 Part 1 It was Saturday night at the end of a hard week. I was just finishing my dinner when I was told that a man wished to see me at once in the surgery. The name, Tarn, was unknown to me. I found a fair-haired man of thirty in a faded and frayed suit of mustard-colour, holding in his hand a broken straw hat. His face was rather fat and roundish, his belt powerful but ponchy. The colour of face and hands showed open-air life and work. His manner was slow, apathetic, heavy. His speech was slow, too, but it was the speech of an educated man, and the voice was curiously gentle. "'My wife's ill, doctor. Can you come?' "'I can. What's the matter with her, Mr. Tarn?' He explained. "'I do not regard child-bearing as illness, and told him so. I told him further that he ought to have made his arrangements, and to have engaged a doctor and nurse beforehand. In her own country they do not regard it as illness, either. The women there do not have doctor or nurse. She did not wish it. But, however, as she seemed to suffer. "'Well, well, we'll get on. Where do you live?' "'Felens Dean.' "'Eight miles away and right upon the Downs. Phew! Can I get my car there?' "'Most of the way at any rate. We could always walk the rest.' "'We'll chance it. I'll bring the car round. Shant keep you a minute, Mr. Tarn.' I kept him rather longer than that. There were the lamps to see to, and I had directions to give to my servants. I did not take my driver with me. He had been at work since eight in the morning. When I re-entered the surgery I found Tarn still standing in just the same pose and place, as if he had not moved a hair's breadth since I left him. "'Ready now,' I said, as I picked up my bag. He took out a pinch of sovereigns from his waistcoat pocket, seven or eight of them. "'Your fee, doctor,' he said. "'That can wait until I've done my work. Come along. Shall I lend you an overcoat?' He thanked me, but refused it, saying that he was used to old weathers. The night was fairly warm, too. He sat beside me on the front seat. The first six miles were easy enough along a good road, and I talked to him as I drove. I omitted the professional part of our conversation, the questions which a doctor would naturally put on such an occasion. "'So your wife's a foreigner,' I said. What nationality? She is a woman of colour, a negrous. It is true that all coloured people inspire me with a feeling of physical repulsion, and equally true that I can set all feelings of repulsion aside when there is work to be done.' "'Ah,' I said, and you live up at Felon's Dean. To tell the truth I didn't know anybody lived there. I remember the place—came on it two years ago or more, when I was roaming over the Downs. There was a farmhouse, all in ruins. And let me see, was there a cottage? I didn't come upon anybody living there then. I remember that, because I was thirsty after my walk, and couldn't get a drink. There was no one there then, and there is no cottage. We came last year. Part of the farmhouse has been repaired. "'Well, you've struck about the loneliest spot in England. Who's your landlord?' "'A'—it's mine. I bought it. Two acres and the farmhouse. Had trouble to get it—a deal of trouble.' "'And who's with your wife now?' I asked. "'Nobody. She's alone in the house.' "'Well, that's not right,' I said. "'We have no servants. Do everything ourselves. The nearest house is a farmer's at Sandin, three miles away, and we've had no dealings with him. It couldn't be helped, and—' "'She's different, you know. I was not long in coming to you. I caught the mail-cart as soon as I reached the road and got a lift. "'Still, I'm thinking. How am I to get on?' "'You'll find I can do anything a woman can do, and do it better. I am more intelligent and I have no nerves. You must pull up at the next gate, doctor. We strike across the downs there. We had done the six miles, mostly uphill, in twenty-one minutes. Now we turned through the gate, along a turf-track deeply rutted. Luckily the weather had been dry for the last fortnight. We crawled up to the top of the crest, and then along it, for a mile. I saw lights ahead in a hollow below. A dog barked savagely. "'That, Felon's Dean?' I asked. "'That's it. The descent is bad.' When I got to it I found that it was very bad. I stopped the engines. "'If we break our necks we shan't be much use,' I said. "'I'll leave the car here. There's nobody to run away with it.' "'Shall we take a lamp?' he asked. "'Better.' He picked up my bag, unhitched one lamp, and extinguished the other, while I spread the rug over the seats. His ordinary slowness was deceptive. When he was actually doing something he was remarkably quick without being hurried. He was quick, too, in seeing a mechanical device. That was clear from the way he handled the lamps. We began the brief descent, and the dog barked more furiously than ever. "'Is that dog loose?' I asked, as we neared the house. "'Yes,' he said. "'But he's educated. He'd kill a stranger who came alone. He won't touch you.' He gave a whistle, and the barking stopped. The dog, an enormous black retriever, came running towards us. His eyes in the lamp-light had a liquid trustfulness. "'Heel,' said Tarn sharply. And the dog paced quietly behind him, taking no notice of me, whatever. We went through a yard surrounded by a wall of rough stone. By the light of the lamp I saw that the wall had been mended in places. There was a rough shed on the left, with crates and packing-cases under it. The front door was flush with the wall of the house. It was unlocked, and when Tarn opened it a bright light streamed out. Within was a small square hall, and I noticed that the light was incandescent gas. Tarn saw that I had noticed it. "'I put in a gas-plant,' he said. "'Will you come this way?' He took me into a great living-room. I should think it was about forty feet by twenty. There was a big open fireplace at the further end of the room. The floor was flagged, without rugs or carpets. The walls were the same inside as out, rough stone and mortar. There were three small windows high up in the walls. The windows were newly glazed, the walls had been repaired. There was very little furniture, three wooden Windsor chairs, a couple of deal-tables, and some cupboards made from packing-cases. There was no attempt at ornament or decoration of any kind, and there was no disorder. The scanty furniture was precisely arranged, nothing was left lying about, and everything was scrupulously clean. The timbers of the pointed roof seemed to me to be new. The room was very brightly lit, with more gas jets, of the cheapest description, than were needed. What struck me most was the smell of the place, a smoky, greenish, sub-acid, slightly aromatic smell. I wondered if it could come from the great logs that smoldered in the fireplace, before which the retriever now stretched himself. Queer smell here, I said. What is it? It comes, he said, from the smoke of juniper leaves. You don't burn those in the fireplace, do you? No. I—I don't think you'd understand. The words were said gently, almost sadly, without offensive intention. But they annoyed me a little. I did not like to be told by this scarecrow that I could not understand. Very well, I said. Now then, where's your wife? He pointed to a door at the further end of the room, on the right of the fireplace. Through there, he said, I—I don't know if you speak French. I do. Mala speaks French more easily than English. She lived for many years in Paris, was born there. You'll find in that room the things a chemist in Helmstone thought might be wanted. If you need anything else, or want my help in any way, I shall be here. Good, I said, and passed through the door he had indicated. I must remember that I'm not writing for doctors. All I need to say of the case is that it was a good thing Tarn fetched me. It was a case where the intervention of a medical man was imperatively necessary. Otherwise, all went perfectly well. The child was born in a little more than an hour after my arrival—a girl, healthy and vigorous, and as black as the ace of spades. Tarn did all that was required of him perfectly, quickly but without noise or hurry, and with great intelligence. Mala, his wife, seemed to me to be very young. She was a girl of splendid physique. Her face, like the face of every negris, repelled me. She showed affection for her child, and expressed her intention of nursing it herself, of which she seemed capable. This was all natural. More natural than normal, unfortunately. But all the time I was conscious that I was attending a woman of morbid psychology. When I left her asleep it was to join a man of morbid psychology in the great living-room. All well? asked Tarn, as I entered. Quite, both asleep. My body was tired, and I dare say I ought to have been sleepy myself, but my mind was awake and alert. The unusual nature of the experience may account for it. I sat down and gave him some instructions and advice about his wife, to which he paid close attention. Must you come here again? he asked. I thought it a question that might have been better expressed. Yes, I said. I don't want to pile up the visits, but I must do what's wanted. I didn't mean that. I meant that, unless you were coming again in any case, I should have to make arrangements for fetching you, if the need arose. I laughed. Arrangements? You've nobody to send but yourself. There's the dog. But he doesn't know where I live. I was meaning to teach him that, to-morrow. I'd better do it in any case. One never knows what may happen. He sighed profoundly. Teach him to fetch the doctor, eh? He must be a clever beggar. What do you call him? He has no name. He's not a pet. You must take some refreshment before you go. Whiskey? Ah, a drop of whiskey in a biscuit would be rather welcome. Thanks. He brought out a jar of whiskey, a gasogen of soda water, and some large hard biscuits in their native tin. To your daughter's hell, I said, as I raised my glass. He suddenly put his glass down. Farse, he said savagely, but it's all farce, this. This fuss. She's born to die, isn't she? It's the common lot. She's holed out of nothing by blind chance, to be tossed back into nothing by blind chance. Drink the health of the seaweed that the tide throws up on the shore, and the tide sucks back again. No. Not I. The whole thing had been so strange, that this outbreak did not particularly astonish me. You'd be a happier man, Mr. Tarn, and a more sensible man, if you would simply accept nature as you find it. You can't alter it, and you can't understand it. You're beating your head against a wall. This ragged fellow took on an air of superiority that annoyed me. Yes, yes, he said. I've heard all that, and so often. It's the point of view of ordinary materialistic science. You are not a religious man. Certainly, I said. I don't pretend that I know what I do not know. Nor am I fool enough, Mr. Tarn, to complain of what from insufficient data I am unable to understand. Put in other words, I am neither an orthodox believer nor an atheist. Do I understand that you are a religious man yourself? The religion of Mala and her people is mine. Really? You turn the tables on the missionaries. Well, the theological discussion is interesting, but it is often interminable, and I have work to do to-morrow. I must be getting on. I will come with you as far as the car. But first, doctor, the dog must learn that you are welcome here and that he is never too harm you. Call him and give him a bit of biscuit. I called him. He looked up from his place before the fire, but did not move. Then Tarn made a movement with his hand, and the dog got up, shook himself, and walked slowly towards me. He went all round me, sniffing. I held out the biscuit to him, and he looked away to his master and whined. Tarn nodded, and the dog immediately took the food from my hand. Yes, said Tarn, as if answering what I was thinking. He has never been allowed to take food from any hand but mine. He will never forget you. You can come here at any hour of the day or night now with perfect safety. It's—it's the freedom of the city. As Tarn climbed with me up to the car, he spoke again on the subject of my fee. I suppose I should not have offered it in advance, he said. But it occurred to me that, as I never think about clothes, I looked very poor, and the place where I have chosen to live also looked very poor. And you did not know me. As a matter of fact, I am bothered with far more money than I want. Ah! I laughed! I could do with a little worry of that sort! As he fixed up the lamps, he thanked me warmly for what I had done for Mala, and asked what time he might expect me on the morrow. I opened my pocket-book and looked at it by the light of the lamp. Well, I have a light-day to-morrow, barring accidents. I shall be here some time in the afternoon. The drive-home was accomplished without incident. I ran the car into the coach-house, and went straight to bed. But for more than an hour I could not get to sleep. I was haunted by that man and his negrous wife, building theories about them, trying to account for them. Just as I was dropping off, I was awakened again by a smell of bitter smoke in my nostrils, the smell of burning juniper leaves. Then I recognized that the smell was a memory illusion, and fell asleep in real earnest. Part 2 I got back from my Sunday morning round before one. Helmstone was rather full of visitors that day, and there were many cars before the big hotel in the Queen's Road. As my man was driving slowly through the traffic, I saw, a hundred yards away, Tarn striding along in the same shabby clothes, with his retriever at his heel. He turned down a side street, and I saw no more of him. On inquiry I found that he had not called at my house. He had merely been there, as he said, to give the dog his lesson. I am a bachelor. I lunched alone on cold beef and beer, and I read the Lancet. I intended to remain materialistic and scientific, and not to be infected by that air of mystery and morbidity, which seemed to hang around Tarn and his negrous wife at Felonstein. I had not been in practice for ten years without coming on strange occurrences before, and they had all lost their strangeness when the facts had been filled in. My after-luncheon visit to Felonstein was, of course, professional, but if I had any chance I meant to satisfy an ordinary lay curiosity as well. I drove myself, and the track across the downs looked worse in daylight than it had done by night. Still it seemed reasonable to suppose that what the car had done then it could do now. I could see more clearly now what had been done in the way of repairs to that ruined and long-deserted farmhouse. The pointed roof over the big room where I had sat the night before had been mended and made weathertight. The chimney-stack was new, and so were the window casements. Adjoining the big room was a building of irregular shape that might possibly have contained three or four other rooms, roofed with new corrugated iron. One or two out-buildings looked as if they had been newly constructed from old materials, but that part of the farmhouse, which had originally been too storied, had been left quite untouched. Half the roof of it was down, the windows were without glass, and one saw through them the broken stairs and torn wallpaper peeling off and flapping in the brisk march breeze. On the grass-field, beyond the car-chart, two good, alderny cows were grazing. Most of the land looked neglected, but Tarn had no help and had everything to do himself. An orchard of stunted and miserable-looking fruit trees was sheltered by a dip of the land, from north and east. The dog barked furiously when he heard my car, and before I began the climb down to the farmhouse I picked up two or three flints, with intent to use them if he went for me. But all signs of hostility vanished when he saw me. He did not leap and gamble for joy, but he thrust his nose into my hand, and then walked, just in front of me, wagging his tail, and looking back from time to time, to see that I understood and was following him. He led the way across the courtyard, through the open outer door, and across the hall, to the door of the big room. He scratched at the door. From impatience I knocked and entered. Tarn had fallen asleep before the fire in one of the Windsor Chairs. He was just rousing himself as I entered. He had taken off his coat and his heavy boots, and wore felt-lippers that had a homemade look. From the table beside him it appeared that he had lunched frugally on whiskey, milk, and hard biscuits. Sorry I was asleep, he said, but the dog knew. Ah! I said, you'd a long walk this morning. I saw you at Helmstone. Yes, I told you. You should have come into my house for a rest. How's your wife getting on? Had a good night? It seems so. She has slept a long time, so has the child. I will find out if she will see you. He passed into the inner room. If she had expressed any disinclination to see me, I should have been extremely angry. Also I might have thought it right to disregard the disinclination. But Tarn reappeared almost directly and asked me to go in. I found that all was going as well as possible, both with her and with the child. She really was a splendid animal, unhurt either by excessive work or, as many modern mothers are, by a rotten, fashionable life. With me she was reticent, almost sullen in manner, yet she seemed docile, and had carried out my orders. The only difficulty was, as I had expected, to get her to remain in bed. With her child she showed white teeth in ecstasies of maternal joy. Before I had finished with her I heard the rain pattering on the iron roof of her room. I went back into the great living-room. It was rather dark there, for the sky was heavily clouded, and the windows, placed high up, gave but little light. The table had been cleared, and Tarn was not there. I sat down to wait for him, and the dog got up from the fire, and came over to me and laid his head on my knee. He was an enormous and very powerful brute, as much retriever as anything, but evidently with another strain in his composition. I felt quite safe with him now, talked to him, and patted him, attentions which he received gravely, without resistance, but without any signs of pleasure. Presently Tarn came in from outside. His hair was wet with the rain. I've taken up a tarpaulin, he said, and thrown it over your car, doctor. That's very good of you, I said. I was just doubting if that rug of mine would be enough. It comes down heavily. You must remain here a while, unless you have other patients whom you must see at once. No, I said. This finishes my work for today, I hope. I always try to arrange for Sunday afternoon free, and I'm glad to accept your hospitality. No juniper smoke today. There has been no occasion. He went on quickly to inquire about his wife and child. He was not a man who showed his emotions much, but he certainly left me with the impression that he was fond and proud of the child. He asked several questions about her as he went round the room, lighting the gas jets. Then we sat before the log-fire and lit our pipes. One's a little surprised to find gas in a place like this, I said. It makes less work than lamps. When one tries to be independent and do the work oneself, that's a consideration. Besides, it gives more light, and people who live alone, as we do, need plenty of light. I'm afraid it must all seem rather puzzling. Well, I said, I don't want to be curious. And I don't want to puzzle anybody, nor to enlighten anybody, either. Still, you have done much for us. Mala says she would have died, but for you. If you care for a very simple story, you can have it. Just as you like, I said, but I should imagine that your story would be interesting. I do not think so. A little more than a year ago I was in Paris. Mala was also there. I met her through a friend of mine. I brought her to England and married her. You know how such a marriage is regarded here, how a woman of colour is regarded, in any case. Very well, Valence Dean was a place where we could live to ourselves. He stopped, as if there had been no more to say. So far, I said, you have told me precisely what one might have conjectured. How did it all happen? What were you doing in Paris? And Mala, who was the friend? How did it come about? He spoke slowly, more to himself, as it seemed, than to me. My friend was an English Catholic, an ex-priest, a religious man like myself. His mind gave way, and he is shut up in an asylum now. He took me to see Mala, night after night. Sometimes it was miraculous, and sometimes nothing. When the performance went badly, the uncle beat her. We could stop that, because it was only a question of money. I remember it all, settled after midnight, at a cafe where we drank absinthe. The uncle with arms too long and very prognathous. Like a dressed up ape, pouncing on the banknotes with hairy fingers, and counting aloud in French. Very bad French, not like Mala's. He was very old, a hundred years, he said. He cannot have been her uncle really. A great uncle, perhaps. He was not a religious man at all. He kept patting the pocket where the banknotes were. We put him in a fiacre, because he was drunk. We were out of Paris that night. My friend, and Mala, and myself. Next morning we crossed the channel, and next night there was a riot at the theatre because Mala did not appear. Did I say where we went in England? I'm not used to speaking so much, and it confuses me. I was afraid he would stop again. I don't think you mentioned the exact name, I said. Wilsing, my friend's own place. High walls and lonely gardens, but too many servants. They all looked questions at us. Gardeners would touch their caps and look round after we had passed. You can imagine it. It was while we were at Wilsing that I married Mala. And shortly afterwards my poor friend had to be taken away. You see, doctor, he was a very earnest man and very religious. He had gone too far along a new road, and he was horribly frightened, but could not go back. It was too much for him. Mala and I had to go away also, of course. I remember hotels that would not take us in. We have been followed in the streets by jeering crowds. Even when I had found Felon's Dean, there was endless trouble before I could buy it. No tenant could be found for it. There is some silly story that the place is haunted. Besides, the house was all in ruins and too far from—from everything. And yet the owner would not sell. He paused. And in the end, I asked. Oh, yes, I got it in the end. I tempted him. Here we have arranged life as we wish it to be, and we practice our religion without molestation. There are consolations. The consolations of religion, I suggested. Suddenly he put down his pipe and stood up erect. He stretched an arm out clumsily towards me. His eyes flashed under the bright gas jets and his nostrils quivered. He spoke in a low voice, but with the most intense emphasis. You don't know what you're saying. In our religion there are no consolations. There is only propitiation—and again, propitiation—and always propitiation. The sacrifice of more and more as the end draws nearer. He swept his arm round and pointed at the door of his wife's room. What consolation is there from the power that there, in there where you have been, linked love with life, only to link life with death again? What consolation from the power that has closed and sealed the door of knowledge? He sat down and remained silent. I was beginning to form some conclusions. Then what consolations have you? Linked to bitterness and yet something. For example, I have mala. Your child also? Yes, a child, too, for a little time, perhaps. There was again a pause. The rain had cleared now and arose to go. Mr. Tarn, I said, before I leave you I think it my duty as a doctor to tell you something. About mala? he asked, eagerly. About yourself? He laughed contemptuously. If you go on with your present manner of life I will not answer for the consequences. I think you are playing—and have been playing—a very dangerous game. The case of your own friend warns you how dangerous it is. This prolonged solitude is bad for you and bad for your wife. This pessimistic brooding over things you cannot understand, which you are pleased to call a religion, is worse still, especially if it is accompanied by any rites or ceremonies which might impress a morbid imagination. I'm not going to mince matters. If you don't give this up you'll lose your reason. What is it you want me to do? Do not be so absurdly sensitive about the fact that you have married a Negress. Be a man and not a baby. Go and live in some village and mix with your fellow men. No novelty lasts more than three months. Before the end of that time your wife will excite no attention at all. The position will be accepted. And if you can't find any better religion than the dismal rubbish that is poisoning your mind at present, then have none at all. It will be better for you. It is impossible to take your advice, he said, stolidly. Why? Because Mala and I are as we were made. We won't argue it. Please yourself, I have done my duty. Goodbye, Mr. Tarn. He told me that he was coming with me to the road. The very thin skin of turf on the hard rock of the crest of the hill would be so greasy that the wheels of my car would go round ineffectively and refuse to bite without his weight on the back axle. At the rutty descent on the other side he would get off and walk by the car to lend a hand if the wheels sank too deep in the mud there. His predictions happened exactly, and I was very glad of his help. At the road he left me. Up on the hill his dog guarded the tarpaulin, and waited for his return. Certainly, in some simple practical matters, the man was still showing himself sane and shrewd enough. I dined that night with a bachelor friend in Helmstone, who has a good reference library and a vast fund of curious information. He told me to what power the smell of burning juniper was supposed to be agreeable. He also informed me that Wilsing was the heritature seat of the Earl of Delgen. Poor beggar, added my host. Delgen? I asked. Why? Oh, well, he's in an asylum, you know, and likely to stop there, so they say. End of Section 1 Section 2 of Here and Here After This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Here and Here After by Barry Payne Mala, Parts 3 and 4 Part 3 I happened in the course of the next week to hear of Tarn from another source. Tarn had told me that his next neighbour was the farmer at Sandin, three miles away, and that they had had no dealings together. Now I knew, little parrot, the farmer at Sandin very well. I had attended his robust and prolific wife on three natural occasions, I had seen the children through measles. I had done what I could for the chronic dyspepsia of his termigant aunt. I had looked after parrot's knee when a horse kicked him. Parrot was a ferret-faced man, a hard man at a bargain, and a very good man on a horse. Between farming and horse-coping he did very fairly well. He was the willing and abject slave of his wife and his numerous children. He was interested in medical matters, of which he had no knowledge, whatever, and relished an occasional long word. So I was not surprised to receive a note from Parrot stating, our Gladys seems to have omphitus, that he would be glad if I could call, and that he was my obedient servant. Tommy, the brother of Gladys, took back my verbal answer that I would call that morning. Sandin resembles Felon's Dean, in that both are hollows in the downs, and resembles it in no other respect. Sandin is approached by a definite and well-made road. Its farmhouse and little group of cottages have a cheerful and human look. The inhabitants are busy folk, but they find time to whistle and to laugh. Gladys, Parrot, I found, was suffering from a diet of which the nature and extent had been dictated by enthusiasm, rather than by judgment. I was able to say, definitely, that she would soon recover. Parrot came in from trouble with a chaff-cutter, to have a few words with me. So it's not omphitus, he said, with an air of relief. I should say it was a slight bilious attack, but I don't know what omphitus is. All I can say is that my poor grandmother died of it. Buried thirty-six hours afterwards. Had to be. Makes one careful. That's why I sent Tom down. He had cake at your place, he said. If he asked for it, I shall have to pay him, to learn him manners. I acquitted Tom. No, I said, that was my old housekeeper, trying to make a job for me. Parrot saluted the veteran joke heartily. I was up with your neighbours at Felon's Dean the other day, I said. Ah, said Parrot grimly. Man ill. No, his wife's just got a baby. And you attended her, very good of you. That's work I should have called that. You don't know them, do you? Nor want. Not but what he and his dog did me a good turn once. If you like to take the message, sir, you can tell Tarn, that Mr. Parrot of Sandin would be glad to give him five sovereigns for that dog. So I would, too, and not think twice about it. I'll tell him, I said. What was the good turn? I lost a couple of sheep, and that annoyed me, though they were marked, and pretty sure to be brought back some time. Still I was annoyed that night. You ask the misses if I wasn't. Like a bear with a sore head. Said Mrs. Parrot cheerfully. Well, at half-past nine I was just on going up to bed, when there came a great barking outside, and a scratching at the door. It wasn't one of my dogs, I knew, though you may be sure they very soon chipped in. I went out, and there were my two sheep, and Tarn's big dog with them. Those sheep hadn't been hurried and scurried, neither. They'd been brought in nicely. The dog wouldn't let me get near him. He was what might be called truckulent, as some of the best of them are. He was away again before you could say knife. He's no sheep-dog, said Mrs. Parrot, five pounds for the likes of him. What would you say if I talked like that? To my mind, said Parrot stolidly, a sheep-dog is a dog that's clever and reliable at handling sheep, and I don't care what the breed is. I don't care if he's a poodle. Come to that, Tarn's dog looks like a cross between a retriever and a... an elephant. All the same he'd be worth five sovereigns to me, and I'd back my judgment, too. Tell you why. I expected there was somebody with the dog, and I wanted to do the right thing. A drink for a master, or sixpence for his men. And I gave a haloa. There was nobody within call, for I went right out and looked. He'd been sent in by himself, and he'd made no mistake. That's no ordinary dog. No, I said. He's not. I know him. He's rather a friend of mine. There, and the Mrs. says he's more like some wild beast. Oh, they're all right when they've got to know you, dogs are. Parrot followed me out to the car. There's rather a queer thing, he said, but I know the medical etiquette. Doctors aren't supposed to talk. Well, I said, they're often supposed to talk, but they don't do it. Then you can't tell me anything about that. I don't know what to call it. Tabernacle, perhaps, at Felon's Dean. I've seen nothing of the kind nor heard of it, either. What do you mean? Parrot could only tell me what Boll had told him. Boll was a labourer whom Parrot employed. Late in the previous October, on a Saturday morning, Boll had gone in to Helmstone to deliver a horse that Parrot had sold, and drew his wages before he went. He rode the horse in and was to walk back. The purchaser of the horse gave Boll a pint. A friend whom he met by chance, gave Boll a quart. A few minutes later, Boll gave himself another quart, because he could afford it, and started for home. A carter who gave him a lift told him that he was drunk, and though Boll did not accept the theory completely, he thought there might be something to be said for it. It seemed better to him to roam the Downs for a couple of hours before he faced the inquisitorial glance of Mrs. Boll. When he reached Felon's Dean, he sat down to rest under some gorse near the crest of the Downs, before tackling the three miles home to Sandin. He fell asleep, and when he woke, shivering with cold, it was midnight. But he maintained that it was not the cold which woke him, it was music of a sort. There was a drum beating, not loud, but regularly. At intervals, a woman's voice was heard singing. Stopping short and then starting in again on it, was Boll's phrase to describe it. The sounds came from what looked like an out-house. It had no windows, but light streamed out from the open door. And in the path of the light there was a gray smoke. He crept very quietly and cautiously down to a point from which he might see what was going on in there. The inside of the building was filled with the gray smoke, but through it he could see many lighted candles, candles as long as your arm, and a kneeling figure, he could not say whether it was man or woman, in a long red garment. The singing and drum beating had stopped, and all was quite still. Then Boll's foot slipped and sent stones rattling down. The next minute Boll was running for his life with, so he maintained, Tarn's dog after him. As Boll got away, it may be believed that either the dog was chained, or that it was called off immediately by Tarn himself. I don't know what you make of it, sir, but it looks to me as if those Tarn's were Romans," said Perret. Mr. Perret, I said, it doesn't do to take much notice of what a fuddled man thinks he sees. Perhaps not, said Perret. Anyway, it gave Boll a good scare. He's been T.Total ever since, and talks of joining the Plymouth Brethren. Within a brief period from that day my visits to Felon's Dean's ceased. There was no longer any reason for them. Tarn accepted all that the law required. He registered the birth of the child, and he had her vaccinated. The devotion of Mala and himself to that child was beyond all question. I repeated the very good advice which I had already given him, but he refused to follow it. I think he considered that he had already said too much, and he quite obviously attempted to minimise it. He said that perhaps he had expressed himself too strongly. It was quite possible for a small family to live happily and cheerfully together, even in so desolate a spot as Felon's Dean. There was plenty to do. Mala had her baby and the house to look after. He had the outdoor work. If he wanted to see what the rest of the world was doing, he could always go into Helmstone. There were plenty of hotels there where he could get a drink and a game of billiards. When I told him what Ball professed to have seen and heard, he got rather angry. It was all a lie. Ball had never been near the place. But a few minutes afterwards he said, I wish I'd let the dog get him. It was all intended to be very reassuring. But it was not candid, and it was vaguely disquieting. It occurred to me to pay a visit one night secretly to Felon's Dean to see if I could make out what was going on. But my practice in Helmstone was too heavy to leave leisure for nocturnal expeditions of that sort. Besides, it was no business of mine. Tarn paid my bill. He wanted to pay twice as much, and I regarded the incident as closed. If I were called in again, I thought it likely that it would be to certify the lunacy of either Tarn or his wife. But the incident was reopened a little less than a year later, and not in the way that I had expected. Part 4 In the following January I took a partner in my practice. This was a step which I had long contemplated. I was a bachelor, making far too much money for my simple needs, and working far too hard in order to accomplish it. I also wanted time for my investigations into the cause and treatment of a certain disease. These investigations have nothing to do with the story of Mala and her husband, and would not interest laymen. I have no excuse but vanity for adding that they subsequently brought me some reputation. My partner was a sound and able young man, much interested in his profession, and soon made himself liked and respected. My life became much easier and more comfortable. In the March following, about four one morning, I was awakened by the barking of a dog in the street outside my house. Presently I heard him scratching at my door. I hurried down, switched on the lights, and opened the door. I had thought of damage to my paint, and not of Tarn, of whom I had heard nothing for a long time. But it was Tarn's dog that lay on the pavement outside. I supposed at first that somebody at Felon's Dean was ill, and that the dog had been sent to fetch me. But the dog's appearance did not bear this out. He had evidently come much further than the distance from Felon's Dean to my house. He got up when he saw me, but the poor brute was so exhausted that he could hardly stand, and he looked as if he had been starved for days. I called him into the house and got food for him. He ate ravenously. I waited to see if he would try to get out again, but he seemed perfectly content to remain where he was. Finally he followed me upstairs to my own room, where he stretched himself on the hearth-rug, and almost instantly fell asleep. I was just about to switch off the light and get back into my bed again, when I noticed the shining brass plate on the dog's collar. I bent down and examined it. On the brass plate, neatly engraved, were my own name and address. It looked as if the dog were to be mine in future. But why? What had happened? The dog established, definitely, his relations with the rest of my household next morning. He took no notice whatever of anybody who left him alone. But he would allow nobody but myself to touch him. Even my partner, who understood dogs and was fond of them, had to confess himself beaten. He was taking the round that morning, and I intended to walk up to Felon's Dean with the dog. But the poor brute was still so stiff and footsaw that I decided, after all, to take the car. He sat beside me and I rather think that he knew where he was going. But he showed no excitement when the car stopped, and made no attempt to rush off to the farmhouse. He followed me quietly down the hill. A saddled horse was tethered in the courtyard, and the outer door was open. In the hall stood Mr. Parrot, with a penny notebook and a stumpy pencil in his hand. He looked up as he heard my step and greeted me with his usual heartiness. This is a surprise, Mr. Parrot, I said. I didn't expect to find you here. I was looking for Tarn. Afraid you won't find him, sir. They all cleared out yesterday morning. I've bought this place. Bought it? House and land, furniture and stock, everything except the dog and their clothes. It's a little speculation of mine, and looks like being a very good speculation too. I knew you were going to have the dog. He told me he meant him as a present to you. And, according to Tarn, I could never have done anything with him. Truculent. Too truculent. I didn't know he was leaving. How did it come about? Oh, he came round one morning three weeks ago and asked me if I'd buy his place. I said I'd buy that or anything else if the price were right. And it was right enough because it was my own price. I came and went over everything and said what I'd give and he never haggled. I paid my ten percent next day. And completed at the lawyers in Helmstone afternoon before last. Tarn was there? He was. What's more, we had a bottle of champagne wine at the Armada afterwards, at his expense, and he drove me back to Sandin in his car. Car? I never knew he'd got one. Only had it two months, he said. It's a bigger one than yours, sir, and I expect he'll lose money on it. For he told me he shouldn't take it over to France with him, and their bad things to sell. Yes, I felt like one of the gentlefolk that afternoon, drinking champagne wine and sitting in a motor-car. He must be a warmer man than ever, I suppose. How was he looking? Well, he was quiet, and yet he was a bit excited, if you know what I mean. He'd knew clothes on. Oh, quite the thing. It's my belief that he's coming to money unexpected, and that he and the two niggers, the wife and baby, are off on a jaunt together. I did not share Parrot's belief, but I said nothing. In France they're not too particular, so I'm told, said Parrot. I dare say niggers go down better there than they do here. Did you see the woman and her baby when you were here? No, they weren't shown, and I didn't ask for them. I don't think they were in the house when I came, for I went into each room. But they must have come in by another way before I left, for I heard them in the next room to us. What's more, the baby was laughing, and the woman was sobbing. What was she crying about? Parrot laughed. Why, women will cry for anything. Toothache, perhaps. Maybe he'd been giving her a bit of a dressing down. I did not agree with Parrot's conclusions, but again I made no comment. Parrot had to get on his horse and ride back to Sandin. He confided to me that he'd got a tenant for Felon's Dean already. Mrs. Lane was going to live there with her married daughter and her son-in-law. Mrs. Lane was Parrot's bad tempered and dispeptic aunt, and so far she had lived in Parrot's house at Sandin. But I haven't got room for her any longer, said Parrot. So she's taking her egziatus. I recommend egziatus to the philologist. Parrot had ridden off, and I was half-way up the hill to my car, when the idea struck me that I should like to have a look at the building, which had been used for the curious rites that Ball had described, and I turned back again. I found the place. It stood apart from the house, and was boarded on the inside. That curious smell of bitter smoke still hung about it. At one end I could see that some sort of fitment had been removed, and there were splashes of candle-wax on the floor. Coming out into the sunlight again, I noted that Tarn had done a little levelling and road-making to enable him to get his car into Felon's Dean from the lower side of the hollow. This would give him a greater distance to go if he were driving to Helmstone, but by the shorter route which I had taken the approach was quite impracticable for a car. And then quite by chance I noticed among the stunted trees of the orchard something white, that at a little distance looked not unlike a big milestone, as I entered the orchard the dog whined and lay down. I supposed that he was tired and left him there. A nearer view showed me a column about three feet square, and about four feet in height, neatly built up of rough lumps of chalk. On the top of the column were a pile of ashes and charred wood. It was then that its resemblance to a sacrificial altar, such as I had seen pictured in an old illustrated Bible, first struck me. Among the ashes something gleamed and sparkled. I fished it out with a bit of stick. It was a small circlet of soft gold, evidently not European work, and might have served as a child's bangle. And my disturbance of the ashes had shown me other things. I found an old wine-case in one of the sheds. And in this I placed all that I had found on the top of the altar. The lower part of the ashes and the top of the altar were still quite warm from the fire. I carried the case up to my car, sweating with the effort, and my hurry. I put the case in the tonneau and covered it with a rug, and then, with the dog by my side, I went home as fast as I could drive. My partner had returned from his round and joined me in my examination of what was in the case. Incineration had been imperfect, and we had no doubt whatever. I could state confidently that on an altar, in an orchard, at Felon's Dean, the body of a young child had been burned, within 36 hours of the time of my discovery, which was precisely twenty minutes past twelve on the morning of 29th March. I returned at once to my car and drove to the police station, where I gave my information. The number and the appearance of Tarn's car were well known. A white man, travelling with a negris, cannot go anywhere in England without being noticed. He and the woman had been in Paris before, and the man had admitted to Perret, under circumstances which might have overcome his usual reticence, that he was going to France. The inspector who saw me felt sure that Tarn would be found, and the whole mystery cleared up in a very short time. Tarn and Mala were never found. They had been seen in the car in the very early morning of the 28th. The car itself was found at Malcolm Cliff's, an unimportant place on the coast about five miles from Helmstone. Inquiries at Ports gave negative results. No negris, accompanied by a white man, had gone by any of the boats. The only negris who had gone abroad bore no resemblance to Mala, and was satisfactorily accounted for. The coroner was extremely polite to me at the inquest on the remains of the child. He said that I had given my evidence in a most clear and open manner. I had mentioned circumstances which I thought to be suspicious, and of course it was my duty to mention them. But still I had admitted fully, and he thought at a most important point, that both Tarn and his wife were devoted to the child. It made any theory that they had been guilty of the horrible crime of murdering the child seemed very improbable. Tarn had married a negris, and was very sensitive on the point. He lived alone. He hated any publicity. It seemed to him more likely that the child died suddenly, perhaps as the result of an accident, when Tarn and his wife were on the point of departure. And that sooner than face the publicity and inquiry they had taken this quite illegal way of disposing of the body. Tarn was an educated man, and he would know that what he had done was illegal. He would be anxious to avoid detection, and would probably change his plans in consequence. He was also a wealthy man. The abandonment of the motor-car would not mean very much to him. Inquiries had been made on the supposition that Tarn and his wife had gone to France. But they might have gone elsewhere. They might have shipped from Liverpool. A negris with the help of a thick motor-veil, a wig, and grease-paints, might easily conceal her race for a little while. The absence of any evidence from people at Malcolm Cliffs and the neighbourhood seemed rather to point to this. Tarn was a gloomy man of rather morbid and religious temperament. He had certainly said some extraordinary things, but the bark of a man of that type was generally worse than his bite. The cremation of the child's body was wrong and illegal, but the jury had nothing to do with that. There was really no evidence pointing to murder. On the contrary, they had heard that both parents were devoted to their child. An inconclusive verdict was given. It was on 27th March that the child was born. A year later, precisely, its body was burned. It may have been a coincidence. It may not. I, at any rate, have never been able to accept the coroner's comforting theory. I remember that Negress too well, and the power that she and her horrible faith had over her husband. They loved their child, I believe. But in the propitiation of the power of evil, the dearer the victim, the more potent will be the sacrifice. They must have been insane in the end. And possibly the sea at Malcolm Cliffs still holds the secret of what became of them. End of Section 2. Section 3 of Here and Hereafter. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Here and Hereafter by Barry Payne. The Feast and the Reckoning. Mr. Duncan Garth stood at his windows in Park Lane and looked out. He was a man of forty-five, unusually tall and broad, with a strong, clean-shaven face. I should rather like, he said, to buy Hyde Park. His secretary, seated at a table behind him, chuckled. A year quite right, Ferguson, said Garth, I can't buy Hyde Park or the National Gallery. But I presume I've got the money value of both. Wouldn't you say so, Ferguson? Ferguson was a slender young man. He looked far too young for the important post of secretary to Mr. Garth. And much younger than he really was. His scrupulous care as to his personal appearance rather amused Garth, who was careless in such matters, almost to the point of untidiness. Ferguson led a cigarette and reflected. I should say not, he said. Hyde Park alone, of course, you could buy if it were for sale. I don't know what the National Gallery would figure out at. But silly people give absurd sums for paint and canvas nowadays, and there's any amount of it there. You might be able to do them both, but I should doubt it. Well, I'm going to give a luncheon party anyhow. Yes, said Ferguson dryly, you can't afford to do that. Whom am I to ask? Garth consulted some memoranda on the back of an envelope. I'm going to mix him up a bit, he said. You remember that girl in the post office yesterday? The one who asked if you'd got any eyes in your head? Yes. One should not, of course, hand in telegrams to the money-order department. There was something in the bitter fury of the woman that interested me. Naturally, I don't know her name and address, but I suppose you can get that. Of course, said Ferguson, making a shorthand note. Then I must have old Lady Longshore. I should like an actor-manager, too. Could you suggest? Want him for his egotism? Quite so, said Mr. Garth, of course. Then you can't do better than Eustace Richards, a fluent talker, but you've met him. So I have, said Garth. Now I come to think of it. He will do admirably. Then I should like Archdeacon Pringle and his wife, and that chap I went to about my throat. Let me see, said Ferguson. That was Sir Edwin Goodchild, wasn't it? A good sort. I know him well. Any more? Yes, lots more. I want that man who sweeps the crossing just outside the club. He always seemed to me to be full of character. His name is Tims, and I don't know his address. But in this case, perhaps you'd better not write. See him personally. Could you get me a nice suffragette? Certainly, said Ferguson. Any particular one? No, just an ordinary plain suffragette. Also, the editor of Happy Homes. Likewise, the unconquerable Belgian. I don't know which of the halls he's wrestling now, but you can find out. Suppose his trainer won't let him come. My dear Ferguson, you know very well how to deal with a case like that. There are solid inducements that influence opinion. True. Would you like the girl who does my nails? Your manicurist? Yes, that's an excellent idea. We shall also need a cabinet minister, a nice specimen of a modern gilded youth, and somebody prominent in the Salvation Army. The list was finally made out. Ferguson looked at it reflectively. I suppose you wouldn't ask me, too, he said. I wished a goodness you would. You can come if you've got any decent clothes, said Garth sardonically. Behave yourself decently, mind. Don't giggle. Right, said Ferguson. This will be the day of my life. You know all your servants will give notice, of course, but that doesn't matter. You can get others. It might simplify things, said Mr. Garth, if I took some rooms at the Ritz and gave the lunch in there. Arrange that for me, will you? Certainly. And the date? You'll want a little time to get the gang together, say, four weeks from today. Mr. Ferguson needed all his tact to get them together. Lady Longshore, it is true, expressed herself as willing to meet anybody, except her own relations. But Eustace Richards, on being told of the idea of the party, said quite frankly that he preferred to mix with his equals. The devil of it is to find him, said Ferguson. Richards, still frank, admitted that in the present state of the dramatic art there might be something in that. He decided to attend. A suffragette was caught by the bait of the cabinet minister, who subsequently refused on hearing of the suffragette. Sir Edwin Goodchild, the editor of Happy Homes, the manicure lady, and Colonel Harriet Stokes of the Salvation Army, accepted it once. Mr. Timms, who swept the crossing outside the club, was suspicious and took longer to decide. Look here, Mr. Ferguson, he said. Is it stright? You aren't getting anything up for me, eh? I got a good suit of clothes so far as that goes, one I've kept for funerals so far. But I don't want to put that on for nothing. Bar and cells now. Is it stright? With renewed assurances, Ferguson secured him. The Lady of the Post Office began with the direct refusal, which started in the third person and trailed off into the first. It's said that she had not the honour of Mr. Garth's acquaintance, and that she was at a lost understand, and so on. Ferguson returned to the attack and metaphorically dangled the Dowager Countess of Longshore before her. This failing he changed his fly and caught her with the Archdeacon. The Archdeacon had known her father, which seemed to Miss Bostock to guarantee everything. It was not absolutely fair, as the Archdeacon had a professional engagement in the North on that day, and had been compelled to refuse. Mrs. Pringle, however, would be present, and, as Ferguson said in self-justification, Mrs. Pringle was more arch-diaconal than any Archdeacon living. The unconquerable Belgian accepted in a letter written by Mr. Savage, his trainer. Mr. Savage expressed a hope that the unconquerable would not be pressed to drink, and that he would be able to get away for a professional engagement at four o'clock. On the day appointed, Lady Longshore was the first guest to be announced. Came early on purpose, she said. This is to be a freak lunch, so Fergie says, and I want to get the hang of it. Its simplicity itself, said Garth, you're going to meet people whom you've never met before. Conventions that would interfere with this are abandoned. You will not, for instance, sit next to me. Nor to me, added Mr. Ferguson, but bear up. Don't be a fool, Fergie, and tell me all about it. Ferguson glanced at a plan of the table. On your right hand, Lady Longshore, you will have Mr. Timms, who sweeps one of the principal crossings in St. James Street. On your left will be Mr. Pudbrook, who edits that serviceable kitchen weekly, Happy Homes. But the table is oval, and we hope that the conversation will be general. Well, it's not half a bad idea. Let me look at the rest of them. She snatched the plan from the secretary's hand. Thank heaven I haven't got Eustace Richards. Those mummers make me angry. Here, who's this? Monsieur Renard had just been announced. That, said Ferguson, in a low voice, is Monsieur Renard, better known as the unconquerable Belgian. You may have seen him on the stage. Quite a good deal of him, Nemtrop, said the Countess. In the meantime, the Belgian extended a hand like a twenty pound York ham. He was an enormous athlete, whose sweet temper had not yet been injured by his prolonged war with fat. He was of great simplicity, and his forehead ran back at a gentle slope from his eyebrows to the back of his head. Intelligent. Can one have everything? His clothes were of the best quality, and of the latest fashion. Let us be content. Dunking Garth grasped some of the extended hand. This is most kind of you, Monsieur Renard. We've all admired your prowess, and are delighted to have the chance to know you a little better. The Belgian was slow and self-possessed. Thank you, he said. We shall have to behave ourselves, laughed Garth, or you'll be throwing all of us out of the window. But no, said the unconquerable seriously. That will not be so. My manager does not permit me to do anything of the kind, unless arranged with him. It would be an excellent advertisement, said Garth. Just you think it over. He turned to some new arrivals. At this moment Ferguson laid a manicured hand on the Belgian's almighty arm. Pardon me, Monsieur Renard, but the countess of Longshore is most anxious that you should be presented to her. That is all right. I come, said the placid wrestler. The new arrivals were Miss Bostock of the Post Office, Sir Edwin Goodchild of Harley Street, and Mr. Pudbrook of Happy Homes. Miss Bostock was tailor-made, smooth-haired, rather hygienic about the boots, and wore pince-nez. She looked as if she would have been handsomer if she had been happier. Her voice shook a little as she responded to Mr. Garth's most respectful salutation, but her nervousness was not too apparent. Is—is the Archdeacon here, Mr. Garth, she inquired? He used to know my father slightly. The Archdeacon regrets—a conference up at York. But that is Mrs. Pringle just coming in. Let me take you up to her. Sir Edwin Goodchild took Mr. Garth's secretary aside. I say, Fergie, he said. What the deuce is all this? This, said Ferguson innocently, this is a private reception room at the Ritz. Steyl, Louis Kahn's were thereabouts. Through those folding doors, when at the appointed time they are opened, we enter the luncheon room. There we eat. Which is Le Colas, Consume Norvegienne, Fillets. Now, don't talk nonsense. Nonsense, man. Considering I constructed the menu myself, I—yes, but the people—look at that lot just come in. My poor lost sheep, I'll tell you just two things. Firstly, we are eccentric millionaires. Secondly, you will be seated at lunch between Colonel Harriet Stokes of the Salvation Army, and Miss Paul, a manicure lady. Let me out. This is a nightmare. No, it's a fact, and I'll prove it to you by introducing to your kind attention Mr. Pudbrook, the editor of Happy Homes. He somewhat interferes with your profession by giving remedies for blackheads and indigestion in his paper on alternate weeks. But don't let that prejudice you against him. Certainly the lot to which Sir Edwin referred looked strange enough in their present entourage. Mr. Tim's were a complete suit of black broadcloth, alleviated by new brown shoes, white socks, and a very large crimson silk handkerchief. His expression combined curiously the confident and the furtive. Those in his immediate neighborhood were conscious of a blended fragrance of benzene in yellow soap. A white-faced woman with big eyes, severely uniformed, was in conversation with him, and Mr. Tim's was choosing his language with unusual care. Miss Edith Stunt, the suffragette, had faced meetings in Trafalgar Square and had nothing more to fear. Her fanatical eyes looked round eagerly for an opportunity to say a good word. At present Duncan Garth was talking to Mrs. Gust, a nicely dressed lady, slightly mad. The death of her husband under treatment had not shaken her faith in Christian science, any more than his life had shaken her belief in matrimony. Garth himself had discovered her, and had directed that she should be of the party. Miss Vera Paul, the manicurist, was talking to Ferguson. She was a remarkably pretty girl, but there were many others who wished to speak to Ferguson. He handed her over to Mrs. Pringle, and promised her that she should be next to him at luncheon. The unconquerable Belgian bore down on Ferguson, carrying in his hand a copy of the menu, with which Ferguson had thoughtfully provided him. He tapped it with a heavy finger and said plaintively, You excuse me, I cannot eat much of this food. Ferguson's suggestion of a porterhouse steak was accepted. At the same moment Timms approached him with care, as of one who stocked big game. You keep your eye on me, sir, said Timms. You told me it was stright, and it's to you I looks. I don't want to do anything I did not. My dear chap, said Ferguson with candor, we want you to do the things you did not. Timms would have pursued the conversation, but he was put aside by Ms. Edith Stunt, who wished to know if she would have an opportunity to say a few words to the company. And she was put aside by Harriet Stokes, who wished to know if she could send round a collecting card. Ant Harriet Stokes was obliterated by Mr. Pudbroke, who wished to know if he could get a few words on private business with Mr. Garth. Then came the arrival of the last guests. Mr. Eustace Richards made a splendid entrance. He was a quarter of an hour late, and gracefully apologetic. An unexpected rehearsal, my dear fellow. He said to Garth in a clearly articulated whisper that carried to every part of the room. Royal command for next Friday. Quite unexpected. Gratifying, eh? The big folding doors opened. Ferguson flew around with his plan of the table, showing people where they were to sit. So far Mr. Eustace Richards had hardly glanced at the company. He did not look much at the audience when he was acting. And he was almost always acting. But now he murmured to Garth. My dear fellow, you warned me, but what have you done? Don't quite know yet, said Garth dryly. Mr. Ferguson had his own little suite of rooms at the house in Park Lane. He dined at his club that night and was back again by nine o'clock to check once more some figures of considerable importance. The work only took him a few minutes, and he was just finishing it when Duncan Garth entered, wearing the dinner jacket and black tie of the domestic life. Hello, said Ferguson. Thought you were dining at the Silchester's. So I was, said Garth dejectedly, but I didn't. He selected the cigar from his secretary's cabinet. Cheaper for you, anyhow, said Ferguson. His grace meant to borrow money tonight. I'm not a fool, said Garth wearily, and I'm not lending money to the Duke of Silchester. How did you think it went this afternoon? What, the lunch? Of course it was very, very funny. Or slightly tragic, said Garth, as he took an easy chair. Put people into new circumstances, or you can always judge them. I've got a low opinion of the human race tonight, Fergie. But there were nice points, said Ferguson. I like the self-centered, complete indifference of our friend Reynard. He's a headless Hercules. I mean, his head is the only thing against him. It's a loss, too, that is easily excused. You saw how Lady Longshore and Mrs. Pringle and Colonel Harriet Stokes of the Salvation Army were anxious to please that lump of beef. Of course I saw it. That's one of the reasons why I call the thing a tragedy. By the way, you can go over our list and draw a line through the Archdeacon and his wife. Certainly, said Ferguson, might one ask why? Because I hate the type, said Garth. Miss Bostock's father was a curate, had been at college with the Archdeacon, and knew him fairly well. Mrs. Pringle snubbed Miss Bostock. She was afraid that she could not remember all the curates that her husband might have happened to meet. She also snubbed Pudbrook. When she saw the nature of the party, she would have laughed, but for Lady Longshore, who, to do her credit, does not care one curse about anybody on this earth or elsewhere. She was almost affectionate to Timbs when Lady Longshore repeated his stories. She was quite nice to your manicurist girl. She recognized the charm of the unconquerable Belgian. But she snubbed Miss Bostock and she snubbed Pudbrook. She admits the hopeless and snubs the hopeful. She is a mixture of the coward and the bully. I don't like it, and I've no more to do with it. Strike them off, Fergie. I shall feel happier when it's done. Ferguson took down an alphabetical list, turned up the letter P, and put a black ink cross where it was required. I wonder what this has cost you, he said cheerfully. You paid the bill, nothing anyhow. The Salvationist got a subscription, and so did Mrs. Gust. The Suffragette also hit you. I think you have promised to be manicured. Mr. Pudbrook owns half his paper, and the printer owns the other half. They are not doing too well, and they are thinking of a limited company. You know best how far you've come into it. Eustace Richards, in spite of his jabber, has done no good with his last two things. He stayed with you for some time. If he was not suggesting that you should release him from the people who are financing him at present, then, of course, it's my mistake. You're a clear-sighted chap, said Garth, and you've mentioned nothing which is very far out. There are even some things which you might have mentioned and have omitted. They don't really matter. I've done what was wanted. I've even shared Lady Longshore how to make the money she wants. But that's not what's wearing me. Give it a name, said Ferguson. The door opened. A young person, by the name of Bastak, wishes to see you, sir, said the butler. I have told her that you are not in the habit of seeing people at this time of the evening, but she seemed rather pressing. In here, please, said Garth. Let's see, said Ferguson. Miss Bastak left before the show was over. She did, said Garth, and I want to know why. In the meantime the butler had returned to Miss Bastak with a totally different manner. So far as the rules went he had made no mistake, but there were exceptions, of course. On sight Miss Bastak was a young person. On further investigation she was a young lady whom Mr. Duncan Garth wished to see, and that made a difference. She entered the room with perfect composure, wearing the same clothes that she had worn at the luncheon party. Perhaps I shouldn't have come, she said, but there are things I want to say. I want to know why you did that. You'll sit down, won't you? Said Garth. What is it precisely we are talking about? Why did you give that luncheon? Why did you make me come to it? I refused it first, you know. Then Mr. Ferguson came to see me and persuaded me. He told me the Archdeacon was coming, and that seemed like a mutual acquaintance. I think that if he had been there he wouldn't have been as rude to me as his wife was. I daresay if I had told her I was a general servant she would have been as sweet to me as she was to that half-drunken crossing-sweeper, or that Belgian brute, or some of the other people whom he ought not to have asked me to meet. Yes, said Mr. Ferguson, cheerfully. Lady Longshore also is very unconventional, isn't she? I'm not speaking about that, said Miss Bostock doggedly. The rudeness of that lady to me is a small personal matter easily forgotten. It's the ghastly humiliation of the whole thing that makes me sick and savage. There was a moment's silence. Ferguson, said Garth, there was that letter. Yes, said Ferguson, I'll see to it, and passed out of the room. Now then, said Garth, what's the trouble, Miss Bostock? The trouble is that the whole of us were merely a show got up for your amusement. You gave us a lunch that we might make fools of ourselves. Fish out of water are very absurd, aren't they? But it's cruel to take them out of water and to watch them dying all the same. That luncheon party was the most brutal thing done in London today, and you were the brute who did it. What harm was I doing? Why did you drag me into it? Five or six weeks ago, said Garth, I met you for the first time. It was in the post office. You asked me if I'd got any eyes in my head. I remember now, said Miss Bostock. I ought not to have said it. I think the tick of the telegraph gets on my nerves. You were not the first, too, and the notices were up clear enough. Still, why couldn't you have reported me? That would have been the right way to punish me. No, said Garth. I did not want to punish you. I distinctly liked the spirit and the temper with which you spoke to me. You will understand, perhaps, that I get rather too much of the other kind of thing. I had no wish whatever to humiliate you. I did wish to amuse myself. You may be glad to hear that I've not done it. Is there anything I can do? Nothing now, said the girl contemptuously. I think there is, said Garth, and rang the bell. He sent the servant to fetch Mr. Ferguson. I say, Ferguson, said Garth, can you tell me what the price of that luncheon was? Eight shillings ahead, exclusive of the wine, of course. Let me see, Miss Bostock, said Garth. I think you drank water. Yes, yes, I see it now, said Miss Bostock eagerly. She fumbled clumsily at her pocket and produced an emaciated purse. She took out half a sovereign. There's your money. Can you give me change? Garth did not carry money. Ferguson handed Garth a flurin, and Garth gravely handed it to Miss Bostock. Now I can breathe again, she said. I'm going now. Good night. Garth followed her out along the corridor and into the hall. Servants were waiting at the door. Aside from Garth dismissed them. As he held the door open for her, she turned to him, hesitated, and then spoke. I thought at lunch today that the doctor was the only gentleman there. I—I am not so sure about it. If I were ten years younger, said Garth, I think I should ask you to marry me. Good night. He stood watching her as she passed down the steps into Park Lane. End of Section 3. Recording by Colleen McMahon. Section 4 of Here and Here After This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Maria Fatima de Silva. Here and Here After by Barry Payne. Postmortem 1 After dining for the last time at his club, Evan Hurst returned at once to his flat in German Street. The greater part of his arrangements had already been made, and most of his things packed. But there were still a few details to settle, and he was to leave for the North early on the following morning. Yet when he entered his room, he did not proceed at once to letter writing or to business of any kind. He flung himself down in an easy chair. He felt unaccountably tired. All day he had had business to attend to, necessary no doubt for the carrying out of his somewhat wild and romantic scheme. Nonetheless wearisome to a man of poetical temperament and of poor physique. He was a man of slight build, with fair and rather fluffy hair, a pretty, thin-lipped mouth and plaintive blue eyes. To the world in general, his lot would have seemed a fairly easy one. He had sufficient means of his own, and no one in any way depended upon him. His volume of poems under the sea, published a year or two before, had excited a great deal of public attention and some controversy. What had seemed genius to one critic, had seemed insanity to another. He was not unpopular at his club, although he was thought to be slightly ridiculous. It was not supposed that he had any trouble of any kind. Women of whom, in his poems, he wrote with such knowledge and such fervency, had never really come much into his life. As he lay there and smoked endless cigarettes, he admitted the truth to himself. It was vanity that was at the root of it. He had seen the talented and remarkable Evan Hurst dwindling down into nobody again. Once it was supposed that Evan Hurst was dead, dead by his own act, and leaving such strange communications behind him, interest would revive. People would speak again of under the sea. His unpublished poems would be produced, and there would be obituary notices. There would be, for a while at least, breathless interest in the poet and the suicide. And he, alive and not dead, under another name and acting another part, would read and enjoy it all. To carry out his scheme meant many sacrifices, but the fascination of it was too strong for him, and the success of it seemed to be certain. His sensations were really very much those of a man who actually knows that he is about to die. He had withdrawn a large balance from his bank and transferred it to another bank, in the name which he now intended to take. But it was essential, if Evan Hurst were to die, that he should leave money behind him. That money he willingly sacrificed. It was enough if he retained for his new incarnation sufficient for a reasonable livelihood. It annoyed him far more to think that he must leave also his books, the collections, the furniture, and the treasures of his German street flat. They had all come together slowly, and all represented in a way his individuality. The scattering of them by public auction would be like the disintegration of death. He could imagine already the notice in the catalogue of a second handbook seller offering that exquisitely bound set of Heismans works containing the book plate of the late Evan Hurst. There were prints and engravings that from long affection and study had given him almost a feeling as if he had had a part in their creation. The juror's splendid impression would fetch 50 pounds at least. Men at the club would remember this evening. They would recall that Evan Hurst was there only a few days before his death, and that even then they had remarked how gloomy and silent he seemed to be. He laughed bitterly and aloud, flung down his cigarette, and passed into his bedroom. There for a while he packed energetically, but soon he had to stop for a feeling of intense and almost painful weariness came over him again. After all, there would be time to finish the packing in the morning. He decided to go to bed. On the following afternoon, he left King's Cross for Solsey on the Yorkshire coast. 2. Solsey is a small fishing village that has not yet suffered from the curse of popularity. Evan Hurst put up at the one hotel in the place and constituted its one permanent visitor. Occasionally a commercial traveller would arrive one day and leave on the next, and would talk as much as possible to Evan Hurst. Evan Hurst in return would talk as little as possible, consistent with bare politeness to the commercial traveller. Every morning he bathed from the shore before breakfast at a point at some considerable distance from the village. Here there was a small cave in the cliffs, a useful shelter if rain came on, and useful to Evan Hurst for other purposes. For it was here that gradually, bit by bit, he collected the slender outfit with which he was to begin the world in his new character on the day that Evan Hurst was supposed to commit suicide. His plan was simplicity itself. He would go out to bathe as usual, and he would not return. His clothes would be found on the shore, and in the pocket of his coat there would be a letter to the landlord of the hotel, leaving no doubt whatever as to his intentions. In the meantime, in a little cave, he would have altered his appearance, put on different clothes, and from there struck out for the nearest railway station. In the evening he would be in Dover, a next day in Paris, without one tie left between what he had once been and what he was now going to be. He looked forward to the change with pleasurable excitement. It was something more than vanity after all. As Evan Hurst, he had begun in a role which he was not competent to sustain. To have continued in it would have been to disappoint the public opinion of him. In the new part he could write as he liked, act as he liked, talk as he liked. There would be no preconceived opinion of him in the world. It would be all for him to make with the benefit of his experience of his past blunders. He took immense care with the composition of that brief letter to the landlord. It ran as follows. Dear sir, it would be impossible to explain to you the reasons why I intend this morning to take my life, but undoubtedly some apology is due to you for any inconvenience which my death may cause you. I leave behind me at the hotel a quantity of money which will be more than sufficient to discharge my obligations to you. Nor have I any explanation to offer to the coroner and the British jury. These good people will return their usual verdict. Not to be interested in so extremely uninteresting a thing as my life has become would be a clear proof to them of insanity. I shall swim out so long as my strength lasts and the end will come under the sea. Faithfully yours, Evan Hurst. He did not quite like it now that he had finished it. The way in which he had introduced the title of his book seemed to him to be a little on the cheap side. But at any rate it was a letter which would call for a good deal of comment. He promised himself much amusing and interesting reading when the English papers reached Paris a few days later. The morning came at last, gray, overcast, and misty, and more likely to turn to great heat than to rain. Evan Hurst looked at himself in the glass and laughed. He had spent some hours in his room the night before, dying his fluffy hair. Unquestionably it was an improvement to his appearance. There was no danger that he would be observed on his leave in the hotel. For he wore his towel slung round his neck and a broad brimmed straw hat. As he walked towards the cave he now felt an unaccountable nervousness. True, but few people went that way, and even if they entered the cave his store of clothes was so carefully hidden that it was unlikely that anybody would find them. Still, there was just a chance, and it would be maddening if just at the last some trifle occurred to walk his scheme. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found everything just as he had left it. In less than half an hour the change was complete. The clothes of that fluffy poet, Evan Hurst, were disposed with a careful carelessness on the rocks above the high water mark. With a letter to the landlord in the pocket of the coat, and Evan Hurst, in his new incarnation, stowed away in a blue search suit, black felt hat, and black boots, carrying a small bag, which contained a change of linen and the articles of his toilet. The rest of his luggage was to be purchased in London. For the first mile or so his way lay along the beach. And he was careful to walk on the sand, where in half an hour the sea would obliterate his footprints. His feelings were at first those of amusement. In every little detail of his clothes, he was so different from what he had ever been before. He speculated whether he would not perforce become quite a different kind of man under the clothes influence. Already he felt himself a stouter person, ready to tackle the world and deal with it properly. His satisfaction was intense. He was still meditating on the subject when he reached the path up the cliffs. A perfectly easy and safe path with a few low rocks between him and it. As he clambered over the rocks, inconvenienced by the bag that he was carrying, he slipped and fell and lay quite still. The hours passed and now the sun blazed. The waves had already touched one of the black boots. They crept up to the head and came back with a pinky stain. At last, when the figure was fully covered, it gave a sudden and ungainly movement and for a little while floated with arms and legs shot out clearly like the limbs of a starfish. The black felt hat had drifted far away and tossed about on the waves with absurdity. Then slowly the figure disappeared from sight. Section 5 of Here and Here After Here and Here After by Barry Payne The Girl with the Beautiful Hair By my own unaided intelligence I chose the exactly right spot at the farther end of the orchard and with my own hand I slung the hammock. Now that the day is hot and luncheon is over, I take my book and go thither to reap the fruits of my labour. And behold, the hammock is already occupied with four large cushions and one small girl, a solemn and inscrutable girl who hears to the end a complaint of the cruelty and injustice of her trespass, and then says kindly that I may sit on the grass. Thank you! I'm glad you do not want all the grass as well. I do the best that I can with the grass and open my book, and the voice from the hammock bids me to tell a story. What, with no better audience than that? It appears that this is the charm. She has never had a story all to herself before. There once was a girl who had very long and very beautiful hair. As long as yours? Much longer and much more beautiful. And if you interrupt me again I will stop this story, empty you out of the hammock, tie you to a tree and teach you as much as I can remember of the French gender rules. Very well, then. As I was saying, there once was a girl who had very long and very beautiful hair, and she knew it. Her sisters, who were as plain spoken as sisters generally are, were in the habit of saying that she was a perfect peacock. Her hair was very much the colour of a chestnut, and she took the greatest possible care of it. It was a rule of life with her, when she had nothing else to do, to brush her hair. Frequently also she brushed it when she had other things to do. She never would have it cut. She even refused a lock of it to her own mother. When she went out for walks with her sisters she listened attentively as people passed her, because sometimes they said things about her hair which she liked very much. Then she would try not to look pleased, and when a girl who was really pleased tries to look as if she did not care, she looks perfectly horrid. Her sisters remarked upon it. Her father, who was a good and wise man, explained to her how wicked vanity was, especially vanity about one's hair. He showed her that personal attractions, especially if connected in any way with the hair, were worthless as compared with the intellectual and moral attributes. On the other hand, her mother took her to a photographer's, and had her taken in fourteen different positions, and they all made such beautiful pictures, that the photographer nearly committed suicide because he was not allowed to exhibit them in his shop window. She reached the age at which every good Christian girl wishes to have long dresses and do her hair up into a lump, but this girl, whose name was Elsa, of course, would not have her hair done up, and stamped with her foot and was rude to the governess. In the end, of course, Elsa had to submit, for it is very wicked for girls of a certain age to wear their hair down. But she became extremely ingenious. She had ways of doing that hair, so that it would not stop up, but tumbled down unexpectedly, and caused great admiration. She would then pretend to be confused and embarrassed. Now, when a girl who is not in the least confused and embarrassed tries to look so, she looks simply silly. Her sisters told her so. Every single girlfriend she had, and many who were only acquaintances, had seen that hair in its native glory. Some of these raved about it to Elsa's sisters, and were surprised that the sisters did not share their enthusiasm. She has such a lot of it, the friends would say. She THINKS such a lot of it, the sisters would answer. Now, Elsa and her sisters were not the only girls in the world, and they did not know all the rest. Consequently, a girl called Kate came to them as something of a novelty. As she was called Kate, she was, of course, quite good. Catherine may be proud, and Kitty may be frivolous. But Kate is solid. If you ask me if Kate is clever, I reply that she is a good housekeeper. If you ask me if she is pretty, I change the subject rapidly. There was nothing dazzling about this, Kate. She was just Kate. It is a sad truth that it is the people who are naturally the nicest to look at, who take the greatest trouble to look nice. The woman who, so far as her face is concerned, makes the best of a bad job, is very rare. Kate was not a beauty, but she was sensible and resigned. She dressed herself very quickly in things that wore well. It was her boast that she could do her hair without a looking-glass, and everybody who saw her hair believed it. But as it happened, when Kate met Elsa, a change came over her. Your hair is perfectly divine, she said to Elsa. Elsa tried to be politely bored. So kind of you to say so, she said. I get frightfully sick of my old wig myself. It's an endless bother. And you do it so beautifully, said Kate. I do wish you'd give me some idea for my hair so that it wouldn't look awful. It isn't awful at all, said Elsa politely. I don't think I should change the way of doing it, if I were you. Then she went into elaborate technical details, and showed Kate that the thing was bad, and that improvement was impossible. Of course she did not use these words, and was sweetly delicate about it. Now, that night, as Elsa was having her own hair brushed, a horrible suspicion came over her. She put it aside as a thing perfectly absurd. It might have been a trick of the looking-glass. It might have been her own imagination. It did not keep her awake for a moment. But next morning one of her sisters came into her room, looked at her, and said, What an idiot you were to have your hair cut. I have not had it cut, said Elsa furiously. It's the same as it always was. Rubbish! said the sister. It's three inches shorter at least. It's not, said Elsa, and I wish you'd go away. I can't get on properly while you're hanging about talking. The sister went away, and Elsa flew to the looking-glass. The cold morning light confirmed her suspicions of the night before. Her sister was perfectly right. Elsa's hair was undoubtedly three inches shorter. That afternoon Elsa secretly and surreptitiously went to a great hair specialist. She had seen his advertisement, and she felt that here she might at any rate know the worst. He looked at her hair, and said that it had become shorter from a shrinkage in the cells, owing to undue epithelial activity of the cranium. It was as well that she came to him when she did. As it was, if she would rub in a little of his relaxative, she would have nothing to fear. He then sold her a four-penny pot of pomatum for three guineas, washed his hands, and went home to tea. But the pomatum was quite ineffectual. Every day her hair seemed to be a little shorter and a little thinner. This was particularly the case when she had been behaving like a peacock, or like a spiteful cat. It reached a point when all her friends who met her exclaimed, Why, Elsa, what on earth have you done with your hair? Then she would smile sweetly and say, Brushed it! What did you think? But inwardly she was a madwoman. About this time she saw the advertisement of the Indian hair doctor, and she thought she could but try. I do not think the man was really Indian. I know he was not really a doctor. And I fancy he did not know much about hair. But he said that Elsa's case was extremely grave, and that in another week she would have been entirely bald. She must take a course of scalp friction. Twelve applications for three guineas, the application. She took them, and at the end of the course her hair was nearly all gone. Her temper was quite gone. Her money was almost gone. And she did not want to see anybody, or to do anything except die. And then unwittingly she did what was best for herself. To escape the sweet sympathy of her friends and relations she went away all by herself to live in a little cottage in a forest. It is good for a girl who has been seeing too many people to live all by herself for a while. It is good for a girl who has been long in a crowded town to go away into the forest solitude. Your soul must go to the cleaner, just like your gloves. Now that there was no one to sympathize with her loss, and no one to attract by her beautiful hair, even if she had still had it, she could begin to think of other things. And she thought about squirrels, and nuts, and blackberries, and sunsets, and streams that made silvery lines down the green hillsides. And every morning she went all by herself to a cottage two miles off, and fetched milk for herself. The old woman who kept the cows at this cottage was tall, and old, and always polite. But also she was always very sad. She had the face of one who never ceased to suffer. After Elsa had been two months in her cottage, she suddenly saw that this woman had always looked really sad. The sadness of other people had never mattered to her in the least before. But now, one day, she asked the old woman why this was, and if there were anything that she might do for her. Then the old woman said, I have a daughter, and she was very beautiful. None that saw her ever forgot how beautiful she was. And she fell ill of a strange disease so that her whole face became loathsome. No one but I can bear to look on her, lest their dreams should be haunted forever. And she lives here, this poor daughter of yours, asked Elsa. Yes, she lies in the room upstairs. They tell me that she will now soon be dead. I will come up and talk to her, said Elsa, and help to nurse her, for you must often be away on your farm. No, said the old woman. That is too much for you to do. I tell you that no one but myself can bear it. You must not see her. Look, said Elsa, and then she took off the big kerchief that she always wore over her head. I had pretty hair once, she said, and I have lost it all. I can bear anything, and I want to help you. Then Elsa went upstairs into a room which was darkened, and even in that dim light she could see that this old woman's daughter, who was once very beautiful, had now become painful to behold. Elsa was frightened, but tried not to show it, and a girl who is frightened and tries not to show it, very frequently does not look nearly such a fool as she thinks. She remained there a long time, and when she came out her face was quite white, and she wanted to go back to her cottage and cry. But every day after that, until the end came, she went to see the sick girl who loved and adored her, and the end came one afternoon quite quietly. And the old woman did not weep at that time, but she blessed Elsa and went out, for the cows were waiting to be milked, and that must not be left. Next morning when Elsa awoke it was very late, and the sun was streaming into her room. For a while she lay with her eyes closed, thinking over all that had happened. Each visit to the sick girl had been a separate terror to her. But now she grieved that the girl was dead, and wondered in her mind if there were none other for whom she might find something to do. At last, since it was a shame to lie so late, she got up, and behold, masses of beautiful chestnut-coloured hair fell far down over her white shoulders. She rubbed her eyes, and said that she must be dreaming. But no, it had really happened. Her mirror echoed the truth. The glory of her pretty head had come back to it, as strangely as it had gone. So that afternoon she mused what she would do, as, sitting in the garden of her cottage, she made a wreath of white lilies. And the next day she left her cottage in the wood, and went back to her own home, and her sisters were all delighted to see her, and praised her beautiful hair, and were glad that it had grown again so quickly. Yet one of them said secretly to another. Now she will be as vain and horrible as ever. But as it happened she was not vain and horrible. She was really quite nice. So that the Prince, who married her, loved her as much for the sweetness of her heart as for her angel's face, and her beautiful long hair.