An Erring Pilgrimage

Chapter I. Tim Marchmont

was not at all troubled by the fact that he possessed a soul. Had he been questioned on the subject he would probably have objected that such things did not exist ; and, in this, he was certainly backed up by latter-day public opinion, which has relegated the possibility of a future immortality to the limbo of exploded theories. Now obstinately to cling to an exploded theory is fatal to development, either mental or social ; and in refusing to do so Jim proved himself worthy of the century in which he had been born : the nine teenth century that delights, above all things, to hear itself dubbed advanced. He was twelve years old when the great mis fortune of his life fell upon him. His father died (his mother having quitted this world soon after her son had lifted his voice in loud protest on entering it) leaving Jim in undisputed possession of two thousand a year, unencumbered by any land or house property.

His guardian, an old college friend of the father's, with very decided views as to how boys should be trained for the battle of life, and very chaotic notions as to how to do it, persuaded himself that the army was the best career open to a young man with a sufficient income, and no very marked aptitude for any other profession. Accordingly Jim Marchmont went through the usual amount of training, tech nically known as cramming, and failed for the preliminary examination for Sandhurst. And then he spoke out his mind to his guardian, who, being more familiar with the problems of Euclid than the workings of the human heart, was not a little astonished at what he heard. Jim declared that the examination was a " beastly grind," and that he had no desire for soldiering. If his guardian were determined that he should go on learning " a lot of stuff," which he should make it his business to forget as soon as he came of age and was his own master, he supposed that he would have to do it.

On being asked if there were any other calling that he would prefer, he was equally emphatic. He didn't want to do anything. He supposed that there would be plenty of money for him to live decently on ; and he meant to settle in town and have a good time. His guardian expostulated in vain. Jim was polite, but exasperatingly obdurate. He was quite willin0* to return to the care of the country crammer, with whom he had lived for the past year ; but he wished it to be clearly understood that he neither could, nor would, work, and that the Herculean task of mental effort was not to be expected of him. After some irritable questioning as to " what was to become of him?" the old man dismissed the subject from his thoughts, and Jim from his presence ; which was, under the circumstances, the wisest thing he could have done.

Given a lad with no love of intellectual pursuits, no ambition, and no taste for any manly sports, what is to become of him? His guardian did not know, and the crammer did not know ; Jim did ; and as soon as he had attained his majority he put his ideas, such as they were, in practice. A fashionable tailor soon made a new man of him, as far as his outward person was concerned. Looking at himself in the cheval glass — for young men sometimes indulge in this harmless exhibition of vanity as well as young women — he felt that he hardly knew himself. He had passed the stage of hobble -de-hoydom, as typified by ill-fitting coats and thick-soled boots, and had arrived at all the glories of manhood — the manhood that finds ex pression sartorially. A young man with plenty of money, and nothing to do, need not long remain friendless in London.

Jim took chambers off Piccadilly, and joined a club of Bohemian proclivities ; the outcome of which step was to cause him to chum up with George Beaumont. Beaumont was two or three years Jim's senior, and, from his own point of view, knew London well. He was only too pleased to initiate his friend into all the mysteries that are popularly supposed to dog the footsteps of a man about town ; the immediate results being a considerable lightening of Jim's purse, and a chronic condition of headache. " I don't think you look very fit, old man," Beaumont said, one day. A captious critic might have objected that the remark would better apply to Beaumont himself, whose eyes were blood -shot and his skin leaden-coloured, rather than to Jim, who looked as though he were tired out, and nothing more. But the suggestion was sufficiently alarming to a young man who had already begun to develop nerves, and he caught eagerly at Beaumont's proposal that he should see a doctor.

The doctor prescribed Brighton, where it was understood he owned some house property. " No place like it for setting a man on his legs again, Mr. Marchmont. You won't know yourself when you have been there a week." But when the door closed on Jim, before the next patient was ushered in, the doctor found time to draw a deep breath of pity for him. " I wonder how long he '11 last ? I give him two years. I don't trouble my head much about these young fellows as a rule, but there is something about that boy's face that I like. Anyhow it is just as well to order him out of town for a bit, and the sea breezes will do him no harm." But in this conjecture Dr. Burns was at fault ; for it was at Brighton that Jim Marchmont first met with Mrs. Alick Carrington.

Chapter II

' I^TE wants someone to take an interest in him. He 's a bit of a fool, but he 's not a bad sort of boy, as boys go ; and I 'm sorry for him." Dr. Burns spoke half-apologetically, as though his own individual opinion, outside of his consulting room, could be expected to carry very little weight with anyone ; but his listener understood him per fectly, and waited to hear more before making any comment. They were sitting side by side on the sea-front at Brighton, watching the w*orld in miniature that passed before them ; the invalids in bath-chairs ; the children with their dolls or dogs, trying to ignore the presence of sad-faced governesses ; the lovers, some genuine specimens, the greater part spurious imitations recruited from the ranks of fashionable, semi-detached couples. It was the season, and the place was crowded : the sun shone as brightly as though it were July instead of November, and Dr. Burns himself, in a low hat and tweed suit, looked a very different man to the grave physician most of his patients knew.

" Yes, that 's about it," he went on. " He 's got into a bad set ; and they '11 send him to the devil a little sooner than he would go if he were left alone. But if someone would take the trouble to look after him a bit, I see no reason why he should make the journey at all. As far as help goes, how ever, I am worse than useless. It must be a young and pretty woman. The only question is, will you do it ? " He turned round and looked her in the face, and she smiled for answer. Angela Carrington was a very pretty woman, of a type that is far from common. She was brilliant, without any of that metallic hardness that brilliancy so often suggests : a brunette, with the delicacy of complexion of a blonde. Her eyes were large, and men felt that they had to gaze into them long and earnestly before discovering that they were grey as to colour ; for the dark lashes cast a shadow over them, that was reflected in their depths.

Her figure, though slight and willowy, was full enough to satisfy the most captious critic ; but then, very few did criticise her, for there was something about her that won admiration without compelling it : such women may be loved, adored, worshipped ; they are seldom made the subject for analytical discussion. " I am not joking, Mrs. Carrington. A grave pro fessional man loses his love of joking very early — the realities of life, as he sees them, take away the taste for all that sort of thing. I really want your help in this matter." " I don't see what I can do. I am not given to playing mentor to young men who have got into a bad set." " You managed very successfully, however, with young Hamer. His mother, at any rate, puts down his reformation, as exemplified by his marriage with that plain Hammersley girl with all the thousands, entirely to your beneficial influence : why should you not do the same for Jim Marchmont?

" It flashed across her mind, that could his mother have seen a certain note, written to her by the intend ing bridegroom, only a week before his marriage with the heiress, she might have had her doubts as to the reformation, even though her sense of obligation should have been doubled ; but she only said : — " I suppose ignoring my existence is Mrs. Hamer's way of expressing her gratitude. But introduce Mr. Marchmont to me if you will ; I am quite interested in him already, because I am sure he must be a very exceptional young man to have succeeded in making such an impression on you." " No, no ; there you are wrong. He 's delightfully commonplace." " Then we shall meet at this supper ? " " Yes, that will be the best plan." Then they left their chairs, and strolled along the front, until Mrs. Carrington met a friend, and was absorbed by her into a little frivolous circle of well dressed women ; and Dr. Burns walked on to the Ship alone.

He was congratulating himself upon having done a very wise thing ; a state of mind that is often consequent on a foolish, or ill-con sidered, action. He had known Mrs. Carrington for years ; and he respected her quite as much as he admired her. He knew that she was a kind woman ; quick to grasp a difficult situation and willing to help her fellowmen and women, though possibly the task was more congenial to her when her friendship was sought by the former rather than the latter. And he was a believer in the power of a pretty woman for doing good, even though he had seen so many instances where they had done evil instead. But this was, he argued, the fault of the particular women in question, and did not in any way lower his regard for the sex taken as a whole. And Angela Carrington was an altogether exceptional woman ; he had done right in enlisting her sympathies on behalf of Jim Marchmont.

The supper to which Jim had been bidden, and which was to mark his first step on the road to reformation, was given by a friend of Dr. Burns, and partook, on the whole, of a somewhat Bohemian character. Mrs. Carrington had no scruples in being present, because — though her husband was a barrister who looked forward, one day, to astonishing the legal world — yet, in point of fact her social position was, in her own eyes, nil. She was too poor to be in the swim, and too proud to care to float in the tepid waters of middle-class respectability, which wash the modern Babylon at different points from the out lying districts of Kensington, Notting Hill, and Hampstead. Like many other pretty women, she lacked the opportunity of turning herself into a society beauty ; while she declined to shine as a star among lesser lights.

So that she could afford to amuse herself in any way that pleased her best, without fear of what her little world would say ; and Dr. Burns found her in the oak-panelled, lamp lighted room, next to a pretty actress who had her reputation to make, and a smart woman who had just lost hers in the hearing of a cause cdebre. " Here you are," he said, hurrying up to her. " Shall I introduce him now ? " and, without waiting for an answer, he left her, to return again with a faultlessly dressed young man by his side. " Mr. Marchmont — Mrs. Carrington." She saw before her a plain, well-bred boy, with eyes that were just a little tired, as though late hours had not suited him, and with a slowly dawning admiration spreading itself all over a face that ordinarily lacked either animation or expression.

Whether it was this delicately hinted at compliment, or whether, as she afterwards declared, there was something nice about him, Angela Carrington never quite decided to her own subsequent satisfaction ; but from that moment she took an interest in Jim Marchmont. " Have you been down here for long ? " she en quired, as they took their places at the supper table. " Only two or three days. It 's rather a slow sort of a place, isn't it ? " Everyone was talking and laughing at once ; voices being raised rather above the pitch that obtains at a conventional London dinner party ; and the air was heavy with heat and the scent of flowers. Some of the conversation was bright and sparkling, and showed that wit was not yet dead where two or three congenial souls could meet to gether and talk for sheer love of talking, and not from any desire to see their smart sayings chronicled the next morning as small talk by some enterprising reporter.

There was an air of good fellowship about the gathering that pleased Mrs. Carrington's sense of the fitness of things; and she turned and looked enquiringly at her companion. "No, I can't say that I call this slow," she said at length, emphasizing her words by a little nod of the head. " It seems to me to be rather the reverse." "Oh, I didn't mean this!" Jim answered hastily. " This is all right enough, and I 'm awfully glad I came to-night. Dr. Burns told me I should meet you. He said you were a friend of his " " And I suppose you pictured a counterpart of Dr. Burns in petticoats ! " she interrupted with a laugh. " I wonder that you had the courage to come and run the risk of such an introduction. This is very funny." " Well, you see, how could I tell what you would be like, Mrs. Carrington ?

Burns is an awfully nice fellow ; but he 's a bit old." " And you thought that he chose his friends to match himself; and that the first requisite was that they should be of a suitable age. I have known Dr. Burns since I was a little child ; and yet somehow or other he never seems old to me." " Then you don't know him as a patient, I suppose. It makes a difference when you associate a man with his consulting-room." "Yes, of course it does. And he ordered you down here for the sea breezes, didn't he ? " She had a way of speaking that was apt to encourage the listener in the belief that his affairs were of vital interest to her ; a characteristic that, before now, had led to complications and explana tions that had resulted in disappointment. Her eyes were fixed upon him in a way that tempted confidence ; and soon Jim, who was by nature un communicative, was telling her all the little there was to tell of his past history.

If he put it baldly, it was still sufficiently of a truthful narrative to allow her to read between the lines and make her own commentary upon it. She thought that Dr. Burns had been wrong in describing him as a fool ; circumstances might have made him one ; but she was convinced that there was something in him that was worth knowing, something that might have asserted itself and made a man of him, had it not been for that fatal dowry of wealth. And then she wondered why this young man should have been given money to blight every good instinct that was in him, while she — but at this point her thoughts were interrupted by Jim Marchmont's voice sinking into sudden silence, and she was recalled to a sense of her present surroundings. "Well, now we know each other, you must not say that Brighton is a slow place any more, Mr. Marchmont.

I know it pretty well, and I fancy we shall be able to amuse each other as long as Dr. Burns keeps you here." " I don't mind how long that is," he answered ; and then the talk became more general. The smart woman was living up to her reputation ; and while each speech of hers was greeted with ripples of laughter, the pretty actress sat silent— contenting herself with smiling, and studying her rival's voice and manner, to introduce it in the next comedy, where she would have to play the part of a fashionable woman. A dark-eyed man leant over Mrs. Carrington, watching the smile on her lips with an admiration that made itself felt in his manner, and she rose to go. She liked Bohemia as a change from the level of deadly dulness that obtains in every set but the very best ; but she would not run the risk of disillusionment by staying too late at a gathering where some of the guests were best described as " mixed," both as to manners and morals.

As she stood in the hall, being helped into her wraps, she found that Jim Marchmont was by her side. " Tired of it already ? " she asked in some surprise ; having supposed that as the hour grew later the entertainment would be more to his liking. " I am going to take you home if I may." The drive was a short one ; but there was time for Jim to notice how the moonlight — that, unobscured by fog or mist, shone in at the windows — brought out the delicate lines of Mrs. Carrington's face, and accentuated the roundness of her chin, showing up against the dark fur of her collar. As he pressed her hand and said " Good-night," two thoughts were uppermost in his breast : one that he should no longer find Brighton slow ; the other, that it was a happy inspiration that had prompted him to select Dr. Burns as his medical adviser. 1! 17

Chapter III. Tt

is generally believed that people living in the country retain their ideals, some say their illusions, to a later date in their stories than the dwellers in cities. Many never lose them, but keep a few of the fancies of childhood to sweeten the dreariness of old age — when men and women sit by the fires of their dead youth, and try to keep them alight with the flame of memory. It is hard to tell why this should be so, seeing that in the country people are brought face to face with Nature, with no conventional veil cast over her features to hide the tragedies that are written there ; but yet the fact remains, that a woman who has lived in a village is, if narrower, in a measure more original than her town bred sister, who flatters herself on her superior knowledge of life in general and everything else in particular.

Veronica Brooke's experience of life had been sufficiently limited to have left her, at twenty-five, with a good many ideals. Her outward surround ings had not been such as to suggest that reality affords a sounder basis for happiness than inward imaginings. She was the only child of the Reverend Chichester Brooke, who, in addition to possessing a cure of souls, coached young men for the Army or for College ; it being a favourite theory with some parents and guardians that to send a boy into the heart of the country is the best possible receipt for keeping him out of mischief. Occasionally these tactics answered, and the result was the model man ; more frequently they failed, and, in this case, the result was the average man. Still the intermittent successes served to point the moral, that a country coach is better, for choice, than one who lives in towns, and Mr. Brooke had no difficulty in finding pupils.

As soon as one set left him, their places were filled up by others, with a regularity that became in time monotonous. Veronica grew as accustomed to the "boys'" presence in the Rectory, as the village was to the sight of the " parson's young gentlemen " in the Rectory pew. She had grown up in an atmosphere that was partly scholastic and partly noisy ; but yet she was, herself, neither a pedant nor a mannish young woman, still less a flirt. She was simply Veronica ; and as such was respected by her father's pupils and adored by her father. If her mother had lived, she might have been different ; she might have learnt those little arts by which women charm men. Veronica, in some dim way, realized this want in herself ; realized it, in that oddly pathetic fashion that sees the evil but has no idea of where to seek the remedy.

She knew that she was not like the other girls, also clergymen's daughters and country bred, who came over from neighbouring rectories on the pretence of payinc her a visit, but who made it plainly manifest that they preferred the society of her father's pupils, and left her to discuss parish matters with their mothers. She felt that she lived apart from them and their little interests, flirtations, and jealousies ; for no one had ever thought of being jealous of Veronica, still less of connecting her with any little romantic fiction of a passing fancy. She was a nice sensible girl ; and that was all, in the opinion of the little world in which she lived. It was this sense of loss — this vague knowledge of what she might have been, had she not been left motherless — that first attracted her to Jim Marchmont.

He came to the Rectory in the late spring, when the violets were dead and the roses were beginning to bloom, and the old grey house looked less dreary, touched with the sunlight, than it did in the misty gloom of winter. He had seen Veronica at lunch, and after one brief glance had not troubled himself further about her. In the afternoon the others went off to a tennis party, and Jim not caring for the two-mile walk, was left alone. The day was hot, and the empty house was dull ; so he strolled out into the garden — a large neglected garden that might have been beautiful, if anyone had had the time to spend in making it so, but that gave a suggestion of possible loveliness, that is to some minds more depressing than absolute ugliness can ever be. Jim Marchmont was not, however, much given to sentiment : the garden was shady, and that was enough for him.

Under the chestnut trees he suddenly came upon Veronica— her pink cotton making a spot of bright colour against the background of green leaves. Her elbows were resting on her knees, and her hands supported her chin— a book was open on her lap, but she was not reading. Looking up, she saw Jim ; and he, not wishing to disturb her, was moving away when she spoke. " Why haven't you gone with the others to Tilders ley ? " She waved her hand towards a battered garden chair, and he sat down by her. "It is a long way, and I don't know the people. Why have you not gone, Miss Brooke? " Her face lit up with a smile, and for one moment Jim Marchmont wondered that he had called her plain : then it died away, and left her as she was before — an unattractive girl in an ill-fitting gown. " It is really a secret, but I think I will tell you.

For some reason or other the washerwoman has for gotten to send my only decent frock home, so it 's a case of Cinderella." He was not quite sure whether she was serious, or whether she had invented the little fiction. He did not know many women ; but those he did know were not dependent upon the laundress for their only decent frock. He half suspected that she was laughing at him, and he fidgeted uneasily upon his chair ; he would have liked to have left her, but did not quite see how he was to manage it. Veronica felt sorry for him. She knew that he was very much bored, and still more, very much afraid of letting her know it ; and anxious to put him at his ease she re linquished her book, and turned her attention to the young man who did not think a tennis party worth a two-mile walk. " Besides I was not very anxious about it ; I don't care much for tennis."

" I think it 's a beastly game," Jim answered with conviction. Veronica was surprised. Tennis was the one amusement possible in the summer; for the river was far off, and the nearest golf links ten miles distant. " I daresay you like cricket better." " I don't care for cricket." " I 'm afraid you '11 find it very dull here, if you don't care for anything of that kind ; tennis parties and cricket matches are our only dissipation." " I think the country is always deadly dull, don't you, Miss Brooke ? " " Oh, I am different. I have lived here all my life, and I have plenty to do, but I don't suppose a stranger would find it lively." And then she asked him about himself; and Jim told her all the little there is to tell, in a story that embraces a loveless home and an uneventful public school career.

" My mother died when I was a baby, " he had said in describing his childhood. " And so did mine," said Veronica ; adding after a pause, " and I have missed her all my life." From that day these two, who were thus thrown together for a time, became close friends. They seemed to understand each other, though their friendship puzzled people not a little, who divided their astonishment into two parts : what Jim Marchmont could see in that plain girl, and what Veronica Brooke could like in that stupid boy. Fortunately the two most interested knew nothing of what was said : for three years Jim Marchmont tried to make Veronica more like other girls, while she tried to rouse in him some sense of the responsibilities of life, some ambition, some manliness. And then Jim came of age and went up to town, to enjoy himself after his fashion ; and Veronica was left behind in the country rectory.

" I 'm afraid Marchmont won't come to any good, Nica." The father and daughter were alone in the garden two or three days after Jim had said good bye ; walking arm in arm, and halting now and again, that Mr. Brooke might deliver some more emphatic speech than usual for Veronica's benefit. He stopped now, while prophesying as to Jim's future ; and her hand clasp tightened on his arm. " Why do you say that, father ? " " Well, because he has nothing in him — very little brain power, and no stability of purpose. He might have turned out a very decent fellow if he had had to w-ork for his living ; but that money of his will be his ruin. He will get into a fast set, and hang about town. I know what that means, though you don't, my dear " ; and Mr. Brooke paused, that he might conjure up from the dusty memories of the past, some pictures of what the temptations might be to which Jim was likely to be exposed.

Apparently the retro spection was not altogether unpleasing, for he smiled, and said half regretfully, "A man with money can enjoy himself, and that's about all that Marchmont will think of: he'll come to a bad end, poor boy." " I can't agree with you. Jim has a good heart, and cleverness isn't everything. Look at home, father. How clever you are, and yet how very little good it has done you. And you tell me that I am clever too ; but what good will it do for me ? " There was a ring in her voice that heralded the near approach of tears ; and Mr. Brooke was alarmed, for he had never seen his daughter cry since her nursery days, and even then, tears had been of rare occurrence ; for she had been a sensible child before she developed into a sensible woman, and early learnt the futility of grief in a world where the race is to the strong, and the weak are left behind.