Читать книгу The Inquisitor - Hugh Walpole - Страница 13

Mr. Bird did not forget the lady with whom he spoke in the Cathedral and very soon he discovered her identity.

He was walking through the Market-place with Gaselee and she passed them. He took off his hat, and she bowed; he fancied, however, that she did not recognize him.

'Do you know that lady?' he asked Gaselee.

'That is Miss Furze—the daughter of the world's worst money-lender.'

He was surprised and greatly interested. Poor lady! How terrible for her! No wonder that she should appear reserved and on her guard. He felt that he would like to meet her soon again and show her that he was her friend. How foolish! He had only spoken a few words to her. She did not even remember him. But he felt a warm sympathy because she was in all probability lonely, and he was lonely too.

After two months in Polchester he was very lonely indeed. His character being what it was, it had been unkind of Fate to send him to Mr. Porteous, who was exactly the wrong person to give him the confidence that he always so badly needed. Porteous did not understand diffidence, nor did he know the cure for it. He was a kind man, although not quite so kind as he thought he was. Mr. Bird's smallness of stature, his shyness in company, his inability to make the best of himself, seemed to Porteous something of a joke, a great deal of a pity, and the kind of thing that Jesus Christ deplored. He talked to Bird as an elder brother, who is captain of his school eleven, talks to his younger brother who has ink on his fingers, dust in his hair, and an apprehensive walk.

'We are all Christ's soldiers, my dear friend. We are in His service. He is our Captain. Nothing must dismay us. With Him at our side we must have no fear.'

He gave Bird a great deal of work because he was himself busied about so many public affairs. 'Let us see. There is the Guild of Work at eleven-thirty. I can't be at that because of the Friends of the Cathedral meeting. At two-thirty there is the Mission at Polcreath. You should be back at five for the Young Men's Holiday Fund. Don't let Botchett have his way over that. He wants us to go to Newly Sands this time. Quite absurd. We went to Newly three years ago, and there were so many people that both the cricket and the bathing were spoilt. Stand up to Botchett.'

This thought of standing up to Botchett was quite enough to spoil Bird's whole day. Botchett, who was one of the churchwardens at St. Paul's, was loud-voiced, red-faced and obstinate. A most difficult man.

There was the further trouble of Camilla Porteous. Camilla was the only one of Porteous' three children still remaining at home. She was over thirty now, a tall, strong, athletic-looking creature who should be excellent at hockey and at golf. Unfortunately this was not the case. Her looks belied her; in spite of her athletic form and jolly masculine voice she had the nature of an unrepentant sentimentalist. She was all woman and wanted a husband. It seemed that there was no one in Polchester destined for that appointment, time was passing, and her father's last two curates, Mr. Enderby and Mr. Salt, had been, with feminine wile and intrigue, attacked and invaded. They had both escaped, for Mr. Enderby detested women and Mr. Salt loved a girl in Lancashire. So she discovered that she liked Mr. Bird immensely. This was quite genuine. She cared for all small and defenceless things—all animals; even leaves and flowers seemed to her to have a life of their own and need protection.

On Mr. Bird's side there was something so peculiar in the softness and tenderness that proceeded from that masculine and athletic personality that he was struck quite dumb by it. She paid him visits in his Orange Street lodgings and, to his horror, talked to him about his underclothes.

'Take care of the cold. Wool next the skin is the only thing in this treacherous climate. I know what you poor bachelors are—no one to look after you—all your socks in holes. Don't mind asking me, Mr. Bird. Nothing is too much trouble.'

He murmured his thanks.

'We must all help one another. Oh dear! Doesn't it seem to you, Mr. Bird, a strange thing that when it should be so easy for us all to love one another, we don't?'

She stood up, her legs widely planted, her arms extended as though she were swinging a hockey club.

'This beautiful world! The birds know better how to live in harmony together than we do! The robins, the wrens——'

Mr. Bird murmured something about the cruelty of Nature.

'Oh no! I can't agree! Of course there's the cuckoo and one or two more, but that's simply because they don't know better. We do know better. Life's meant to be all harmony, and what do we make of it? . . . Well, I must be getting along. Forgive me for talking as I feel. But I know that you understand. I feel that we are friends. Father's not been fortunate in his curates lately—Mr. Enderby was so very unsympathetic. I hate to say anything against anybody, but everyone felt the same. And Mr. Salt—well, Mr. Salt was always wanting to take the train to Bradford, if you know what I mean.'

She smiled and moved a step towards him. He felt terror in his heart. She gave him one long look and departed.

Then came a day when, for the first time, he began to realize some of the undercurrents that were driving the town's course. It was this meeting—the first meeting of the Pageant Committee—that did two things to him. It showed him that he himself, insignificant as he was, belonged to the whole movement of local events. It showed him also that these local events involved hostilities, jealousies, drama far beyond his own personal history. From this afternoon he was included in everything that afterwards occurred. Porteous had been made Chairman of the Pageant Committee for two reasons: one that, beyond anyone else in the town, he was a man who got things done; two, that he held a proper and decent balance between the interests of the Cathedral and the Town. The Committee consisted of the Bishop, Lady St. Leath, Mrs. Braund, Canon Ronder, Gaselee, Mrs. Carris, Mr. Withers, the author of the Pageant Book, Aldridge the Mayor, and Mr. Nigel Romney. Of Mr. Romney a word must be said. He was an important member of Polchester society. He was a bachelor of middle years, wealthy and eccentric. His appearance was odd, for he was tall and thin with a very long neck and auburn 'waved' hair. He had a high shrill voice, and did not deny that his nature was feminine. Indeed, rather than deny it he proclaimed it everywhere: 'My dear, it was nothing to do with me! My mother wanted a girl. She thought it would be so much nicer for father. And so there you are!' He was very clever at tapestry and took his work with him when he went out to tea. He lived in a little house on the hill above Orange Street, had an Italian man-servant, an excellent cook and some excellent pictures. His rooms were famous—his dining-room that was entirely in white, white curtains covered the walls, the tables and chairs were white, and there was a large bowl of white carved fruit at the table's centre. Then there was his bedroom in purple and green—an odd combination, you would think, but rather agreeable in fact. He collected jade and rock crystal. He had a small white dog called Titania, very hairy and impertinent.

He knew everyone in the town. That was his real importance. Although he was intimate with the Canons, Lady Mary, Mrs. Carris, he was friendly also with Aldridge and Bellamy. Even in Seatown he had friends, very rough ones some of them. He had the kindest and most generous of natures. He was always giving presents and helping the needy; he subscribed to everything. The ladies loved him and confided their dearest secrets to him, and this was natural, for he understood exactly what they needed. Ordinary men were very selfish, thought only of themselves, and when they did make a fuss of a woman it was because they wanted something. They were tactless too, would talk about their silly business when they should be silent, refused little attentions when little attentions were requested, and went to sleep with their mouths open at the very time when they should be courteous. Mr. Romney did none of these things. He would listen by the hour to the most trivial nothings, would understand with real kindness how a look, a word, a movement might hurt. And naturally, because it was just these little things that hurt himself.

He was, at the same time, very indiscreet. He said so everywhere. 'Oh no, you mustn't tell me!' he would cry. 'I'm simply not to be trusted. I can't keep a thing to myself, my dear. It's too awful. I don't know what reticence means.'

Then he was very changeable, very suspicious, very easily offended, and he showed that he was offended like a child. He would simply pick up his tapestry and go. There would begin then a very elaborate correspondence. The Italian man-servant would arrive with notes. He must be wooed, and wooed he always was because of the many intimate private things that he knew.

He had a strong if rather feminine sense of humour and should, people said, have been an actor. He was excellent at imitating the idiosyncrasies of his friends—Mrs. Braund at bridge, Lady Mary when she sneezed, the Misses Trenchard speaking to their cook. He was most amusing too when he caricatured himself, himself gardening, himself losing his soap in the bath, himself running for shelter in a shower of rain.

But his real value was in his social omniscience. He knew everything that was going on in the town, everyone's weakness, when there was a quarrel, when a reconciliation. His curiosity was insatiable.

But his great gift was for colour. He helped people with their curtains, their pictures, their furniture. His taste was quite marvellous. And in all this he was most unselfish. No trouble was too much for him.

That was the reason of his presence on the Pageant Committee. Mr. Porteous did not wish it, for Mr. Porteous disliked him extremely. He knew that Romney mocked him. No one was cleverer than Romney at mocking you with the completest good-nature. Porteous did not like to be mocked. Porteous had once said to him: 'You're looking a bit pale, Romney. What you need is a little healthy exercise. A game of golf once and again.'

That was tactless of Porteous, for Romney was sensitive about his appearance, which was, he considered, unusual and distinguished.

So after that, when he met Porteous, he always spoke about sport.

'Fine cricket they're having,' he would say, 'at Lord's. I see someone's been batting for a week, and is sleeping on the ground in a tent so as to be up and ready in the morning.'

And Porteous would say in his most cheerful manner: 'Not brought your sewing to-day, Romney?'

No, they did not like one another at all, which was a pity.

On this first meeting of the Pageant Committee, Porteous wished Mr. Bird to be present to take notes. So present he was. He did not enjoy the occasion. He was afraid of everyone present. Only Romney took any notice of him. The Bishop and Lady St. Leath could not be there.

Everyone was given a copy of the Book of Words.

'What I suggest,' said Porteous, 'is that we all take this home and study it.' (He had a trick of emphasizing certain words, and he said 'study' as though he were ordering them to charge the foe.) 'It is clear to me from a first cursory reading that the two principal parts are the Black Bishop and Lady Emily. Indeed the scene when Lady Emily harangues the citizens is most stirring—very noble and stirring indeed.' (Here he bowed to the author.) 'I perceive that Lady Emily has to ride a horse. She was also, at the time of the Battle of Drymouth, some forty-five years of age, so the part must be taken by someone—well, someone no longer a child.'

Here, as Mr. Bird noticed, both Mrs. Braund and Mrs. Carris looked up self-consciously.

'I would make an excellent Lady Emily,' Romney said, and everyone laughed. But everyone also knew that the matter of casting this part was going to be no jesting affair.

Romney, looking quickly at the book, saw many fine opportunities for pageantry. His heart began to beat. His pale cheeks flushed. Whatever else he was or was not, he was an artist. This was utterly sincere to him. He would fight to the death for the hang of a curtain, would, in olden times, have been tortured rather than yield on the principle of colour or symmetry. And here was this fool Porteous who knew nothing about anything. He saw battles ahead.

Ronder, seated back in his chair, his hands folded on his belly, watched them with curiosity.

Once upon a time (and his younger self was so alive, so friendly, standing now at his side!) how deeply the intrigue, the pulling of strings, the influencing of events all involved here in this coming Pageant would have excited him! Even now he could feel, as though faintly fanning his cheek, the warm breath of that urgent flame!

But now he was spectator—spectator even of himself! His great bulk made all chairs, save those in his own house, uncomfortable for him. He sat back now, his hands crossed over his stomach, his thick neck uneasy, his short legs aching beneath the table. His eyes were half closed. His clothes were perfect in cut, his high white collar gleamed, his shaven cheek had an almost Chinese smoothness. He did not move. He had not yet spoken.

He seemed to see into the very hearts of all those present. How well he knew the almost boyish eagerness with which Porteous was taking charge of this affair, his blindness as to the psychology of others, his complete self-assurance, his real religion, his real confidence in God's approval of himself. How well he understood Mrs. Braund, her good heart, her sense of fighting in a vulgar world for the old order of decency and class, and the pathos that came from that kind of outmoded snobbery; he knew that she saw in Mrs. Carris with her vulgarity, parties and pushing daughters, something as ill-smelling as onions, as common-tasting as tripe.

How well he understood Mrs. Carris and her vitality, her lack of taste, her social jealousies, her picture of herself as buoyant, brilliantly coloured, the only alive person in Polchester.

But best of all he understood Romney almost as though that queer creature were part of himself. For there had always been in himself a feminine streak. It was that, he thought, that had in reality so fatally antagonized Brandon all those years ago. And, as he thought of that old battle, the consequences of which were not ended yet, he wondered whether he had not been a little in love with Brandon, in love with his splendid masculinity and vigour and health.

Yes, he understood Romney, and could see how the creative fire was now burning in him at the thought of the coloured fantasies to be drawn from the heart of this Pageant; he understood, too, the sensitive antennae now quiveringly extended; a word, a smile, a gesture, and Romney would be elaborating intrigues, taking sides, forcing issues just as he had once done. But not with the same result. Romney was weak as he himself had never been, weak and passionate in his personal contacts as he had never been, and standing always on the razor-edge of personal disaster. Oh yes, he understood it all!

And as he saw these human beings he found them all so touching, so human and, above all, so small, turning like little toy figures around the great battlement of the Cathedral.

Soon he must leave this. Soon he would be—where? A curious trembling seized his body. His fingers tapped on the table. He would go, as old Moffit the other night had gone before his very eyes. In the face of that great imminent fact everything faded to nothingness. He sank into darkness. He felt a horrible decay in every bone of his body.

'Yes,' Porteous was saying, 'this will undoubtedly be a very great event in the history of the Town and the Cathedral, and what I feel, ladies and gentlemen, is that we all have an immense responsibility in this matter. We must not think of ourselves, but must work as a team—one for all and all for one.'

'What I want to know, Mr. Porteous,' said Mrs. Carris, 'is how we come to final decisions. There will undoubtedly be differences of opinion——'

'Then of course we vote.'

'Oh, I see. But if we vote about every point it will take a very long time——'

'About many things we will, I trust, be unanimous.'

'And what about the finances?' (It was clear that Mrs. Carris intended to take a leading part at these meetings.)

'Well, as to the finances . . .'

It seemed that the Cathedral will contribute, and the Town will contribute. . . .

'Exactly. If the Town is to contribute, then in my opinion it is not represented sufficiently on this Committee. The Mayor, myself, Mr. Romney—we, I suppose, represent the Town. I hope everyone understands me. I'm the last person to make any trouble, but I know things will be said and questions asked——'

'We have the right to invite persons especially concerned——'

'The Town seems to me very adequately represented,' Mrs. Braund said in her deep voice.

'Well, we'll see.' Mrs. Carris tossed her auburn head ever so slightly. 'I know that questions will be asked. . . .'

It was here that Gaselee, very modestly and with a smile that he knew to be charming, played his tactful part. 'May I say just this? Isn't this a matter greater than any question of Town or Cathedral? Speaking for myself I am very proud that I have been asked to be on this Committee. I think Mrs. Carris is so right in wishing that we should do nothing to rouse outside criticism, but if we all act together, as one man, as Porteous says, there should be no criticism. Or if there is any we will meet it all together. All of us—well, we want this Pageant to be one of the finest the West of England has ever seen. And it will be, I know.'

('That young man,' Ronder thought, 'will go far here. Perhaps he will take my place. But he's more ambitious for himself than for anything else. Was I? I can't be sure. I have never been sure.')

'Of course there's the weather,' the Mayor said unexpectedly.

'The weather?'

'Well, there's always the weather, isn't there, in England? Everything will depend on it. A wet week and everything will be ruined.'

Aldridge—who was a tall thin man with purple cheeks and a pale, pointed nose—was alternately optimist and pessimist. His moods went with his digestion. His sufferings from dyspepsia seemed to him simply the most important item in the universe, and he regarded his stomach as a battleground in which the issue was epochal. His symptoms—the nausea, the headache, the heartburn and the rest—were personal to him like the members of his family.

He was not so well to-day, and throughout the meeting he had been considering whether a small portion of duck, eaten by him on the previous evening, was responsible. This bird hovered over his head and blinded his eyes. When he was well he was like Wellington after Waterloo; he had settled the fate of Europe.

To-day there was little more to do. Next week they would consider the distribution of the parts. . . .

'Well, well,' said Porteous, rubbing his hands. 'A good beginning, I think, an excellent beginning.' But he considered the long thin back of Romney, who was just leaving in the company of Mrs. Braund. He was telling her a story that amused her very much indeed—about himself possibly. How he wished that that fellow was not on the Committee! A ridiculous mistake. He would speak to the Bishop. Perhaps it was not too late for something to be done. Bird, fearful as always that his lord and master would seize upon him and give him some new job to do before morning, nevertheless managed to escape. He would take a little walk in the evening air. He felt greatly distressed. It seemed to him that everyone on the Committee hated everyone else. Mrs. Braund and Mrs. Carris frightened him. They were so large and so self-assured. How was he ever to do his duty successfully in this town? He formed in his mind his favourite picture of a quiet country parish where no one alarmed him, where he would have silence and peace so that he might think about God and feel God near to him.

Lovely weather! As he walked down Orange Street beauty closed him in. The sky was softly blue and patterned with rosy cloud. Everyone moved gently. The street was as it might have been fifty years ago. No motor-cars. The Georgian houses, each with its neat stone steps and shining knocker, let the evening light fall quietly on the grey stone. The air was sharp, fresh, sparkling. At the bottom of the street, where the river flows under a bridge, a barge, painted a brilliant red, moved slowly seawards. The water, in grey shadow and then suddenly sparkling with the evening glow, stirred gently as though a kind hand stroked it.

Standing on the bridge, he saw the Cathedral towers rise above the roofs in black silhouette. Birds flew, more peaceful than the sky that they traversed.

'Good evening, Mr. Bird,' a voice said.

He turned and saw the sculptor Lampiron at his side. He was greatly pleased. He had met the sculptor on one or two occasions of late and he felt that they were already friends. He was not afraid of Lampiron in spite of his gruff voice, his independent opinions, and the name that he had for carving monstrosities.

'Taking a walk?'

'Yes. Five minutes in the air. I've been sitting indoors all the afternoon.'

'Come in and see my place. It's just round the corner here.'

'Well, really——'

'Oh, nonsense! I'll take no denial.'

Lampiron caught him by the arm and Bird gladly submitted. It would be interesting to see those abominable sculptures!

Lampiron had a little house looking over the river. He took Bird upstairs into a room that was in complete disorder, newspapers on the floor, an empty beer-bottle on the table, books on the chairs. . . .

'Never mind this. Here's where I work.' He led him down some stairs at the room-end, pushed open a door, and they were in the studio. When Lampiron switched on the light the first thing that Bird saw was a great block of stone, and from this stone projected two gigantic female breasts. He gazed at this, hoping that unexpectedly a face might emerge from that grey mass—or if not a face, at least a hand or a foot, something that he might recognize.

Giving a little sigh he raised his eyes timidly to Lampiron's. Then they both laughed.

'You don't like it, eh? Of course not. But you don't understand it. A thing like that can't come to you all in a moment. The stone itself is practically a phallus—and then the breasts. . . . Now don't be shocked. I won't have you shocked.'

'I'm not shocked,' Bird murmured.

'That's right. People in this town faint if you mention the generative organs. Anyway this is the grandest thing I've done yet—and it's not Asiatic like Epstein. My God, no! It's universal. The life of man. But probably you don't believe in the life of man or think it's important. No, you believe in God and think that says everything. But it doesn't. Not by a long chalk. God's all right, but only if you believe in Creation——'

'I believe in love,' little Mr. Bird said, most unexpectedly to himself. Then he went on rapidly: 'I know that sounds silly. It's what every sentimentalist who beats his wife says. No, but I mean it. And I'll tell you why. Because I've been sitting on a Committee for hours this afternoon with everyone hating everyone else. It made me very unhappy. And frightened too. Because if we've learnt nothing after all these years, perhaps we're worth so little that we'll all be swept up and thrown into the dust-bin.'

He looked wildly about him, his eyes staring at the obscure shapes—here a rough head, there gigantic thighs and bending knees, and there again more female breasts. He was near to tears although he did not know it.

'I can't think why I'm talking like this. As a rule I'm afraid to open my mouth. But it's coming here, seeing all these terrible things you're making. . . . I like you so much, and surely these things are frightful——' He raised his hands as though appealing for forgiveness. Then dropped them. 'I beg your pardon. I've been terribly rude when I know you so slightly. . . .'

Lampiron saw that his eyes were full of tears. He led him to an old shabby arm-chair with a large hole in it.

'There you are. Sit down there. Have some tea—or a whisky and soda—will you?'

'Yes. Thanks. I think I would like some tea.'

Lampiron pushed a bell. 'If only that old bitch isn't out. . . . Here, I say, I'm sorry. But no, I'm not. We're going to be friends and it will never do if I have to pull myself up and apologize for my language every moment. It will do you good anyway—a counter to old Porteous and his gang. But look here——'

He pulled a chair close to the one in which Bird was sitting.

'This is important. This is hellishly important. We've got to have this out. You come in here and think these things hideous. So does everyone else in the town except the Hattaways. Not that that matters. Neither you nor anyone else here know anything about art. It's a thing you've got to learn about, you know, like engineering or banking. People look at a painting or a piece of sculpture and say: "Oh, I don't like that!" and think they have finished with it. Bloody fools! What you've got to do is to find out what the artist is getting at, and then, when you're fairly sure, you can say whether you think he's got it or not. And then there's nothing final in it. You're limited as critic by everything you've been and are. What you are. What the artist is. What art is. Three separate things. When for you they coincide, then for you the creator has done his job. But only for you, mind. . . . Come in. Yes, Bridget. Some tea, please, bread and butter, jam, cake.'

'I don't want any cake,' Bird murmured.

'Oh yes you do. Do you good. Well, look here. I'm nearly seventy; I've only been working at this thing for five years. I know nothing at all about it. But when I'm working I'm so happy I wouldn't exchange places with anyone alive or dead. My health and my work—my two good things. Everything else is rotten. I've hardly a friend in the place. I haven't a bean. I owe that swine Furze a hell of a lot and he'll turn me out of here if I don't do something about it. Take my sculpture too in part payment. I wouldn't wonder if I murdered him one day. I'd kill him to-morrow if I could think of a way that wouldn't be detected. Oh yes! I mean it. Don't look so shocked. I'd be doing a kindness to humanity. He has most of the town under his thumb.

'And then sex. I'm nearly seventy as I told you, but I'm strong as a horse. I could sleep with three women a night. I don't, but I walk this bloody town at two in the morning to cool my passions. Ludicrous, isn't it? An old man with passions. Disgusting too. I tell you it's neither ludicrous nor disgusting. It's life—teeming, fructifying, careless, casual, procreative life. I've energy enough. Look here. Feel that arm.'

Bird felt his arm.

'Muscle there, isn't there? But it's all working up to an explosion. I'm like a man chained. I don't ask for much. Enough money to do my work in peace. A nice quiet mistress who wouldn't think of me as an old man. Peace to work. That's all. And I can't get it. I can't get it. There's no peace in this town. That's working up for an explosion too because no one here thinks of what's real. Beauty.'

'God,' said Bird.

'It's the same thing. The thing in the centre. You can't go on neglecting it for ever. It's damned patient, but it won't wait for ever.'

He strode off to a corner and returned with two or three pictures that had been standing with their faces to the wall. He showed them to Bird. One represented cows in a field grazing, another the moon rising over an oily sea, a third the street of a village.

'But they're beautiful!' cried Bird.

'No, they're not. They're hideous. Or rather they're nothing at all. They don't exist.'

'Do you mean to say,' said Bird, 'that when you could paint like that you gave it up and—and—did those?'

Lampiron laughed. He took the paintings and placed them once more with their faces to the wall.

'Can't you see——?' he began. But he broke off. 'No, I see that you can't. The difference between life and death. Well, well.'

The tea came in.

'Here. This is a fine cake. It's gingerbread. I'm sure where you are they don't give you enough to eat. Now I've been doing all the talking. Tell me a little about yourself.'

'Yes, I will,' Bird said suddenly. 'I haven't talked to anyone about myself for years. Nobody's asked me. There's nothing much to tell though, except that I'm a coward. I'm frightened of everyone and everything, myself included.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. I've no confidence. Only when I'm alone and God seems very close to me I'm comforted. Sometimes then I feel that I could face anybody.'

'This business about God.' Lampiron said. 'I don't understand it. You're a parson, so you have to put up a show, but in your inner self, when you're alone, do you really believe it? Believe that Christ was divine, that there's another life after this one and the rest of it?'

'I think I believe in a sixth sense,' Bird said slowly. 'Non-material. I know that there's another world. Often I'm in touch with it. And when I leave my physical body I shall understand it more fully. I could understand it more now if I were not so physical, if I loved people more, thought less of myself.'

'I see,' Lampiron said. 'I don't believe in your spiritual world, but I do believe in my creative one, and maybe they're the same. Perhaps we're both right. But your physical self. I shouldn't have thought you were very physical. Do you mean women?'

Bird blushed.

'Of course I'm like other men,' he said. 'But I've never had relations with a woman——'

'My God! How old are you?'

'Thirty-two.'

'Thirty-two? And never slept with a woman! Your passions can't be very strong then.'

'They are—sometimes. But it wouldn't be right—for me. One day I hope I shall marry.' To his own surprise he thought of the woman whom he had seen in the Cathedral, Furze's daughter.

He went on: 'I've never spoken to anyone of these things before. I've been too timid. Of course as a clergyman I've had to warn boys about sex and I've encountered it many times in my work—very sad it's been sometimes. But I've always managed. It's only since I've come here that I've felt everything difficult. There's something about this town . . . You know, it seems so quiet and ordinary on the outside, but when you get to know it a little, there's something underneath . . . But I don't think I shall be quite so nervous now. It's helped me like anything talking to you.'

'And it's helped me!' Lampiron cried. 'Life isn't all jam for me just now. I put a bold face on it but, between you and me, I'm frightened myself sometimes. Waking up at two in the morning, hearing the Cathedral bells strike, knowing I'm nearly seventy and am in debt to that swine and am not earning a penny. . . .'

'You could sell those pictures,' Bird said.

'No, I couldn't. Not here. No one in Polchester buys pictures.'

'I—' Bird began shyly, 'I—if you didn't ask too much—I should greatly like to have one.'

'Bless your heart!' Lampiron cried. 'Would you really? And so you shall. But you shan't pay me for it. I'll give you one and it shall illuminate your lodgings. Here—which will you have?'

He dragged them over again.

'Oh no, I couldn't.'

'Of course you can. You shall help me sometime if I'm in a real hole——'

Bird was dreadfully embarrassed. That wasn't at all what he had intended. Suppose that Lampiron thought . . . So he chose one—the picture with the cows in a field.

'Good! That's been making me feel sick for years. You've done me a service. I'll send it up to your lodgings to-morrow.'

'I'd like to take it with me.'

'Would you? All right. I'll wrap some paper round it.'

When Bird stood up to depart Lampiron put his hand on his shoulder. 'You're right,' he said, 'to be celibate—if you can. Then when you marry——. Only don't wait too long. To be married, you know. And if she's the wrong woman I'll strangle her!'

Bird smiled, shook hands, and departed.

It was dark now. A wild wind blew down Orange Street and knocked the picture against Bird's legs. What a fine man! I've made a new friend! But how violent! I do hope he won't do anything in a sudden passion. . . . But whatever he did I'd stand by him. I've made a friend. . . .

He entered his lodgings with a brave heart.