddedcheerfully towards Brother Bonaday, and then, seeing that Corona'sface was woebegone, she added: "But you will often be running acrossto the Nunnery to see me. Besides, I've brought a small parting giftto console you. "

She unwrapped a paper parcel, and held out a black boy-doll, a realGolliwog, with white shirt buttons for eyes and hair of black Berlinwool. 

"Oh, Branny!"

Corona, after holding the Golliwog a moment in outstretched hands, strained it to her breast. 

"Oh, Branny! And till this moment I didn't know how much I've wantedhim!"

CHAPTER XIV. 

BROTHER COPAS ON THE HOUSE OF LORDS. 

All love being a mystery, I see no reason to speculate how or why itcame to pass that Corona, who already possessed two pink and waxengirl-dolls, and treated them with the merest contempt, took thisblack manikin of a Golliwog straight to her heart to share itsinnermost confidences. 

It happened so, and there's no more to be said. Next morning Coronapaid an early call at the Nunnery. 

"I'm afraid, " she said in her best society manner, "this is aperfeckly ridiklous hour. But you are responsible for Timothy in away, aren't you?"

"Timothy?" echoed Nurse Branscome. 

"Oh, I forgot!" Corona patted the red-trousered legs of theGolliwog, which she held, not as little girls usually hold dolls, buttucked away under her armpit. "Timothy's his name, though I mean tocall him Timmy for short. But the point is, he's becoming rather aquestion. "

"In what way?"

"Well, you see, I have to take him to bed with me. He insists on it, which is all very well, " continued Corona, nodding sagely, "but onecan't allow it in the same clothes day and night. It's like whatUncle Copas says of Brother Plant's linen; it positively isn't_sanitary_. "

"I see, " said Branny, laughing. "You want me to make a change ofgarments for him?"

"I've examined him, " answered Corona. "There's a stitch here andthere, but on the whole he'll unbutton quite easily; only I didn'tlike to do it until I'd consulted you. . . . And I don't want you tobother about the clothes, if you'll only show me how to cut out. I can sew quite nicely. Mamma taught me. I was making a sampler allthrough her illness--_Corona Bonaday, Aged Six Years and ThreeMonths_; then the big and little ABC, and the numbers up to ten;after that the Lord's Prayer down to _Forgive us our trespasses_. When we got to that she died. . . . I want to begin with a suit ofpajamas--no, I forgot; they're _py_jamas over here. Whateverhappens, I _do_ want him to be a gentleman, " concluded Coronaearnestly. 

The end was that Nurse Branscome hunted up a piece of colouredflannel, and Master Timothy that same evening was stripped to indue apyjama suit. Corona carried him thus attired off to her bed intriumph--but not to sleep. Brother Bonaday, lying awake, heard hervoice running on and on in a rapid monotone. Ten o'clock struck, andhe could endure the sound no longer. It seemed to him that she mustbe rambling in delirium, and slipping on his dressing-gown, he stoleto her chamber door. 

"Cannot you get to sleep, little maid?"

"Is that you, daddy?" answered Corona. "I am so sorry, but Timmy andI have been arguing. He's such a queer child; he has a lingeringbelief in the House of Lords!"

"Now I wonder how she gets at that?" mused Brother Bonaday when hereported the saying to Copas. 

"Very simply we shall find; but you must give me a minute or so tothink it out. "

"To be sure, with her American up-bringing there might naturally growan instinctive disrespect for the hereditary principle. "

"I have not observed that disrespect in Americans, " answered BrotherCopas dryly. "But we'll credit it to them if you will; and there atonce you have a capital reason why our little Miss Bull shouldworship the House of Lords as a fetish--whereas, it appears, shedoesn't. "

"It's the queerer because, when it comes to the King, she worshipsthe 'accident of birth, ' as you might call it. To her King Edward isnothing less than the Lord's Anointed. "

"Quite so. . . . But please, my dear fellow, don't clap into _my_mouth that silliest of phrases. 'Accident of birth!' I once heardparturition pleaded as an accident--by a servant girl in trouble. Funny sort of accident, hey? Does ever anyone--did she, your owndaughter, for example--come into this world fortuitously?"

Brother Copas, taking snuff, did not perceive the twitch of hisfriend's face. His question seemed to pluck Brother Bonaday upshort, as though with the jerk of an actual rope. 

"Maybe, " he harked back vaguely, "it's just caprice--theinconsequence of a child's mind--the mystery of it, some would say. "

"Fiddlestick-end! There's as much mystery in Corona as in thelight of day about us at this moment; just so much and no more. If anything, she's deadly logical; when her mind puzzles us it'snever by hocus-pocus, but simply by swiftness in operation. . . . I've learnt that much of the one female child it has ever been my lotto observe; and the Lord may allow me to enjoy the success towardsthe close of a life largely spent in misunderstanding boys. Stay a moment--" Brother Copas stood with corrugated brow. "I have it! I remember now that she asked me, two days ago, if Ididn't think it disgusting that so many of our English Peers went andmarried American heiresses merely for their money. Probably shesupposes that on these means our ancient nobility mainly financesitself. She amused me, too, by her obvious reluctance to blame themen. 'Of course, ' she said, 'the real fault is the women's, or wouldbe if they knew what's decent. But you can't expect anything of_them_; they've had no nurture. ' That was her word. So being a justchild, she has to wonder how Englishmen 'with nurture' can so demeanthemselves to get money. In short, my friend, your daughter--forlove of us both maybe--is taking our picturesqueness too honestly. She inclines to find a merit of its own in poverty. It is high timewe sent her to school. "

It was high time, as Brother Bonaday knew; if only because everychild in England nowadays is legally obliged to be educated, and thelocal attendance officer (easily excused though he might be for somedelay in detecting the presence of a child of alien birth in sounlikely a spot as St. Hospital) would surely be on Corona's trackbefore long. But Brother Bonaday hated the prospect of sending herto the parish school, while he possessed no money to send her to abetter. Moreover, he obeyed a lifelong instinct in shying away fromthe call to decide. 

"But we were talking about the House of Lords, " he suggested feebly. "The hereditary principle--"

Brother Copas inhaled his snuff, sideways eyeing this friend whoseweakness he understood to a hair's-breadth. But he, too, had hisweakness--that of yielding to be led away by dialectic on the firsttemptation. 

"Aye, to be sure. The hereditary--principle, did you say?My dear fellow, the House of Lords never had such a principle. The hereditary right to legislate slipped in by the merest slant of aside wind, and in its origin was just a handy expedient of the sortso dear to our Constitution, logically absurd, but in practice savingno end of friction and dispute. "

"You will grant at any rate that, having once adopted it, the Lordsexalted it to rank as a principle. "

"Yes, and for a time with amazing success. That was their capitalerror. . . . Have you never observed, my good Bonaday, how fatallymiracles come home to roost? Jonah spends three days and threenights in the whale's belly--why? Simply to get his tale believed. _Credo quia impossibile_ seldom misses to work well for a while. He doesn't foresee, poor fellow, that what makes his fortune with onegeneration of men will wreck his credit with another. . . . So withthe House of Lords--though here a miracle triumphantly pointed out ashappening under men's eyes was never really happening at all. That in the loins of every titled legislator should lie the germ ofanother is a miracle (I grant you) of the first order, and may viewith Jonah's sojourn in the whale's belly; nay, it deserved an evenlonger run for its money, since it persuaded people that they saw themiraculous succession. But Nature was taking care all the time thatit never happened. Actually our peerages have perished, and new oneshave been born at an astonishing rate; about half of them at thismoment are younger than the great Reform Bill. A shrewd Americanremarked the other day, that while it is true enough a son may notinherit his father's ability, yet if the son of a Rothschild can keepthe money his father made he must in these days of liquid securitiesbe a pretty able fellow. Weaklings (added my American) don't lastlong, at any rate in our times. 'God and Nature turn out theincompetents almost as quickly as would the electorate. ' . . . But my point is that the House of Lords, having in the past exploitedthis supposed miracle for all it was worth, are now (if the Liberalshave any sense) to be faced with the overdraft which every miracleleaves to be paid sooner or later. The longer-headed among the Peersperceived this some years ago; they all see it now, and are tumblingover each other in their haste to dodge the 'hereditary principle'somehow. It is for the Liberals to hold them firmly to the dear oldmiracle and rub their noses in it. So, and so only, will thiselectorate of ours rid itself, under a misapprehension, of a realperil, to which, if able to see the thing in its true form anddimensions, it would in all likelihood yield itself grovelling. "

"Eh? I don't follow--"

"I tell you, Bonaday, the House of Lords is in fact no hereditarycurse at all. What the devil has it to do with the claims of olddescent? Does it contain a man whose ancestor ever saw Agincourt?Bankers, brewers, clothiers, mine-owners, company-promoters, journalists--our Upper House to-day is a compact, fairlywell-selected body of men who have pushed to success over theirfellows. Given such a body of supermen, well agreed amongthemselves, and knowing what they want, supplied with everytemptation to feed on the necessities of the weak, armed withextravagant legal powers, even fortified with a philosophy in thesham Darwin doctrine that, with nations as with men, the poverty ofone is the wealth of another--there, my dear sir, you have a menaceagainst which, could they realise it, all moderate citizens would befighting for their lives. . . . But it is close upon dinner-time, andI refuse to extend these valuable but parenthetical remarks on theHouse of Lords one whit farther to please your irresolution. . . . It's high time Corona went to school. "

"I have not been well lately, as you know, Brother. I meant allalong, as soon as I picked up my strength again, to--"

"Tilly vally, tilly vally!" snapped Brother Copas. "Since we aremaking excuses shall we add that, without admitting ourselves to besnobs, we have remarked a certain refinement--a delicacy of mind--inCorona, and doubt if the bloom of it will survive the rough contactof a public elementary school? . . . Come, I've thought of that, as agodfather should. You're aware that, a couple of years ago, a smalllegacy dropped in upon me--a trifling windfall of ten guineas a year. Well, I've been wasting it on luxuries--a few books I don't read, amore expensive brand of tobacco, which really is no better than theold shag, some extra changes of body-linen. Now since the EducationAct of 1902 the fees in the public secondary day schools have beencut down to a figure quite ridiculously low, and the private dayschools have been forced to follow suit. I dare say that sevenpounds a year will send Corona, say, to Miss Dickinson's genteelseminary--nay, I'll undertake to beat the lady down to that sum--andI shall still be left with three pounds and ten shillings to squanderon shirts. Now if you start thanking me--Ah, there goes thedinner-bell! Hurry, man--you're first on the roster!"

CHAPTER XV. 

CANARIES AND GREYCOATS. 

So Corona was sent to school; but not, as it befell, to MissDickinson's. 

Brother Copas, indeed, paid a visit to Miss Dickinson, and, warned bysome wise instinct, took the child with him. 

Miss Dickinson herself opened the front door, and explained with anaccent of high refinement that her house-parlourmaid was indisposedthat morning, and her cook busy for the moment. 

"You have some message for me?" she asked graciously; for theBrethren of St. Hospital pick up a little business as letter-carriersor _commissionaires_. 

On learning her visitor's errand, of a sudden she stiffened indemeanour. Corona, watching her face intently, noted the change. 

"Dear me, what a very unusual application!" said Miss Dickinson, butnevertheless invited them to step inside. 

"We can discuss matters more freely without the child, " shesuggested. 

"As you please, ma'am, " said Copas, "provided you don't ask her towait in the street. "

Corona was ushered into an apartment at the back--the boudoir, itsmistress called it--and was left there amid a din of singingcanaries, while Miss Dickinson carried off Brother Copas to thedrawing-room. 

The boudoir contained some scholastic furniture and a vast numberof worthless knick-knacks in poker-work, fret-work, leathern_applique_-work, gummed shell-work, wool-work, tambour-work, withcrystoleum paintings and drawings in chalk and water-colour. On a table in front of the window stood a cage with five canariessinging in it. Corona herself felt a sense of imprisonment, but nodesire to sing. The window looked upon a walled yard, in whichfifteen girls of various ages were walking through some kind of drillunder an instructress whose appearance puzzled her until sheremembered that Miss Dickinson's cook was "busy for the moment. "

Corona watched their movements with an interest begotten of pity. The girls whispered and prinked, and exchanged confidences withself-conscious airs. They paid but a perfunctory attention to thedrill. It was clear they despised their instructress. Yet theyseemed happy enough in a way. 

"I wonder why?" thought Corona. "I don't like Miss Dickinson; first, because she has the nose of a witch, and next because she is afraidof us. I think she is afraid of us because we're poor. Well, I'mnot afraid of her--not really; but I'd feel mighty uncomfortable ifshe had dear old daddy in there alone instead of Uncle Copas. "

Meanwhile in the drawing-room--likewise resonant with canaries--MissDickinson was carefully helping Brother Copas to understand that as arule she excluded all but children of the upper classes. 

"It is not--if you will do me so much credit--that I _look down_ uponthe others; but I find that the children themselves are not sohappy when called upon to mix with those of a different station. The world, after all, is the world, and we must face facts as theyare. "

"You mean, ma'am, that your young ladies--or some of them--might twitCorona for having a father who wears the Beauchamp robe. "

"I would not say _that_. . . . In fact I have some influence overthem, it is to be hoped, and should impress upon them beforehand thatthe--er--subject is not to be alluded to. "

"That would be extremely tactful, " said Brother Copas. 

He rose. 

"Pray be seated. . . . As I dare say you know, Mr. --"

"Copas. "

"--As I dare say you know, Mr. Copas, higher education in Englandjust now is passing through a--er--phase: it is (to use a forcible, if possibly vulgar, expression) in a state of flux. I do not concealfrom myself that this must be largely attributed to the Education Actof 1902. "

"Ah!"

Brother Copas dived finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket insearch of his snuff-box, but, recollecting himself, withdrew themhastily. 

"Mr Balfour, whether he meant it or no, hit the private-ventureschools beyond a doubt. "

"One may trust that it is but a temporary blow. I have, let me say, the utmost confidence in Mr. Balfour's statesmanship. I believe--far-sighted man that he is, and with his marvellous apprehension ofthe English character--"

"'Tis a Scotchman's first aptitude, " murmured Brother Copas, noddingassent. 

"--I believe Mr. Balfour looked beyond the immediate effect of theAct and saw that, after the Municipalities' and County Councils'first success in setting up secondary schools of their own, each with its quota of poor, non-paying children, our sturdyBritish independence would rise against the--er--contact. The self-respecting parent is bound to say in time, 'No, I will _not_have my son, still less my daughter, sitting with Tom, Dick andHarry. ' Indeed, I see signs of this already--most encouraging signs. I have two more pupils this term than last, both children ofrespectable station. "

"I congratulate you, ma'am, and I feel sure that Mr. Balfourwould congratulate himself, could he hear. But meantime theprivate-venture schools have been hit, especially those not fortunateenough to be 'recognised' by the Board of Education. "

"I seek no such recognition, sir, " said Miss Dickinson stiffly. 

Brother Copas bowed. 

"Forgive, ma'am, the intrusive ghost of a professional interest. I myself once kept a private school for boys. A precarious venturealways, and it required no Education Act to wreck mine. "

"Indeed?" Miss Dickinson raised her eyebrows in faint surprise, andanon contracted them. "Had I known that you belonged to thescholastic profession--" she began, but leaving the sentenceunfinished, appeared to relapse into thought. 

"Believe me, ma'am, " put in Brother Copas, "I mentioned it casually, not as hinting at any remission of your fees. "

"No, no. But I was thinking that it might considerably softenthe--er--objection. You are not the child's parent, you say?Nor grandparent?"

"Her godparent only, and that by adoption. In so much as I makemyself responsible for her school fees, you may consider me herguardian. Her father, Brother Bonaday, is a decayed gentleman, sometime of independent means, who married late in life, and, on topof this, was indiscreet enough to confide his affairs to a trustedfamily solicitor. "

"Dear, dear! Why did you not tell me all this to begin with?"demanded Miss Dickinson, rising. "Shall we consider it agreed, then?--the child to come to me as soon as you wish. "

"I think we must first discover if she's willing, " answered BrotherCopas, rubbing his chin. 

"We will go to her. "

They found Corona at the window of the boudoir. As the door openedshe turned, ran to Brother Copas, and clung to him. 

"Take me home! Oh, please take me home!"

"Hey?" Brother Copas soothed her, patting the back of her head. "Why, what is the matter, little maid? Who has been frighteningyou?"

"She turns them all into canaries--I know she does!" the childasserted, still shaking pitiably, but facing Miss Dickinson withaccusation in her eyes. "You can tell it by her nose and chin. I--I thought you had gone away and left me with her. "

"You did not tell me she was hysterical, " said Miss Dickinson. 

"It's news to me, ma'am. I'd best get her out into the fresh air atonce. "

Without waiting for permission, he swept Corona out into the passage, and forth into the street. It is a question which felt the happierwhen they gained it, and stood drawing long breaths; but, of course, Brother Copas had to put on a severe face. 

"All very well, little maid!"

"Oh, I know you're disappointed with me, " gasped Corona. "I'mdisappointed with myself. But it was all just like _Jorinda andJorindel_; and if she's not a witch, and doesn't turn them intocanaries, why does she keep all those cages?" She halted suddenly. "I hate to be a coward, " she said. "If you'll come with me, UncleCopas, I'll start back right here, and we'll go in and rescue them. It was the waiting I couldn't stand. "

"Canaries?" Brother Copas stood and looked down on her. Some apprehension of the absurd fancy broke on him, and he chuckled. "Now you come to mention it, I dare say she _does_ turn 'em intocanaries. "

"Then we ought to go straight back and set them free, " insistedCorona. "If only we had the magic flower!"

"I think I know who has it. . . . Yes, you may take it from me, little one, that there's someone charged to put an end to MissDickinson's enchantments, and we may safely leave it to him. "

"Who is he?"

"The deliverer's name is County Council. . . . But look here, child--if you make a fuss like this whenever I try to find a school foryou--"

"I won't make a fuss. And I _do_ want to go to school, " interruptedCorona. "I want to go to the Greycoats. "

"The Greycoats?" This was an ancient foundation in the city, inorigin a charity-school, but now distinguished from the ordinaryElementary Schools in that its pupils paid twopence a week, and worea grey uniform provided _per contra_ from the funds of the charity. "The Greycoats?" repeated Brother Copas. "But I had a mind for youto fly higher, if you understand--"

Corona nodded. 

"And so I shall; that is, uncle, if you'll teach me Latin, as youpromised. "

She was easy in mind, since Miss Dickinson's canaries would bedelivered. The name "County Council" meant nothing to her, but ithad affinity with other names and titles of romance--CaptainJudgment, for instance, in _The Holy War_, and County Guy in thepoetry book--

 Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh--

Since Uncle Copas had said it, Miss Dickinson's hour was assuredlynigh. 

"This is not the way, though, " Corona protested. "We are walkingright away from the Greycoats!"

Brother Copas halted. 

"I supposed that I was taking you back to St. Hospital. "

"But you came out to put me to school, and I want to go to theGreycoats. "

He pondered a moment. 

"Ah, well, have it your own way!"

They turned back toward the city. The Greycoats inhabited a long, single-storeyed building on the eastern boundary of the CathedralClose, the boys and girls in separate schools under the samehigh-pitched roof. As our two friends came in sight of it, Corona--who had been running ahead in her impatience--hesitated of a suddenand turned about. 

"Uncle Copas, before we go in I want to tell you something. . . . I was really frightened--yes, really--in that wicked house. But I wanted to be a Greycoat all the time. I want to wear a cloakthat means I belong to Merchester, same as you and daddy. "

"Lord forgive me, she's proud of us!" murmured Brother Copas. "And I set out this morning to get her taught to despise us!"

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE SECOND LETTER. 

Meanwhile certain small events not unconnected with this history werehappening at St. Hospital. 

At ten o'clock punctually Mr. Colt waited on the Master. This was apart of the daily routine, but ninety-nine times in a hundred theChaplain's report resolved itself into a chat on the weather, theMaster's roses, some recent article in the _Church Times_ or the_Guardian_. The talk was never very strenuous; for whereas Mr. Coltcould never learn to distinguish one rose from another, on Churchaffairs or on politics the Master was hopelessly tolerant, antiquated, incurious even. What could one do with a dear oldgentleman who, when informed of the latest, most dangerous promotionto a bishopric, but responded with "Eh? 'So-and-so, ' did you say? . . . Yes, yes. I knew his father . . . An excellent fellow!"

This morning, however, the Chaplain wore a grave face. After a fewwords he came to business. 

"It concerns a letter I received this morning. The writer, whosigns himself 'Well Wisher, ' makes a disgusting allegation againstold Bonaday--an incredibly disgusting allegation. You will prefer toread it for yourself. "

Mr. Colt produced the letter from his pocket-book, and held it out. 

"Eh?" exclaimed Master Blanchminster, receding. "Another?"

"I beg your pardon--?"

The Master adjusted his glasses, and bent forward, still withoutoffering to touch the thing or receive it from Mr. Colt's hand. 

"Yes, yes. I recognise the handwriting. . . . To tell the truth, my dear Colt, I received just such a letter one day last week. For the moment it caused me great distress of mind. "

Mr. Colt was vexed, a little hurt, that the Master had not consultedhim about it. 

"You mean to say it contained--"

"--The same sort of thing, no doubt: charges against Brother Bonadayand against one of the nurses: incredibly disgusting, as you say. "

"May I be allowed to compare the two letters? . . . I do not, " saidMr. Colt stiffly, "seek more of your confidence than you care tobestow. "

"My dear fellow--" protested the Master. 

"I merely suggest that, since it concerns the discipline ofSt. Hospital--for which in the past you have honoured me with someresponsibility--"

"My dear fellow, you should see it and welcome; but the fact is--"Here the Master broke off. "I ought, no doubt, to have put itstraight into the fire. "

"Why?" asked Mr. Colt. 

"But the fact is, I gave it away. "

"Gave it away! . . . To whom, may I ask?"

"To Brother Copas, of all people, " confessed the Master with a ruefullittle chuckle. "Yes, I don't wonder that you stare: yet it happenedvery simply. You remember the day I asked you to send him to me fora talk about the Petition? Well, he found me in distress over thisletter, which I had just received, and on an impulse I showed it tohim. I really wanted his assurance that the charge was as baselessas it was foul, and that assurance he gave me. So you may with aneasy mind put your letter in the fire. "

"It would at any rate be a safer course than to give it away, " saidthe Chaplain, frowning. 

"A hit--a palpable hit! . . . I ought to have added that BrotherCopas has a notion he can discover the writer, whom he positivelyasserts to be a woman. So I allowed him to take the thing away withhim. I may as well confess, " the old man added, "that I live in somedread of his making the discovery. Of course it is horrible to thinkthat St. Hospital harbours anyone capable of such a letter; but todeal adequately with the culprit--especially if she be a woman--willbe for the moment yet more horrible. "

"Excuse me, Master, if I don't quite follow you, " said the Chaplainunsympathetically. "You appear to be exercised rather over thewriter than over Brother Bonaday, against whom the charge lies. "

"You have hit on the precise word, " answered Master Blanchminster, smiling. "Brother Copas assures me--"

"But is Brother Copas an entirely credible witness?"

The Master lifted his eyebrows in astonishment. 

"Why, who should know better? He is Brother Bonaday's closestfriend. Surely, my dear fellow, I had thought you were aware of_that_!"

In the face of this simplicity the Chaplain could only grind histeeth upon a helpless inward wrath. It took him some seconds torecover speech. 

"On my way here, " he said at length, "I made some small inquiries, and find that some days ago Nurse Branscome ceased her attendance onBonaday, handing over the case to our excellent Nurse Turner. This, of course, may mean little. "

"It may mean that Brother Copas has taken occasion to warn her. "

"It means, anyhow, that--whether prudently or by accident--she hasgiven pause to the scandal. In this pause I can, perhaps, makeoccasion to get at the truth; always with your leave, of course. "

"There can be no question of my giving leave or withholding it. You have received a private letter, which you perceive I have nodesire to read. You must act upon it as directed by your own--er--taste. And now shall we talk of something else?"

He said it with a mild dignity which effectively closed thediscussion and left Mr. Colt raging. In and about St. Hospital nineobservers out of ten would have told you that the Chaplain held thisdear, do-nothing old Master in the hollow of his hand, and on nineoccasions out of ten the Chaplain felt sure of it. On the tenth hefound himself mocked, as a schoolboy believes he has grasped abutterfly and opens his fingers cautiously, to find no prisonerwithin them. He could never precisely understand how it happened, and it never failed to annoy him heavily. 

After bidding the Master good morning he went straight to BrotherBonaday's lodging. Brother Bonaday, now fairly convalescent, was upand dressed and seated in his arm-chair, whiling away the morningwith a newspaper. In days of health he had been a diligent reader ofdull books; had indeed (according to his friend Copas--but the storymay be apocryphal) been known to sit up past midnight with anantiquated _Annual Report of the Registrar-General_, borrowed fromthe shelf of Brother Inchbald, whose past avocations had included theregistering of Births, Deaths and Marriages somewhere in Wiltshire. But of late, as sometimes happens in old age, books had lost theirsavour for him, and he preferred to let his eyes rest idly on life'spassing show as reflected in the _camera obscura_ of a halfpennypaper. 

He rose respectfully as the Chaplain entered. 

"Be seated, please, " said Mr. Colt. Declining a chair for himself, he planted his feet astraddle on the worn hearthrug. 

Standing so, with his back to the grate, his broad shoulders blockingout the lower half of a picture of the Infant Samuel above themantel-shelf, he towered over the frail invalid, concerning whosehealth he asked a few perfunctory questions before plunging intobusiness. 

"You're wondering what brings me here. Fact is, " he announced, "I'vecome to ask you a plain question--a question it's my duty to ask; andI think you're strong enough to answer it without any beating aboutthe bush on either side. For six months now I haven't seen you atHoly Communion. Why?"

Brother Bonaday's face twitched sharply. For a moment or two heseemed to be searching for an answer. His lips parted, but still noanswer came. 

"I know, you know, " said the Chaplain, nodding down at him. "I keepa record of these things--names and dates. "

Brother Bonaday might have answered--

"Quite so--and _that_ is why. "

Some churchmen--of the type for which Mr. Colt adequately catered--revel in professing their faith, and will parade for its holiestsacrament with an unabashed and hail-fellow sociability; anddoubtless for these 'brass-band communicants' (as Brother Copascalled them) a great deal may be said. But Brother Bonaday wasone of those others who, walking among mysteries, must hush thevoice and bow the head; to whom the Elements are awful, and in whomawe begets a sweet and tender shame. To be docketed as having, onsuch and such a day at such and such an hour, partaken of them was tohim an intolerable thought. To quote Brother Copas again, "These Neo-Catholics may well omit to fence the tables, confident inthe protection of their own vulgarity. "

Yet Brother Bonaday had another reason, on which the Chaplain hit--though brutally and by accident--in his next question. 

"Haven't anything on your conscience, hey?"

Brother Bonaday had something on his conscience. His face twitchedwith the pain of it; but still he made no answer. 

"If so, " Mr. Colt pursued, "take my advice and have it out. "He spoke as one recommending the extraction of a tooth. "You're a Protestant, I know, though you didn't sign that Petition;and I'm not here to argue about first principles. I'm come as afriend. All I suggest is, as between practical men, that you justgive the thing a trial. It may be pretty bad, " suggested Mr. Colt, dropping his air of authority and picking up his most insinuatingvoice. "I hear some pretty bad things; but I'll guarantee yourfeeling all the better for a clean breast. Come, let me make aguess. . . . It has something to do with this child of yours!"

Mr. Colt, looking down from his great height, saw the invalid's facecontracted by a sharp spasm, noted that his thin hands gripped uponthe arms of the chair so tightly that the finger-nails whitened, andsmiled to himself. Here was plain sailing. 

"I know more than you guessed, eh? Well, now, why not tell me thewhole truth?"

Brother Bonaday gazed up as if appealing for mercy, but shook hishead. 

"I cannot, sir. "

"Come, come--as to a friend, if you won't as to a priest? . . . Hang it all, my good man, you might give me credit for _that_, considering the chance I'm holding out! You don't surely supposethat St. Hospital will continue to suffer this scandal in its midst?"Still as Brother Bonaday shook his head, the Chaplain with a sign ofimpatience enlarged his hint. "Copas knows: I have it on the bestauthority. Was it he that dropped the hint to Nurse Branscome? ordid she herself scent the discovery and give over attending on you?"

"You won't--send her--away!" pleaded Brother Bonaday, thinking onlyof Corona. 

His voice came in a whisper, between gasps for breath. 

Mr. Colt stared. 

"Well, of all the calm requests--!" he began. 

But here the sound of a light running footstep cut him short. The door was pushed open, and on the threshold stood Corona, flushed, excited. 

"Daddy, guess! Oh, but you'll never! I'm a real live Greycoat, andif I don't tell Timmy before you ask a single question I shallburst!"

She came to a halt, her eyes on Mr. Colt. 

"'Tis the truth, " announced Brother Copas, overtaking her as shepaused in the doorway. "We shot at a canary, and--Good God!" heexclaimed, catching sight of Brother Bonaday's face. "Slip away andfetch the nurse, child!"

Corona ran. While she ran Brother Copas stepped past Mr. Colt, andslid an arm under his friend's head as it dropped sideways, blue withanguish. He turned on the tall Chaplain fiercely. 

"What devil's game have you been playing here?"

CHAPTER XVII. 

PUPPETS. 

Throughout the night Brother Bonaday hovered between life and death, nor until four days later did the doctor pronounce him out ofdanger--that is to say, for the time, since the trouble in his heartwas really incurable, and at best the frail little man's remainingdays could not be many. Nurse Turner waited on him assiduously, always with her comfortable smile. No trouble came amiss to her, andcertainly Nurse Branscome herself could not have done better. 

In a sense, too, Corona's first experiences of school-going befellher most opportunely. They would distract her mind, Brother Copasreflected, and tore up the letter he had written delaying hernoviciate on the ground of her father's illness. They did; and, moreover, the head mistress of the Greycoats, old Miss Champernowne, aware that the child's father was ill, possibly dying, took especialpains to be kind to her. 

Corona was dreadfully afraid her father would die. But, in the mainmost mercifully, youth lives for itself, not for the old. At homeshe could have given little help or none. The Brethren's quarterswere narrow--even Brother Bonaday's with its spare chamber--and untilthe crisis was over she could only be in the way. She gave up herroom, therefore, to Nurse Turner for the night watching, and wentacross to the Nunnery to lodge with Nurse Branscome. This again wasno hardship, but rather, under all her cloud of anxiety, a delightfuladventure; for Branny had at once engaged with her in a conspiracy. 

The subject--for a while the victim--of this conspiracy was her blackdoll Timothy. As yet Timothy knew nothing, and was supposed tosuspect nothing, of her goings to school. She had carefully kept thesecret from him, intending to take him aback with it when she broughthome the Greycoat uniform--frock and cloak and hood of duffle grey--for which Miss Champernowne had measured her. Meanwhile it wasundoubtedly hard on him to lie neglected in a drawer, and be visitedbut twice in the twenty-four hours, to have his garments changed. Corona, putting him into pyjamas, would (with an aching heart)whisper to him to be patient for a little while yet, and all wouldcome right. 

"It _is_ hard, Branny, " she sighed, "that I can't even take him tobed with me. . . . But it's not to be thought of. I'd be sure totalk in my sleep. "

"He seems to be a very unselfish person, " observed Branny. "At any rate, you treat him as such, making him wait all this whilefor the delight of seeing you happy. "

Corona knit her brow. 

"Now you're talking upsi-downly, like Uncle Copas, " she said. "You don't mean that Timmy's unselfish, but that I'm selfish. Of course, you don't _realise_ how good he is; nobody does but me, and it's not to be es-pected. But all the same, I s'pose I've beenthinking too much about myself. "

Corona's was a curiously just mind, as has already been said. 

Nurse Branscome had a happy inspiration. 

"Couldn't we make new clothes for Timmy, and surprise him with themat the same time?"

Corona clapped her hands. 

"Oh, Branny, how beautiful! Yes--a Beauchamp gown, just like Daddy's!Why-ever didn't we think of it before?"

"A _what_?"

"A Beauchamp gown. . . . Do you know, " said Corona gravely, "it's a most 'stonishing thing I never thought of it, because--I'll tell you why. When I first came to St. Hospital often and oftenI couldn't get to sleep for thinking how happy I was. Daddy gotworried about it, and told me it was a good cure to lie still andfancy I saw a flock of sheep jumping one after another through ahedge. . . . Well, that didn't answer--at least, not ezactly; for yousee I wanted to be _coaxed_ off, and I never took any partic'lartruck in sheep. But one night--you know that big stone by the gateof the home-park? the one Uncle Copas calls the Hepping-stone, andsays the great Cardinal used to climb on to his horse from it when hewent hunting?" (Nurse Branscome nodded. ) "Well, one night I closedmy eyes, and there I saw all the old folks here turned into children, and all out and around the Hepping-stone, playing leap-frog. . . . The way they went over each other's backs! It beat the band. . . . Some were in Beauchamp gowns and others in Blanchminster--but allchildren, you understand? Each child finished up by leap-froggingover the stone; and when he'd done that he'd run away and be lostamong the trees. I wanted to follow, but somehow I had to standthere counting. . . . And that's all there is _to_ it, " concludedCorona, "'cept that I'd found the way to go to sleep. "

Nurse Branscome laughed, and suggested that no time should be lost ingoing off to call on Mr. Colling, the tailor, and begging orborrowing a scrap of the claret-coloured Beauchamp cloth. Within tenminutes--for she understood the impatience of children--they hadstarted on this small expedition. They found in Mr. Colling a mosthuman tailor. He not only gave them a square yard of cloth, unsoiledand indeed brand-new, but advised Nurse Branscome learnedly on thecutting-out. There were certain peculiarities of cut in a Beauchampgown: it was (he could tell them) a unique garment in its way, and hethe sole repository of its technical secret. On their way backCorona summarised him as "a truly Christian tradesman. "

So the miniature gown was cut out, shaped, and sewn, after theunsuspecting Timothy had been measured for it on a pretence ofCorona's that she wanted to discover how much he had grown during hisrest-cure. (For I regret to say that, as one subterfuge leads toanother, she had by this time descended to feigning a nervousbreakdown for him, due to his outgrowing his strength. ) Best of all, and when the gown was finished, Nurse Branscome produced from herworkbox a lucky threepenny-bit, and sewed it upon the breast tosimulate a Beauchamp rose. 

When Corona's own garments arrived--when they were indued and shestood up in them, a Greycoat at length from head to heel--to hide herown feelings she had to invent another breakdown (emotional thistime) for Timothy as she dangled the gown in front of him. 

"Be a man, Timmy!" she exhorted him. 

Having clothed him and clasped him to her breast, she turned to NurseBranscome, who had been permitted, as indeed she deserved, to witnessthe _coup de theatre_. 

"If you _don't_ mind, Branny, I think we'll go off somewhere--by ourselves. "

She carried the doll off to the one unkempt corner of Mr. Battershall's garden, where in the shadow of a stone dovecot, ruinated and long disused, a rustic bench stood deep in nettles. On this she perched herself, and sat with legs dangling while shediscoursed with Timothy of their new promotion. 

"Of course, " she said, "you have the best of it. Men always have. "Nevertheless, she would have him know that to be a Greycoatwas good enough for most people. She described the schoolroom. "It's something like a chapel, " she said, "and something like a longwhitewashed bird-cage, with great beams for perches. You could eatyour dinner off the floor most days; and Miss Champernowne has thedearest little mole on the left side of her upper lip, with threewhite hairs in it. When she looks at you over her glasses it's likea bird getting ready to drink; and when she plays 'Another day isdone' on the harmonium and pitches the note, it's just the way abird lifts his throat to let the water trickle down inside. She has the loveliest way of putting things, too. Only yesterday, speaking of China, she told us that words would fail her to describeone-half the wonders of that enchanted land. . . . After that there'sgoing to be no rest for me until I've seen China for myself. Such a nice lot of children as they are, if it weren't for MartyJewell. She sits next to me and copies my sums, and when I remindher of it she puts out her tongue; but she has a sister in the infantclass at the end of the room with the same trick, so I s'pose it runsin the family. . . . I'm forgetting, though, " she ran on. "You're Brother Timothy now, a Beauchamp Brother, and the Lord knowshow I'm to make you sensible of it! I heard Brother Clerihew takinga party around yesterday, and played around close to hear what he hadto tell about the place. All he said was that if these old wallscould speak what a tale might they not unfold? And then a ladyturned round and supposed that the child (meaning me) was followingthem on the chance of a copper. So I came away. . . . I've mybelief, " announced Corona, "Brother Clerihew was speaking through hishat. There's nobody but Uncle Copas knows anything about thisplace--him and the Lord Almighty; and as the chief engineer told meaboard the _Carnatic_, when I kept asking him how soon we should getto England, He won't split under a quart. The trouble is, UncleCopas won't lay up for visitors. Manby, at the lodge, says he's tooproud. . . . But maybe he'll take me round some day if I ask himnicely, and then you can come on my arm and pretend you're notlistening. . . . No, " announced Corona, after musing awhile, "thatwould be deception. I'll have to go to him and make a clean breastof it. "

It occurred to her that Brother Manby was a friend of hers. He didn't know much, to be sure; but he was capable of entering intoa joke and introducing Timothy to the Wayfarers' Dole. She tuckedthe doll under her arm and wended towards the porter's lodge, where, as it happened, she met Brother Copas coming through the gateway intalk with the Chaplain. 

The Chaplain in fact had sought out Brother Copas, had found him inhis customary haunt, fishing gloomily and alone beside the Mere, andhad opened his purpose for once pretty straightly, yet keepinganother in reserve. 

"The Master has told me he gave you an anonymous letter that reachedhim concerning Brother Bonaday. I have made up my mind to ask you aquestion or two quite frankly about it. "

"Now what in the world can he want?" thought Copas, continuing towhip the stream. Aloud he said: "You'll excuse me, but I see nofrankness in your asking questions before telling me how much youknow. "

"I intended that. I have received a similar letter. "

"I guessed as much. . . . So you called on him with it and bulliedhim into another attack of _angina pectoris_? That, too, I guessed. Well?"

The Chaplain made no answer for a moment. Then he said with somedignity--

"I might point out to you--might I not?--that both your speech andthe manner of it are grossly insubordinate. "

"I know it. . . . I am sorry, sir; but in some way or another--byshowing him your letter, I suppose--you have come near to killing myonly friend. "

"I did not show him the letter. "

"Then I beg your pardon. " Brother Copas turned and began to wind inhis line. "If you wish to talk about it, I recognise that you havethe right, sir; but let me beg you to be brief. "

"The more willingly because I wish to consult you afterwards on apleasanter subject. . . . Now in this matter, I put it to you that--the Master choosing to stand aside--you and I have someresponsibility. Try, first, to understand mine. So long as I haveto account for the discipline of St. Hospital I can scarcely ignoresuch a scandal, hey?"

"No, " agreed Brother Copas, after a long look at him. "I admit thatyou would find it difficult. " He mused a while. "No, " he repeated;"to be quite fair, there's no reason why you--who don't knowBonaday--should assume him to be any better than the rest of us. "

"--While you, on your part, will naturally be eager to clear yourfriend. "

"If I thought the accusation serious. "

"Do you mean to say that you have simply ignored it?"

Now this happened to be an awkward question; and Brother Copas, seeking to evade it, jumped (as they say) from the frying-pan intothe fire. 

"Tut, sir! The invention of some poisonous woman!"

"You are sure the letter was written by a woman?"

Brother Copas was sure, but had to admit that he lacked evidence. He did not confess to having laid a small plot which had failed him. He had received no less than eleven tenders for his weekly laundry, but not one of the applicants had written the 'W' in 'Washing List'with that characteristic initial curl of which he was in search. 

"Then you _have_ made some investigations? . . . Nay, I don't wishmore of your confidence than you choose to give me. So long as Iknow that you are not treating the business as negligible--"

"I don't promise to inquire one inch farther. "

"But you will, nevertheless, " concluded Mr. Colt with the patronisinglaugh of one who knows his man. 

"Damn the fellow!" thought Copas. "Why cannot he be always the foolhe looks?"

"And now, " pursued Mr. Colt blithely, "I want to engage your interestin another matter--I mean the Pageant. "

"Oh!" said Brother Copas. "Is that still going forward?"

"Settled, my dear sir! When Mr. Bamberger once puts his hand to theplough. . . . A General Committee has been formed, with theLord-Lieutenant himself for President. The guarantee fund alreadyruns to 1, 500 pounds, and we shall get twice that amount promisedbefore we've done. In short, the thing's to come off some time nextJune, and I am Chairman of the Performance Committee, which (underMr. Isidore Bamberger) arranges the actual Pageant, plans out the'book, ' recruits authors, performers, _et cetera_. There are othercommittees, of course: Finance Committee, Ground and Grand StandCommittee, Costume Committee, and so on; but ours is the reallyinteresting part of the work, and, sir, I want you to join us. "

"You flatter me, sir; or you fish with a narrow mesh indeed. "

"Why, I dare swear you would know more of the past history ofMerchester than any man you met at the committee-table. "

Brother Copas eyed him shrewdly. 

"H'm! . .. To be sure, I have been specialising of late on theReformation period. "

"I--er--don't think we shall include any episode dealing speciallywith that period. "

"Too serious, perhaps?"

"Our--er--object is to sweep broadly down the stream of time, embodying the great part our city played for hundreds of years in thehistory of our nation--I may say of the Anglo-Saxon race. "

"I shouldn't, if I were you, " said Brother Copas, "not even to pleaseMr. Bamberger. . . . As a matter of fact, I _had_ guessed your objectto be something of the sort, " he added dryly. 

"As you may suppose--and as, indeed, is but proper in Merchester--special stress will be laid throughout on the ecclesiastical side ofthe story: the influence of Mother Church, permeating and at everyturn informing our national life. "

"But you said a moment ago that you were leaving out theReformation. "

"We seek rather to illustrate the _continuity_ of her influence. "

Brother Copas took snuff. 

"You must not think, however, " pursued the Chaplain, "that we aregiving the thing a sectarian trend. On the contrary, we aretaking great care to avoid it. Our appeal is to one and all:to the unifying civic sense and, through that, to the patriotic. Several prominent Nonconformists have already joined the Committee;indeed, Alderman Chope--who, as you know, is a Baptist, but has aremarkably fine presence--has more than half consented to impersonateAlfred the Great. If further proof be needed, I may tell you that, in view of the coming Pan-Anglican Conference, the Committee hasprovisionally resolved to divide the proceeds (if any) between theBritish and Foreign Bible Society and the Society for the Propagationof the Gospel. "

"Ah!" murmured Brother Copas, maliciously quoting Falstaff. "'It was alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have agood thing, to make it too common. '"

The Chaplain did not hear. 

"I earnestly hope, " said he, "you will let me propose you for myCommittee. "

"I would not miss it for worlds, " said Brother Copas gravely. 

He had disjointed and packed up his rod by this time, and the twowere walking back towards St. Hospital. 

"You relieve me more than I can say. Your help will be invaluable. "

Brother Copas was apparently deaf to this compliment. 

"You'll excuse me, " he said after a moment, "but I gather that thewhole scheme must be well under weigh, since you have arrived atallocating the proceeds. Experience tells me that all amateurs startwith wanting to act something; when they see that desire near torealisation, and not before, they cast about for the charity which isto deserve their efforts. . . . May I ask what part you have chosen?"

"I had thoughts of Alberic de Blanchminster, in an Episode of the'Founding of St. Hospital. '"

"Alberic de Blanchminster?"

They had reached the outer court of the hospital, and Brother Copas, halting to take snuff, eyed the Chaplain as if taking his measure. 

"But the Committee, in compliment to my inches, are pressing me totake William the Conqueror, " said Mr. Colt almost bashfully. 

"I, too, should advise it, if we are to adhere to history; though, tobe sure, from the sole mention of him in the chronicle, our founderAlberic appears to have been a sportsman. '_ Nam, quodam die, quiaperdiderat accipitrem suum cum erat sub divo, detrexit sibi bracas etposteriora nuda ostendit caelo in signum opprobrii et convitii atquederisionis. _'--You remember the passage?"

He paused mischievously, knowing well enough that the Chaplain wouldlaugh, pretending to have followed the Latin. Sure enough, Mr. Coltlaughed heartily. 

"About William the Conqueror, though--"

But at this moment Corona came skipping through the archway. 

"Uncle Copas!" she hailed, the vault echoing to her childish treble. "You look as though you had mistaken Mr. Colt for a visitor, and weretelling him all about the history of the place. Oh! I know that younever go the round with visitors; but seeing it's only me and Timmy--look at him, please! He's been made a Beauchamp Brother, not half anhour ago. If only you'd be guide to us for once, and make him _feel_his privileges. . . . I dare say Mr. Colt won't mind coming too, " shewound up tactfully. 

"Shall we?" suggested the Chaplain, after asking and receivingpermission to inspect the doll. 

"Confound it!" muttered Brother Copas to himself. "I cannot evenbegin to enjoy a fool nowadays but that blessed child happens alongto rebuke me. "

Aloud he said--

"If you command, little one. . . . But where do we begin?"

"At the beginning. " Corona took charge of him with a nod at theChaplain. "We're pilgrims, all four of us, home from the Holy Land;and we start by knocking up Brother Manby and just perishing for adrink. "

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PERVIGILIUM. 

 'Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew! It is Spring, it is chorussing Spring: 'tis the birthday of earth, and for you! It is Spring; and the Loves and the birds wing together, and woo to accord Where the bough to the rain has unbraided her locks as a bride to her lord. For she walks--She our Lady, our Mistress of Wedlock, --the woodlands atween, And the bride-bed she weaves them, with myrtle enlacing, with curtains of green. Look, list ye the law of Dione, aloft and enthroned in the blue:-- Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!'

"H'm, h'm--tolerable only! '_Aloft and established in blue_'--is thatbetter?"

"Uncle Copas, whatever are you doing?"

Corona looked up from her page of irregular verbs, and across to herpreceptor as he sat muttering and scribbling. 

"The idlest thing in the world, child. Translating. "

"But you told me that next week, if I learned these verbs, you wouldlet me begin to translate. "

"To be sure I did. You must go on translating and translating until, like me, you ought to know better. Then you throw it all away. "

"I suppose I shall understand, one of these fine days, " sighedCorona. "But, uncle, you won't mind my asking a question? I reallydo want to find out about these things. . . . And I really do want tolearn Latin, ever since you said it was the only way to find out allthat St. Hospital means. "

"Did I say that? I ought, of course, to have said that Latin wasworth learning for its own sake. "

"I guess, " said Corona sagely, "you thought you'd take the likeliestway with me. "

"O woman! woman! . . . But what was your question?"

"Sometimes I wake early and lie in bed thinking. I was thinking, only yesterday morning, if people are able to put into English allthat was ever written in Latin, why don't they do it and save otherpeople the trouble?"

"Now I suppose, " said Brother Copas, "that in the United States ofAmerica--land of labour-saving appliances--that is just how it wouldstrike everyone?"

He knew that this would nettle her. But, looking up hotly, shecaught his smile and laughed. 

"Well, but why?" she demanded. 

"Because the more it was the same thing the more it would bedifferent. There's only one way with Latin and Greek. You must let'em penetrate: soak 'em into yourself, get 'em into your natureslowly, through the pores of the skin. "

"It sounds like sitting in a bath. "

"That's just it. It's a baptism first and a bath afterwards; but themore it's a bath, the more you remember it's a baptism. "

"I guess you have that right, though I don't follow, "Corona admitted. "There's _something_ in Latin makes you proud. Only yesterday I was gassing to three girls about knowing _amo, amas, amat_; and, next thing, you'll say, 'I'd like you to know Ovid, ' andI'll say, ' Mr. Ovid, I'm pleased to have met you'--like what happensin the States when you shake hands with a professor. All the same, Idon't see what there is in _amo, amas, amat_ to make the gas. "

"Wait till you come to _cras amet qui nunquam amavit_. "

"Is that what you were translating?"

"Yes. "

"Then translate it for me, please. "

"You shall construe for yourself. Cras means 'to-morrow. ' _Amet_--"

"That's the present subjunctive. Let me see--'he may love. '"

"Try again. "

"Or 'let him love. '"

"Right. 'To-morrow let him love. ' _Qui?_"

"'Who. '"

"_Nunquam?_"

"'Never'--I know that too. "

"_Amavit?_"

"Perfect, active, third person singular--'he has loved. '"

"Qui being the subject--"

"'Who--never--has loved. '"

"Right as ninepence again. 'To-morrow let him love who has neverloved. '"

"But, " objected Corona, "it seems so easy!--and here you have beenfor quite half an hour muttering and shaking your head over it, andtaking you can't think what a lot of nasty snuff. "

"Have I?" Brother Copas sought for his watch. "Heavens, child!The hour has struck these ten minutes ago. Why didn't you remindme?"

"Because I thought 'twouldn't be manners. But, of course, if I'dknown you were wasting your time, and over anything so easy--"

"Not quite so easy as you suppose, miss. To begin with, theoriginal is in verse; a late Latin poem in a queer metre, and by whomwritten nobody knows. But you are quite right about my wasting mytime. . . . What troubles me is that I have been wasting yours, whenyou ought to have been out at play in the sun. "

"Please don't mention that, " said Corona politely. "It has been funenough watching you frowning and tapping your fingers, and writingsomething down and scratching it out the next moment. What is it allabout, Uncle Copas?"

"It--er--is called the _Pervigilium Veneris_; that's to say_The Vigil of Venus_. But I suppose that conveys nothing to you?"

He thrust his spectacles high on his forehead and smiled at hervaguely across the table. 

"Of course it doesn't. I don't know what a Vigil means; or Venus--whether it's a person or a place; or why the Latin is late, as youcall it. Late for what?"

Brother Copas laughed dryly. 

"Late for _me_, let's say. Didn't I tell you I was wasting my time?And Venus is the goddess of Love: some day--alas the day!--you'll beproud to make her acquaintance. . . . _Cras amet qui nunquamamavit_. "

"Perhaps if you read it to me--"

He shook his head. 

"No, child: the thing is late in half a dozen different ways. The young, whom it understands, cannot understand it: the old, whoarrive at understanding, look after it, a thing lost. Go, dear:don't let me waste your time as well as an old man's. "

But when she had gone he sat on and wasted another hour intranslating--

 Time was that a rain-cloud begat her, impregning the heave of the deep. 'Twixt hooves of sea-horses a-scatter, stam- peding the dolphins as sheep, Lo! born of that bridal Dione, rainbowed and bespent of its dew:-- Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!

 She, she, with her gem-dripping finger enamels the wreath of the year; She, she, when the maid-bud is nubile and swelling, winds--whispers anear, Disguising her voice in the Zephyr's--'So secret the bed! and thou shy? 'She, she, when the midsummer night is a-hush draws the dew from on high; Dew bright with the tears of its origin, dew with its weight on the bough, Misdoubting and clinging and trembling-- 'Now, now must I fall? Is it now?'

Brother Copas pushed the paper from him. 

"What folly is this, " he mused, "that I, who have always scoffed attranslations, sit here trying to translate this most untranslatablething? Pah! Matthew Arnold was a great man, and he stood up tolecture the University of Oxford on translating Homer. He provedexcellently well that Homer was rapid; that Homer was plain anddirect; that Homer was noble. He took translation after translation, and proved--proved beyond doubting--that each translator had failedin this or in that; this or that being alike essential. Then, havingworked out his sum, he sat down and translated a bit or two of Homerto encourage us, and the result was mere bosh. "

--"The truth being, he is guilty of a tomfoolery among principles atthe start. If by any chance we could, in English, find the right wayto translate Homer, why should we waste it on translating him?We had a hundred times better be writing Epics of our own. "

--"It cannot be done. If it could, it ought not. . . . The only wayof getting at Homer is to soak oneself in him. The average Athenianwas soaked in him as the average Englishman is in the AuthorisedVersion of the Psalms. . . . "

--"Yet I sit here, belying all my principles, attempting to translatea thing more difficult than Homer. "

--"It was she, this child, set me going upon it!"

Brother Copas pulled the paper towards him again. 

By the end of another hour he had painfully achieved this:--

 "'Go, Maidens, ' Our Lady commands, 'while the myrtle is green in the grove, Take the Boy to your escort. ' But 'Ah!' cry the maidens, 'What trust is in Love Keeping holiday too, while he weareth his archery, tools of his trade?' --'Go: he lays them aside, an apprentice released--you may wend unafraid: See, I bid him disarm, he disarms. Mother- naked I bid him to go, And he goes mother-naked. What flame can he shoot without arrow or bow?' --Yet beware ye of Cupid, ye maidens! Be- ware most of all when he charms As a child: for the more he runs naked, the more he's a strong man-at-arms. "

CHAPTER XIX. 

MERCHESTER PREPARES. 

I must not overload these slight pages by chronicling at length howMerchester caught and developed the Pageant fever. But to Mr Coltmust be given his share of the final credit. He worked like a horse, no doubt of it; spurred constantly on his tender side--his vanity--bythe hard riding of Mr. Julius Bamberger, M. P. He pioneered themovement. He (pardon this riot of simile and metaphor) cut a waythrough the brushwood, piled the first faggots, applied the torch, set the heather afire. He canvassed the Bishop, the Dean andChapter, the Sunday Schools, the Church Lads' Brigade, the Girls'Friendly Society, the Boy Scouts. He canvassed the tradespeople, the professional classes, the widowed and maiden ladies residentaround the Close. 

In all these quarters he met with success--varying, indeed, but onthe whole gratifying. But the problem was, how to fan the flame toreach and take hold of more seasoned timber?--opulent citizens, county magnates; men who, once committed, would not retract;ponderable subscribers to the Guarantee Fund; neither tinder norbrushwood, but logs to receive the fire and retain it in a solidcore. For weeks, for a couple of months, the flame took no hold ofthese: it reached them only to die down and disappoint. 

Nor was Mr. Isidore, during this time, the least part of ourChaplain's trial. Mr. Julius might flatter, proclaiming him a bornorganiser: but this was small consolation when Mr. Isidore (an artistby temperament) stamped and swore over every small hitch. 

"Sobscribtions? Zat is your affaire, whad the devil!"

Or again: "Am I a dog to be bozzered by your General Committees oryour influential batrons? . . . You wandt a Bageant, _hein?_Var'y well, I brovide it: It is I will mek a sogcess. Go to hell foryour influenzial batrons: or go to Julius. He can lick ze boot, notI!"

On the other hand, Mr. Julius, while willing enough to spend moneyfor which he foresaw a satisfactory return, had no mind to risk ituntil assured of the support of local 'Society. ' He could afford somethousands of pounds better than a public fiasco. 

"We must have the County behind us, " he kept chanting. 

Afterwards, looking back on the famous Merchester Pageant, Mr. Coltaccurately dated its success from the hour when he called on LadyShaftesbury and enlisted her to open the annual Sale of Work of theGirls' Friendly Society. Sir John Shaftesbury, somewhat late inlife, had married a wife many years his junior; a dazzling beauty, adashing horsewoman, and moreover a lady who, having spent the yearsof her eligible maidenhood largely among politicians and racehorses, had acquired the knack and habit of living in the public eye. She adored her husband, as did everyone who knew him: but life atShaftesbury Court had its _longueurs_ even in the hunting season. Sir John would (he steadily declared) as lief any day go to prison asenter Parliament--a reluctance to which Mr. Bamberger owed his seatfor Merchester. Finding herself thus headed off one opportunity ofmaking tactful little public speeches, in raiments to which the Presswould give equal prominence, Lady Shaftesbury had turned her thoughtsto good work, even before Mr. Colt called with his petition. 

She assented to it with a very pretty grace. Her speech at the Saleof Work was charming, and she talked to her audience about theEmpire; reminded them that they were all members of one body; calledthem her "dear Girl Friendlies": and hoped, though a new-comer, infuture to see a great deal more of them. They applauded this passage_de bon coeur_, and indeed pronounced the whole speech "So womanly!"At its close Mr. Colt, proposing a vote of thanks, insinuatedsomething "anent a more ambitious undertaking, in which (if we canonly engage Lady Shaftesbury's active sympathy) we may realise acherished dream. I fear, " proceeded Mr. Colt, "that I am a sturdybeggar. I can only plead that the cause is no mere local one, but inthe truest sense national--nay imperial. For where but in the storyof Merchester can be found the earliest inspiration of thosecountless deeds which won the Empire?"

Later, when Lady Shaftesbury asked to what he alluded, he discoursedon the project of the Pageant with dexterity and no little tact. 

"What a ripping idea! . . . Now I come to remember, my husband _did_say casually, the other day, that Mr. Bamberger had been sounding himabout something of the sort. But Jack is English, you know, and aWhig at that. The mere notion of dressing-up or play-acting makeshim want to run away and hide. . . . Oh, my dear sir, I know allabout pageants! I saw one at Warwick Castle--was it last year or theyear before? . . . There was a woman on horseback--I forget whathistorical character she represented: it wasn't Queen Elisabeth, I know, and it couldn't have been Lady Godiva because--well, becauseto begin with, she knew how to dress. She wore a black velvet habit, with seed-pearls, which sounds like Queen Henrietta Maria. Anyway, everyone agreed she had a perfect seat in the saddle. Is that the sort of thing--'Fair Rosamund goes a-hawking with King, er, Whoever-he-was?'"

Mr. Colt regretted that Fair Rosamund had no historical connectionwith Merchester. . . . No, and equally out of the question was Mary, Queen of Scots laying her neck on the block. 

"Besides, she couldn't very well do that on horseback. And Maseppawas a man, wasn't he?"

"If, " said Mr. Colt diplomatically, "we can only prevail upon one ortwo really influential ladies to see the thing in that light, detailscould be arranged later. We have not yet decided on the Episodes. . . . But notoriously where there's a will there's a way. "

Lady Shaftesbury pondered this conversation while her new car whirledher homewards. She had begun to wish that Jack (as she called herlord) would strike out a bolder line in county affairs, if hisambition confined him to these. He was already (through no search ofhis own) Chairman of the County Council, and Chairman of QuarterSessions, and was pricked to serve as High Sheriff next year. He ought to do something to make his shrievalty memorable . . . And, moreover, the Lord-Lieutenant was an old man. 

In the library that evening after dinner she opened fire. The smallfunction at the Girls' Friendly had been a success; but she wished todo something more for Merchester--"where we ought to be a realinfluence for good--living as we do so close to it. "

She added, "I hear that Mr. Bamberger's seat is by no means safe, andanother General Election may be on us at any moment. . . . I know howlittle you like Mr. Bamberger personally: but after all, and until_you_ will consent to take his place--Mr. Bamberger stands between usand the rising tide of Socialism. I was discussing this with Mr. Colt to-day. "

"Who is Mr. Colt?" asked Sir John. 

"You must have met him. He is Chaplain of St. Hospital, and quite apersonality in Merchester . . . Though I don't know, " pursued LadyShaftesbury, musing, "that one would altogether describe him as agentleman. But ought we to be too particular when the cause is atstake, and heaven knows how soon the Germans will be invading us?"

The end was that Sir John, who loved his young wife, gave her a freehand, of which she made the most. Almost before he was aware of it, he found himself Chairman of a General Committee, summoning aSub-Committee of Ways and Means. At the first meeting he announcedthat his lady had consented to set aside, throughout the wintermonths, one day a week from hunting, and offered Shaftesbury Hall ashead-quarters of the Costume Committee. 

Thereupon it was really astonishing with what alacrity not onlythe "best houses" around Merchester, but the upper-middle-class(its damsels especially) caught the contagion. Within a week"Are you Pageantising?" or, in more condensed slang, "Do you Padge?"became the stock question at all social gatherings in theneighbourhood of the Close. To this a stock answer would be--

"Oh, I don't know! I suppose so. " Here the respondent wouldsimulate a slight boredom. "One will have to mix with the mostimpossible people, of course"--Lady Shaftesbury had won greatpopularity by insisting that, in a business so truly national, noclass distinctions were to be drawn--"but anyhow it will fill up theoff-days this winter. "

Lady Shaftesbury herself, after some pretty deliberation, decided toenact the part of the Empress Maud, and escape on horseback from KingStephen of Blois. Mr. Colt and Mr. Isidore Bamberger together waitedon Brother Copas with a request that he would write the libretto forthis Episode. 

"But it was only last week you turned me on to Episode VI--King Haland the Emperor Charles the Fifth, " Copas protested. 

"We are hoping you will write this for us too, " urged Mr. Colt. "It oughtn't to take you long, you know. To begin with, no one knowsvery much about that particular period. "

"The less known the better, if we may trust the _Anglo-SaxonChronicle_. A few realistic pictures of the diversions of the upperclasses--"

"Hawking was one, I believe?" opined Mr. Colt. 

"Yes, and another was hanging the poor by their heels over a smokyfire, and yet another was shutting them up in a close cell into whichhad been inserted a few toads and adders. "

"Her ladyship suggests a hawking scene, in the midst of which she issurprised by King Stephen and his, er, myrmidons--if that be thecorrect term--"

"It is at least as old as Achilles. "

"She escapes from him on horseback. . . . At this point she wants toknow if we can introduce a water-jump. "

"Nothing could be easier, in a blank verse composition, " assentedBrother Copas gravely. 

"You see, there is very little writing required. Just enoughdialogue to keep the thing going. . . . Her ladyship is providing herown riding-habit and those of her attendant ladies, for whom she haschosen six of the most beautiful maidens in the neighbourhood, quiteirrespective of class. The dresses are to be gorgeous. "

"They will form a pleasing contrast, then, to King Stephen, whoseriding-breeches, as we know, 'cost him but a crown. ' . . . Very well, I will 'cut the cackle and come to the hosses. ' And you, Mr. Isidore? Do I read in your eye that you desire a similarliterary restraint in your Episode of King Hal?"

"Ach, yes, " grinned Mr. Isidore. "_Cut ze caggle_--cabital!I soggest in zat Ebisode we haf a Ballet. "

"A Ballet?"

"A Ballet of Imberial Exbansion--ze first English discofferies ofersea--ze natives brought back in brocession to mek sobmission--"

"Devilish pretty substitute for Thomas Cromwell and the Reformation!"

"It was _zere_ lay ze future of Englandt, _hein_?"

"I see, " said Brother Copas thoughtfully; "provided you make theballets of our nation, you don't care if your brother makes itslaws. "

These preparations (he noted) had a small byproduct pleasantlyaffecting St. Hospital. Mr. Colt, in his anxiety to enlist thewhole-hearted services of the Brethren (who according to design wereto serve as a sort of subsidiary chorus to the Pageant, appearing andreappearing, still in their antique garb, in a succession of scenessupposed to extend over many centuries), had suddenly taken the lineof being 'all things to all men, ' and sensibly relaxed the zeal ofhis proselytising as well as the rigour of certain regulationsoffensive to the more Protestant of his flock. 

"You may growl, " said Brother Copas to Brother Warboise: "but thissilly Pageant is bringing us more peace than half a dozen Petitions. "

Brother Warboise was, in fact, growling because for three months andmore nothing had been heard of the Petition. 

"You may depend, " said Copas soothingly, "the Bishop put the thingaway in his skirt pocket and forgot all about it. I happen to knowthat he must be averse to turning out his skirt pockets, for I oncesaw him surreptitiously smuggle away a mayonnaise sandwich there. It was at a Deanery garden party; and I, having been invited to handthe ices and look picturesque, went on looking picturesque andpretended not to see. . . . I ought to have told you, when you askedme to write it, that such was the invariable fate of mycompositions. "

Meanwhile, it certainly seemed that a truce had been called to theinternal dissensions of St. Hospital. On the pageant-ground oneafternoon, in the midst of a very scratchy rehearsal, Brother Copasfound himself by chance at the Chaplain's side. The two had beenwatching in silence for a full five minutes, when he heard Mr. Coltaddressing him in a tone of unusual friendliness. 

"Wonderful how it seems to link us up, eh?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I was thinking, just then, of the St. Hospital uniform, which youhave the honour to wear. It seems--or Mr. Isidore has the knack ofmaking it seem--the, er, _foil_ of the whole Pageant. It outlastsall the more brilliant fashions. "

"Poverty, sir, is perduring. It is in everything just because it isout of everything. We inherit time, if not the earth. "

"But particularly, " said Mr. Colt, "I was thinking of the corporateunity it seems to give us, and to pass on, through us, to the wholestory of Merchester. "

"Aye, we are always with you. "

Afterwards Brother Copas repented that he had not answered moregraciously: for afterwards, looking back, he perceived that, in someway, the Pageant had actually helped to bring back a sense of"corporate unity" to St. Hospital. 

Even then, and for months later, he missed to recognise Corona'sshare in it. What was she but a child?

"Is it true what I hear?" asked Mrs. Royle, intercepting him one dayas he carried his plate of fast-cooling meat from the kitchen. 

"Probably not, " said Brother Copas. 

"They tell me Bonaday's daughter has been singled out among all theschool children--Greycoats and others--to be Queen of the May, orsomething of the kind, in this here Pageant. "

"Yes, that is a fact. "

"Oh! . . . I suppose it's part of your sneering way to make little ofit. _I_ call it an honour to St. Hospital. "

"The deuce you do?"

"And what's more, " added Mrs. Royle, "she mustn't let us down byappearing in rags. "

"I hope we can provide against that. "

"What I meant to say, " the woman persisted, "was that you men don'tprobably understand. If there's to be a dance, or any such caper, she'll be lifting her skirts. Well, for the credit of St. Hospital, I'd like to overhaul the child's under-clothing, and see that shegoes shipshape and Bristol fashion. "

Brother Copas thanked her. He began to perceive that Mrs. Royle, that detestable woman, had her good points--or, at any rate, her softspot. 

It became embarrassing, though, when Mrs. Clerihew accosted him nextday with a precisely similar request. 

"And I might mention, " added Mrs. Clerihew, "that I have a lacestomacher-frill which was gove to me by no less than the latehonourable Edith, fifth daughter of the second Baron Glantyre. She died unmarried, previous to which she used frequently to _h_onourme with her confidence. This being a historical occasion, I'd spareit. "

Yes; it was true. Corona was to be a Queen, among many, in theMerchester Pageant. 

It all happened through Mr. Simeon. 

Mr. Simeon's children had, one and all, gone for their education tothe Greycoats' School, which lies just beyond the west end of theCathedral. He loved to think of them as growing up within itsshadow. . . . One Tuesday at dinner the five-year-old Agatha poppedout a question--

"Daddy, if the Cafederal fell down while we were in school, would itfall on top of us?"

"God forbid, child. But why ask such a question?"

"Because when we went to school this morning some workpeople had duga hole, close by that end--quite a big pit it was. So I went nearthe edge to look down, and one of the men said, 'Take care, missy, oryou'll tumble in and be drowned. ' I told him that I knew better, because people couldn't build cafederals on water. He told me thatwas the way they had built ours, and he held my hand for me to have alook. He was right, too. The pit was half-full of water. He said that unless we looked sharp the whole Cafederal would comedown on our heads. . . . I don't think it's safe for me to go toschool any more, do you?" insinuated small Agatha. 

Now it chanced that Mr. Simeon had to visit the Greycoats that veryafternoon. He had written a little play for the children--boys andgirls--to act at Christmas. It was not a play of the sortdesiderated by Mrs. Simeon--the sort to earn forty thousand pounds inroyalties; nor, to speak accurately, had he written it. He had infact patched together a few artless scenes from an old Miracle Play--_The Life of Saint Meriadoc_--discovered by him in the VenablesLibrary; and had tinkered out some rhymes (the book being a prosetranslation from the Breton original). "A poor thing, " then, andvery little of it his own--but Miss Champernowne opined that it wouldbe a novelty, while the children enjoyed the rehearsals, and lookedforward to the fun of "dressing-up. "

Rehearsals were held twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, in thelast hour of the afternoon session. This afternoon, on his way tothe school, Mr. Simeon found that Agatha had indeed spoken truth. Five or six men were busy, digging, probing, sounding, arounda large hole close under the northeast corner of the Lady Chapel. The foreman wore a grave face, and in answer to Mr. Simeon'sinquiries allowed that the mischief was serious; so serious that theDean and Chapter had sent for a diver to explore the foundations andreport. The foreman further pointed out certain ominous cracks inthe masonry overhead. 

Just then the great clock chimed, warning Mr. Simeon away. . . . But the peril of his beloved Cathedral so haunted him that he arrivedat the school-door as one distraught. 

Rehearsal always took place in the girls' schoolroom, the boys comingin from their part of the building to clear the desks away andarrange them close along the walls. They were busy at it when heentered. He saw: but--

 "He heeded not--his eyes Were with his heart, "

And that was in the Close outside--anthi, phile en patridi gaie. 

From the start he allowed the rehearsal to get hopelessly out ofhand. The children took charge; they grew more and more fractious, unruly. Miss Champernowne chid them in vain. The schoolroom, infact, was a small pandemonium, when of a sudden the door opened andtwo visitors entered--Mr. Colt and Mr. Isidore Bamberger. 

"A--ach so!" intoned Mr. Isidore, and at the sound of his appallingguttural Babel hushed itself, unable to compete. He inquired whatwas going forward; was told; and within five minutes had the childrenmoving through their parts in perfect discipline, while with a fireof cross-questions he shook Mr. Simeon back to his senses and rapidlygathered the outline of the play. He terrified all. 

"Bardon my interference, ma'am!" he barked, addressing MissChampernowne. "I haf a burbose. "

The scene engaging the children was that of the youthfulSt. Meriadoc's first school-going; where his parents (Duke andDuchess of Brittany) call with him upon a pedagogue, who introduceshim to the boys and girls, his fellow scholars. For a sample ofMr. Simeon's version--

 Pedagogue--

 "Children look on your books. If there be any whispering It will be great hindering, And there will be knocks. "

 First Scholar (_chants_)--

 "God bless A, Band C! The rest of the song is D: That is all my lore. I came late yesterday, I played truant by my fay! I am a foul sinner. Good master, after dinner I will learn more. "

 Second Scholar--

 "E, s, t, that is _est_, I know not what comes next--"

Whilst the scholars recited thus, St. Meriadoc's father and mother--each with a train of attendants--walked up and down between the ranks'high and disposedly, ' as became a Duke and Duchess of Brittany. 

Mr. Isidore of a sudden threw all into confusion again. He shot outa forefinger and screamed--yes, positively screamed--

"Ach! zat is ze child--ze fourt' from ze end! I will haf her and noozzer--you onderstandt?" Here he swung about upon the Chaplain. "Ob-serf how she walk! how she carry her chin! If I haf not her forze May Queen I will haf non. . . . Step vorwards, liddle one. Whad is your name?"

"Corona. "

Seeing that Mr. Isidore's finger pointed at her, she stepped forward, with a touch of defiance in her astonishment, but fearlessly. The touch of defiance helped to tilt her chin at the angle he so muchadmired. 

"Cohrona--zat must mean ze chrowned one. Cabital! . . . You are notafraid of me, _hein_?"

"No, " answered Corona simply, still wondering what he might mean, butkeeping a steady eye on him. Why should she be afraid of this comiclittle man?

"So? . . . I engage you. You are to be ze May Queen in ze greatMerchester Bageant. . . . But you must be goot and attend how I drillyou. Ozzerwise I dismees you. "

It appeared that Mr. Isidore had spent the afternoon with Mr. Colt, hunting the schools of Merchester in search of a child to suit hisfastidious requirements. He had two of the gifts of genius--unwearying patience in the search, unerring swiftness in the choice. 

Mr. Simeon, the rehearsal over, walked home heavily. On his way hepaused to study the pit, and look up from it to the threatened massof masonry. '_Not in my time, O Lord!_'

And yet--

 "From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail . . . Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bear The longest date . . . Drop like the tower sublime Of yesterday, which royally did wear His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain Some casual shout that broke the silent air, Or the unimaginable touch of Time. "

But Corona, breaking away from her playfellows and gaining the roadto St. Hospital, skipped as she ran homeward, treading clouds ofglory. 

CHAPTER XX. 

NAUGHTINESS, AND A SEQUEL. 

"She has behaved very naughtily, " said Brother Copas. 

"I don't understand it at all, " sighed Brother Bonaday. 

"Nor I. "

"It's not like her, you see. "

"It was a most extraordinary outburst. . . . Either the child haspicked up some bad example at school, to copy it (and you willremember I always doubted that her sex gets any good of schooling)--"

"But, " objected Brother Bonaday, "it was you who insisted on sendingher. "

"So I did--in self-defence. If we had not done our best the Statewould have done its worst, and put her into an institution where oneunderpaid female grapples with sixty children in a class, and talksall the time. Now we didn't want Corona to acquire the habit oftalking all the time. " Here Brother Copas dropped a widower's sigh. "In fact, it has hitherto been no small part of her charm that sheseldom or never spoke out of her turn. "

"It has been a comfort to have her company, " put in Brother Bonaday, eager to say a good word for the culprit. 

"She spoke out of her turn just now, " said Brother Copas sternly. "Her behaviour to Nurse Turner was quite atrocious. . . . Now eithershe has picked this up at school, or--the thought occurs to me--shehas been loafing around the laundry, gossiping with the like of Mrs. Royle and Mrs. Clerihew, and letting their evil communicationscorrupt her good manners. This seems to me the better guess, becausethe women in the laundry are always at feud with the nurses; it'sendemic there: and 'a nasty two-faced spy' smacks, though faintly, of the wash-tub. In my hearing Mrs. Clerihew has accused NurseBranscome of 'carrying tales. ' 'A nasty two-faced spy'--the childwas using those very words when we surprised her, and the Lord knowswhat worse before we happened on the scene. "

"Nurse Turner would not tell, and so we have no right to speculate. "

"That's true. . . . I'll confine myself to what we overheard. Now when a chit of a child stands up and hurls abuse of that kind ata woman well old enough to be her mother, two things have to be done. . . . We must get at the root of this deterioration in Corona, but first of all she must be punished. The question is, Which of uswill undertake it? You have the natural right, of course--"

Brother Bonaday winced. 

"No, no--" he protested. 

"I should have said, the natural obligation. But you are frail justnow, and I doubt if you are equal to it. "

"Copas! . . . You're not proposing to _whip_ her?" Brother Copaschuckled grimly. But that the child was in the next room, possiblylistening, he might have laughed aloud. 

"Do they whip girls?" he asked. "I used to find the whipping of boysdisgusting enough. . . . I had an assistant master once, a treasure, who remained with me six years, and then left for no reason but thatI could not continue to pay him. I liked him so much that one day, after flogging a boy in hot blood, and while (as usual) feeling sickwith the revulsion of it, I then and there resolved that, howevermuch this trade might degrade me, this Mr. Simcox should be sparedthe degradation whilst in my employ. I went to his class-room andasked to have a look at his punishment-book. He answered that hekept none. `But, ' said I, 'when you first came to me didn't I giveyou a book, and expressly command you, whenever you punished a boy, to write an entry, giving the boy's name, the nature of his offence, and the number of strokes with which you punished him?' 'You did, sir, ' said Simcox, 'and I have lost it. ' 'Lost it!' said I. 'You but confirm me in my decision that henceforth, when any boy inthis school needs caning, I will do it with my own hands. ' 'Sir, ' hereplied, 'you have done that for these five years. Forgive me, but Iwas pleased to find that you never asked to see the book; for Ireally couldn't bring myself to flog a boy merely for the sake ofwriting up an entry. ' In short, that man was a born schoolmaster, and almost dispensed with punishments, even the slightest. "

"He ruled the boys by kindness, I suppose?"

"He wasn't quite such a fool. "

"Then what was his secret?"

"Bad temper. They held him in a holy terror; and it's all thequeerer because he wasn't even just. "

Brother Bonaday shook his head. 

"I don't understand, " he said; "but if you believe so little inpunishment, why are we proposing to punish Corona?"

"Obviously, my dear fellow, because we can find no better way. The child must not be suffered to grow up into a termagant--you willadmit that, I hope? . . . Very well, then: feeble guardians that weare, we must do our best. "

He knocked at the bedroom door and, after a moment, entered. Corona sat on the edge of her bed, dry-eyed, hugging Timothy to herbreast. 

"Corona!"

"Yes, Uncle Copas?"

"You have been extremely naughty, and probably know that you have tobe punished. "

"I dare say it's the best you can do, " said Corona, after weighingthis address or seeming to do so. The answer so exactly tallied withthe words he had spoken a moment ago that Brother Copas could nothelp exclaiming--

"Ah! You overheard us, just now?"

"I may have my faults, " said Corona coldly, candidly, "but I am nota listener. "

"I--I beg your pardon, " stammered Brother Copas, somewhat abashed. "But the fact remains that your behaviour to Nurse Turner has beenmost disrespectful, and your language altogether unbecoming. You have given your father and me a great shock: and I am sure youdid not wish to do that. "

"I'm miserable enough, if that's what you mean, " the child confessed, still hugging her golliwog and staring with haggard eyes at thewindow. "But if you want me to say that I'm sorry--"

"That is just what I want you to say. "

"Well, then, I can't. . . . Nurse Turner's a beast--a _beast_--aBEAST!"

Corona's face whitened, and her voice shrilled higher at eachrepetition. 

"--She hates Branny like poison, and I hate _her_. . . . There!And now you must take and punish me as much as you please. What's it going to be?"

She rocked her small body as she looked up with straight eyes, awaiting sentence. 

"You are to go to bed at once, and without any supper, " said BrotherCopas, keeping his voice steady on the words he loathed to utter. 

Again Corona seemed to weigh them. 

"That seems fair enough, " she decided. "Are you going to lock mein?"

"That had not occurred to me. "

"You'd better, " she advised. "And take the key away in your pocket. . . . Is that all, Uncle Copas?"

"That is all, Corona. But as for taking the key, you know that Iwould far sooner trust to your honour. "

"You can trust to _that_, right enough, " said she, getting off theedge of the bed. "I was thinking of daddy. . . . Good night, UncleCopas!--if you don't mind, I am going to undress. "

Brother Copas withdrew. He shut and locked the door firmly, and madea pretence, by rattling the key, of withdrawing it from the lock. But his nerve failed him, and he could not actually withdraw it. "Suppose the child should be taken ill in the night: or suppose thather nerve breaks down, and she cries for her father. . . . It mightkill him if he could not open the door instantly. Or, again, supposing that she holds out until he has undressed and gone to bed?He will start up at the first sound and rush across the openquadrangle--Lord knows if he would wait to put on his dressing-gown--to get the key from me. In his state of health, and with thesenights falling chilly, he would take his death. "

So Brother Copas contented himself with turning the key in the wardsand pointing to it. 

"She is going to bed, " he whispered. "Supperless, you understand. . . . We must show ourselves stern: it will be the better for her inthe end, and some day she will thank us. "

Brother Bonaday eyed the door sadly. 

"To be sure, we must be stern, " he echoed. As for being thanked forthis severity, it crossed his mind that the thanks must come quickly, or he would probably miss them. But he muttered again, "To be sure--to be sure!" as Brother Copas tiptoed away and left him. 

On his way back to his lonely rooms, Brother Copas met and exchanged"Good evenings" with Nurse Branscome. 

"You are looking grave, " she said. 

"You might better say I am looking like a humbug and a fool. I have just been punishing that child--sending her to bed supperless. Now call me the ass that I am. "

"Why, what has Corona been doing?"

"Does it matter?" he snarled, turning away. "She has been naughty;and the only way with naughty children is to be brutal. "

"I expect you have made a mess of it, " said Nurse Branscome. 

"I am sure I have, " said Brother Copas. 

Corona undressed herself very deliberately; and, seating herselfagain on the edge of the bed, as deliberately undressed Timothy andclothed him for the night in his pyjamas. 

"I am sorry, dear, that _you_ should suffer. . . . But I can't tellwhat isn't true, not even for your sake; and I can't take back what Isaid. Nurse Turner is a beast, if we starve for saying it--which, "added Corona reflectively, "I don't suppose we shall. I couldn'tanswer back properly on Uncle Copas, because when you say a thing togrown-ups they look wise and ask you to prove it, and if you can'tyou look silly. But Nurse Turner is a beast. . . . Oh, Timmy! let'slie down and try to get to sleep. But it _is_ miserable to have allthe world against us. "

She remembered that she was omitting to say her prayers, and kneltdown; but after a moment or two rose again. 

"It's no use, God, " she said. "I'm very sorry, and I wouldn't tellit to anyone but _You_--and perhaps Uncle Copas, if he was different:but I can't say 'forgive us our trespasses' when I can't abide thewoman. "

She had already pulled down the blind. Before creeping to bed shedrew the curtains to exclude the lingering daylight. As she did so, she made sure that her window was hasped wide. Her bedroom (on theground floor) looked out upon a small cabbage-plot in which BrotherBonaday, until warned by the doctor, had employed his leisure. It was a wilderness now. 

As a rule Corona slept with her lattice wide to the fullest extent:and at any time (upon an alarm of fire, for example) she couldhave slipped her small body out through the opening with ease. To-night she drew the frame of the window closer than usual, andpinned it on the perforated bar; so close that her small body couldnot squeeze through it even if she should walk in her sleep. She was a conscientious child. She only forbore to close it tightbecause it was wicked to go without fresh air. 

She stole into bed and curled herself up comfortably. For somereason or other the touch of the cold pillow drew a tear or two. But after a very little while she slept, still hugging her doll. 

There was no sound to disturb her; no sound but the soft dripping, now and again, of a cinder in the grate before which Brother Bonadaysat, with misery in his heart. 

"Corona!"

The voice was low and tremulous. It followed on the sound of a loudsneeze. Either the voice or the sneeze (or both) aroused her, andshe sat up in bed with a start. Like Chaucer's Canace, of sleep "Shewas full mesurable, as women be. "

"Corona!"

"Is that you, Daddy?" she asked, jumping out of bed and tiptoeing tothe door. 

What the hour was she could not tell: but she knew it must be late, for a shaft of moonlight fell through a gap in the window-curtainsand shone along the floor. 

"Are you ill? . . . Shall I run and call them up at the Nunnery?"

"I was listening. . . . I have been listening here for some time, andI could not hear you breathing. "

"Dear Daddy . . . Is that all? Go back to your bed--it's wicked ofyou to be out of it, with the nights turning chilly as they are. I'll go back to mine and try to snore, if that's any comfort. "

"I haven't been to bed at all. I couldn't . . . Corona!"

"You are not to turn the key!" she commanded in a whisper, for he wasfumbling with it. "Uncle Copas pretended he was taking it away withhim: or that was what I understood, and if he breaks an understandingit's _his_ affair. "

"I--I thought, dear, you might be hungry. "

"Well, and suppose I am?"

Corona, now she came to think of it, was ravenous. 

"I've a slice of bread here, and a cold sausage. If you'll wrapyourself up and come out, we can toast them both: the fire is stillclear. "

"As if I should think of it! . . . And it's lucky for you, Daddy, thekey's on your side of the door. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, out of bed at--what _is_ the time?"

"Past ten o'clock. "

"You are not telling me a fib, I hope, about keeping up a clearfire?" said Corona sternly. 

"If you like, I will open the door just a little: then you can seefor yourself. "

"Cer--tainly not. But if you've been looking after yourselfproperly, why did you sneeze just now?"

"'Sneeze'? I never sneezed. "

Silence, for a moment--

"_Somebody_ sneezed . . . I 'stinctly heard it, " Corona insisted. "Now I come to think, it sounded--"

There was another pause while, with a question in her eye, she turnedand stared at the casement. Then, as surmise grew to certainty, alittle laugh bubbled within her. She stepped to the window. 

"Good night, Uncle Copas!" she called out mischievously. 

No one answered from the moonlit cabbage-plot. In fact, BrotherCopas, beating his retreat, at that moment struck his staff against adisused watering-can, and missed to hear her. 

He objurgated his clumsiness and went on, picking his way morecautiously. 

"The question is, " he murmured, "how I'm to extort confession fromBonaday to-morrow without letting him suspect . . . "

While he pondered this, Brother Copas stumbled straight uponanother shock. The small gate of the cabbage-plot creaked on itshinge . . . And behold, in the pathway ahead stood a woman!In the moonlight he recognised her. 

"Nurse Branscome!"

"Brother Copas! . . . Why, what in the world are you doing--at thishour--and here, of all places?"

"Upon my word, " retorted Copas, "I might ask you the same question. . . . But on second thoughts I prefer to lie boldly and confessthat I have been stealing cabbages. "

"Is that a cabbage you are hiding under your gown?"

"It might be, if this place hadn't been destitute of cabbages thesetwelve months and more. . . . Pardon my curiosity: but is that also acabbage you are hiding under your cloak?"

"It might be--" But here laughter--quiet laughter--got the better ofthem both. 

"I might have known it, " said Brother Copas, recovering himself. "Her father is outside her door abjectly beseeching her to be asnaughty as she pleases, if only she won't be unhappy. And she--woman-like--is using her advantage to nag him. "

 'But if ne'er so fast you wall her--'

"Danae, immured, yet charged a lover for admission. Corona, imprisoned, takes it out of her father for speaking through thekeyhole. "

"You would not tell me what the child did, that you two have punishedher. "

"Would I not? Well, she was abominably rude to Nurse Turner thisafternoon--went to the extent of calling her 'a nasty two-facedspy. '"

"Was that all?" asked Nurse Branscome. 

"It was enough, surely? . . . As a matter of fact she went farther, even dragging your name into the fray. She excused herself by sayingthat she had a right to hate Nurse Turner because Nurse Turner hatedyou. "

"Well, that at any rate was true enough. "

"Hey?"

"I mean, it is true enough that Nurse Turner hates me, and would liketo get me out of St. Hospital, " said Nurse Branscome quietly. 

"You never told me of this. "

"Why should I have troubled to tell? I only tell it now because thechild has guessed it. "

Brother Copas leaned on his staff pondering a sudden suspicion. 

"Look here, " he said; "those anonymous letters--"

"I have not, " said Nurse Branscome, "a doubt that Nurse Turner wrotethem. "

"You have never so much as hinted at this. "

"I had no right. I have no right, even now; having no evidence. You would not show me the letter, remember. "

"It was too vile. "

"As if I--a nurse--cannot look at a thing because it is vile! . . . I supposed that you had laid the matter aside and forgottenit. "

"On the contrary, I have been at some pains--hitherto idle--todiscover the writer. . . . Does Nurse Turner, by the way, happen tostart her W's with a small curly flourish?"

"That you can discover for yourself. The Nurses' Diary lies in theNunnery, in the outer office. We both enter up our 'cases' in it, and it is open for anyone to inspect. "

"I will inspect it to-morrow, " promised Brother Copas. "Now--thisHospital being full of evil tongues--I cannot well ask you to eat an_al fresco_ supper with me, though"--he twinkled--"I suspect weboth carry the constituents of a frugal one under our cloaks. "

They passed through an archway into the great quadrangle, and there, having wished one another good night, went their ways; shemirthfully, he mirthfully and thoughtfully too. 

Next morning Brother Copas visited the outer office of the Nunneryand carefully inspected the Nurses' Diary. Since every week containsa Wednesday, there were capital W's in plenty. 

He took tracings of half a dozen and, armed with these, sought NurseTurner in her private room. 

"I think, " said he, holding out the anonymous letter, "you may havesome light to throw on this. I have the Master's authority to bidyou attend on him and explain it. "

He fixed the hour--2 p. M. But shortly after mid-day Nurse Turner hadtaken a cab (ordered by telephone) and was on her way to the railwaystation with her boxes. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

RECONCILIATION. 

"I am not, " said the Bishop, "putting this before you as an argument. I have lived and mixed with men long enough to know that they areusually persuaded by other things than argument, sometimes by better. . . . I am merely suggesting a _modus vivendi_--shall we call it atruce of God?--until we have all done our best against a commonperil: for, as your Petition proves you to be earnest Churchmen, so I may conclude that to all of us in this room our Cathedral standsfor a cherished monument of the Church, however differently we mayinterpret its history. "

He leaned forward in his chair, his gaze travelling from one toanother with a winning smile. All the petitioners were gatheredbefore him in the Master's library. They stood respectfully, eachwith his hat and staff. At first sight you might have thought he wasdismissing them on a pilgrimage. 

Master Blanchminster sat on the Bishop's right, with Mr. Colt closebehind him; Mr. Simeon at the end of the table, taking down averbatim report in his best shorthand. 

"I tell you frankly, " pursued the Bishop, "I come rather to appealfor concord than to discuss principles of observance. If you compelme to pronounce on the points raised, I shall take evidence andendeavour to deal justly upon it: but I suggest to you that thehappiness of such a Society as this is better furthered by a spiritof sweet reasonableness than by any man's insistence on his justrights. "

"_Fiat Caelum ruat justitia_, " muttered Brother Copas. "But the manis right nevertheless. "

"Principles, " said the Bishop, "are hard to discuss, justice oftenimpossible to deal. . . . 'Yes, ' you may answer, 'but we are met to dothis, or endeavour to do it, and not to indulge in irrelevancy. 'Yet is my plea so irrelevant? . . . You are at loggerheads overcertain articles of faith and discipline, when a sound arrests you inthe midst of your controversy. You look up and perceive that yourCathedral totters; that it was _her_ voice you heard appealing toyou. `Leave your antagonisms and help one another to shore me up--methe witness of past generations to the Faith. Generations to comewill settle some of the questions that vex you; others, maybe, themere process of time will silently resolve. But Time, which helpsthem, is fast destroying us. You are not young, and my necessity isurgent. Surely, my children, you will be helping the Faith if yousave its ancient walls. ' I bethink me, " the Bishop went on, "that wemay apply to Merchester that fine passage of Matthew Arnold's onOxford and her towers: '_Apparitions of a day, what is our punywarfare against the Philistines compared with the warfare which thisqueen of romance has been waging against them for centuries, and willwage after we are gone?_'" He paused, and on an afterthoughtsuccumbed to the professional trick of improving the occasion. "It may even be that the plight of our Cathedral contains a speciallesson for us of St. Hospital: '_If a house be divided againstitself, that house cannot stand_'"

"Tilly vally!" muttered Brother Copas, and was feeling for hissnuff-box, but recollected himself in time. 

"You may say that you are old men, poor men; that it is little youcould help. Do not be so sure of this. I am informed, for instance, that the proceeds of our forthcoming Pageant are to be devoted to theRestoration Fund, and not (as was originally intended) to missionarypurposes. "

Here Mr. Simeon, bending over his shorthand notes, blushed to theears. It was he, good man, who had first thought of this, andsuggested it to Mr. Colt; as it was Mr. Colt who had suggested it tothe Committee in the presence of reporters, and who, on itsacceptance, had received the Committee's thanks. 

"I am further told"--here the Bishop glanced around and caught theeye of the Chaplain, who inclined his head respectfully--"thata--er--representation of the Foundation Ceremony of St. Hospitalmay be included among the--er--"

"Episodes, " murmured Mr. Colt, prompting. 

"Eh?--yes, precisely--among the Episodes. I feel sure it would makea tableau at once impressive and--er--entertaining--in the bestsense of the word. . . . So, you see, there are possibilities; butthey presuppose your willingness to sink some differences and joinheartily in a common cause. . . . Or again, you may urge that tore-edify our Cathedral is none of your business--as officially indeedit is none of mine, but concerns the Dean and Chapter. I put it toyou that it concerns us all. " Here the Bishop leaned back in hischair, on the arms of which he rested his elbows; and pressing hisfinger-tips together, gazed over them at his audience. "That, at anyrate, is my plea; and I shall be glad, if you have a spokesman, tohear how the suggestion of a 'truce of God' presents itself to yourminds. "

In the pause that followed, Brother Copas felt himself nudged frombehind. He cleared his throat and inclined himself with a grave bow. 

"My lord, " he said, "my fellow-petitioners here have asked me tospeak first to any points that may be raised. I have stipulated, however, that they hold themselves free to disavow me here in yourlordship's presence, if on any point I misrepresent them. "

The Bishop nodded encouragingly. 

"Well then, my lord, it is peculiarly hard to speak for them when atthe outset of the inquiry you meet us with a wholly unexpected appeal . . . An appeal (shall I say?) to sentiment rather than to strictreason. "

"I admit that. "

"As I admit the appeal to be a strong one. . . . But before I try toanswer it, may I deal with a sentence or two which (pardon me) seemedless relevant than the rest? . . . _If a house be divided againstitself, that house cannot stand_. True enough, my lord: but neithercan it aspire. "

The Bishop lifted his eyebrows. But before he could interpose a wordBrother Copas had mounted a hobby and was riding it, whip and spur. 

"My lord, when a Hellene built a temple he took two pillars, set themupright in the ground, and laid a third block of stone a-top of them. He might repeat this operation a few times or a many, according tothe size at which he wished to build. He might carve his pillars, and flourish them off with acanthus capitals, and run friezes alonghis architraves: but always in these three stones, the two uprightsand the beam, the trick of it resided. And his building lasted. The pillars stood firm in solid ground, into which the weight of thecross-beam pressed them yet more firmly. The whole structure wasthere to endure, if not for ever, at least until some ass of a fellowcame along and kicked it down to spite an old religion, because hehad found a new one. . . . But this Gothic--this Cathedral, forexample, which it seems we must help to preserve--is fashioned onlyto kick itself down. "

"It aspires. "

"Precisely, my lord; that is the mischief. When the Greek temple wascontent to repose upon natural law--when the Greek builder said, 'I will build for my gods greatly yet lowlily, measuring my effort tothose powers of man which at their fullest I know to be moderate, making my work harmonious with what little it is permitted to me toknow'--in jumps the rash Christian, saying with the men of Babel, _Go to, let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach untoheaven_; or, in other words, 'Let us soar above the law of earth andtake the Kingdom of Heaven by storm. ' . . . With what result?"

 "'Sed quid Typhoeus et validus Mimas Contra sonantem Palladis aegida . . . ?'"

"The Gothic builders, like the Titans, might strain to pile Pelion onOlympus. _Vis consili expers_, my lord. From the moment they takedown their scaffolding--nay, while it is yet standing--thedissolution begins. All their complicated structure of weights, counterweights, thrusts, balances, has started an internecineconflict, stone warring against stone, the whole disintegrating--"

"Excuse me, Brother--"

"Copas, my lord. "

"Excuse me, Brother Copas, " said the Bishop with a smile, "if I donot quite see to what practical conclusion we are tending. "

"There is a moral ahead, my lord. . . . Thanks to Mr. Colt's zeal, wehave all begun to aspire along our different lines, with the resultthat St. Hospital has become a house divided against itself. Now, ifI may say it modestly, _I_ think your lordship's suggestion anexcellent one. We are old poor men--what business have we, anylonger, with aspiration? It is time for us to cease from pushing andthrusting at each other's souls; time for us to imitate the Greekbeam, and practise lying flat. . . . I vote for the truce, my lord;and when the time comes, shall vote for extending it. "

"You have so odd a way of putting it, Brother--er--Copas, " hislordship mildly expostulated, "that I hardly recognise as mine thesuggestion you are good enough to commend. "

Brother Copas's eye twinkled. 

"Ah, my lord! It has been the misfortune of my life to followSocrates humbly as a midwife of men's ideas, and be accused ofhanding them back as changelings. "

"You consent to the truce, at any rate?"

"No, no!" muttered old Warboise. 

Copas turned a deaf ear. 

"I vote for the truce, " he said firmly, "provided the one conditionbe understood. It is the _status quo ante_ so far as concerns usProtestants, and covers the whole field. For example, at theSacrament we receive the elements in the form which life-long use hasconsecrated for us, allowing the wafer to be given to those Brethrenwho prefer it. Will the Master consent to this?"

Master Blanchminster was about to answer, but first (it was somewhatpitiful to see) turned to Mr. Colt. Mr. Colt bent his head inassent. 

"That is granted, " said the Master. 

"Nor would we deny the use of Confession to those who find solace init--"

"Yes, we would, " growled Brother Warboise. 

"--Provided always, " pursued Copas, "that its use be not thrust uponus, nor our avoidance of it injuriously reckoned against us. "

"I think, " said the Master, "Brother Copas knows that on this pointhe may count upon an honourable understanding. "

"I do, Master. . . . Then there is this new business of compulsoryvespers at six o'clock. We wish that compulsion removed. "

"Why?" snapped Mr. Colt. 

"You would force me to say, sir, 'Because it interferes with myfishing. ' Well, even so, I might confess without shame, and answerwith Walton, that when I would beget content and increase confidencein the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God I will walkthe meadows by Mere, 'and there contemplate the lilies that take nocare, and those very many other various little living creatures thatare not only created but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness ofthe God of nature, and therefore trust in Him. ' . . . But I amspeaking here rather on behalf of Brother Warboise--if he will leaveoff nudging me in the small of the back. It happens that for anumber of years Brother Warboise has daily, at this hour, paid avisit to a sick and paralysed friend--"

"He is not a friend, " rasped out Brother Warboise. "On thecontrary--"

"Shall we, " interposed the Master, "agree to retain the service onthe understanding that I am willing to hear any reasonable plea fornon-attendance? I need hardly say, my lord, that visiting the sickwould rank with me before any formal observance; and, " he added, withthe hint of a smile which Brother Copas caught, "even to lessChristian excuses I might conceivably be willing to listen. "

So, piece by piece, the truce was built up. . . . When thepetitioners had thanked his lordship and withdrawn, and Mr. Simeon, having gathered up his notes, presently followed them out, theBishop, the Master, and the Chaplain sat for half an hour talkingtogether. 

The time came for Mr. Colt to take his leave, being due at a Pageantrehearsal. When he was gone the Bishop suggested a quiet stroll inthe home-park, and the two old divines fared forth to take thebenediction of evening, still keeping good grave converse as theypaced side by side. 

"My dear Eustace, " said the Bishop (they were friends of longstanding, and in private used Christian names in place of titles), "confess, now that this business is over, it was not so bad as youfeared. "

The Master respired the cool air with a quiet sigh. 

"No, Walter, it was not so bad as I feared. But having ruled allthese years without question, you understand--"

"You have certainly not ruled all these years for nothing. They were honest fellows, and made it pretty plain that they lovedyou. It does not rankle, I hope?"

"No. " Master Blanchminster drew another deep breath and emittedit as if expelling the last cloudy thought of resentment. "No, " he repeated; "I believe I may say that it rankles no longer. They are honest fellows--I am glad you perceived that. "

"One could read it in all of them, saving perhaps that odd fellow whoacted as spokesman. Brother--er--Copas? . . . He lectured mestraightly enough, but there is always a disposition to suspect aneccentric. "

"He was probably the honestest man in the room, " answered MasterBlanchminster with some positiveness. 

"I am the more glad to hear it, " said the Bishop, "because meeting aman of such patent capacity brought so low--"

"I assure you, he doesn't even drink--or not to excess, " the Masterassured him. 

They were passing under the archway of the Porter's Lodge. 

"But hallo!" said the Bishop, as they emerged upon the greatquadrangle, "what in the world is going on yonder?"

Again, as the Master had viewed it many hundreds of times, the sunsetshed its gold across the well-kept turf between long shadows cast bythe chimneys of the Brethren's lodgings. As usual, in the deepshadow of the western front were gathered groups of inmates for theevening chat. But the groups had drawn together into one, and werewatching a child who, solitary upon the grass-plot, paced through ameasure before them 'high and disposedly. '

"Brayvo!" shrilled the voice of Mrs. Royle, champion among viragoes. "Now, at the turn you come forward and catch your skirts back beforeyou curtchey!"

"But what on earth does it all mean?" asked the Bishop, staringacross from the archway. 

"It's--it's Bonaday's child--he's one of our Brethren: as I suppose, rehearsing her part for the Pageant. "

Corona's audience had no eyes but for the performance. As sheadvanced to the edge of the grass-plot and dropped a final curtsey tothem, their hands beat together. The clapping travelled across thedusk of the quadrangle to the two watchers, and reached them faintly, thinly, as though they listened in wonder at ghosts applauding on thefar edge of Elysian fields. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

MR. SIMEON MAKES A CLEAN BREAST. 

"I won't say you sold the pass, " snarled Brother Warboise, "though I might. The fact is, there's no trusting your cleverness. You see a chance of showing-off before the Bishop, and that's enough. Off you start with a lecture on architecture (which he didn't in theleast want to hear), and then, when he finds a chance to pull you up, you take the disinterested line and put us all in the cart. "

"You hit it precisely, " answered Brother Copas, "as only a Protestantcan. His eye is always upon his neighbour's defects, and I nevercease to marvel at its adeptness. . . . Well, I do seem to owe you anapology. But I cannot agree that the Bishop was bored. To me heappeared to listen very attentively. "

"He affected to, while he could: for he saw that you were playing hisgame. His whole object being to head off our Petition whilepretending to grant it, the more nonsense you talked, within limits, the better he was pleased. "

Brother Copas pondered a moment. 

"Upon my word, " he chuckled, "it was something of a feat to take areligious cock-pit and turn it into an Old Men's Mutual ImprovementSociety. Since the Wesleyans took over the Westminster Aquarium--"

"You need not add insult to injury. "

"'Injury'? My good Warboise, a truce is not a treaty: still less isit a defeat. . . . Now look here. You are in a raging bad temperthis evening, and you tell yourself it's because the Bishop, with myartless aid, has--as you express it--put you in the cart. Now I amgoing to prove to you that the true reason is a quite different one. For why? Because, though you may not know it, you have been in araging bad temper ever since this business was broached, three monthsago. Why again? I have hinted the answer more than once; and now Iwill put it as a question. _Had Zimri peace, who slew his Master?_"

"I do not understand. "

"Oh yes, you do! You are in a raging bad temper, being at heart moredecent than any of your silly convictions, because you have woundedfor their sake the eminent Christian gentleman now coming towards usalong the river-path. He has been escorting the Bishop for somedistance on his homeward way, and has just parted from him. I'll wager that he meets us without a touch of resentment. . . . Ah, Brother, you have cause to be full of wrath!"

Sure enough the Master, approaching and recognising the pair, hailedthem gaily. 

"Eh? Brother Copas--Brother Warboise--a fine evening! But theswallows will be leaving us in a week or two. "

For a moment it seemed he would pass on, with no more than the usualnod and fatherly smile. He had indeed taken a step or two past themas they stood aside for him in the narrow path: but on a suddenthought he halted and turned about. 

"By the way--that sick friend of yours, Brother Warboise. . . . I was intending to ask about him. Paralysed, I think you said?Do I know him?"

"He is not my friend, " answered Brother Warboise gruffly. 

"His name is Weekes, " said Brother Copas, answering the Master'spuzzled look. "He was a master-printer in his time, an able fellow, but addicted to drink and improvident. His downfall involved that ofBrother Warboise's stationery business, and Brother Warboise hasnever forgiven him. "

"Dear, dear!" Master Blanchminster passed a hand over his brow. "But if that's so, I don't see--"

"It's a curious story, " said Brother Copas, smiling. 

"It's one you have no right to meddle with, any way, " growled BrotherWarboise; "and, what's more, you can't know anything about it. "

"It came to me through the child Corona, " pursued Brother Copasimperturbably. "You took her to Weekes's house to tea one afternoon, and she had it from Weekes's wife. It's astonishing how these womenwill talk. "

"I've known some men too, for that matter--"

"It's useless for you to keep interrupting. The Master has asked forinformation, and I am going to tell him the story--that is, sir, ifyou can spare a few minutes to hear it. "

"You are sure it will take but a few minutes?" asked MasterBlanchminster doubtfully. 

"Eh, Master?" Brother Copas laughed. "Did you, too, find mesomewhat prolix this afternoon?"

"Well, you shall tell me the story. But since it is not good for usto be standing here among the river damps, I suggest that you turnback with me towards St. Hospital, and where the path widens so thatwe can walk three abreast you shall begin. "

"With your leave, Master, I would be excused, " said Brother Warboise. 

"Oh, no, you won't, " Brother Copas assured him. "For unless you cometoo, I promise to leave out all the discreditable part of the storyand paint you with a halo. . . . It began, sir, in this way, " he tookup the tale as they reached the wider path, "when the man Weekes fellunder a paralytic stroke, Warboise took occasion to call on him. Perhaps, Brother, you will tell us why. "

"I saw in his seizure the visitation of God's wrath, " said Warboise. "The man had done me a notorious wrong. He had been a swindler, andmy business was destroyed through him. "

"Mrs. Weekes said that even the sight of the wretch's affliction didnot hinder our Brother from denouncing him. He sat down in a chairfacing the paralytic, and talked of the debt: 'which now, ' said he, 'you will never be able to pay. ' . . . Nay, Master, there is betterto come. When Brother Warboise got up to take his leave, the man'slips moved, and he tried to say something. His wife listened forsome time, and then reported, 'He wants you to come again. 'Brother Warboise wondered at this; but he called again next day. Whereupon the pleasure in the man's face so irritated him, that hesat down again and began to talk of the debt and God's judgment, inwords more opprobrious than before. . . . His own affairs, just then, were going from bad to worse: and, in short, he found so much reliefin bullying the author of his misfortunes, who could not answer back, that the call became a daily one. As for the woman, she endured it, seeing that in some mysterious way it did her husband good. "

"There was nothing mysterious about it, " objected Brother Warboise. "He knew himself a sinner, and desired to pay some of his penancebefore meeting his God. "

"I don't believe it, " said Copas. "But whether you're right orwrong, it doesn't affect the story much. . . . At length some friendsextricated our Brother from his stationery business, and got himadmitted to the Blanchminster Charity. The first afternoon he paid avisit in his black gown, the sick man's face so lit up at the sightthat Warboise flew into a passion--did you not, Brother?"

"Did the child tell you all this?"

"Aye: from the woman's lips. "

"I was annoyed, because all of a sudden it struck me that, in revenge for my straight talk, Weekes had been wanting me to callday by day that he might watch me going downhill; and that now he wasgloating to see me reduced to a Blanchminster gown. So I said, 'You blackguard, you may look your fill, and carry the recollectionof it to the Throne of Judgment, where I hope it may help you. But this is your last sight of me. '"

"Quite correct, " nodded Copas. "Mrs. Weekes corroborates. . . . Well, Master, our Brother trudged back to St. Hospital with thisresolve, and for a week paid no more visits to the sick. By the endof that time he had discovered, to his surprise, that he could not dowithout them--that somehow Weekes had become as necessary to him ashe to Weekes. "

"How did you find that out?" asked Brother Warboise sharply. 

"Easily enough, as the child told the story. . . . At any rate, you went. At the door of the house you met Mrs. Weekes. She had put on her bonnet, and was coming that very afternoon tobeseech your return. You have called daily ever since to talk aboutyour debt, though the Statute of Limitations has closed it for years. . . . That, Master, is the story. "

"You have told it fairly enough, " said Warboise. "Now, since theMaster knows it, I'd be glad to be told if that man is my friend ormy enemy. Upon my word I don't rightly know, and if he knows he'llnever find speech to tell me. Sometimes I think he's both. "

"I am not sure that one differs very much from the other, in the longrun, " said Copas. 

But the Master, who had been musing, turned to Warboise with a quicksmile. 

"Surely, " he said, "there is one easy way of choosing. Take the poorfellow some little gift. If you will accept it for him, I shall behappy to contribute now and then some grapes or a bottle of wine orother small comforts. "

He paused, and added with another smile, still more penetrating--

"You need not give up talking of the debt, you know!"

By this time they had reached the gateway of his lodging, and he gavethem a fatherly good night just as a child's laugh reached themthrough the dusk at the end of the roadway. It was Corona, returningfrom rehearsal; and the Chaplain--the redoubtable William theConqueror--was her escort. The two had made friends on theirhomeward way, and were talking gaily. 

"Why, here is Uncle Copas!" called Corona, and ran to him. 

Mr. Colt relinquished his charge with a wave of the hand. His manner showed that he accepted the new truce _de bon coeur_. 

"Is it peace, you two?" he called, as he went past. 

Brother Warboise growled. _What hast thou to do with peace?Get thee behind me_, the growl seemed to suggest. At all events, itsuggested this answer to Brother Copas--

"If you and Jehu the son of Nimshi start exchanging roles, " hechuckled, "where will Weekes come in?"

Master Blanchminster let himself in with his latchkey, and went upthe stairs to his library. On the way he meditated on the story towhich he had just listened, and the words that haunted his mind wereWordsworth's--

 "Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. "

A solitary light burned in the library--the electric lamp on histable beside the fire-place. It had a green shade, and for a secondor two the Master did not perceive that someone stood a pace or twofrom it in the penumbra. 

"Master!"

"Hey!"--with a start--"Is it Simeon? . . . My good Simeon, you mademe jump. What brings you back here at this hour? You've forgottensome paper, I suppose. "

"No, Master. "

"What then?"

By the faint greenish light the Master missed to observe that Mr. Simeon's face was deadly pale. 

"Master, I have come to make confession--to throw myself on yourmercy! For a long time--for a year almost--I have been livingdishonestly. . . . Master, do you believe in miracles?"

For a moment there was no answer. Master Blanchminster walked backto an electric button beside the door, and turned on more light witha finger that trembled slightly. 

"If you have been living dishonestly, Simeon, I certainly shallbelieve in miracles. "

"But I mean _real_ miracles, Master. "

"You are agitated, Simeon. Take a seat and tell me your trouble inyour own way--beginning, if you please, with the miracle. "

"It was that which brought me. Until it happened I could not findcourage--"

Mr. Simeon's eyes wandered to this side and that, as though theystill sought a last chance of escape. 

"The facts, if you please?"

The Master's voice had of a sudden become cold, even stern. He flung the words much as one dashes a cupful of water in the faceof an hysterical woman. They brought Mr. Simeon to himself. His gaze shivered and fixed itself on the Master's, as in acompass-box you may see the needle tremble to magnetic north. He gripped the arms of his chair, caught his voice, and went ondesperately. 

"This afternoon it was. . . . On my way here I went around, as I godaily, by the Cathedral, to hear if the workmen have found any freshdefects. . . . They had opened a new pit by the south-east corner, a few yards from the first, and as I came by one of the men waslevering away with a crowbar at a large stone not far below thesurface. I waited while he worked it loose, and then, lifting itwith both hands, he flung it on to the edge of the pit. . . . By the shape we knew it at once for an old gravestone that, fallingdown long ago, had somehow sunk and been covered by the turf. There was lettering, too, upon the undermost side when the man turnedit over. He scraped the earth away with the flat of his hands, andtogether we made out what was written. "

Mr. Simeon fumbled in his waistcoat, drew forth a scrap of paper, andhanded it to the Master. 

"I copied it down then and there: no, not at once. At first I lookedup, afraid to see the whole building falling, falling upon me--"

The Master did not hear. He had unfolded the paper. Adjusting hisspectacles, he read: "_God have Mercy on the Soul of Giles Tonkin. Obiit Dec. 17th, 1643. No man can serve two masters_. "

"A strange text for a tombstone, " he commented. "And the date--1643?That is the year when our city surrendered in the Parliament wars. . . . Who knows but this may have marked the grave of a man shotbecause he hesitated too long in taking sides . . . Or perchance inhis flurry he took both, and tried to serve two masters. "

"Master, I am that man. . . . Do not look at me so! I mean that, whether he knew it or not, he died to save me . . . That his stonehas risen up for witness, driving me to you. Ah, do not weaken me, now that I am here to confess!"

And leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands spread tohide his face, Mr. Simeon blurted out his confession. 

When he had ended there was silence in the room for a space. 

"Tarbolt!" murmured the Master, just audibly and no more. "If it had been anyone but Tarbolt!"

There was another silence, broken only by one slow sob. 

"_For either he will hate the one and love the other; or else he willhold to the one and despise the other_. . . Simeon, which was I?"

Mr. Simeon forced himself to look up. Tears were in his eyes, butthey shone. 

"Master, can you doubt?"

"I am sorry to appear brutal, " said Master Blanchminster, coldly andwearily, "but my experiences to-day have been somewhat trying for anold man. May I ask if, on taking your resolution to confess, youcame straight to me; or if, receiving just dismissal from my service, you yet hold Canon Tarbolt in reserve?"

Mr. Simeon stood up. 

"I have behaved so badly to you, sir, that you have a right to askit. But as a fact I went to Canon Tarbolt first, and said I could nolonger work for him. "

"Sit down, please. . . . How many children have you, Mr. Simeon?"

"Seven, sir. . . . The seventh arrived a fortnight ago--yesterdayfortnight, to be precise. A fine boy, I am happy to say. "

He looked up pitifully. The Master stood above him, smiling down;and while the Master's stature seemed to have taken some additionalinches, his smile seemed to irradiate the room. 

"Simeon, I begin to think it high time I raised your salary. "

CHAPTER XXIII. 

CORONA'S BIRTHDAY. 

The May-fly season had come around again, and Corona was spending herSaturday--the Greycoats' holiday--with Brother Copas by the banks ofMere. They had brought their frugal luncheon in the creel which wasto contain the trout Brother Copas hoped to catch. He hoped to catcha brace at least--one for his sick friend at home, the other toreplenish his own empty cupboard: for this excursion meant hismissing to attend at the kitchen and receive his daily dole. 

There may have been thunder in the air. At any rate the fish refusedto feed; and after an hour's patient waiting for sign of a rise--without which his angling would be but idle pains--Brother Copasfound a seat, and pulled out a book from his pocket, while Coronawandered over the meadows in search of larks' nests. But this againwas pains thrown away; since, as Brother Copas afterwards explained, in the first place the buttercups hid them, and, secondly, the nestswere not there!--the birds preferring the high chalky downs for theirnurseries. She knew, however, that along the ditches where thewillows grew, and the alder clumps, there must be scores of warblersand other late-breeding birds; for walking here in the winter she hadmarvelled at the number of nests laid bare by the falling leaves. These warblers wait for the leaves to conceal their building, andWinter will betray the deserted hiding-place. So Brother Copas hadtold her, to himself repeating--

 "_Cras amorum copulatrix inter umbras arborum Inplicat casas virentes de flagello myrteo_. .. . "

Corona found five of these nests, and studied them: flimsy things, constructed of a few dried grasses, inwoven with horsehair andcobwebs. Before next spring the rains would dissolve them and theywould disappear. 

She returned with a huge posy of wild flowers and the informationthat she, for her part, felt hungry as a hunter. . . . They disposedthemselves to eat. 

"Do you know, Uncle Copas, " she asked suddenly, "why I have draggedyou out here to-day?"

"Did I show myself so reluctant?" he protested; but she paid no heedto this. 

"It is because I came home here to England, to St. Hospital, just ayear ago this very afternoon. This is my Thanksgiving Day, " addedCorona solemnly. 

"I am afraid there is no turkey in the hamper, " said Brother Copas, pretending to search. "We must console ourselves by reflecting thatthe bird is out of season. "

"You didn't remember the date, Uncle Copas. Did you, now?"

"I did, though. " Brother Copas gazed at the running water for a spaceand then turned to her with a quick smile. "Why, child, _of course_I did! . . . And I appreciate the honour. "

Corona nodded as she broke off a piece of crust and munched it. 

"I wanted to take stock of it all. (We're dining out of doors, soplease let me talk with my mouth full. I'm learning to eat slowly, like a good English girl: only it takes so much time when there's alot to say. ) Well, I've had a good time, and nobody can take _that_away, thank the Lord! It--it's been just heavenly. "

"A good time for all of us, little maid. "

"Honest Indian? . . . But it can't last, you know. That's what wehave to consider: and it mayn't be a gay thought, but I'd hate to beone of those folks that never see what's over the next fence. . . . Of course, " said Corona pensively, "it's up to you to tell me Idropped in on St. Hospital like one of Solomon's lilies that take nothought for to-morrow. But I didn't, really: for I always knew thiswas going to be the time of my life. "

"I don't understand, " said Copas. "Why should it not last?"

"I guess you and I'll have to be serious, " she answered. "Daddy getsfrailer and frailer. . . . You can't hide from me that you know it:and please don't try, for I've to think of--of the _afterwards_, andI want you to help. "

"But suppose that I have been thinking about it already--thinkingabout it hard?" said Brother Copas slowly. "Ah, child, leave it tome, and never talk like that!"

"But why?" she asked, wondering. 

"Because we old folks cannot bear to hear a child talking, like oneof ourselves, of troubles. That has been our business: we've seen itthrough; and now our best happiness lies in looking back on theyoung, and looking forward for them, and keeping _them_ young andhappy so long as the gods allow. . . . Never search out ways ofrewarding us. To see you just going about with a light heart is abetter reward than ever you could contrive for us by study. Child, if the gods allowed, I would keep you always like MasterWalton's milkmaid, that had not yet attained so much age and wisdomas to load her mind with any fears of many things that will never be, as too many men too often do. But she cast away care--"

"I think she must have been a pretty silly sort of milkmaid, " saidCorona. "Likely she ended to slow music while the cows came home. But what worries me is that I'm young and don't see any way to hurrythings. Miss Champernowne won't let me join the cookery classbecause I'm under the age for it: and I see she talks sense in herway. Even if I learnt cookery and let down my skirts, who's going toengage me for a cook-general at _my_ time of life?"

"Nobody, please God, " answered Brother Copas, copying herseriousness. "Did I not tell you I have been thinking about allthis? If you must know, I have talked it over with the Master . . . And the long and short of it is that, if or when the time shouldcome, I can step in and make a claim for you as your only knownguardian. My dear child, St. Hospital will not let you go. "

For a moment Corona tried to speak, but could not. She sat with herpalms laid on her lap, and stared at the blurred outline of thechalk-hills--blurred by the mist in her eyes. Two great tears welledand splashed down on the back of her hand. 

"The years and years, " she murmured, "before I can begin to pay itback!"

"Nay"--Brother Copas set down his half-filled glass, took the handand gently wiped it with the sleeve of his frayed gown; and so heldit, smoothing it while he spoke, as though the tear had hurt it--"itis we who are repaying you. Shall I tell you what I told theMaster? 'Master, ' I said, 'all we Brethren, ever since I canremember, have been wearing gowns as more or less conscious humbugs. Christ taught that poverty was noble, and such a gospel might beaccepted by the East. It might persevere along the Mediterraneancoast, and survive what St. Paul did to Christianity to makeChristianity popular. It might reach Italy and flame up in a crazedgood soul like the soul of St. Francis. It might creep along as apious opinion, and even reach England, to be acknowledged on a king'sor a rowdy's death-bed--and Alberic de Blanchminster, ' said I, '(saving your presence, sir) was a rowdy robber who, being afraidwhen it came to dying, caught at the Christian precept he has mostneglected, as being therefore in all probability the decentest. But no Englishman, not being on his death-bed, ever believed it:and we knew better--until this child came along and taught us. The Brethren's livery has always been popular enough in the streetsof Merchester: but she--she taught us (God bless her) that it can behonoured for its own sake; that it is noble and, best of all, thatits _noblesse oblige_' . . . Ah, little maid, you do not guess yourstrength!"

Corona understood very little of all this. But she understood thatUncle Copas loved her, and was uttering these whimsies to cover upthe love he revealed. She did better than answer him in words: shenestled to his shoulder, rubbing her cheek softly against thethreadbare gown. 

"When is your birthday, little one?"

"I don't know, " Corona confessed. "Mother never would tell me. She would get angry about birthdays, and say she never took any truckwith them. . . . But, of course, everyone ought to have a birthday, of sorts, and so I call this my real one. But I never told youthat--did I?"

"I heard you say once that you left a little girl behind yousomewhere in the States, but that you only came to yourself the dayyou reached England. "

"Yes; and I _do_ feel sorry for that other little girl sometimes!"

"You need not. She'll grow up to be an American woman: and theAmerican woman, as everybody knows, has all the fun of the fair. . . . To-day is your birthday, then; and see! I have brought along abottle of claret, to drink your health. It isn't--as the Irishbutler said--the best claret, but it's the best we've got. Your goodhealth, Miss Corona, and many happy returns!"

"Which, " responded Corona, lifting her cupful of milk, "I lookstowards you and I likewise bows. . . . _Would_ you, by the way, _very_ much object if I fetched Timothy out of the basket?He gets so few pleasures. "

For the rest of the meal, by the clear-running river, they talkedsheer delightful nonsense. . . . When (as Brother Copas expressed it)they had "put from themselves the desire of meat and drink, " he lit apipe and smoked tranquilly, still now and again, however, sippingabsent-mindedly at his thin claret. 

"But you are not to drink more than half a bottle, " Corona commanded. "The rest we must carry home for supper. "

"So poor a vintage as this, once opened, will hardly bear thejourney, " he protested. "But what are you saying about supper?"

"Why, you wouldn't leave poor old Daddy quite out of the birthday, Ihope! . . . There's to be a supper to-night. Branny's coming. "

"Am I to take this for an invitation?"

"Of course you are. . . . There will be speeches. "

"The dickens is, there won't be any trout at this rate!"

"They'll be rising before evening, " said Corona confidently. "And, anyway, we can't hurry them. "

From far up stream, where the grey mass of the Cathedral blocked thevale, a faint tapping sound reached them, borne on 'the cessile air. 'It came from the Pageant Ground, where workmen were hammering busilyat the Grand Stand. It set them talking of the Pageant, of Corona's'May Queen' dress, of the lines (or, to be accurate, the line and ahalf) she had to speak. This led to her repeating some verses shehad learnt at the Greycoats' School. They began--

 "I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers. "

And Corona was crazy over them, because (as she put it) "they madeyou feel you were smelling all England out of a bottle. "Brother Copas told her of the man who had written them; and of alovelier poem he had written _To Meadows_--

 "Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. 

 "You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. . . . 

 "But now we see none here--"

He broke off. 

"Ah, there he gets at the pang of it! Other poets have wasted pityon the dead-and-gone maids, but his is for the fields they leavedesolate. "

This puzzled Corona. But the poem had touched her somehow, and shekept repeating snatches of it to herself as she rambled off in searchof more birds' nests. Left to himself, Brother Copas pulled out bookand pencil again, and began botching at the last lines of the_Pervigilium Veneris_--

 "Her favour it was filled the sail of the Trojan for Latium bound; Her favour that won her AEneas a bride on Laurentian ground; And anon from the cloister inveigled the Vestal, the Virgin, to Mars, As her wit by the wild Sabine rape recreated her Rome for its wars With the Ramnes, Quirites, together ancestrally proud as they drew From Romulus down to our Ceesar--last, best of that bone and that thew. -- Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!"

Brother Copas paused to trim his pencil, which was blunt. His gazewandered across the water-meadows and overtook Corona, who was wadingdeep in buttercups. 

"Proserpine on the fields of Enna!" he muttered, and resumed--

 "Love planteth a field; it conceives to the passion, the pang, of his joy. In a field was Dione in labour delivered of Cupid the Boy: And the field in its fostering lap from her travail receiv'd him: he drew Mother's milk from the delicate kisses of flowers; and he prospered and grew. -- Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!"

"Why do I translate this stuff? Why, but for the sake of a child whowill never see it--who if she read it, would not understand a word?"

 "Lo! Behold ye the bulls, with how lordly a flank they besprawl on the broom! --Yet obey the uxorious yoke and are tamed by Dione her doom. Or behear ye the sheep, to the husbanding rams how they bleat to the shade! Or behear ye the birds, at the Goddess' command how they sing unafraid!-- Be it harsh as the swannery's clamour that shatters the hush of the lake; Be it dulcet as where Philomela holds darkling the poplar awake, So melting her soul into music, you'd vow 'twas her passion, her own, She chanteth--her sister forgot, with the Daulian crime long-agone. Hush! Hark! Draw around to the circle . . . Ah, loitering Summer, say when For me shall be broken the charm, that I chirp with the swallow again? I am old: I am dumb: I have waited to sing till Apollo withdrew. --So Amyclae a moment was mute, and for ever a wilderness grew. -- Now learn ye to love who loved never--now ye who have loved, love anew!"

"_Perdidi musam tacendo_, " murmured Brother Copas, gazing afield. "Only the young can speak to the young. . . . God grant that, at theright time, the right Prince may come to her over the meadows, anddiscourse honest music!"

_Splash!_

He sprang up and snatched at his rod. A two-pound trout had risenalmost under his nose. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

FINIS CORONAT OPUS. 

The great day dawned at last: the day to which all Merchester hadlooked forward for months, for which so many hundreds had beenworking, on which all must now pin their hopes: the opening day ofPageant Week. 

I suppose that never in Merchester's long history had her citizens sofrequently or so nervously studied their weather-glasses. 

"Tarbolt, of all people!" murmured Brother Copas one afternoon in theVenables Free Library. 

He had just met the Canon coming down the stairs, and turned to watchthe retreating figure to the doorway. 

"I am suffering from a severe shock, " he announced five minutes laterto Mr. Simeon, whom he found at work in Paradise. "Did you ever knowyour friend Tarbolt patronise this institution before?"

"Never, " answered Mr. Simeon, flushing. 

"Well, I met him on the stairs just now. For a moment I knew notwhich alternative to choose--whether your desertion had driven him tothe extreme course of reading a book or two for himself, or he hadcome desperately in search of you to promise that if you returned, all should be forgiven. . . . No, you need not look alarmed. He camein search of a newspaper. "

"But there are no newspapers in the Library. "

"Quite so: he has just made that discovery. Thereupon, since ananimal of that breed cannot go anywhere without leaving his scentbehind him, he has scrawled himself over half a page of theSuggestion' Book. He wants this Library to take in _The Times_newspaper, 'if only for the sake of its foreign correspondence andits admirable weather-charts. ' Signed, 'J. Tarbolt. ' What part isthe humbug sustaining, that so depends on the weather?"

"He takes Bishop Henry of Blois in the Fourth Episode. He wears asuit of complete armour, and you cannot conceive how muchit--it--improves him. I helped him to try it on the other day, "Mr. Simeon explained with a smile. 

"Maybe, " suggested Brother Copas, "he fears the effect of rain uponhis 'h's. '"

But the glass held steady, and the great day dawned without a cloud. Good citizens of Merchester, arising early to scan the sky, weresurprised to find their next-door neighbours already abroad, and inconsultation with neighbours opposite over strings of flags to besuspended across the roadway. Mr. Simeon, for example, peeping out, with an old dressing-gown cast over his night-shirt, was astounded tofind Mr. Magor, the contiguous pork-seller, thus engaged with Mr. Sillifant, the cheap fruiterer across the way. He had accustomedhimself to think of them as careless citizens and uncultured, andtheir unexpected patriotism gave him perhaps less of a shock than thediscovery that they must have been moving faster than he with thetimes, for they both wore pyjamas. 

They were kind to him, however: and, lifting no eyebrow over hisantiquated night-attire, consulted him cheerfully over a string offlags which (as it turned out) Mr. Magor had paid yesterday a visitto Southampton expressly to borrow. 

I mention this because it was a foretaste, and significant, of thegeneral enthusiasm. 

At ten in the morning Fritz, head waiter of that fine old Englishcoaching-house, "The Mitre, " looked out from the portico where hestood surrounded by sporting prints, and announced to the young ladyin the bar that the excursion trains must be "bringing them inhundreds. "

By eleven o'clock the High Street was packed with crowds that whiledaway their time with staring at the flags and decorations. But itwas not until 1. 0 p. M. That there began to flow, always towards thePageant Ground, a stream by which that week, among the inhabitants ofMerchester, will always be best remembered; a stream of folk instrange dresses--knights in armour, ladies in flounces and ruffs, ancient Britons, greaved Roman legionaries, monks, cavaliers, Georgian beaux and dames. 

It appeared as if all the dead generations of Merchester hadarisen from their tombs and reclaimed possession of her streets. They shared it, however, with throngs of modern folk, in summerattire, hurrying from early luncheons to the spectacle. In the roadway near the Pageant Ground crusaders and nuns jostledamid motors and cabs of commerce. 

For an hour this mad medley poured through the streets of Merchester. Come with them to the Pageant Ground, where all is arranged now andready, waiting the signal!

Punctually at half-past two, from his box on the roof of the GrandStand, Mr. Isidore gave the signal for which the orchestra waited. With a loud outburst of horns and trumpets and a deep rolling ofdrums the overture began. 

It was the work of a young musician, ambitious to seize hisopportunity. After stating its theme largely, simply, in sixteenstrong chords, it broke into variations in which the audience for afew moments might read nothing but cacophonous noise, until a gatewayopened in the old wall, and through it a band of white-robed Druidscame streaming towards the stone altar which stood--the sole stage"property"--in the centre of the green area. Behind them trooped amob of skin-clothed savages, yelling as they dragged a woman to thesacrifice. It was these yells that the music interpreted. The Pageant had opened, and was chanting in high wild notes to itsown prelude. 

Almost before the spectators realised this, the Arch-Druid hadmounted his altar. He held a knife to the victim's throat. But meanwhile the low beat of a march had crept into the music, andwas asserting itself more and more insistently beneath thedisconnected outcries. It seemed to grow out of distance, to drawnearer and nearer, as it were the tramp of an armed host. . . . It _was_ the tramp of a host. . . . As the Arch-Druid, holding hisknife aloft, dragged back the woman's head to lay her throat thebarer, all turned to a sudden crash of cymbals; and, to the sternmarching-tune now silencing all clamours, the advance-guard ofVespasian swung in through the gateway. . . . 

So for an hour Saxon followed Roman, Dane followed Saxon, Normanfollowed both. Alfred, Canute, William--all controlled (as BrotherCopas cynically remarked to Brother Warboise, watching through thepalings from the allotted patch of sward which served them forgreen-room) by one small Jew, perspiring on the roof and bawlingorders here, there, everywhere, through a gigantic megaphone; bawlingthem in a _lingua franca_ to which these mighty puppets movedobediently, weaving English history as upon a tapestry swiftly, continuously unrolled. "Which things, " quoted Copas mischievously, "are an allegory, Philip. "

To the waiting performers it seemed incredible that to the audience, packed by thousands in the Grand Stand, this scolding strident voiceimmediately above their heads should be inaudible. Yet it was. All those eyes beheld, all those ears heard, was the puppets as theypostured and declaimed. The loud little man on the roof they saw notnor heard. 

"Which things again are an allegory, " said Brother Copas. 

The Brethren of St. Hospital had no Episode of their own. But fromthe time of the Conquest downward they had constantly to take part inthe moving scenes as members of the crowd, and the spectatorsconstantly hailed their entry. 

"Our coat of poverty is the wear to last, after all, " said Copas, regaining the green-room and mopping his brow. "We have just seenout the Plantagenets. "

In this humble way, when the time came, he looked on at the Episodeof Henry the Eighth's visit to Merchester, and listened to the blankverse which he himself had written. The Pageant Committee had ruledout the Reformation, but he had slyly introduced a hint of it. The scene consisted mainly of revels, dances, tournays, amid which asinging man had chanted, in a beautiful tenor, Henry's own song of_Pastime with good Companye_. --

 "Pastime with good Companye, I love and shall until I die: Grudge who lust, but none deny, So God be pleased, thus live will I. For my pastance, Hunt, sing and dance, My heart is set. All goodly sport For my comfort Who shall me let?"

With its chorus--

 "For Idleness Is chief mistress Of vices all. Then who can say But mirth and play Is best of all?"

As to the tune of it their revels ended, Henry and Catherine ofAragon and Charles the Emperor passed from the sunlit stage, onesolitary figure--the blind Bishop of Merchester--lingered, andstretched out his hands for the monks to come and lead him home, stretched out his hands towards the Cathedral behind the green elms. 

 "Being blind, I trust the Light. Ah, Mother Church! If fire must purify, If tribulation search thee, shall I plead _Not in my time, O Lord_? Nay let me know All dark, yet trust the dawn--remembering The order of thy services, thy sweet songs, Thy decent ministrations--Levite, priest And sacrifice--those antepasts of heaven. We have sinn'd, we have sinn'd! But never yet went out The flame upon the altar, day or night; And it shall save thee, O Jerusalem! Jerusalem!"

"And I stole that straight out of Jeremy Taylor, " murmured BrotherCopas, as the monks led off their Bishop, chanting--

 "Crux, in caelo lux superna, Sis in carnis hac taberna Mihi pedibus lucerna--

 "Quo vexillum Dux cohortis Sistet, super flumen mortis, Te, flammantibus in portis!"

--"While I wrote that dog-Latin myself, " said Brother Copas, musing, forgetful that he, the author, was lingering on the stage from whichhe ought to have removed himself three minutes ago with the rest ofthe crowd. 

"Ger' out! Get off, zat olt fool! What ze devil you mean bydoddling!"

It was the voice of Mr. Isidore screeching upon him through themegaphone. Brother Copas turned about, uplifting his face to it fora moment with a dazed stare. . . . It seemed that, this time, everyone in the Grand Stand must have heard. He fled: he made themost ignominious exit in the whole Pageant. 

The afternoon heat was broiling. . . . He had no sooner gained thegreen-room shade of his elm than the whole of the Brethren weresummoned forth anew; this time to assist at the spousals of QueenMary of England with King Philip of Spain. And this Episode(Number VII on the programme) was Corona's. 

He had meant--and again he cursed his forgetfulness--to seek her outat the last moment and whisper a word of encouragement. The childmust needs be nervous. . . . 

He had missed his chance now. He followed the troop of Brethren backinto the arena and dressed rank with the others, salaaming as themock potentates entered, uttering stage cheers, while inwardlygroaning in spirit. His eye kept an anxious sidewise watch on thegateway by which Corona must make her entrance. 

She came. But before her, leading the way, strewing flowers, camescore upon score of children in regiments of colour--pale blue, paleyellow, green, rose, heliotrope. They conducted her to the MayQueen's throne, hung it with wreaths, and having paid their homage, ranged off, regiment by regiment, to take their station for thedance. And she, meanwhile? . . . If she were nervous, no sign of itbetrayed her. She walked to her throne with the air of a smallqueen. . . . _Vera incessu patuit--Corona_; walked, too, without airsor _minauderies_, unconscious of all but the solemn glory. This wasthe pageant of her beloved England, and hers for the moment was thisproud part in it. Brother Copas brushed his eyes. In his earsbuzzed the verse of a psalm--

 She shall be brought unto the King in raiment of needle-work: the virgins that be her fellows shall bear her company . . . 

The orchestra struck up a quick-tripping minuet. The regimentsadvanced on curving lines. They interwove their ranks, makingrainbows of colour; they rayed out in broadening bands of colour fromCorona's footstool. Through a dozen of these evolutions she sat, andtook all the homage imperially. It was not given to her, but to theidea for which she was enthroned; and sitting, she nursed the idea inher heart. 

The dance over--and twice or thrice as it proceeded the front of theGrand Stand shook with the clapping of thousands of hands, allagitated together as when a wind passes over a wheatfield--Corona hadto arise from her throne, a wreath in either hand, and deliver aspeech before Queen Mary. The length of it was just a line andthree-quarters--

 "Lady, accept these perishable flowers Queen May brings to Queen Mary. . . . "

She spoke them in a high, clear voice, and all the Grand Standrenewed its clapping as the child did obeisance. 

"First-class!" grunted Brother Warboise at Copas's elbow. "Pity old Bonaday couldn't be here to see the girl!"

"Aye, " said Copas; but there was that in his throat which forbade hissaying more. 

So the Pageant went on unfolding its scenes. Some of them weremerely silly: all of them were false to fact, of course, and a feweven false to sentiment. No entry, for example, received a heartierround of British applause than did Nell Gwynn's (Episode IX). Tears actually sprang to many eyes when an orange-girl in thecrowd pushed forward offering her wares, and Nell with a gay laughbought fruit of her, announcing "_I_ was an orange-girl once!"Brother Copas snorted, and snorted again more loudly when PrebendaryKen refused to admit the naughty ex-orange-girl within his episcopalgates. For the audience applauded the protest almost as effusively, and again clapped like mad when the Merry Monarch took the rebukelike a sportsman, promising that "the next Bishopric that fallsvacant shall be at this good old man's disposal!"

Indeed, much of the Pageant was extremely silly. Yet, as itprogressed, Brother Copas was not alone in feeling his heart liftwith the total effect of it. Here, after all, thousands of peoplewere met in a common pride of England and her history. Distort it asthe performers might, and vain, inadequate, as might be the wordsthey declaimed, an idea lay behind it all. These thousands of peoplewere met for a purpose in itself ennobling because unselfish. As often happens on such occasions, the rite took possession of them, seizing on them, surprising them with a sudden glow about the heart, sudden tears in the eyes. This _was_ history of a sort. Towards theclose, when the elm shadows began to stretch across the green stage, even careless spectators began to catch this infection of nobility--this feeling that we are indeed greater than we know. 

In the last act all the characters--from early Briton to Georgiandame--trooped together into the arena. In groups marshalled athaphazard they chanted with full hearts the final hymn, and theaudience unbidden joined in chorus--

 "O God! our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast And our eternal home!"

"Where is the child?" asked Brother Copas, glancing through thethrong. 

He found her in the thick of the press, unable to see anything forthe crowd about her, and led her off to a corner where, by thesouthern end of the Grand Stand, some twenty Brethren of St. Hospitalstood shouting in company--

 "A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone, Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. "

"She can't see. Lift her higher!" sang out a voice--Brother Royle's. 

By happy chance at the edge of the group stood tall good-naturedAlderman Chope, who had impersonated Alfred the Great. The Brethrenbegged his shield from him and mounted Corona upon it, all holding itby its rim while they chanted--

 "The busy tribes of flesh and blood, With all their hopes and fears, Are carried downward by the flood And lost in following years. 

 "Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. 

 "O God! our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come; Be Thou our guard while troubles last And our perpetual home!"

Corona lifted her voice and sang with the old men; while among theexcited groups the swallows skimmed boldly over the meadow, as theyhad skimmed every summer's evening before and since English Historybegan. 

CONCLUSION. 

Brother Copas walked homeward along the river-path, his gaunt handsgathering his Beauchamp robe behind him for convenience of stride. Ahead of him and around him the swallows circleted over thewater-meads or swooped their breasts close to the current of Mere. Beside him strode his shadow, and lengthened as the sun westered in ahaze of potable gold. In the haze swam evening odours of mints, grasses, herbs of grace and virtue named in old pharmacopoeias asmost medicinal for man, now forgotten, if not nameless. 

The sunset breathed benediction. To many who walked homeward thatevening it seemed in that benediction to enwrap the centuries ofhistory they had so feverishly been celebrating, and to fold themsoftly away as a garment. But Brother Copas heeded it not. He waseager to reach St. Hospital and carry report to his old friend. 

"Upon my word, it was an entire success. . . . I have criticised theBambergers enough to have earned a right to admit it. In the end asort of sacred fury took hold of the whole crowd, and in the midst ofit we held her up--Corona--on a shield--"

Brother Bonaday lay panting. He had struggled through an attacksharper than any previous one--so much sharper that he knew the endto be not far distant, and only asked for the next to be swift. 

"--And she was just splendid, " said Brother Copas. "She had thatunconscious way of stepping out of the past, with a crown on herhead. My God, old friend, if I had that child for a daughter--"

Brother Bonaday lay and panted, not seeming to hear, still with hiseyes upturned to the ceiling of his narrow cell. They scanned it asif feebly groping a passage through. 

"I ought to have told you, " he muttered. --"More than once I meant--tried--to tell you. "

"Hey?"

Brother Copas bent lower. 

"She--Corona--never was my child. . . . Give me your hand. . . . No, no; it's the truth, now. Her mother ran away from me . . . And she, Corona, was born . . . A year after . . . In America . . . Coronation year. The man--her father--died when she was six monthsold, and the woman . . . Knowing that I was always weak--"

He panted, very feebly. Brother Copas, still holding his hand, leaned forward. 

"Then she died, too. . . . What does it matter? Her message. . . . 'Bluff, ' you would call it. . . . But she knew me. She was alwaysdecided in her dealings . . . To the end. I want to sleep now. . . . That's a good man!"

Brother Copas, seeking complete solitude, found it in the dusk of thegarden beyond the Ambulatory. There, repelling the benediction ofsunset that still lingered in the west, he lifted his face to theplanet Jupiter, already establishing its light in a clear space ofsky. 

"Lord!" he ingeminated, "forgive me who counted myself the ironeistof St. Hospital!"