“I thought you’d have remembered it, Captain,” said the innkeeper, “from the joke young Mr. Matthews made.”

  “In the heat of some savage hand to hand struggle in Albania,” said Mr. Dalroy, sadly, passing his palm across his brow, “I must have forgotten for one fatal instant the joke young Mr. Matthews made.”

  “It wasn’t very good,” said Mr. Pump, simply. “Ah, his aunt was the one for things like that. She went too far with old Gudgeon, though.”

  With these words he jumped and seemed to be swallowed up by the earth. But they had merely strolled the few yards needed to bring them to the edge of the sand-pit on the heath of which they had been speaking. And it is one of the truths concealed by Heaven from Lord Ivywood, and revealed by Heaven to Mr. Pump, that a hiding-place can be covered when you are close to it; and yet be open and visible from some spot of vantage far off. From the side by which they approached it, the sudden hollow of sand, a kind of collapsed chamber in the heath, seemed covered with a natural curve of fern and furze, and flashed out of sight like a fairy.

  “It’s all right,” he called out from under a floor or roof of leaves. “You’ll remember it all when you get here. This is the place to sing your song, Captain. Lord bless me, Captain, don’t I remember your singing that Irish song you made up at college — bellowing it like a bull of Bashan — all about hearts and sleeves or some such things — and her ladyship and the tutor never heard a breath, because that bank of sand breaks everything. It’s worth knowing all this, you know. It’s a pity it’s not part of a young gentleman’s education. Now you shall sing me the song in favour of having no feelings, or whatever you call it.”

  Dalroy was staring about him at the cavern of his old picnics, so forgotten and so startlingly familiar. He seemed to have lost all thought of singing anything, and simply to be groping in the dark house of his own boyhood. There was a slight trickle from a natural spring in sandstone just under the ferns, and he remembered they used to try to boil the water in a kettle. He remembered a quarrel about who had upset the kettle which, in the morbidity of first love, had given him for days the tortures of the damned. When the energetic Pump broke once more through the rather thorny roof, on an impulse to accumulate their other eccentric possessions, Patrick remembered about a thorn in a finger, that made his heart stop with something that was pain and perfect music. When Pump returned with the rum-keg and the cheese and rolled them with a kick down the shelving sandy side of the hole, he remembered, with almost wrathful laughter, that in the old days he had rolled down that slope himself, and thought it a rather fine thing to do. He felt then as if he were rolling down a smooth side of the Matterhorn. He observed now that the height was rather less than that of the second storey of one of the stunted cottages he had noted on his return. He suddenly understood he had grown bigger; bigger in a bodily sense. He had doubts about any other.

  “The Hole in Heaven!” he said. “What a good name! What a good poet I was in those days! The Hole in Heaven. But does it let one in, or let one out?”

  In the last level shafts of the fallen sun the fantastic shadow of the long-eared quadruped, whom Pump had now tethered to a new and nearer pasture, fell across the last sunlit scrap of sand. Dalroy looked at the long exaggerated shadow of the ass; and laughed that short explosive laugh he had uttered when the doors of the harems had been closed after the Turkish war. He was normally a man much too loquacious; but he never explained those laughs.

  Humphrey Pump plunged down again into the sunken nest, and began to broach the cask of rum in his own secret style, saying— “We can get something else somehow tomorrow. For tonight we can eat cheese and drink rum, especially as there’s water on tap, so to speak. And now, Captain, sing us the Song Against Songs.”

  Patrick Dalroy drank a little rum out of a small medicine glass which the generally unaccountable Mr. Pump unaccountably produced from his waistcoat pocket; but Patrick’s colour had risen, his brow was almost as red as his hair; and he was evidently reluctant.

  “I don’t see why I should sing all the songs,” he said. “Why the divil don’t you sing a song yourself? And now I come to think of it,” he cried, with an accumulating brogue, not, perhaps, wholly unaffected by the rum, which he had not, in fact, drunk for years, “and now I come to think of it, what about that song of yours? All me youth’s coming back in this blest and cursed place; and I remember that song of yours, that never existed nor ever will. Don’t ye remember now, Humphrey Pump, that night when I sang ye no less than seventeen songs of me own composition?”

  “I remember it very well,” answered the Englishman, with restraint.

  “And don’t ye remember,” went on the exhilarated Irishman, with solemnity, “that unless ye could produce a poetic lyric of your own, written and sung by yourself, I threatened to . . .”

  “To sing again,” said the impenetrable Pump. “Yes, I know.”

  He calmly proceeded to take out of his pockets, which were, alas, more like those of a poacher than an innkeeper, a folded and faded piece of paper.

  “I wrote it when you asked me,” he said simply. “I have never tried to sing it. But I’ll sing it myself, when you’ve sung your song, against anybody singing at all.”

  “All right,” cried the somewhat excited Captain, “to hear a song from you — why, I’ll sing anything. This is the Song Against Songs, Hump.”

  And again he let his voice out like a bellow against the evening silence.

  “The song of the sorrow of Melisande is a weary song and

  a dreary song,

  The glory of Mariana’s grange had got into great decay,

  The song of the Raven Never More has never been called

  a cheery song,

  And the brightest things in Baudelaire are anything else

  but gay.

  But who will write us a riding song,

  Or a hunting song or a drinking song,

  Fit for them that arose and rode,

  When day and the wine were red?

  But bring me a quart of claret out,

  And I will write you a clinking song,

  A song of war and a song of wine,

  And a song to wake the dead.

  “The song of the fury of Fragolette is a florid song and a

  torrid song,

  The song of the sorrow of Tara is sung to a harp

  unstrung,

  The song of the cheerful Shropshire Kid I consider a

  perfectly horrid song,

  And the song of the happy Futurist is a song that can’t

  be sung.

  But who will write us a riding song,

  Or a fighting song or a drinking song,

  Fit for the fathers of you and me,

  That knew how to think and thrive?

  But the song of Beauty and Art and Love

  Is simply an utterly stinking song,

  To double you up and drag you down,

  And damn your soul alive.

  “Take some more rum,” concluded the Irish officer, affably, “and let’s hear your song at last.”

  With the gravity inseparable from the deep conventionality of country people, Mr. Pump unfolded the paper on which he had recorded the only antagonistic emotion that was strong enough in him to screw his infinite English tolerance to the pitch of song. He read out the title very carefully and in full.

  “Song Against Grocers, by Humphrey Pump, sole proprietor of ‘The Old Ship,’ Pebblewick. Good Accommodation for Man and Beast. Celebrated as the House at which both Queen Charlotte and Jonathan Wilde put up on different occasions; and where the Ice-cream man was mistaken for Bonaparte. This song is written against Grocers.”

  “God made the wicked Grocer,

  For a mystery and a sign,

  That men might shun the awful shops,

  And go to inns to dine;

  Where the bacon’s on the rafter

  And the wine is in the wood,

  And God that made good laughter

  Has seen that they are good.

  “The evil-hearted Grocer

  Would call his mother ‘Ma’am,’

  And bow at her and bob at her,

  Her aged soul to damn;

  And rub his horrid hands and ask,

  What article was next;

  Though mortis in articulo,

  Should be her proper text.

  “His props are not his children

  But pert lads underpaid,

  Who call out ‘Cash!’ and bang about,

  To work his wicked trade;

  He keeps a lady in a cage,

  Most cruelly all day,

  And makes her count and calls her ‘Miss,’

  Until she fades away.

  “The righteous minds of inn-keepers

  Induce them now and then

  To crack a bottle with a friend,

  Or treat unmoneyed men;

  But who hath seen the Grocer

  Treat housemaids to his teas,

  Or crack a bottle of fish-sauce,

  Or stand a man a cheese?

  “He sells us sands of Araby

  As sugar for cash down,

  He sweeps his shop and sells the dust,

  The purest salt in town;

  He crams with cans of poisoned meat

  Poor subjects of the King,

  And when they die by thousands

  Why, he laughs like anything.

  “The Wicked Grocer groces

  In spirits and in wine,

  Not frankly and in fellowship,

  As men in inns do dine;

  But packed with soap and sardines

  And carried off by grooms,

  For to be snatched by Duchesses,

  And drunk in dressing-rooms.

  “The hell-instructed Grocer

  Has a temple made of tin,

  And the ruin of good inn-keepers

  Is loudly urged therein;

  But now the sands are running out

  From sugar of a sort,

  The Grocer trembles; for his time

  Just like his weight is short.”

  Captain Dalroy was getting considerably heated with his nautical liquor, and his appreciation of Pump’s song was not merely noisy but active. He leapt to his feet and waved his glass. “Ye ought to be Poet Laureate, Hump — ye’re right, ye’re right; we’ll stand all this no longer!”

  He dashed wildly up the sand slope and pointed with the sign-post towards the darkening shore, where the low shed of corrugated iron stood almost isolated.

  “There’s your tin temple!” he said. “Let’s burn it!”

  They were some way along the coast from the large watering-place of Pebblewick and between the gathering twilight and the rolling country it could not be clearly seen. Nothing was now in sight but the corrugated iron hall by the beach and three half-built red brick villas.

  Dalroy appeared to regard the hall and the empty houses with great malevolence.

  “Look at it!” he said. “Babylon!”

  He brandished the inn-sign in the air like a banner, and began to stride towards the place, showering curses.

  “In forty days,” he cried, “shall Pebblewick be destroyed. Dogs shall lap the blood of J. Leveson, Secretary, and Unicorns—”

  “Come back Pat,” cried Humphrey, “you’ve had too much rum.”

  “Lions shall howl in its high places,” vociferated the Captain.

  “Donkeys will howl, anyhow,” said Pump. “But I suppose the other donkey must follow.”

  And loading and untethering the quadruped, he began to lead him along.

  Chapter VII: The Society of Simple Souls

  UNDER sunset, at once softer and more sombre, under which the leaden sea took on a Lenten purple, a tint appropriate to tragedy, Lady Joan Brett was once more drifting moodily along the sea-front. The evening had been rainy and lowering; the watering-place season was nearly over; and she was almost alone on the shore; but she had fallen into the habit of restlessly pacing the place, and it seemed to satisfy some subconscious hunger in her rather mixed psychology. Through all her brooding her animal senses always remained abnormally active: she could smell the sea when it had ebbed almost to the horizon, and in the same way she heard, through every whisper of waves or wind, the swish or flutter of another woman’s skirt behind her. There is, she felt, something unmistakable about the movements of a lady who is generally very dignified and rather slow, and who happens to be in a hurry.

  She turned to look at the lady who was thus hastening to overtake her; lifted her eyebrows a little and held out her hand. The interruption was known to her as Lady Enid Wimpole, cousin of Lord Ivywood; a tall and graceful lady who unbalanced her own elegance by a fashionable costume that was at once funereal and fantastic; her fair hair was pale but plentiful; her face was not only handsome and fastidious in the aquiline style, but when considered seriously was sensitive, modest, and even pathetic, but her wan blue eyes seemed slightly prominent, with that expression of cold eagerness that is seen in the eyes of ladies who ask questions at public meetings.

  Joan Brett was herself, as she had said, a connection of the Ivywood family; but Lady Enid was Ivywood’s first cousin, and for all practical purposes his sister. For she kept house for him and his mother, who was now so incredibly old that she only survived to satisfy conventional opinion in the character of a speechless and useless chaperon. And Ivywood was not the sort who would be likely to call out any activity in an old lady exercising that office. Nor, for that matter, was Lady Enid Wimpole; there seemed to shine on her face the same kind of inhuman, absent-minded common sense that shone on her cousin’s.

  “Oh, I’m so glad I’ve caught you up,” she said to Joan. “Lady Ivywood wants you so much to come to us for the week-end or so, while Philip is still there. He always admired your sonnet on Cyprus so much, and he wants to talk to you about this policy of his in Turkey. Of course he’s awfully busy, but I shall be seeing him tonight after the meeting.”

  “No living creature,” said Lady Joan, with a smile, “ever saw him except before or after a meeting.”

  “Are you a Simple Soul?” asked Lady Enid, carelessly.

  “Am I a simple soul?” asked Joan, drawing her black brows together. “Merciful Heavens, no! What can you mean?”

  “Their meeting’s on tonight at the small Universal Hall, and Philip’s taking the chair,” explained the other lady. “He’s very annoyed that he has to leave early to get up to the House, but Mr. Leveson can take the chair for the last bit. They’ve got Misysra Ammon.”

  “Got Mrs. Who?” asked Joan, in honest doubt.

  “You make game of everything,” said Lady Enid, in cheerless amiability. “It’s the man everyone’s talking about — you know as well as I do. It’s really his influence that has made the Simple Souls.”

  “Oh!” said Lady Joan Brett.

  Then after a long silence, she added: “Who are the Simple Souls? I should be interested in them, if I could meet any.” And she turned her dark, brooding face on the darkening purple sea.

  “Do you mean to say, my dear,” asked Lady Enid Wimpole, “that you haven’t met any of them yet?”

  “No,” said Joan, looking at the last dark line of sea. “I never met but one simple soul in my life.”

  “But you must come to the meeting!” cried Lady Enid, with frosty and sparkling gaiety. “You must come at once! Philip is certain to be eloquent on a subject like this, and of course Misysra Ammon is always so wonderful.”

  Without any very distinct idea of where she was going or why she was going there, Joan allowed herself to be piloted to a low lead or tin shed, beyond the last straggling hotels, out of the echoing shell of which she could prematurely hear a voice that she thought she recognised. When she came in Lord Ivywood was on his feet, in exquisite evening dress, but with a light overcoat thrown over the seat behind him. Beside him, in less tasteful but more obvious evening dress, was the little old man she had heard on the beach.

  No one else was on the platform, but just under it, rather to Joan’s surprise, sat Miss Browning, her old typewriting friend in her old black dress, industriously taking down Lord Ivywood’s words in shorthand. A yard or two off, even more to her surprise, sat Miss Browning’s more domestic sister, also taking down the same words in shorthand.

  “That is Misysra Ammon,” whispered Lady Enid, earnestly, pointing a delicate finger at the little old man beside the chairman.

  “I know him,” said Joan. “Where’s the umbrella?”

  “. . . at least evident,” Lord Ivywood was saying, “that one of those ancestral impossibilities is no longer impossible. The East and the West are one. The East is no longer East nor the West West; for a small isthmus has been broken, and the Atlantic and Pacific are a single sea. No man assuredly has done more of this mighty work of unity than the brilliant and distinguished philosopher to whom you will have the pleasure of listening tonight; and I profoundly wish that affairs more practical, for I will not call them more important, did not prevent my remaining to enjoy his eloquence, as I have so often enjoyed it before. Mr. Leveson has kindly consented to take my place, and I can do no more than express my deep sympathy with the aims and ideals which will be developed before you tonight. I have long been increasingly convinced that underneath a certain mask of stiffness which the Mahommedan religion has worn through certain centuries, as a somewhat similar mask has been worn by the religion of the Jews, Islam has in it the potentialities of being the most progressive of all religions; so that a century or two to come we may see the cause of peace, of science and of reform everywhere supported by Islam as it is everywhere supported by Israel. Not in vain, I think, is the symbol of that faith the Crescent, the growing thing. While other creeds carry emblems implying more or less of finality, for this great creed of hope its very imperfection is its pride, and men shall walk fearlessly in new and wonderful paths, following the increasing curve which contains and holds up before them the eternal promises of the orb.”

  It was characteristic of Lord Ivywood that, though he was really in a hurry, he sat down slowly and gravely amid the outburst of applause. The quiet resumption of the speaker’s seat, like the applause itself, was an artistic part of the peroration. When the last clap or stamp had subsided, he sprang up alertly, his light great-coat over his arm, shook hands with the lecturer, bowed to the audience and slid quickly out of the hall. Mr. Leveson, the swarthy young man with the drooping double-eyeglass rather bashfully to the front, took the empty seat on the platform, and in a few words presented the eminent Turkish mystic Misysra Ammon, sometimes called the Prophet of the Moon.