War in Heaven (Chap. 11: The Ointment)

The afternoon which had preceded the supernatural effort to destroy the
Graal had been made use of by Mr. Gregory Persimmons to pay two visits.
The first had been with the Chief Constable of Hertfordshire to the shop
in Lord Mayor Street. But after the visit was made and the information
acquired Colonel Conyers and he had parted in the Finchley Road, the
Colonel to go to Scotland Yard in a chance taxi, he ostensibly for the
Tube at Golder's Green. Once the Colonel had disappeared, however,
Gregory returned as swiftly as possible to the shop.

The Greek had resumed his everlasting immobility, but, though he said
nothing, his eyes lightened a little as he saw the other again come in.

"Do you know what has happened?" Gregory asked in that subdued tone to
which the place seemed to compel its visitors.

"It seems they have recovered it," the Greek said and looked askew at a
much older man who had just come into the shop from a small back room.
The new-comer was smaller than the Greek, and much smaller than Gregory;
his movements were swift and his repose alert. His bearded face was that
of a Jew.

"You heard?" the Greek said.

"I heard," the stranger answered. He looked angrily at Gregory. "How
long have you known this?" he asked, with a note of fierceness.

"Known--known what?" Gregory said, involuntarily falling back a step.
"Known that they had it? Why, he only took it this morning."

"Known that it was--that," the other said. "What time we have wasted!"
He stepped up to the Greek and seized him by the arm. "But it isn't too
late," he said. "We can do it tonight."

The Greek turned his head a little. "We can do it if you like," he
acquiesced. "If it is worth while."

"Worth while!" the Jew snapped at him. "Of course it is worth while. It
is a stronghold of power, and we can tear it to less than dust. I do not
understand you, Dimitri."

"It doesn't matter," Dimitri answered. "You will understand one day.
There will be nothing else to understand."

The other began to speak, but Gregory, whom his last words had brought
suddenly back to the dirty discoloured counter, said suddenly, but still
with that subdued voice, "What do you mean? Tear it to dust? Do you mean
_that_? What are you going to do?"

The others looked over at him, the Jew scornfully, the other with a
faint amusement. The Greek said, "Manasseh and I are going to destroy
the Cup."

"Destroy it!" Gregory mouthed at them. "_Destroy_ it! But there are a
hundred things to do with it. It can be used and used again. I have made
the child see visions in it; it has power."

"Because it has power," the Jew answered, leaning over the counter and
whispering fiercely, "it must be destroyed. Don't you understand that
yet? They build and we destroy. That's what levels us; that's what stops
them. One day we shall destroy the world. What can you do with it that
is so good as that? Are we babies to look to see what will happen
to-morrow or where a lost treasure is or whether a man has a gluttonous
heart? To destroy this is to ruin another of their houses, and another
step towards the hour when we shall breathe against the heavens and they
shall fall. The only use in anything for us is that it may be
destroyed."

Before the passion in his tones Gregory again fell back. But he made
another effort.

"But can't we use it to destroy _them_?" he asked. "See, I have called up
a child's soul by it and it answered me. Let me keep it a little while
to do a work with it."

"That's the treachery," the Jew answered. "Keep it for this, keep it for
that. Destroy it, I tell you; while you keep anything for a reason you
are not wholly ours. It shall tremble and fade and vanish into
nothingness to-night."

Gregory looked at the Greek, who looked back impassively. The Jew went
on muttering. At last Dimitri, putting out a slow hand, touched him, and
the other with a little angry tremor fell silent. Then the Greek said,
looking past them, "It is all one; in the end it is all one. You do not
believe each other and neither of you will believe me. But in the end
there is nothing at all but you and that which goes by. You will be sick
at heart because there is nothing, nothing but a passing, and in the
midst of the passing a weariness that is you. All things shall grow
fainter, all desire cease in that sickness and the void that is about
it. And this, even for me, is when I have only looked into the
bottomless pit. For my spirit is still held in a place of material
things. But when the body is drawn into the spirit, and at last they
fall, then you shall know what the end of desire and destruction is. I
will do what you will while you will, for the time comes when no man
shall work."

Manasseh sneered at him. "When I knew you first," he said, "you did
great things in the house of our God. Will you go and kneel before the
Cup and weep for what you have done?"

"I have no tears and no desire," the Greek said. "I am weary beyond all
mortal weariness and my heart is sick and my eyes blind with the sight
of the nothing through which we fall. Say what you will do and I will do
it, for even now I have power that is not yours."

"I will bring this thing into atoms and less than atoms," Manasseh
answered. "I will cause it to be as if it had never been. I will send
power against it and it shall pass from all knowledge and be nothing but
a memory."

"So," the Greek said. "And you?" he asked Gregory.

"I will help you, then," Gregory answered, a little sullenly, "if it
must be done."

"No, you shall not help us," Manasseh said sharply, "for in your heart
you desire it still."

"Let him that desires to possess seek to possess," the Greek commanded,
"and him that desires to destroy seek to destroy. Let each of you work
in his own way, until an end comes; and I who will help the one to
possess will help the other to destroy, for possession and destruction
are both evil and are one. But alas for the day when none shall possess
your souls and they only of all things that you have known cannot be
destroyed for ever."

He stood upright. "Go," he said to Gregory, "and set your traps. Come,"
to Manasseh, "and we will think of these things."

But Manasseh delayed a moment. "Tell me," he said to Gregory, "of what
size and shape is the Cup?"

Gregory nodded towards the Greek. "I brought the book up last Saturday
with the drawing in," he said. "You can see it there. But why should I
try to recover it if you are going to destroy it?"

The Greek answered him. "Because no one knows what the future may bring
to your trap; because till you prepare yourself to possess you cannot
possess. Because destruction is not yet accomplished."

Gregory brooding doubtfully, turned, and went slowly out of the shop.

He went on to his son's office, and there, inflamed with a certain
impotent rage at the destruction threatened to that which he had spent
some pains to procure, eased it by doing all he could to destroy
Kenneth's security. After which he banished Stephen from the room, and
talked for some time on the telephone to Ludding at Cully.

It was in pursuance of the instructions then received that Ludding the
next morning strolled down to the Rectory. In a neat chauffeur's
uniform, clean-shaved and alert, he presented so different an appearance
from that of the bearded tramp who had called on the Archdeacon a month
earlier that Mrs. Lucksparrow, even had the time been shorter, would not
have recognized him. He had come down, it appeared, on a message from
Mr. Persimmons to the Archdeacon.

"The Archdeacon isn't at home," Mrs. Lucksparrow said. "I'm sure I'm
sorry you've had your trouble for nothing."

"No trouble, ma'am," Ludding answered; "indeed, as things have turned
out, it's given me more pleasure than if he had been." His bow pointed
the remark.

"Well," said Mrs. Lucksparrow, "I won't deny but what it's a pleasure to
see someone to speak to, we being rather out of the way here--except for
clergymen and tramps; and naturally the clergy don't come and talk to
me, not but what some of them are nice enough in their way. Why, we've
had the Bishop here before now, and a straightforward, pleasant-speaking
gentleman too, though a bit on the hurried side, always wanting to get
on somewhere else and do the next thing. I don't hold with it myself,
not so much of it. What's done too quick has to be done twice my mother
used to say, and she had eleven children and two husbands, though most
of them was before I was born, being the youngest. Many's the time she's
said to me, 'Lucy, my girl, you've never dusted that room yet, I'll be
bound."

She stopped abruptly, a habit arising from a natural fear which
possessed her when in attendance on the Archdeacon and his clerical
visitors that she might be talking too much. But the sudden silence
substituted for a gentle flow of words was apt to disconcert strangers,
who found themselves expected to answer before they had any idea they
had finished listening. Ludding was caught so now, and had to say in
some haste, "Well, I'd rather trust you than a Bishop, Mrs.
Lucksparrow."

"Oh, no," the housekeeper answered, "I don't think you should say that,
Mr. Ludding, for they're meant to teach us, though there, again, my
schoolmistress used to say, 'Take your time, girls, take your time,'
though mostly over maps."

"Yes," Ludding said, prepared this time. "And I suppose you don't know
when the Archdeacon will be back. I expect he takes _his_ time." He
laughed gently. "If he was married I expect he'd have to be back
sooner."

"If he was married," Mrs. Lucksparrow said, "he wouldn't do a lot he
does now. He's brought women home before now--well, it's not right to
talk of it, Mr. Ludding, for fear of giving him a bad name, though he
meant them nothing but good, little as they deserved it; and sometimes
he never goes to bed at all, up in the church all night, when he thinks
I'm asleep. If it wasn't that he can't eat pork I'd think he wasn't
human, for I like a bit of pork, and it comes hard never being able to
have it, for, of course, two joints is what I couldn't think of, and
it's bad enough never daring to mention it or I believe it'd slip out,
and then he'd go and buy a pig and have it sent home, all for a chop or
two, but as for coming back, that I couldn't say, with only a telegram
to say detained tonight, meaning yesterday--though, if it was anyone
dying or anything, there's Mr. Batesby here."

"It wasn't really important," Ludding said, "only that Mr. Persimmons
thought he'd like some fruit and flowers for the Harvest Festival, and
wanted to know when it was likely to be."

"Second Sunday in September," Mrs. Lucksparrow said, "at least it was
last year. But there _is_ Mr. Batesby, and he'd know if anyone did,
outside the Archdeacon."

Ludding looked over his shoulder to see Mr. Batesby emerging from the
churchyard gate in the company of a stranger, a young man in a light
grey suit and soft hat who was strolling carelessly by the priest's
side. Mrs. Lucksparrow looked also, and said suddenly: "Why, it's a
Chinaman; he's got those squinting eyes the Chinaman had when he stopped
with the Archdeacon two years ago," rather as if there was only one
Chinaman in the world. Ludding, however, as the two came nearer, doubted
Mrs. Lucksparrow's accuracy; there seemed nothing Chinese about this
stranger's full face--it was perhaps a little dark, a kind of Indian,
the chauffeur thought vaguely.

"Shrines," Mr. Batesby was saying, "shrines of rest and peace, that's
what our country churches ought to be, and are, most of them. Steeped in
quiet, church and churchyard--all asleep, beautifully asleep. And all
round them the gentle village life, simple, homely souls. Some people
want incense and lights and all that--but I say it's out of tune, it's
the wrong atmosphere. True religion is an inward thing. It's so true,
isn't it? 'the Kingdom of God is _within_ you.' Just to remember that--
_within you_."

"It cometh not by observation," the stranger said gravely.

"True, true," Mr. Batesby assented. "So what do we want with candles?"

They reached the door, and he looked inquiringly at Ludding, who
explained his errand, and added that he was sorry the Archdeacon wasn't
at home and was it known when he would be back?

Mr. Batesby shook his head. "Not to a day or two," he said. "Gone on
good works, no doubt. 'Make hay while the sun shineth, for the night
cometh,'" and then, feeling dimly uncertain of this quotation, went on
hastily, "We must all do what we can, mustn't we? Each in our small
corner. Little enough, no doubt, just a car"--he looked at Ludding--
"or a kitchen"--he looked at Mrs. Lucksparrow--"or--something," he
ended, looking at the stranger, who nodded seriously, but offered no
enlightenment for a moment. Then, as if in pity at Mr. Batesby's
slightly obvious disappointment, he said, "I have been a traveller."

"Ah, yes, to be sure," the priest answered. "A broadening life, no
doubt. Well, well, I venture to think you have seen nothing better than
this in all your travels." He indicated church and garden and fields.
"Not, of course, that the serpent isn't here too. The old serpent. But
we crush his head."

"And your heels?" the stranger asked. Mr. Batesby took a moment to grasp
this, and then said, gently smiling. "Yes, yes, not always unstung, I
fear. Why, the Archdeacon here was assaulted only a few weeks ago in
broad daylight. Scandalous. If it hadn't been for a good neighbour of
ours, I don't know what might have happened. Why, you were there too,
Ludding, weren't you?"

"Were you?" the stranger asked, looking him in the face. "I was,"
Ludding said, almost sullenly, "if it's any business of yours."

"I think perhaps it may be," the stranger said softly. "I have come a
long journey because I think it may be." He turned to Mr. Batesby. "Good
day. I am obliged to you," he said, and turned back to Ludding. "Walk
with me," he went on casually. "I have a question to ask you."

"Look here," the chauffeur said, moving after him, "who the hell do you
think you are, asking me questions? If you want--"

"It is a very simple question," the stranger said. "Where does your
master live?"

"Anyone will tell you," Ludding answered reluctantly and almost as if
explaining to himself why he spoke. "At Cully over there. But he isn't
there now."

"He is perhaps in London with the Archdeacon?" the stranger asked. "No,
don't lie; it doesn't matter. I will go up to the house."

"He isn't there, I tell you," Ludding said, standing still as if he had
been dismissed. "What the devil's the good of going to the house? We
don't want Chinks hanging round up there, or any other kind of nigger.
D'ye hear me? Leave it alone, can't you? Here, I'm talking to you, God
blind you! You let Mr. Persimmons alone!" As the stranger drew farther
away his voice became louder and his words more 'violent, so that
Inspector Colquhoun, who was allowing himself a few days in the village,
partly out of his holiday, partly in a kind of desperate wonder whether
Cully would yield any suggestions, came round a turn in the road on his
way from the station to see a man standing still and shouting after an
already remote figure.

"Anything wrong?" he asked involuntarily.

Ludding turned round furiously. "Yes," he said, "you're wrong. Who asked
you to blink your fat eyes at me, you flat-nosed, fat-bellied louse?"

The inspector considered the uniform. "You take care, my man," he said.

"Christ Almighty!" Ludding yelled at him, "if you don't get off I'll
smash your--"

Colquhoun stepped nearer. "Say another word to me," he said, "you
jumping beer-barrel, and I'll knock you into the middle of Gehenna!" The
prospect of being able to repay someone connected with a Persimmons for
all that he had gone through was almost delightful. Nevertheless, he
hardly expected the chauffeur to make such an immediate rush for him as
he did. He defended himself with strength enough to make aggression an
imperceptible sequence, and succeeded in drawing Ludding to one side of
the road, until he unexpectedly crashed into the ditch behind him.
Colquhoun stepped back a pace. "Come out if you like," he said, "and let
me knock you into it again."

It was upon the chauffeur scrambling furiously out of the ditch that Mr.
Gregory Persimmons looked when he in turn, a little later than the
inspector, being a slower walker, came along the road from the station.
He had paid his visit to Lord Mayor Street that morning, to find
Manasseh almost beside himself with enraged disappointment, and only too
anxious to take any steps for recovering the Graal. The Greek had taken
little part in their discussion; the effort of the night had left him so
exhausted physically that he was lying back in a chair with closed eyes,
and only now and then threw a suggestion to the others. Gregory's chief
difficulty was to insist on maintaining the friendly relations with the
Rackstraws that were essential to his designs on Adrian, and might, he
recognized, already have been endangered by the break with Mornington.
This, however, he hoped to arrange; judicious explanations and promises
might do much, and Adrian's own liking for him was a strong card to
play. At last he had compelled Manasseh to see his aim, and then a fresh
proposal had been made. Manasseh with the Greek would concern themselves
with securing the Graal, and Gregory was to get hold of Adrian within
the next few days. "Then," Manasseh said, "we can take the hidden road
to the East."

"The hidden road?" Gregory asked.

Manasseh smiled knowingly. "Ah," he said, "you've a lot to learn yet.
Ask your friend Sir Giles; he knows about it, I expect. Ask him if he's
ever been to the furniture shop in Amsterdam or the picture dealer in
Zurich. Ask him if he knows the boat-builder in Constantinople and the
Armenian ferry. You are only on the edge of things here in London. The
vortex of destruction is in the East. I have seen a house fall to
fragments before a thought and men die in agony because the Will
overcame them. Bring the child and come, and we will go into the high
places of our god."

In the subtle companionship that existed between them Gregory felt the.
hope in his heart expand. "In three days from now I will be with you,"
he said. "By Friday night I will bring the child here."

With this purpose and a plan formed in his mind, he had returned to
Fardles, to find his chauffeur struggling out of the ditch in the face
of a contemptuous enemy.

When Ludding saw his employer he came to the road with a final effort
and paused rather ridiculously. The inspector saw the hesitation, and
looked round at Gregory, realizing that the odds were in favour of its
being Gregory. He took the initiative.

"Mr. Persimmons?" he asked.

"I am Mr. Persimmons," Gregory answered mildly.

"I suspect this man is your chauffeur," the inspector said, and, as
Gregory nodded, went on, "I'm sorry to have been obliged to knock him
down. I found him shouting out in the roadway, and when I asked if
anything was wrong he was first grossly rude and then attacked me. But I
don't think he's hurt."

"Hurt," Ludding broke out, and was checked by Gregory's lifted hand.
"I'm sorry," Persimmons said. "If by any chance it should happen again,
pray knock him down again."

"No offence intended to you, sir," the inspector said. He thought for a
moment whether he would make an attempt to enter into conversation with
the other, but decided against it; he wanted, so far as he had a clear
wish, to pick up opinion in the village first. So, with a casual
inclination of the head, he started off down the road.

Persimmons looked at Ludding. "And now perhaps you will explain," he
said. "Dear me, Ludding, you are letting this temper grow on you. You
must try and control it. Why, you might be attacking _me_ next; mightn't
you?" He moved a little nearer. "Answer me, you swine, mightn't you?"

"I don't know why I hit him, sir," Ludding said unhappily. "It was the
other man who irritated me."

"The other man: what other man?" Persimmons asked. "Are you blind or
drunk, you fool?"

Ludding made an effort to pull himself together. "It was a young man,
sir, in a grey suit. Asked after you and where you lived, and went off
up to Cully. He made me see red, sir, and I was shouting after him when
this fellow came up."

"A young man," Gregory said, "wanting to see _me_? This is very curious.
And you didn't know him, Ludding?"

"Never seen him before, sir," Ludding answered. "He looked rather like
an Indian, I thought."

Gregory's mind flew to what Manasseh had said of the hidden way to the
East; was this anything to do with it? What possibilities, what vistas,
might be opened! Whatever throne existed there, an end to that path he
had followed so long and so painfully, would it not welcome him, coming
with the Graal in one hand and the child for initiation in the other? He
quickened his steps. "Let us see this young man," he said, and hastened
on to Cully.

Followed by Ludding, he came to the gates and up the drive, down which
he had rushed twenty-four hours before. As he rounded the turn from
which Colonel Conyers had shouted at the constable, he met the stranger
face to face, and all three of them stood still.

Gregory's first impression was that Ludding had been merely romancing
when he spoke of the stranger being an Indian; the face that confronted
him was surely as European as his own. There was something strange about
it, but it was a strangeness rather of expression than of race, a high,
contained glance that observed an unimportant world. The eyes took him
in and neglected him at once, and together with him took in the whole of
the surroundings and dismissed them also as of small worth. One hand
carried gloves and walking-stick; the other, raised to the level of the
face, moved lazily forward now and then as if to wave away some sort of
slight unpleasantness, and every now and then also nostrils were
wrinkled a little as if at some remote but objectionable smell that
floated in the air. He had the appearance of being engaged upon a
tiresome but necessary business, and this was enhanced as he paused on
the drive and allowed his glance to dwell on Gregory.

"You want me?" Persimmons said, and the instant that he spoke became
conscious that he actively disliked the stranger, with a hostility that
surprised him with its own virulence. It stood out in his inner world as
distinctly as the stranger himself in the full sunlight of the outer;
and he knew for almost the first time what Manasseh felt in his rage for
utter destruction.

His fingers twitched to tear the clothes off his enemy and to break and
pound him into a mass of flesh and bone, but he knew nothing of that
external sign, for his being was absorbed in a more profound lust. It
aimed itself in a thrust of passion which should wholly blot the other
out of existence, and again its young opponent's upraised and open hand
moved gently forward and downward, as if, like the Angel by the walls of
Dis, he put aside the thick and noisome atmosphere of his surroundings.

"No," he said coldly, "I do not think I want you."

"What are you doing here, then?" Gregory asked thickly. "Why are you
wandering about my house?"

"I am studying the map," the stranger said, "and I find this a centre
marked on it."

"My servants shall throw you out," Gregory cried. "I do not allow
trespassers."

"You have no servants," the other said; "you have only slaves and
shadows. And only slaves can trespass, and they only among shadows."

"You are mad," Gregory cried again. "Why have you come to my house?"

"I have not entered your house," the stranger answered, "for the time is
not yet. But it is not that which you should fear--it is the day when
you shall enter mine."

Ludding, encouraged by his master's presence, took a step forward. The
stranger threw him a glance and he stopped. His anger was so intense,
however, that it drove him into speech.

"Who are you--coming here and talking like this?" he said. "Who the
hell are you?"

"Yes," Gregory said, "tell us your name. You have damaged my property--
you shall pay for it."

The other moved his hand outward again and smiled. "My name is John," he
said, "and you know some, I think, that know me."

Gregory thought of his enemies. "That pestilent priest, perhaps?" he
sneered, "or the popinjay of a Duke? Are these your friends? Or is the
Duke too vulgar for you? What kings have you in the house of which you
brag?"

"Seventy kings have eaten at my table," the stranger said. "You say
well, for I myself am king and priest and sib to all priests and kings."

He dropped his hand and moved leisurely forward. Gregory inevitably
stepped out of his direct path. As he passed Ludding the chauffeur put a
hand out towards his shoulder. But he didn't somehow lay hold, and with
an equal serenity of gait the stranger went on and at length passed out
of the gates. Gregory, pulsating with anger too bitter for words, turned
sharply and went on to the house. And the chauffeur, cursing himself,
drifted slowly to the garage.

By the afternoon, however, Gregory had recovered his balance, or,
rather, his intention. Whether the stranger was a wandering lunatic or
whether he had some real link with the three fools who had carried off
the Graal he did not know; and, anyhow, it did not matter. His immediate
business was with the Rackstraws, and an hour before tea he went down
towards the cottage to find them.

They were a little distance from it among some trees. Barbara was
reading Mr. Wodehouse's latest Jeeves book, and Lionel, stretched on the
ground, was telling Adrian the adventures of Odysseus the wise, the
far-travelled. The story broke off when Gregory appeared.

"Have you been to London?" Adrian asked.

"Darling--" Barbara murmured.

"Well, Jessie said he had, Mummie," Adrian protested. Jessie was the
maid from Cully.

"Jessie was perfectly right," Gregory answered. "I have been to London,
and I have come back. In London, Adrian, they have large trains and many
soldiers." He paused.

"I have a large train in London," Adrian soliloquised. "It has a guard's
van with luggage in."

"I saw a train," Gregory said, "which belongs to your London train. It
asked to be taken to Adrian because it belonged to him."

"What, another train? A train I haven't seen?" Adrian asked, large-eyed.

"A train you haven't seen, but it belongs to you," Gregory answered
seriously. "Everything belongs to you, Adrian. You are the Lord of the
World--if you like. One day, if you like, I will give you the world."

"After this week I could almost believe that, Mr. Persimmons," Barbara
said. "What would you do with the world, Adrian?"

Adrian considered. "I would put it in my train," he said. "Where is the
train I haven't seen?" he asked Gregory.

"Up at the big house," Gregory answered. "Let's all go up there to tea,
shall we? And after tea you shall see the train. It's gone to sleep now,
and it won't be awake till after tea," he explained gravely.

Adrian took his hand. "Shall we go?" he said, and pulled anxiously to
lead the way.

"Let us go," Gregory assented, and looked back laughing over his
shoulder. "Will you come?" he cried.

Barbara stretched out her hands, and Lionel pulled her to her feet. "I
just want to shimmer up, like Jeeves, not walk," she said. "Do you like
Jeeves, Mr. Persimmons?"

"Jeeves?" Gregory asked. "I don't think I know it or him or them."

"Oh, you must," Barbara cried. "When I get back to London I'll send you
a set."

"It's a book, or a man in a book," Lionel interrupted. "Barbara adores
it."

"Well, so do you," Barbara said. "You always snigger when you read him."

"That is the weakness of the flesh," Lionel said. "One shouldn't snigger
over Jeeves any more than one should snivel over _Othello_. Perfect art is
beyond these easy emotions. I think Jeeves--the whole book, preferably
with the illustrations--one of the final classic perfections of our
time. It attains absolute being. Jeeves and his employer are one and yet
diverse. It is the Don Quixote of the twentieth century."

"I must certainly read it," Gregory said, laughing. "Tell me more about
it while we have tea."

After the meal the four of them climbed to the gallery and Mr.
Persimmons's room, where the train was marvellously arrayed and
arranged. Adrian gave himself up to it, with Barbara assisting. Gregory
took Lionel over to the bookcases. Presently, however, they were
recalled by calls from the train, and found that somewhere in the
complicated mechanism a hitch had occurred. Gregory examined it, turning
the engine over in his hands; then he said: "I think I see what the
fault is." He fiddled with it for a minute or two, then he looked at
Barbara with a smile. "Would you mind holding it, Mrs. Rackstraw?" he
asked. "I just can't get the right bit past the screw with one hand."

Barbara took it willingly, and Gregory pushed and thrust at the
mechanism for a minute or two. Then he altered the position of his left
hand so that it lay lightly over Barbara's fingers and thrust again with
his right. There was a slip, a jangle, an oath from Gregory, a light
shriek from Barbara, an exclamation from Lionel; then the engine had
dropped to the floor, while the men stared at a long scratch on the
inside of Barbara's wrist and lower arm from which the blood was already
oozing.

"My dear Mrs. Rackstraw, I am so sorry," Gregory exclaimed. "Do please
forgive me. Does it hurt you much?"

"Heavens, no!" Barbara said. "Lend me your handkerchief, Lionel, mine
isn't big enough. Don't worry, Mr. Persimmons, it'll be all right in a
few minutes if I just do it up."

"Oh, but you must put something on it," Gregory said. "Look here, I've
got some ointment here--only a patent medicine, I admit; I forget what
they call it--not Zam-buk, but something like it. Anyhow, it works
rather well." He had gone across to a drawer, and now produced a small
round wooden box, which he held out to Barbara. "And there's some rag
somewhere; ah, here it is."

Barbara wrinkled her nose as she took the box. "What a funny smell!" she
said. "Thank you so much. But I've got Vaseline, at home."

"Don't wait," Gregory said, "put some on now and do it up." He turned to
Adrian. "Still," he said, "I put the engine right. But it oughtn't to
have had a sharp edge like that. I must take it back next time I'm in
town."

Half an hour slipped away. Then Lionel, turning by accident to put a
book down on the table, saw his wife's face.

"Barbara," he said suddenly, "do you feel ill?"

She was lying back in her chair, and as he spoke she looked across at
him, at first unrecognizingly. Then she said, speaking dizzily: "Lionel,
Lionel, is that you? I'm fainting or something; I don't know where I am!
Lionel!"

Lionel was across the room and by her side, even as Gregory, who was
sitting on the floor by Adrian, rose to his feet. Persimmons glanced at
his guest, went across and pressed the bell, and returned. Rackstraw was
speaking as quietly as he could, to soothe her. But she sat up suddenly
and began to scream, her eyes blind to everything round her, her hands
thrusting away from her. "Lionel! Lionel! Oh, God! Oh, God! Lionel!"

Lionel threw a look towards Gregory. "Adrian!" he said. Gregory turned
to the child, who, startled and horrified, was beginning to cry, picked
him up with murmured consolations and encouragements, and went quickly
to meet Ludding at the door.

"Mrs. Rackstraw is ill," he said. "Telephone to the doctor; and then
come back. I may want you. He'll be here as quickly if you telephone as
if you go down in the car, won't he? Hurry!"

Ludding vanished, and Gregory, going with Adrian into the next room,
produced a parcel of curious shape, which he presented to the child. But
Adrian heard, even through the closed doors, the spasmodic shrieks that
came from the next room, and clung despairingly to Gregory. Then amid
the cries they heard movements and footsteps, a chair falling, and
Lionel's voice on a quick note of command. Adrian began to scream in
alarm, and Ludding, on his return from the telephone, was sent to find
the maid Jessie, between whom and Adrian a pleasant friendship had
ripened. She carried him off to her own quarters, and Gregory ran into
the next room.

There Barbara had collapsed again into a seat, in which she was writhing
and twisting, at intervals crying out still for Lionel.

"But, my darling, I'm here," he said, tortured beyond any of his own
visionary fears. "Can't you see me? Can't you feel me?" He took her
hands.

By the long alliance of their bodies, knit by innumerable light touches
of impatience or of delight, some kind of bridge seemed to be
established. Barbara's hands closed on his, and her voice grew into a
frenzy of appeal. "Save me, Lionel, save me! I can't see you. Come to
me, Lionel!"

Lionel looked back at Gregory. "What on earth's happened?" he said in a
low voice. "Can't we do anything?"

"I've sent for the doctor," Gregory answered in equally subdued tones.
"We can't do anything but hang on till he comes. Adrian's with Jessie.
Try her with the child's name."

Barbara had relapsed again into comparative silence, though her frame
was shuddering and trembling in the moment's exhaustion. Gregory, from
behind Lionel, considered her thoughtfully. The operation of the
ointment would have, he supposed, some sort of parallel to his own
experience. But where in him, it had released and excited his directing
purpose to a fuller consummation, in Barbara Rackstraw, who probably
drifted through the world like most people, "neither for God nor for his
enemies," it was more likely simply to define and energize the one side,
without giving it entire separation and control. All with which he had
felt himself one would be to Barbara an invader, a conqueror, perhaps
even an infernal lover; she would feel it in her body, her blood, her
mind, her soul. Unless indeed she also became that, though since without
her definite intention, so without her definite control. Then, instead
of calling for Lionel, would she shriek at him? How funny! He picked up
the box of ointment and dropped it into his pocket; there was another
more harmless box in the drawer, if inquiries were made.

Almost another quarter of an hour had passed since the crisis had begun.
Gregory saw no necessity for it ever to end. In himself the ointment had
been a means to a certain progress and return, but Barbara had no will
to either, and might, it seemed to him, exist for ever in this divided
anguish of war. He wondered very much what the doctor would say.

Suddenly Barbara moved and stood up. Her voice began again its
despairing appeals to God and Lionel, but her limbs began to dispose
themselves in the preliminary motions of a dance. Gently at first, then
more and more swiftly, her feet leapt upon the carpet; her arms tossed
themselves in time to unheard music. Lionel made an effort to stop her,
throwing one arm round her waist and catching her hands with the other;
before his movement was complete she broke his hold and sent him
staggering across the room. Gregory's heart beat high; this then was the
outer sign of the inner dance he had himself known: the ointment had
helped him to seal his body while his soul entered ecstasy. But here the
ointment gave the body helpless to the driving energy of the Adversary,
and only through the screaming mouth a memory that was not conquered
cried out to her lover and to her God.

Gregory heard a movement outside the door; there was a tap. But he was
too absorbed to speak. Then the door opened and the village doctor stood
in the opening. At the same moment, as if she had waited for it,
Barbara, still moving in that wild dance, threw up her hand and,
carelessly and unconsciously tore open her light frock and underwear
from the breast downwards. It hung, a moment, ripped and rent, from the
girdle that caught it together; then it fell lower, and she shook her
legs free without checking the movement of the dance.

Even Gregory was not very clear afterwards what had then happened. It
had needed the three of them to bring her into some sort of
subordination, and to bind her with such material as could be obtained.
The doctor's next act was to inject morphia, a proceeding which Gregory
watched with considerable pleasure, having his own views on what result
this was likely to bring about. She was carried into one of the spare
rooms at Cully, and Lionel took up his station there also. "They'll put
another bed in presently," Gregory told him. "And my man Ludding will
sleep in the next room, so if you want anything ask him. Good heavens,
it's not seven yet! Now, about Adrian...He shall sleep in my room if
he likes, that will distract him, and he'll feel important. Hush, hush,
my dear fellow, we must all do what we can. The doctor's coming in again
later."

The doctor indeed, after asking a few questions, and looking at the box
of harmless ointment, had been glad to get away and think over this
unusual patient. Gregory, having made inquiries, found that Adrian was
out in the gardens with Jessie, and strolled out to find them, just
preventing himself from whistling cheerfully in case Lionel should hear.
It occurred to him that it would be pleasant before the child went to
bed to see if anything could be discovered about the stranger who had
disturbed him earlier, but whom, warm with his present satisfaction, he
was inclined to neglect. Still...

He suggested, therefore, to Adrian--who had allowed himself to be
persuaded how delightful it would be to sleep in his uncle's own room,
and that his mother had better be left alone that evening--that another
game at hidden pictures would be pleasant. The cup they had used before
was not, it seemed, possible, but there were other means.

Installed therefore on a chair in front of a table bearing a shining
black disc arranged in a sloping position, Adrian said anxiously:

"Now ask me what I can see."

Gregory leant back in his chair opposite, fixed his eyes on Adrian, made
an image of the stranger in his mind, and said slowly: "Can you see a
tall man, with a grey suit on, and a soft hat?" He imposed the image on
the child's mind.

With hardly any hesitation Adrian answered: "Oh, yes, I can see him.
He's on a horse, and ever so many other people are all round him on
horses, with long, long sticks. They're all riding along. Oh, it's
gone."

Gregory frowned a little. A cavalry regiment? Was his visitor merely a
lieutenant in the Lancers? He concentrated more than ever. "What is he
doing now?" he asked.

"He's sitting on cushions," Adrian poured out raptly. "And there's a man
in red and a man in brown. They're both kneeling down. Oh, they're
giving him a piece of paper. Now he's smiling, now they're going. It's
gone again," he ended in a tone of high delight.

Gregory brooded over this for some minutes. "Where does he come from?"
he asked. "Can you see water or trains?"

"No," said Adrian immediately, "but I can see a lot of funny houses and
a lot of churches too. He's coming out of one of the churches. He's got
a beautiful, beautiful coat on! And a crown! and there are a lot of
people coming out with him, and they've all got crowns and swords! and
flags! Now he's on a horse and there are candles all round him and funny
things going round in the air and smoke. Oh, it's gone."

Gregory, as delicately and as soon as possible, broke off the
proceedings. There was something here he didn't understand. He sent
Adrian off to bed with promises of pleasant amusements the next day, and
himself, after a short visit to Lionel, went out again into the grounds
to await the doctor's second call. Barbara, it seemed, was lying still;
he wondered what exactly was happening. If the morphia was controlling
her limbs, what about the energy that had wrung them? If it couldn't
work outward, was it working inward? Was the inner being that was
Barbara being driven deeper and deeper into that flow of desire which
was the unity and compulsion of man? What an unusual experience for a
charming young housewife of the twentieth century! And perhaps she also
would not be able to return.