Part 17

Ruthie monopolised the conversation with as much determination as ever; Ambrose whined quite as much as usual, and surpassed himself in the degree of stickiness to which he attained; and the _séance_ ended with the usual violent quarrel between the two and their eventual expulsion from the room and from the house--Ruthie rampant and Ambrose in tears--and the inevitable valedictory wish expressed by the host that they should never be permitted to return.

Edna said, "Poor motherless children," in a tone that sounded rather more evidently exasperated and less compassionate than she had intended it to sound, and Sir Julian retired to the smoking-room.

He remembered presently that Edna probably knew nothing of the complete victory signalised by Miss Marchrose's resignation from the College staff; but he realised that the episode, in all essentials, was already past.

That which he termed "atmosphere" was dissipated, and he knew that it was almost as an afterthought that Edna, that evening, asked him whether Miss Marchrose was going.

"Yes, she is."

"At once?"

"I don't know. I've left her to settle that with Fuller."

"She must go before Mark comes back. It's far better so."

"I think probably she will."

"Julian, I've been thinking about her. And it seems to me," said Edna, "that we must help her. God knows, I can judge no one, least of all to condemn, but I think that her weakness and recklessness are going to make life terribly, terribly hard for her. And I, for one, can't see her drift away like that without one effort to help."

The depth of Sir Julian's disapproval for the suggested scheme of philanthropy left him bereft of speech. Finally he observed:

"In my opinion, Edna, you have done rather too much already. Leave her alone."

"What do you mean? Julian, you carry your mania against officiousness too far. Indeed you do. What are we here for, unless it is to help one another?"

Sir Julian shrugged his shoulders.

"I knew the character of this woman before she ever came here--I couldn't help knowing it--I saw her trying to wreck Mark, as she nearly wrecked poor Clarence. I believe that I have saved Mark--and I thank God for it, very humbly, and very proudly. As for her, I hold no brief against her. I condemn no one, and I seek only to help her.... If she cares to turn to me now, all the love that I _can_ give that poor, struggling, feeble soul is waiting for her."

"I don't think she will ask you for it, Edna."

Sir Julian thought of many things. For a moment he wondered whether he should say them aloud. Then the habit of apathy that had possessed him for a number of years asserted itself anew, and he did as he had almost always done--he left things alone.

The episode was past.

He told himself so again, with a faint sense of surprise that already it should rank as an episode merely.

There had been no calamity, and, as Edna had said, nothing had been put into words.

He revised the collection of infinitesimal ripples that had momentarily disturbed the atmosphere common to the little groups of people with whom he was concerned.

Almost each one had contributed vibrations in a greater or lesser degree.

Miss Farmer, Miss Sandiloe, young Cooper--each and all of them had tittered a little, wondered a little, talked foolishly.

Auntie Iris--for the life of him, Julian could not feel as angry with pretty, ridiculous Iris as he thought that her folly deserved--Iris, too, had played out her little comedies, her childish attempts at directing the hand of fate.

Old Alderman Bellew--Julian gave only an instant's half-amused recollection to the dogmatic condemnations and assertions of old Alderman Bellew. He had merely found it easy to follow the lead given him, after all.

On the thought of Edna's many activities Sir Julian dwelt not at all. Somewhere at the back of his mind lingered the echo of her specious gospel, her creed of "giving out."

For himself, he preferred to think that the trend of events had been in no way deflected by all that Edna had done and said.

The whole had been fated to remain an episode, devoid of climax.

XX

Nevertheless the last word remained to be spoken, and it was destined to be heard by Sir Julian when he made casual enquiry of Fairfax Fuller on Monday morning.

"Have you settled the day that Miss Marchrose leaves us?"

"Yes, Sir Julian."

"Well?" enquired Sir Julian, after a moment, as his subordinate appeared quite indisposed to make any further communications.

"She's not coming back here at all."

"Is that with your sanction?" said the surprised Julian.

"I talked it over with her on Saturday evening, Sir Julian."

"Then you did find her?"

"Down by what they call the sea-wall."

Fuller, his dark face marvellously heated, looked full at his chief.

"I've asked the girl to marry me, Sir Julian," he remarked.

* * * * *

Some weeks later, Julian wrote a letter, and addressed it to Miss Marchrose in London.

_My dear Pauline Marchrose_,

_Since you ask for my opinion, I send it to you for what it is worth, admitting that, as you say, I stand committed to a certain degree of officiousness already. That, however, is not the word of which you made use. Thank you, on the contrary, for the expressions that you have selected._

_I am glad that you are marrying Fuller. He is a good fellow through and through, and the other side of his bulldog tenacity is a very real and dependable loyalty. I think that that loyalty will be of great service to you. And don't think that you are relinquishing the abstract ideal of which we spoke one afternoon down by the sea-wall. You were never false to your standards for a moment, and to recognise defeat is not always an implication of weakness. It may, as in your case, denote the courage of a perfectly sincere outlook. Humbug is the only thing to be afraid of. You have eliminated that, and Fairfax Fuller is not prone to illusion or self-deception. Besides, your intercourse took place at a time and in circumstances which admitted of the luxury of sincerity. For that, and for the fact that Fuller knows something of the extent of his incredible good fortune, I send you my congratulations and I wish you luck._

Sir Julian paused for a long while.

The episode was over. His letter was a postscript merely.

"Are you coming upstairs, Julian?" said Edna's most forbearing tones, full of fatigue.

"Is it late?"

"It's nearly twelve. It's the servants that I'm thinking of. I hate keeping them up."

"It's quite unnecessary to keep any of them up. I am perfectly capable of putting out the lights in the hall without Horber's assistance."

"I shall not ring for Mason. I never do ring for her if I'm later than eleven o'clock. After all, it's a very little thing, when once one realises that a maid is a sister-woman, when all's said and done...."

All was so far from being said that Julian, taking up his pen again, slowly added the final sentence to his letter, unconsciously adjusting his speed to words that struck upon his hearing and penetrated hardly at all to his thoughts.

"I believe so much in _little_ things, in the immense power of a thought, of a kind glance, of a smile...."

_If the Colonial scheme materialises rapidly, as I think it will, I shall send Fuller out. It is largely owing to his management that we have the funds in hand to extend the branches of the College, and I can see both you and him as pioneers, in the near future._

"Sometimes I think that when one has not received very much oneself, it only makes one readier to give. One knows the lack----"

_Keep up a very good courage--but that I believe you will always do. You have got your scale of relative values clear, and, once that's done, you can afford to accept truth. Nothing else matters._

"Perhaps one would be less tired at the end of the day if one gave out less, but after all, it's all part of the great, wonderful, Divine plan."

"Have you finished writing, Julian? 'Jorrocks' is on the table."

"Yes, quite finished," said Sir Julian, and, first signing his name, he sealed his letter.

Cornwall, Jan., 1919. Surrey, June, 1919.

THE END

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